All That Lives Must Die (68 page)

He almost had all the pieces put together. What he wanted. How to save Jezebel. And, unfortunately, a string of consequences that he was sure he would have to pay for later.

“I can claim
any
piece of land?” he asked the Queen.

“Eliot,” Fiona said, a warning edge to her voice. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing—”

Sealiah held up one hand indicating that Fiona be quiet.

Louis’s grip on his shoulders tightened, and Eliot was glad for the extra support as he felt his knees tremor. He was about to do the smartest and bravest thing—and possibly also the stupidest thing—he’d ever done.

“You may claim any land that
belonged to the enemy
,” Sealiah corrected. Her tone was deadly serious.

“But,” Eliot countered, “Mephistopheles conquered all these lands—right up to your Twelve Towers. So every piece of land here belonged to him.”

“That is
technically
accurate,” Sealiah said.

Eliot inhaled and then let out all the air, trying to steel himself.

The land. The power. The souls attached to the land. All dominoes set up and directed toward one inevitable conclusion—one that if he set in motion could not be undone.

But what else could he do?
Not
take the chance?

Not
be the hero he’d always dreamed of?

No. He
had
to do this.

“Then,” Eliot said, “I claim for my part in this war as your Dux Bellorum the realm of the Burning Orchards.”

Sealiah’s gaze held steady, but the slightest flicker of irritation crossed her eyes. “You have that right.”

If Eliot had that land, he’d control all the souls therein . . . including Jezebel’s, the Duchess of the Burning Orchards. He could set her free.

“No,” Fiona whispered, horrified. “Eliot, you can’t. That’d make you one of them.”

“There’s no other way,” he said.

Fiona’s features hardened. She looked at him as she had looked at their father, like Sealiah—like
he
was the enemy.

Sealiah crooked a half smile. “You have all that you could ever wish for now,” she said. “Well played, Eliot Post . . . our newest Infernal Lord.”

68
. Tectonic Theory of Infernal Dominions. The word
tectonic
normally pertains to either (1) construction or building or (2) relation to, causing, or resulting from structural deformation of the earth’s crust. Infernal tectonics incorporates
both
definitions. The mythohistorical record provides evidence that the borders of Infernal Lords’ domains expand and contract with their masters’ power. The nature and reality of those realms are plastic, subject to the personal tastes (some would argue the psychosis) of their rulers; their borders, however, are not. These boundaries are subject to the
counter
pressure exerted by surrounding Infernal lands. Additionally, which realm borders which is not fixed, but dependent on political treaties, alliances, and vendettas. See additional entries on the higher-dimensional nature of the Infernal spaces for details.
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 13, Infernal Forces
. Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.

SECTION

    VIII    

GRADUATION

               82               

SECOND TIME IN THE HEADMISTRESS’S OFFICE

Light streamed through the wall of windows and lit the black-and-white checkerboard floor of Miss Westin’s waiting room. It was ordinary sunlight, but Fiona winced at it. She wasn’t used to real light yet.

Eliot sat on the padded lounge next to her. He squirmed in his school uniform, but then smoothed out the wrinkles and look halfway comfortable.

Fiona shifted uneasily in her uniform, too. Even one of Madame Cobweb’s custom-fit creations felt wrong on her today.

Then again,
everything
felt wrong this morning.

She scooted away from Eliot and got out her phone. She checked the time: five minutes before their appointment. They were early for once.

Although this one time, she wouldn’t have minded being late. Very late.

She checked the time again, though, just to be sure, because she didn’t trust any clock since they’d been in the Poppy Lands. Fiona thought they had been there a day—two days, tops—while they got the railroad tracks fixed and then rode that creepy Night Train back to the Market Street BART Station.

But the time on Earth?

They’d been gone fifty-eight days. More than eight weeks.

Mr. Welmann told her before they left that time worked differently for the dead, and it worked very differently for the damned dead.

Great for them.

For the living, though—namely her, Eliot, and Robert—they’d missed most of spring semester, the last two matches in gym class, and finals . . . which was why Miss Westin had called them up to her clock-tower office.

Fiona had no doubt the Headmistress was going to fail them. She could see her chewing them out and then having Mr. Dells march them off campus and slam the gates shut on them.

She checked the time, scared that it’d somehow slip away from her again.

Four minutes to go.

She looked at her text messages. Nothing new . . . just that last message from Mitch—how he told her he had some family business to take care of (technically, not a lie).

She felt a twinge and something hollow where her stomach used to be as she remembered how he had taken her on magical walks . . . how she’d loved his company then . . . and that last moment together in Hell . . . and everything that
could’ve been
between them.

Before her ex-boyfriend had planted a sword in his back.

She pushed that thought aside. She had to focus on the disaster that was about to happen.

What was Audrey going to say when they got kicked out? And the League of Immortals? Their two new star members were going to flunk their first year.

Of course, Audrey hadn’t even been home when they’d come back. Cee had been all over them, tried to feed them, coddle them, and then she’d told them that Audrey had heard what had happened. She’d gone to the League Council to decide what they were going to do.

Decide what they were going to do, that is,
without
her or Eliot’s input. As usual.

She cast a sidelong glance at her brother. Time, however, hadn’t been the only thing that had gotten away from her in Hell.

She’d lost a part of Eliot down there.

Okay—first off, she acknowledged that them missing school wasn’t
entirely
his fault. There was no way he could have known about that time-in-Hell thing.

And it wasn’t his fault that Amanda had exploded. No one could have seen that coming, either.

She swallowed, feeling as if she were still drowning in guilt about that, though.

But Eliot
had
made the choice to take a piece of the Infernals’ lands and become the lord of that domain. No matter how small his land was . . . that still made him an Infernal Lord.

He’d gotten exactly what he set out to get: his evil, backstabbing, sort-of girlfriend was now free of Sealiah. Eliot would be able to handle
her
as well as he could control a runaway nuclear chain reaction with a pair of pliers and a screwdriver.

He was in way over his head.

And what was he going to tell Audrey?
Hi, Mom. Guess what happened while we ditched school? I joined your enemies, the fallen angels.

And there he sat, looking as smug as if he’d just won seven rounds of vocabulary insult. His hair, uncut all year, was all curls and cowlicks, but he was finally able to pull back. Despite the astonishing and astronomical odds against it, Eliot almost looked cool.

Crazy. This entire situation.

Maybe Uncle Henry could help her slip Eliot some quick electroshock therapy to bring him back to his senses.

But really, what did it mean to own land in Hell and be
called
an Infernal Lord? It was just a title, right? He couldn’t really be one of them.

The door to Miss Westin’s office opened and the pale boy who had ushered them before emerged. He bowed. “Good Lady and Master,” he said. “Please, the Headmistress will see you now.”

Fiona’s heart pounded in her throat. She was like a little kid again about to be punished for leaving her clothes on the floor. How did the adults in her life always do that to her?

Eliot got to his feet.

There was no way she was going to let him be the brave one, so she stood, got ahead of him, and led the way.

Fiona remembered Miss Westin’s office as being long—but today it seemed like it had stretched to the length of a football field as they walked past dozens of Tiffany lamps, acres of walnut paneling, a hundred different doors (which Fiona was sorely tempted to bolt through). There were all those oil painting and class photographs, too.

She spotted one picture that made her stop in her tracks. Eliot did the same, and they stared at a group of freshmen.

Among the hundred or so students were Tamara Pritchard, David Kaleb, and even, much to Fiona’s chagrin, Jeremy and Sarah Covington.

It was
their
freshman class portrait . . . one they weren’t in because they’d obviously missed picture day at school.

Her hands twisted together, and for a moment she wanted to cut that thing in half—right through Jeremy Covington’s face.

“Nice,” she muttered, and kept walking.

Miss Westin’s desk was a few paces ahead. Last time there had been no place to sit. Today, four high-backed chairs sat opposite the Headmistress. Not a good sign. Miss Westin obviously wanted them off their feet when she delivered the bad news.

Miss Westin sat there, nodded, and murmured something, but didn’t spare either of them a glance. Her attention was focused solely on those chairs.

There was another person. A pair of skinny legs and the edge of a skirt dangled over the seat, but the chair’s high back obscured the rest.

Miss Westin finally finished and then gestured for that person to leave. Only then did the Headmistress glance at Fiona and Eliot, and all traces of civility left her face.

The other person got out of their chair.

Fiona stared, not believing what she saw.

“You’re . . . dead,” Eliot whispered.

Amanda Lane looked them over. Her lips pressed into a frown, and her gaze narrowed.

For someone whom Fiona had seen blown to smithereens, Amanda looked great. Her school uniform was neatly pressed. A tiny daisy was pinned to her lapel. Her hair had been cut and feathered back from her face—hair that now had a lot more auburn in it that Fiona recalled.

She wanted to run over and give her a hug, but Fiona still couldn’t believe she was real.

Amanda stood tall and proud, though. Her skin flushed and Fiona felt the unnatural heat from where she stood.

“I’m not dead,” she told them. “Obviously. But no thanks to either of you.”

“The bridge . . . ,” Eliot started.

“And that volcano . . . ,” Fiona added.

“
I
did those things,” Amanda said, her voice rising. “And what’d I get for my trouble? For risking my life? No one came back to even look for me. Do you know how hard it is to climb out of a river of
lava
? While it’s
solidifying
?”

Fiona blinked and tried to process this. Shy, helpless Amanda was telling them she had caused all that massive geological-scale upheaval—and then had survived it, apparently immune to the tremendous heat.

“Do you know how long I had to look until I found those stupid train tracks?” Amanda set her hands on her hips. “And how long I walked until I found the tunnel back to the Market Street station?”

“I’m so sorry,” Fiona said. “We just assumed . . .”

“I was ready to
die
for you guys,” Amanda told her. Despite the heat coming from her, her voice was icy. “And you just marched off looking for Jezebel. What kind of friends are you?”

Fiona crossed her arms over her chest. She wanted to tell her they got a
little
occupied trying to outrun a tidal wave of magma—worried about the millions of damned souls that might’ve chased after them—oh, and not to mention their complete astonishment at seeing her turn into a miniature sun and then going supernova on them.

Eliot, however, spoke first. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “We shouldn’t have left you there. No matter what. I’m sorry.”

Amanda’s lip trembled, and Fiona thought she might cry.

She stuck out her chin, though, and recovered. “At least I know where I stand with my so-called friends now.” She moved past them, adding in a whisper, “At least the people I
thought
were my friends.”

Amanda crossed Miss Westin’s office and slammed the door shut.

Fiona was thrilled to see her alive, but she wasn’t sure what was more shocking: seeing her alive, or seeing her so strong . . . and so angry. Fiona felt like Amanda had just kicked her in the stomach.

Miss Westin tapped a pen on her desk to get their attention.

Fiona and Eliot hurriedly took their seats.

The high-backed chair was hard, squeaky, and uncomfortable. Eliot sat two spots away from her.

Miss Westin examined them and steepled her hands on her desk. “Miss Lane has embraced the Fire of Humanity. It is a great responsibility. A great burden as well. She needs good friends at a time like this.”

That’s all Fiona needed was another “friend” who hated her (although that wasn’t completely accurate, because right now, she didn’t have
any
friends).

“And where is Mr. Farmington?” the Headmistress inquired.

Eliot and Fiona looked at each other.

“Was he supposed to be with us?” Fiona asked.

Miss Westin made a note in her little black book and didn’t answer.

Funny how she asked after Robert, but not Mitch. How much did she know?

“Down to business, then,” Miss Westin said. She tapped the large computer touch screen that doubled as the surface of her desk, and their official Paxington school records popped open. “I have here a list of regulations you have broken, and a few new rules that have been created to cover your uniquely reckless behavior.”

With her long bony index finger, she traced down this list. “Unauthorized departure from campus during school hours . . . missing weeks of class and gym practice without prior written approval . . . destruction of school property—”

“We didn’t break anything,” Eliot said, annoyed.

“Your uniforms,” Miss Westin told him. “You have paid for them, but technically that is only a lease. All things bearing the Paxington insignia are school property in perpetuity.”

She glared at him. Eliot met her eyes without flinching.

“And,” she continued, “there is still a matter of you missing your final exams in Mythology 101, Force of Arms, and the Power of Music class—not to mention the final match in gym.”

She looked at Fiona as if expecting her to say something in her defense.

What
could
she say? They
had
missed everything.

Fiona had heard about the final in gym: all the teams at once on the obstacle course—and for once, no time limit. Mr. Ma had only eliminated the slowest two people from the roster. There’d been a broken finger and one dislocated arm.

Some final. What a joke.

Meanwhile she, Eliot, and Robert had been in a
real
war.

She wanted to tell Miss Westin what she could do with her list of infractions, but she kept her mouth shut. Nothing was going to save them now. And being rude to an adult who is technically correct? Fiona had been brought up better than that.

Miss Westin continued to stare at her . . . the silence stretching on and on.

Eliot cleared his throat. “Was there something else, ma’am?”

“There most certainly is,” Miss Westin replied.

The Headmistress opened a drawer and pulled out two legal-sized parchments.

Fiona held her breath. This was it. They were going to officially flunk out—Miss Westin was going to sign some papers and they’d be told to leave.

Fiona stared at the documents. They smelled of brimstone and there were wax seals and gilt inscriptions and blood spatters. Fiona tried to read the upside-down lettering, but it was mostly little triangles and arcs and dots.

“I have here,” Miss Westin explained, “signed and notarized affidavits from Sealiah, Infernal Queen of the Poppy Lands, and Lucifer, Prince of Darkness and Lord of the Mirrored City. They describe how you two were instrumental to their victory in the recent civil war in the Lower Realms against Mephistopheles.”

Miss Westin paused and arched an eyebrow. “Quite impressive.”

Fiona blinked, not entirely understanding.

“They have petitioned the School Board,” Miss Westin continued, “that in lieu of your classes and final examinations that your actions be considered . . . ‘off-campus work experience.’ ” She brushed the pages aside. “After consultation, the Board has ruled in your favor.”

Fiona couldn’t believe it. Was she hearing, right?

“So . . . ,” Fiona whispered softly (because she thought if she said this too loud, it might pop her fragile hope). “We’re still in school?”

“Provisionally,” Miss Westin said, and gave that single word the weight of a falling executioner’s ax. “Mr. Ma has accepted your participation in battle as proof that you would have passed his final examination in gym and Force of Arms class. Ms. DuPreé has likewise waived Eliot’s participation in her final concert.”