All That Lives Must Die

SECTION V. THE SEMESTER OF FIRE AND BLOOD

Fiona organized the pile of three-by-five cards on the dining table.

Some semester break. She’d done nothing but study for the quiz Miss Westin was going to give when they came back.

A spring-semester orientation package had been sent the first day of vacation as well. In the accompanying letter, Miss Westin had congratulated Fiona and Eliot for passing their winter freshman semester. . what an honor it was. . and blah blah blah.

It also said the grade bell curve had been “severely skewed” during midterms. A correction would be required, namely, a quiz covering Zulu mythologies and the lost histories of the Gypsy Clans.

Fiona glanced at the grandfather clock: Fifteen minutes before they had to leave.

To make matters worse, Audrey had been gone the entire week. “Council business,” Cee had said. But that could mean anything.

She’d so wanted to impress her mother with her midterm grade. If anything could have cracked Audrey’s diamond-hard exterior, that A-might have.

Fiona sighed, and then inhaled the orange zest and cinnamon wafting from the kitchen. At least she’d get a good breakfast.

Aunt Dallas had arrived at dawn in cutoff shorts and a red tank top, carrying a double armful of organic groceries. She announced that they were all getting a grand meal to start the new semester.

Cee, of course, had protested.

Dallas just danced into the kitchen, ignoring her, and proceeded to take out every dish, turn on every burner, and then shooed them all out-even Cee (who Fiona had thought unshooable).

Feathers ruffled, Eliot had tried to soothe Cecilia with that stupid Towers game they’d started playing this week. The circle mat sat on the other end of dining table. He and Cecilia had been there for an hour, moving stone pieces, building towers, and then toppling them over one another.

Fiona had more important things to do-namely, cram. . and pick a new class.

The very first day, Miss Westin had explained that they had to take Mythology 101 and Mr. Ma’s gym class (still true for this semester). But if they made it to the second semester, they could also take an elective course.

Her hand rested on the Paxington catalog that had come in the orientation package. Bound in leather, the pages were whisper fine and translucent. Printed in tiny handset type was a description for every course at the school.

When she had first seen the catalog, Fiona laughed-like she had time for a third class.

It was only after she’d watched Eliot flip through the thing for an entire day that she grew curious.

There were the classes she had expected, like Introduction to Alchemy. Take that, and you’d learn how to manipulate the mythical elements and combine them with the mundane ones-brew universal solvents, dreaming potions, and similar stuff.

She could just see setting her hair on fire, or spilling the universal solvent, alkahest, on her books and dissolving them all.

No thanks.

But there were also ones like Mythic Forging Techniques, where you could learn how to blacksmith the Four Winds and the might of volcanoes into a blade. That sounded cool. Naturally, though, the prerequisite was two semesters of alchemy.

There were dozens of exotic languages that intrigued her: the ancient rune scripts of Atlantis, Egyptian hieroglyphics, and the anti-poetical cadence tongues of the Ancient Ones. (Although for that, you had to pass a psych evaluation, be at least eighteen years old, and sign an insanity waiver!)

It figured that the best classes were open only to juniors or seniors or had ludicrous requirements like “must have tamed animal spirit” or “endure trial by fire” or “must provide documentation of wilder ancestry” (whatever that was).

The one that really intrigued her, though, was a class called Force of Arms.

FORCE OF ARMS: A series of weeklong intensive instructions, sparring exercises, and field trips to train the already proficient warrior in hand-to-hand techniques, fencing, athletic prowess, and strategies, with an emphasis on defending against magical techniques with physical force.

This was exactly what she needed for gym-which had seemed more battlefield than obstacle course during midterms. It was also a perfect fit for her after-school lifestyle-having to fight off an army of shadows or something else every other day.

She glanced at Eliot.

His eyes were on the Towers board, flicking among the stacks of stones Cecilia had on her side.

“This game would be better,” he murmured, “if there was an element of chance.”

“It has been suggested more than once,” said Cee without taking her gaze off the board.

“Something like dice.”

Cee looked up. “Your mother would not approve.”

“So what else is new?” Eliot moved a stack of three inward toward the center of the circular board.

Cee’s brows furrowed. “. . Unexpected.”

Eliot brushed the hair from his face. It’d been a while since he got his hair cut-that is, since he let Cecilia put a bowl on his head for one of her trims.

Grooming habits weren’t the only thing changing with him. His already dark mood had gotten gloomier over break. He hadn’t gone over to see Robert once; he hardly studied; he just moped about pretending to do his chores; or occasionally he’d plunk out some sad little tune on his violin.

It was getting on Fiona’s nerves.

The only clue he’d given as to why was when he got home late that first night of vacation. Audrey was gone, and Cee was already in bed-or else Eliot would’ve gotten grounded. He’d told her that he tried to follow Jezebel and help her. . and that hadn’t gone as planned.

Great. So her brother was still following the Infernal around, working overtime to find more trouble. Jezebel wasn’t some stupid, simple crush to him. Eliot was really hooked on her. And Jezebel was-by her own admission-trying to seduce him to the other side of the family. . maybe drag Eliot down to Hell with her.

A confrontation was inevitable between Fiona and Jezebel.

If Eliot got any worse, Fiona would consider breaking their unbreakable rule about never telling on each other-and snitch to Audrey.

That’d put an end to Jezebel once and for all.

One day, though, Fiona was going to have to let Eliot solve his own problems.

Or maybe she should just let him be sad for the rest of his pathetic, moping life-if that’s what he really wanted. Talk about picking the absolute wrong person to fall for.

She’d never make that mistake.

Fiona’s fingers brushed the envelope she used as a bookmark. Inside was Mitch’s letter. She’d never gotten a real personal letter before. (That card on the cursed box of chocolates earlier this year didn’t count.) She had it memorized.

Fiona,

Hope you’re having a great break. I’m visiting family, catching up with old friends, but wishing I was there with you.

What’s with Westin’s pop quiz? Check out Our Shadows Wander, by the way, for essays on the extinct Gypsy Clans.

It’s so obvious that she’s trying to make up for everyone on Team Scarab getting an A. Well, it’s Westin’s school and her rules, but if we stick together, she won’t be able to beat us.

I enjoyed our walk the other day. I hope we get to do it again.

M.

His letter was friendly, but not friendly in the way Fiona was hoping for.

Their walk around the world had ended in an embrace, but maybe it had been Mitch just trying to keep her from shivering to death in the chilled Gobi Desert night.

They’d watched the stars fade into the dawn. It was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. . but he hadn’t kissed her.

She was ready for it. Wanted it.

But he’d just taken her hand and then they’d “walked” back to San Francisco. There hadn’t even been any awkward abortive attempt to kiss her at the end of it all. Wasn’t that the way these things worked? She just didn’t know.

If she’d made the move, would he have gone for it?

Or was he too much of a gentleman to kiss on the first date?

Or was it a sign that he wanted to be friends? And just friends?

No way. All that talk about “looking into her soul” and “knowing she was the one for him.” That was not “friend” talk.

Maybe if they went out again. . he’d kiss her. Really, what was the rush?

She fidgeted and sighed, exasperated.

The kitchen door swung open-kicked by Dallas as she entered with both arms loaded with plates. The sun broke through the Bay Area fog, and golden light filled the room.

Her aunt did know how to make an entrance.

She set the plates on the table.

There was wild mushroom quiche and crêpes suzette, steaming cinnamon buns with icing, fresh squeezed juices, croissants that smelled divine, artful arrangements of sliced fruits and cheeses, and for each of them-Fiona, Eliot, and Cee-their own steaming cups of cappuccino with heart shapes swirled in foam.

“It’s not much,” Dallas apologized, “but it was the best I could whip up in your dinky kitchen.”

Cee made a strangled coughing noise, poked a croissant, and then retreated back into her kitchen.

Eliot dug in.

So did Fiona. “M-thanks,” she said as she chewed fluffy egg and chomped drizzled cinnamon glaze.

Fiona’s stomach rumbled, feeling already full, but she forced herself to eat more. It was good.

Dallas sat cross-legged in the chair next to hers and grinned.

Fiona wanted to tell her that she could come over anytime, cook for them morning, noon, and night if she wanted to, but didn’t. It would’ve crushed Cee.

Eliot rolled his eyes. He was in the same predicament, not being able to thank Dallas properly-but not pausing in his feeding to do anything about it.

Fiona took a gulp of pomegranate juice.

“Thanks, Aunt Dallas,” she whispered.

Dallas nodded, but her attention was on the school catalog, reading it upside down. . and her fingers touched Mitch’s letter.

Fiona wanted to snatch it away. But that would be rude, especially to someone who just cooked you the best breakfast ever. So instead Fiona gingerly tried to pull the catalog and letter across the table. “That’s nothing,” she told Dallas. “I was just worrying about classes this semester.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” Her tone indicated that she meant things more important than school. Dallas kept one finger on Mitch’s letter, as if she could discern the contents within the envelope through her fingertips.

Dallas considered, smiled, and released Mitch’s letter. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I was dizzy and confused the first dozen or so times I got married.”

Confused didn’t begin to cover how Fiona felt. What she didn’t know about boys could fill books, volumes-libraries, even. Someone should’ve told her how complicated it all got.

On the other hand, if she told Dallas about Mitch, wouldn’t that be like telling the League? Would they take an interest in him. . make sure he was safe and appropriate for their youngest goddess?

And what if they found him wanting? Fiona shuddered.

What was Dallas? In cutoffs and a tank top, she looked more like her older sister than the goddess who had wielded two golden swords and stood toe-to-toe against Abbadon the Destroyer.

Fiona took another sip of juice to clear her throat. “No, I’m okay,” Fiona said, but then changed her mind. When would she ever get a chance to talk to an expert on boys? “Well, maybe. .”

Fiona cast a frustrated glance at her brother.

He sighed, understood that she wanted him gone, and in a rare magnanimous gesture, Eliot excused himself to go to the bathroom.

When Fiona was sure he was out of earshot, she continued, “There’s one boy.”

Dallas’s eyes widened. “One you like, I take it?”

Fiona nodded, feeling the heat rise in her face. Why did she always lose her cool when it came to boys?

“What’s stopping you?” Dallas asked.

Fiona huffed out a tiny laugh. “The League. Mother. Who knows what they’d do if they found out I wanted to-”

Fiona couldn’t finish the thought. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from Mitch. To go out on more dates? To be his girlfriend? And then what?

It was crazy. In her life, with people trying to kill her, how was she supposed to ever have a normal relationship?

“Wait.” Fiona’s smooth forehead wrinkled with bewilderment. “You were married before? To people in the family?”

Dallas laughed. “Never to an Immortal, baby. Don’t get me wrong: some of your cousins and uncles are fun”-she looked away, distracted-“and incredibly talented, but that’s not what I need in a partner. I need someone who can appreciate me for me, not my power, or how being with me alters the politics of the League.” She sighed. “Not that it’s ever uncomplicated. I just get a better connection with a mortal.”

“And the League doesn’t mind?”

Dallas stiffened. “It’s none of their damned business.”

Fiona was stunned at this revelation.

Her aunt was 100 percent correct: It was none of their business. Fiona had rights as well as responsibilities in the League.

“For people like us,” Dallas whispered, “there come too few chances at bliss. You find something that makes you happy-grab it with both hands and don’t let go.”

Fiona had a lot to process. Like how to balance her life in the League and at school. . with having a life at all.

“Thanks, Aunt Dallas. That helps. A lot.”

Dallas smiled. “It’s cool. Anytime.”

Eliot came back then (his entrance so well timed that Fiona suspected the sneaky Rattus rattus had been eavesdropping).

“Oh-there’s one more thing that’s been bugging us,” Fiona said. “Maybe you can clear it up.”

Eliot starting eating-then stopped, picking up on Fiona’s train of thought. They’d discussed this at length: What had happened to the ancient families’ leaders? Satan and Zeus?

“Oh yeah,” he said. “At the Battle of Ultima Thule, when you and the others were fighting the Infernals.”

“What really happened to Zeus?” Fiona asked. “Mr. Ma said he died there. But there was no body. It was like he walked off or something.”

Fiona had a fascination with Zeus. He was the only one ever to lead the entire League of Immortals by himself. She’d studied everything there was about him in their assigned textbooks, and had checked out the more obscure references from the library (although there hadn’t been any time to crack them) like: Lightning Eaters and other Tales of the Titans, The Seven Forbidden Lovers, and Divum sub Terra.[44]

At the mention of Zeus, however, her aunt’s smile vanished. Outside, fog swallowed the sun.

“Oh, him.” Dallas sneered. “The greatest womanizer in all history.”

Fiona knew what she meant-all those classical stories about his seductions, the transformation into swans and showers of gold (whatever that was).

“He had to be more than that, though,” Fiona whispered. “We saw him leading you. He looked so brave. He was willing to die to save you.”

Dallas waved her hands, dismissing those words. “In the old days, maybe. So far back, who can remember?”

“But he did lead the League,” Eliot pressed. “Before there was even a Council?”

The light outside further dimmed, and rain pelted the metal roof of their house.

“Yeah.” Dallas’s face hardened, and she sounded more like Audrey as her tone chilled. “He was a different man-organizing us against the Titans, saving us all. . before the age of treaties and politics. . before he grew fat and lazy and lecherous and forgot what he was.”

“Did he die?” Fiona asked.

Dallas was quiet a long moment, and then whispered, “I don’t think so. He was wounded at Thule. . but he limped off the battlefield. After we started to talk peace with the other family, though, he said his time had come and gone. . that things were changing, and he no longer wanted to change with them. He left us. Maybe to go die.”

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed out a half hour.

Cecilia came out of the kitchen. “Your lunches! I forgot.”

“Oh, stop clucking,” Dallas said, and her smile returned. “They’re made.”

On the table by the stairs sat two paper bags. Scribbled with crayon upon them were masterwork impressionistic scenes: one of the dark forest, the other a seascape.

“A little something for my favorite niece and nephew,” Dallas explained with a wink.

“Then off to school with you both,” Cee exclaimed. “Miss Westin will skin you alive today if you’re late.”

Fiona jumped to her feet, not sure if Cee was being literal or not.

Eliot raced for the stairs.

Fiona hesitated, glancing back at her aunt.

“You’re just like him,” Dallas whispered, “. . minus the lechery.”

Fiona detected a bit of regret in her aunt’s eyes, and something else burned inside that she had seen in the Dallas who on the battlefield was fighting for her life-a fire full of power and life and passion.

Then Fiona blinked. . and noticed the table by the stairs was empty.

She raced after her brother. That rat! He’d grabbed both lunches!

Eliot and Fiona entered the Grand Spring Ballroom. It was the size of an aircraft hangar, filled with crystal chandeliers and miniature lights that mimicked the stars on a clear summer solstice night. Floor-to-ceiling tapestries of courtly dances, pastoral scenes, and major battles covered the walls and made the place seem even larger.

Freshmen usually weren’t allowed in here. Eliot shuddered. Good thing, too-because some freshman girls might get the idea they were supposed to have dances.

Miss Westin probably wanted her freshmen focused on studying (and surviving) their first year. For once, Eliot was grateful for homework.

In the center of the ballroom sat a dozen executive desks spaced ten paces apart. Around them students queued, waiting to sit and talk to the adults at the tables. It wasn’t just freshmen here, but Paxington upperclassmen, too.

He spotted Amanda, hair in her face, not exactly confident as she’d been the last time he saw her in gym glass-but still a long way from the shy and scared creature she’d been that first day of school.

He’d heard one of the dorms had caught fire over the break. Three students had been hospitalized. Amanda stayed in the dorms, and he was glad to see she was okay.

Eliot and Fiona started toward her, but then it was Amanda’s turn in line and she sat at one of the desks.

Eliot examined the adults at the tables. They were dressed in business suits, and each possessed that indefinable air of superiority he’d come to associate with people of power.

“Those must be our counselors,” Fiona whispered.

“Teachers?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “We’ve never seen the other teachers before, though. I mean other than Mr. Ma and Miss Westin.”

Jeremy and Sarah Covington sat at one table. Jeremy spoke vigorously to the little old man on the other side of the desk. Jeremy stood and paced, gesticulating wildly. . although still smiling. The old man smiled, too, but kept shaking his head.

Sarah fidgeted in her seat. She made eye contact with Eliot and looked away.

The funny thing was, Eliot didn’t hear anything from their table. . none of them, actually. Like the sound didn’t travel.

A group of girls spotted Fiona. “Oh, Fiona!” one called out. They all moved toward her.

That was her pack of admirers. They were always trying to make small talk and find out what it was like being a goddess in the League.

Fiona sighed, but nonetheless smiled and waved back to them. . trying to move on, but she was too slow and they intercepted her.

Eliot dropped back.

How was it that everyone loved Fiona (or at least loved the fame, money, and immortality they thought she represented) but not one of the students at Paxington had made the connection that Eliot, her brother, her twin, might be in the League of Immortals, too?

It was like last week when he had followed Jezebel to the Market Street BART station. When he stayed in the shadows, no one saw him. Like he was invisible.

At school. . he wasn’t invisible, not optically anyway. For some reason, though, he seemed to be socially transparent.

Maybe it was some Infernal power, a sort of mental sleight of hand that he was doing without thinking about it.

He looked for Jezebel, but saw not a trace of her platinum curls among the crowds. Jezebel didn’t blend well. She would have had a crowd of boys around her. That would be okay with Eliot-just to know that she was here, safe.

No luck.

And no Robert, either. Although if he had wanted to blend, Eliot was sure he couldn’t have spotted him. He made a note to ask how Robert did it. . and compare notes on social invisibilities.

“Hey!” someone called out.

Eliot looked. Across the room, Mitch Stephenson waved at him.

So much for the “invisibility” theory. Mitch saw him just fine.

Eliot waved back.

That was a mistake, a humiliating one. Mitch had waved to get Fiona’s attention-not his.

He noticed Eliot waving like a complete dork, though, and shifted his glance a notch. His waved at Eliot, too, trying to make it look like that’s what he’d been doing.

Eliot appreciated the gesture, but didn’t feel any better about his near-zero social status.

“Mr. Post?”

Eliot turned to the deep baritone voice behind him.

Harlan Dells stood there, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked like a funeral director today in a black suit and tie, his blond beard braided into a single tight cord.

“Uh, hey, Mr. Dells. How are you?”

“Fine, young man, but you and your sister have an appointment now. And your counselor is not known for her infinite patience.”

Mr. Dells gestured to Fiona. She saw him even while surrounded by her pack. The other girls saw the Keeper of Paxington’s Gate as well, and all simultaneously shut up.

Fiona trotted to Eliot’s side. “Hello, Mr. Dells. What can I do for you?”

“There.” Mr. Dells nodded to the far corner of the ballroom. “Do not keep her waiting, more than you have already.”

Eliot squinted into the shadows. There was some light in the corner: four candles floated in the gloom. No. . as his eyes adjusted, he saw the candles sat on the corners of large desk, almost hidden in the folds of black curtains.

And sitting, watching them, her glasses reflecting flames, was Miss Westin, her hands steepled on the desk.

“She’s our guidance counselor?” Fiona whispered.

Miss Westin looked like a spider in the center of a dark web. . one that no student dared get close to. Just like the repellent field that Eliot seemed to have around him. Maybe he and the Headmistress had something in common, after all.

“Come on.” Eliot crossed the room, moving deeper into the dark, away from the crowds. He settled into one of the high-backed chairs across the desk from her.

Fiona caught up and sat in the other chair.

“Good morning, children,” Miss Westin said. She pulled out two file folders with their names printed on the sides and set them down.

“Good morning, Headmistress,” they said in unison.

“No sound may leave the confines of this desk,” Miss Westin said. “This session is completely confidential even from your parents.”

Eliot glanced at Fiona and she shot back the same curious look. Why the secrecy? It was just their class schedule. Like Audrey wouldn’t know what it was in a few hours anyway.

But maybe that was the point: Their mother would know in a few hours, after they’d signed up for their elected classes. . and too late to make any objections. This would be entirely their choice. How often did that happen?

“Miss Post first.” Miss Westin opened Fiona’s file.

Miss Westin scanned her official Paxington record. From across the table, Eliot saw an account of her duel with Donald van Wyck, and photographs of her looking ferocious in gym class.

“Your performance last semester was remarkable,” Miss Westin said.

Fiona sat up straighter, basking in this rare praise from the Headmistress.

“Most freshmen, however, fail to maintain their grades in the second semester,” Miss Westin went on without looking up. “They are either too stupid to keep up with their studies, or more concerned with their social agendas to grow and excel.

“So,” she said to Fiona, “shall I sign you up for Mythology 102 and Mr. Ma’s classes and call it good?” There was a challenge in her voice.

It was wasted on Fiona, of course, because she had already decided to take that advanced fighting class, Force of Arms.

“No, ma’am,” Fiona smugly replied. “I’ve already picked out an elective.” She opened the catalog and turned it for Miss Westin to see.

Miss Westin smiled.

That smile chilled Eliot to the core. The only thing that came close was the lethal permanent grin of the crocodile oracle, Sobek. There was nothing unusual in her smile-just perfectly white and straight, but ordinary teeth, and yet Eliot sensed death in her bite.

Miss Westin glanced at the catalog. “Force of Arms?” One eyebrow arched.

“Is that a problem?” Fiona asked.

“There are prerequisites.” Miss Westin flipped to the next page. At the top, the Force of Arms entry continued.

Fiona looked startled, as if she hadn’t seen this before.

It read:

PREREQUISITES: For sophomores or older students. Must have parental/guardian consent. Must pass a test of minimal expertise.

“Oh. .” Fiona started to pull the catalog back, and her forehead wrinkled.

Miss Westin, however, kept the book, pinning it to the desk. “Perhaps,” she said, “in light of your record, it would be appropriate for me to waive to sophomore requirement. . if you could manage to pass the qualifying test and obtain a signed permission slip.”

Fiona licked her lips. “I can pass any test, ma’am.”

Fiona, though, made no comment on the signed parental permission slip. That would be the tricky part.

Miss Westin made a few marks on Fiona’s record. “Very well. Let us hope that your talent for passing tests translates to real-world challenges.”

Miss Westin then closed her file and turned to Eliot’s.

Eliot had near identical grades. There were photos of him in gym class, too (although he looked more clueless than heroic somehow in his shots). There were also several handwritten notes on Paxington stationery. The script was too tiny for him to make out. . but Miss Westin made disappointing clicking noises as she read over them.

She looked up. Because they were both sitting, and because the angle was just right, for one brief moment in the candlelight Eliot saw behind her glasses. Unfiltered by the lenses, her eyes were not their usual brown. Instead, the irises were clear and brilliant like cut diamonds.

“And for you Mr. Post? What shall it be? Trivial social pursuits? Or would you like to learn something this semester beyond the bare minimum and keep pace with your sister?”

Eliot bristled at that.

He wasn’t going to take any class that got him bruised and battered any more than he was already getting in gym (and with Robert after school).

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “I mean, yes, I’ll be taking an elective class.” He nodded at the catalog. “Page twenty-three, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Miss Westin ran a finger along the edge of the catalog, flipped open to the precise page, and scanned the class descriptions.

“Extraordinarily dangerous,” she murmured, and tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“What is it?” Fiona leaned forward.

Miss Westin turned the catalog to face him. “This one, correct?” She pointed to

THE POWER OF MUSIC: Seminars discussing music as applied to theoretical magical structures. Practice for instruments and/or voice held twice a week with emphasis on emotive control. Periodic evaluation before live audiences. Prerequisites: Must pass an audition. Signed waiver for the student’s soul.

“For the soul?” Fiona whispered. “What does that mean?”

“The class is far more perilous than any physical combat,” Miss Westin explained. She turned Eliot. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Eliot whispered.

When he first read that part about the soul, Eliot had thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. It’s what he felt every time he played-and something weird and strange and wondrous happened. There was a connection between the magic and the music and his soul-and risk as well. He knew that his soul teetered on the edge of some unknown precipice when he played. . and he had to know why.

Next to him, Fiona shuddered. She opened her mouth as if she had something to say, but couldn’t articulate it, and then after a moment, she whispered, “Are you sure about this?”

Eliot met his sister’s concerned gaze.

There was another reason to take the new course. Last semester, he and Fiona had had every class together. These electives would separate them. Cee had told them, and it’d been proved over and over, that they were stronger together.

But that was the point.

Eliot sometimes felt like he was only strong with his sister. He couldn’t go through his entire life depending on her. He had to stand on his own feet.

“Yeah,” he whispered back. “I’m sure.”

Worry and then resolve flashed over Fiona’s features, and she nodded. . maybe even on some level understanding him for once, for once even agreeing.

Eliot guessed she had come to similar conclusions about the two of them-maybe she would be happy to finally be getting rid of her “little” brother. . or maybe she had something to prove as well.

Miss Westin signed the bottom of Eliot’s record and closed it. “I do believe,” she said, “you will have a most enlightening experience this semester-provided you two survive.”

Louis Piper took one of the many twisty and illegal passages that led to the main entrance thoroughfare of the Paxington Institute. He had to squeeze through shadows and push past trash cans and those homeless wretches who belonged neither in the Middle Realms nor in the island of space that Paxington occupied.

Bums. Beggars. Prostitutes.

Myths and heroes and nightmares who’d fallen on hard times: Mordred. . Mr. Nox. . the ever-blinded Gorgon. Why couldn’t they respectably crawl into a bottle and try to make themselves disappear as he had?

He avoided their lecherous, leprous touches and piteous calls, turned the corner-

— and emerged in the sunlight and relatively fresh air behind the Café Eridanus.

Louis glanced at the Dumpster but avoided it (although old habits died hard and he was famished). Best not to tarnish his image further, however. He sniffed at his shoulder to make sure he was unscathed by the unwashed in the alley.

In truth, his dapper appearance was for once not foremost in his thoughts. That honor was reserved for his beloved Audrey.

He had been thinking of her much-too much, such that it now interfered with his normal scheming. It was painful to dwell upon her. She was so lovely. And this entire affair so charged with unexpected nauseous sentimentality.

Who could’ve ever predicted he could still be in love? Or was it lust?

No. His lust was simply (if only ever temporarily) satiated.

But there was no cure for his desires now. . to hold her hand. . to be with her. . those wants never ebbed.

He hissed out a sigh of frustration. See? Such reminiscing clouded rational thoughts-interfered with his making of plans most intricate.

And that was the kernel of the matter: He had spent considerable energy on figuring out ways to increase his power, gather lands, and rule all the realms. . but at the same time, he sought benefit for his fledgling, broken family-Audrey, Eliot, and Fiona.

Well, at least to keep them from harm.

Or, perhaps, try not to get them all killed.

Why was it so difficult to think clearly?

Direct deception and intervention had not worked. That last call to Audrey-what had he been thinking? Confessing his love like some besotted teenager? He had almost died from mortification after she had rightly hung up on him.

So, no more of that-thank you very much.

A roundabout approach was his next-best option.

Louis smoothed out his camel-hair coat, straightened his black tie, and strode from the alley’s shadow.

He surveyed the few students sitting beneath the star-covered canopied tables outside the café. One boy caught his eye, a mortal with brown hair that curled down to his shoulders. He flashed a winning smile at the waitress as she served him cocoa.

Louis recognized him from Amberflaxus’s reports. This was the mortal he’d come to see: Mitchell Stephenson.

The boy stirred the whipped cream atop his hot chocolate. There were two empty cups on the table. Was he waiting for Fiona? Young Mr. Stephenson picked up the bill, considered, and then took out some cash and set it down for the waitress.

What delightfully perfect timing.

Louis whistled and strolled forward, waving away the hostess as she tried to seat him.

Mitch Stephenson hadn’t yet taken notice of him. Odd, given that the Stephenson family was infamous for their practice of white magic. Their attempts, for a mortal family, against Infernals was admirable. . not because they had been successful, but rather that they had managed over the centuries not to be exterminated. According to Louis’s sources, the lad had gifts as well as training. Radiant conjurations. A flicker of witch sight, too.

One would think, then, he would know when the Prince of Darkness was in his midst.

The boy’s mental thickness was a small disappointment. But then again, it would be nice to interact with a mortal who was no match for his charms and intellect.

Louis cleared his throat.

Mitch looked up, and confusion wavered over his face. Perhaps Louis’s power and grace had overwhelmed the boy.

“Can I help you?” Mitch asked.

“You may indeed, young man. I am Louis.” He extended a hand to shake. “Louis Piper.”

Mitch’s confusion congealed into wariness, and he stared at the offered hand.

“Louis Piper,” Louis repeated. “Fiona’s father?”

“Ah!” Mitch smiled. “Fiona’s family.”

Louis instantly revised his opinion of the lad. That smile. . Perhaps he was a little dense, but there was some quality about him that was endearing.

“Wait-her father’s side of the family?” Mitch’s grin disappeared, and he nodded dismissively at Louis’s hand.

Louis withdrew, wounded, his blood rising.

But then he understood. Mitchell Stephenson would, of course, know Infernal customs: They never shook hands unless the circumstances were extraordinary. One might lose fingers, arms. . one’s soul if not careful.

Louis chuckled. He knew better now than to ask for a seat, so he took one across the table.

Mitch set both his hands on the table.

Excellent. Another proper Infernal custom. Hands in the open-a gesture to indicate that no weapons were being readied under the table, a prerequisite to any serious discussion. Louis mirrored the gesture.

What fun. This was like a game of chess with a Grandmaster on one side, a child on the other. Amusing, for now. . although Louis feared it would soon grow dull.

Louis decided to play along and honor human customs as well. He would start with small talk and break the ice, the unnecessary social fluff that all humans seemed to enjoy.

“Isn’t the weather pleasant today?” Louis asked. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, young man. An A-minus on your midterms-wonderful!”

One corner of Mitch’s mouth twitched, and he eased back into his chair.

This was so easy. Humans were ever so willing to be buttered up. Perhaps the Stephenson family was not all their reputation had led him to believe.

“Say what you came to say, Deceiver,” Mitch spat out, somehow managing to sound repulsed and polite the same time.

Louis blinked. The boy had some spine somewhere in all that base human flesh, after all.

“Very well,” Louis said. “Cards on the table, as you people say. I came to discuss my daughter.”

Mitch snorted. “You know she hates you Infernals? Every time they’re mentioned, her hackles rise.”

Louis quickly stopped a scowl from creasing his face, and hid his true feelings behind a smile.

Was this mortal baiting him? And why did his words sting so?

Fiona didn’t hate him, did she? No-they had had a wonderful discussion when last they spoke. . although perhaps she was uneasy with Louis’s new and magnificent presence.

“Be that as it may,” Louis said with deliberate calm, “I thought it high time to speak to the young man courting her.”

“If you think I need your approval to go out with Fiona, you’ve wasted your time as well as mine.”

How had this conversation turned? The boy should not be acting like this. He should be charming and gracious, humble-or, at least, terrified of Louis. What were they teaching teenagers at Paxington these days? Whatever it was, he approved.

Or was there something else to this mortal?

Louis forged ahead. There were ways to appeal to young men, especially shrewd young men such as this.

“Of course,” Louis agreed. “Fiona knows her own mind. I could see she has chosen wisely. No, I came to offer you a deal.”

Mitch’s eyes flickered with interest, and he leaned forward. “What precisely are you offering?”

Louis had him now. He had but to tease just a bit more to set the hook. It was almost too easy. . but that was fine. Louis could enjoy a small, simple victory, a long overdue sign that his luck was changing for the better. He’d purchase this boy’s soul with some trinkets and use him to worm his way into Fiona’s good graces.

Louis’s hands curled slightly on the tabletop, his nails scratching the glass in anticipation of victory.

“Why, I am offering you the world, young man,” Louis whispered with utmost sincerity. “Money, power, and all that goes with it. As much as you dare grab with both hands.”

Mitch cocked an eyebrow and leaned even farther forward. “And in return for these grand boons, sir, you expect. . what?”

Louis almost laughed out loud at someone calling him “sir.” This was perfection.

“Just a trifling thing: an alliance of a sort.”

Mitch looked unconvinced, but he turned over one hand on the table, the traditional signal of his willingness to bargain.

Louis nodded at the empty cocoa cups. “It is obvious you require help with my daughter. If you truly knew her, you’d realize that the mere smell of chocolate is enough to make her disgorge her breakfast.”

Mitch’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t realized.”

“It’s the little things in romance that women notice,” Louis told him. “Details count. I have a nearly infinite amount of experience in these matters. Let me help you.”

“So you’re giving power and money and help with Fiona?” Mitch murmured. “But you mentioned an alliance?. .”

“Only the smallest of considerations in my behalf,” Louis said with a careless wave. “Fiona and I have had our moments, but there are so many family matters we have yet to settle. Her mother has made things most difficult.”

“Still confused over here,” Mitch said, his eyes narrowing.

Something about this boy was achingly familiar. Had they spoken before? Louis searched his memory: there was nothing but suspicion.

“After I have helped you secure your relationship with my daughter, from time to time I would have you mention-as a natural part of the conversation, mind you-how misunderstood I am. As a Stephenson, being an authority on such things, you can just let it slip out that among the Infernals I am the noblest, kindest, and most generous of their ilk.”

“I get the idea,” Mitch said. “You want me to lie.”

Louis frowned. “ ‘Lie’ is such an overused word. But no, never lie to Fiona. She would know the instant you spoke such a thing to her.”

“She can hear lies already?” Mitch whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Louis continued. “All you need do is tell her the truth about me. . perhaps embellish as you see fit. I do have her best interests at heart.”

Mitch stared into his eyes, searching. “Astonishing. I believe you do.” Then he blinked and was all business again. “So you don’t want my soul?”

Louis laughed. “No, what would I want with your soul?”

The point was moot. If young Stephenson made this deal, upon his death his soul would naturally seek Louis’s realm (provided he had land by then). Of course, there was no need to mention this detail.

Louis spread his hands to the edge of the table. “All that is within my power to give shall be yours.”

Mitch considered this a moment; then his smile returned.

Louis grinned as well. So easy.

Mitch lifted his hand off the table and reached across toward Louis.

Louis did the same. All that formal business with written contracts and blood signatures could wait-a handshake would suffice and be binding for now.

Mitch, however, didn’t clasp his hand. He instead grabbed the salt-shaker off the table. With a flick of his fingers and some sleight of hand trickery, the top popped.

Mitch upended it and dumped a line of salt on the table between them.[45]

“May you one day choke on the truth,” Mitch said.

Most vile of insults! The boys did know their customs. Louis’s claws found purchase and cracked the glass tabletop.

He took a deep breath. . resisting the impulse to remove the young man’s head. Not here. Too many witnesses. Someone would escape. And with his luck, Fiona would find out, and one more plan would backfire.

“So you, too, wish to bring Fiona to your side, Old Scratch?” Mitch laughed. “As always, behind the curve on such things. Fiona is her own side now. She doesn’t need to join yours.”

Louis hardly heard, so strong did the blood thunder through his body. Fiona her own side? What nonsense. . and yet, he detected no lie.

“Clearly you are addled,” Louis whispered. “Or suicidal. Those are the only reasons for you being so reckless with such opportunities.”

Louis pushed away from the table, glaring at the salt between them. He reached out and scattered the offensive substance-as if such a trifling thing could ever stop him.

“When next we meet,” Louis growled, “there will be no table between us, young man. No veil of politeness, either. No deals. And no witnesses.”

Mitch nodded, unfazed. “I know. And I look forward to it, Deceiver.”

The boy smiled again, that same welcoming, warming smile Louis had first seen-only now there was an edge to it.

Outrageous! Louis strode back into the alley, where he could properly fume.

He had been a fool to deal with this boy. He should’ve realized that a practitioner of white magic would’ve been confused by Louis’s advanced sense of flexibile morality.

This left only one roundabout option. . perhaps where Louis should’ve started in the first place: with his own kind. They, at least, would recognize the value of a double deal and proper backstabbing when presented with one.

Yes, he would approach Eliot’s potential paramour, the delectable Jezebel.

Although this would mean a trip to the Poppy Lands and a smoothing of things with Sealiah. Perhaps it was not a bad idea. He had dwelled far too long in the world of light. A trip to the old country would be rejuvenating.

And he could use Sealiah to forget, he hoped, Audrey.

Besides, providence had provided the cash for the train ticket and all appropriate bribes. He opened his hand and counted the money that young Mr. Stephenson had left on the table for the waitress-the money Louis had snatched as he scattered the salt.

One never turned one’s back on so simple an opportunity.

Such a large tip! Indeed, how was Louis supposed to do business with such fools?

Fiona staggered into the locker room, half-dead.

Mr. Ma had made them do calisthenics and reflex drills all afternoon.

It hadn’t helped when Fiona asked why they had been singled out for this punishment, and Sarah added that it was unfair because their parents spent fortunes to send them here and this wasn’t a prison camp, and Amanda had even asked why Teams Dragon and Wolf weren’t doing the same exercises.

By way of answering, Mr. Ma made the girls run around the coliseum five times, while the rest the team was dismissed.

The man was a sadist.

She would’ve been angry. . had she the energy. As it was, she was barely able to stand and let the shower run over her body.

Fiona toweled off and sat on the bench by her locker.

Amanda came out of the shower a moment later, her towel tight about her body. Sarah followed, towel wrapped only about her head, unabashedly glowing and looking refreshed as if she’d just taken a light jog.

Conspicuously absent was Jezebel. No one had seen her since the new semester started, an entire week ago.

Amanda pulled away the hair plastered to her face, and followed Fiona’s gaze to Jezebel’s locker. “You think she’s okay? She didn’t look so great after the midterm match.”

“I don’t know,” Fiona replied.

“Jezebel is an Infernal,” Sarah said, “and she’s shrugged off damage that would have shattered a normal person’s bones. But she better get back soon.” She took out her blow-dryer and shook out her mane of red hair. “Team Scarab is down its strongest fighter.” She turned on the dryer and preened in front of a mirror.

Sarah was coldheartedly pragmatic, but correct.

If Jezebel never came back, Fiona better think up new strategies for how to win matches. By the rules, they had to get half the team to their flag to win. With seven on their team, was half three or four people, then? She bet Mr. Ma would round up to four.

And what about Eliot? It wasn’t exaggerating to say he might have a “fatal” crush on the Infernal. Would he get over her? Or would his darkening mood just get worse? Or maybe, if Jezebel never came back, it’d be the best thing for him.

Fiona glanced at Amanda and wondered if she’d ever tell Eliot she liked him. It was so obvious. . even to Fiona, who-let’s face it-was no expert in boy-girl relationships.

On the other hand, if Amanda told him, and then Jezebel came back. . who knows what the Infernal might do to her. Probably laugh. Or kill her.

Poor Amanda. Poor Eliot.

She had a feeling that no matter what, they were going to get hurt.

It was the same with Robert. Sometimes she wished he’d just go away. That sounded cruel, but it was true.

Anyway, she had Mitch now.

Sarah finished her hair: it shone and curled with expert precision in a completely relaxed and natural-looking way. She looked over at Amanda and her tangles, frowning, but not offering any advice.

“How do you know a boy likes you?” Fiona asked Sarah.

Sarah blinked. “With your looks and social connections, I wouldn’t worry. All the boys like you.”

Fiona blushed and started to get dressed, suddenly feeling a little too exposed.

“I mean,” Fiona continued, “say a boy likes you, you think, but you’re not sure how much. . or what exactly his intentions are.”

“Oh. .,” Sarah said, “a coy one, then, is it? They’re the most dangerous of all.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona noted that Amanda eagerly listened, soaking up any boy advice that might accidentally drift her way.

“We are talking about Mitch, then?” Sarah asked.

Fiona’s blush deepened.

“Well, he likes you. It’s obvious. Don’t be so thick.”

“He smiles at everyone,” Amanda added, “but the way he smiles at you. . no one but you gets that.”

“Really?” Fiona suddenly felt out of breath.

“But that’s a problem,” Sarah said as she tied her hair up with a royal blue velvet ribbon. “You hinted there was something between you and Robert last summer?”

“That’s none of your business,” Fiona snapped.

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled.” Sarah patted the bench next to her. “It is my business. All of ours, in fact.”

Fiona sat.

“Mitch is a wonderful lad, and so is Robert,” Sarah said, “but if you pick one over the other, then what happens to the team? Would Robert want to get even with Mitch? At the very least, they wouldn’t be working together when we needed them to in a match, would they?”

Fiona wasn’t sure. Robert was above that sort of thing, wasn’t he?

And Mitch? He’d acted like nothing but a gentleman (which was part of the problem).

Fiona had a vision of the two of them dueling with sabers on campus. She shook her head to clear it.

“I’d never tell you how to run your personal affairs,” Sarah whispered. “Just be careful. We have three more matches to get our rank high enough to graduate. You might want to be nice to both of them. For a bit longer?”

Fiona didn’t know. That wouldn’t be fair to Robert; it might actually be dangerous for him. And it certainly wouldn’t be fair to Mitch. Or her.

“Let’s get some coffee,” Amanda suggested. “We can figure it all out together.”

“Coffee?” Fiona stood bolt upright. “I was supposed to meet Mitch at Café Eridanus half an hour ago!”

Fiona grabbed her Paxington jacket, hesitated, and then told Sarah, “Don’t worry. It’s just coffee.”

Sarah nodded, although she did not look at all convinced.

“See you!” Fiona waved to Sarah and Amanda and ran out of the locker room.

She burst out of the Ludus Magnus and almost ran over Mitch in the bone-encrusted entrance tunnel.

“Whoa!” He dodged her-without dropping the take-out coffee cups in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” Fiona said.

“No harm.” He flashed his smile-that special smile that he had only for her (or so Amanda thought).

True or not, that grin warmed her more than any run around the coliseum or hot coffee ever could.

“I thought we were meeting at the café?”

“I was going to suggest we take another walk,” he said. “The café’s too crowded.”

“A ‘walk’ like last time?”

Mitch handed her one of the coffees and then offered her his free hand. “A walk better than last time. I’ve got a few surprises scouted out.” His smile intensified.

Fiona almost dropped the coffee. Her legs wobbled, but he didn’t notice.

“Sure,” she said, managing to sound causal-as if she took strolls around the world with boys who might like her every afternoon. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

He took her free hand in his and started down the winding path to Bristlecone Hall.

But after a dozen steps, nothing happened. They were just walking.

“Oh, I thought-”

“We are.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “But we can’t leave Paxington like that-some security feature. Mr. Dells had a talk with me about it.”

Fiona nodded. No one but students and staff were allowed on campus by foot or by car, and apparently there were restrictions on the use of magic, too, to cross its boundaries. As if Paxington were its own little country. She remembered how Dallas and Kino had waited for her outside the school gates, which made sense only if even the gods were forbidden from entering.

What kind of agreement did Paxington have with the League and the Infernals and the mortal magical families that let them operate with that kind of autonomy?

She turned her attention to the warmth flowing from Mitch’s hand into hers. He’d picked the long, roundabout way to the gate. Was that because he had wanted to hold her hand for the pleasure of holding it? Wanted, as she did, to make it last as long as possible?

She squeezed his hand back. “Hey, normal walking-just fine with me,” she said.

“You looked like you had a lot on your mind coming out of the coliseum.”

“Oh, the girls and I were talking about our last three matches-trying to come up with strategies to deal with our missing Jezebel.”

Fiona omitted their discussion of the boy-boy-girl dynamics of Team Scarab, and how her personal relationships could potentially sink their team’s ranking.

Mitch nodded. “Jezebel missing isn’t a huge problem. Not anymore. Every team in second semester is down at least one person. Dropouts, injuries-happens every year.”

The walked past the pedunculate oak called the Hangman of London. Its giant shadow crossed their path, and fog blew through its twisting branches. It reminded her of the misty graveyards that led to the Borderlands.

Fiona definitely preferred the sunshine these days. She took a sip of the coffee to warm her. It was perfect: lots of cream and no sugar. Just how she liked it.

“If teams get too small, people get reassigned,” Mitch continued. “I have an aunt who’s a Paxington alumna, and she explained it all to me.”[46]

“You mean they could break up Scarab?”

What if she and Mitch, Robert, Amanda. . or Eliot got reassigned to different teams? How could she ever compete against any of them?

“No worries. We’re only down one. And theoretically, Jezebel could show up any time. If she doesn’t, it’s more likely Scarab will pick up a straggler from another team.”

Then maybe Jezebel going missing could turn out to be a good thing. As an Infernal, she was the strongest person on their team, but that didn’t make up for being a monster. Not to mention the effect she had on Eliot.

The sun broke through the fog as they emerged near Bristlecone Hall, and they strode along the cobblestone path to the front gate.

It might all actually work out for the best. Fiona playfully swung her arm with Mitch’s.

Mr. Dells opened the gate. “Have a wonderful day, kids.” His laserlike gaze, however, carefully tracked Mitch as they left.

“We will,” Fiona told him.

As they approached the end of the thoroughfare, Mitch whispered, “Here we go. Hang on.” His smile vanished and intense concentration crossed his face.

There was vertigo, a flash of light, and a step-

— and the concrete sidewalk they were just walking upon was a path of granite strewn with pebbles and dust.

The air was clean and fresh and cold. Fiona blinked to adjust to the brighter light; she saw that they were on a mountain path. Flags and streamers fluttered along the precipitous edge. Titanic granite ridges jutted into a startling blue sky, and below them roiled clouds.

“Listen,” Mitch whispered.

Fiona cocked her head. In the distance echoed bird cries.

A flock of cranes broke through the clouds-hundreds of flashing wings and gray-blue feathers streamed up toward them, and then over their heads.

“It’s their spring migration,” Mitch explained. “They go right over the top of the Himalayas. Reminds me of what we do at school. All of us trying to get to the top.”

Fiona watched the flock flap through the thin air, higher and higher.

“Every year,” he said, “they struggle to get over this mountain. Some don’t. Some die. Are we the same? It’s great we’re learning, but why? Graduate with honors? Be like our parents?”

The flock crested the ridge. The cranes called out once and then glided effortlessly, silent, exhausted, and vanished.

“I definitely don’t want to be like my parents,” Fiona replied.

That would be a choice between her emotionally distant mother, and her father, who was. . what? A monster? At best, a liar and thief.

“Not knowing what I want to be is part of the reason I’m at a Paxington,” she said. “I need to get my bearings and figure a few things out.”

That wasn’t the entire truth, though. Fiona had something to prove at school, too: that she was as good as anyone else-not only at school, but at the League as well.

“I guess,” Mitch said. “I just wish they gave us some breathing room in our schedules.” He exhaled. “Speaking of breathing”-he pulled her along-“we should move. It’s not good to be at this altitude for too long without oxygen.”

They trudged along the path, Fiona started feeling a bit dizzy now, and they rounded a ledge and into shadows-

— and stumbled over roots and underbrush, and a flock of butterflies took to the air, making a storm of confetti-like flutterings.

“This way,” Mitch said, pushing branches out of their way.

Fiona struggled to breathe the now heavier, moist air. She got her bearings and saw the faintest of trails snaking through the jungle. There were stone heads as big as houses and overgrown with hundred-year-old tree roots. Those idols stared at her with blind sockets.

Ahead was the sound of water churning and crashing.

Mitch stopped abruptly and parted ferns for her.

They stood on the edge of a river that plunged into a kilometer-wide sinkhole. Along the steep edges, trees and vines grew at precipitous angles. The water never seemed to hit the bottom-instead it vaporized into rainbows.

“Down there is the Cavern of the Six Fairy Kings,” Mitch whispered in hushed awe. “There’s supposedly a trail leading down. . somewhere. I’ve never found it. The cave is one of the fabled gateways to the Faerie Lands-if you believe that sort of thing.”[47]^, [48]

“Jeremy would give anything to see this,” Fiona whispered.

“Like I’d ever bring him here.” Mitch said.

So many places, and so many fantastic sights, and being with Mitch-it was disorienting, but Fiona nonetheless managed to pick up their conversation where it left off. “So, Mr. Stephenson,” she said, “why are you at Paxington?”

Mitch’s smile faded. He let go of her and laced his hands, thinking. “At first, because it’s what was expected of me. I studied for years, sacrificing, and taking tests.”

He fell silent; his gaze drifted to the waterfall.

“But?” Fiona asked.

“But. . it’s not like I thought it would be. Paxington. The people there. Even this world we live in. It’s more complicated than I thought, terrible-and wonderful, too.”

For the first time, she saw Mitch struggle with some inner turmoil. “I want to change it all,” he told her, and looked into her eyes. “Immortals and the magical families, the way they run things. . it’s all so political and greedy. It’s about power and not about people or principles.”

Fiona nodded. “I think I know what you mean. The League of Immortals used to stand for something-order and fighting wrongs, but that seemed to end with a treaty with the Infernals. All that’s left today is posturing and politicking. Where did all their greatness go?”

They both fell silent, the only sound the thundering of the water.

“So let’s change it together,” she suggested, and found his hand again and wove her fingers through his.

He didn’t object, and he looked at her hand, turning it over.

“No,” he told her. “What I want to do one day. . it’ll be stupid. . and probably dangerous.”

“I’m willing to do stupid, dangerous things, as long as it’s with you.” A smile crept across her face.

“Maybe,” he whispered. “I still have to figure a few things out.” He shook his head, looked up, saw her smiling, and mirrored it. “Hey, let’s just get through our next match and then we can plot to change the world.”

“Sure.”

But Fiona was already dreaming about what it would be like to make the world a better place. How would they begin? With magic? Politics? Something subversive?

Mitch led her down the path until it faded, and then through the deep shade of a banyan tree-

— and they stepped from its shadow to one cast by a lamppost onto Pacific Avenue in San Francisco.

“There we go,” Mitch said. “A few blocks from home, all safe and sound.”

Fiona bit her lip. That was it?

Then she stopped her pout. Mitch had just revealed one of his deepest secrets to her, taken her to the Himalayas, probably to Indonesia, and back here. She was getting spoiled by all the magic. . and all the attention Mitch was giving her.

He stepped closer, still holding her hand, and said, “Don’t tell anyone how I feel about Paxington and the families. I can imagine what they’d think or do if they knew I was such a rebel.”

She touched his lips with her finger, silencing him. The softness of his flesh sent a ripple of electricity along her arm.

“I won’t tell-even though I think what you’ve said is the noblest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He nodded and pulled back a tiny bit. “Well. .” He cleared his throat. “I guess we better hit the books, huh?”

Fiona wasn’t letting him slip away this time.

She grabbed him and pulled him back-her lips met his, and she melted into his arms as he wrapped them about her.

Whatever happened next. . let Robert and the rest of them sort it all out. Let Team Scarab crash and burn and fail, for all she cared.

What she had here and now was everything she wanted.

Eliot followed the map he’d been given by Mr. Dells. “For your audition today,” Mr. Dells had said, and then told Eliot that he had to go alone. Mr. Dells had handed Fiona a similar map and wished her luck.

It was weird-Eliot and Fiona going to different courses-but Eliot couldn’t imagine Fiona in a music class, and there was no way he was signing up for more organized mayhem at Paxington. Gym class and boxing lessons with Robert were enough.

The map was crudely drawn. The Ludus Magnus was an oval, and the paths around squiggles. The way he was supposed to take was indicated by a stick figure. That path supposedly wandered through the Grove Primeval. . only there wasn’t a path there. He knew, because he’d walked this way a hundred times and never seen it.

And yet, when he approached the spot marked on the map where a willow tree everyone called the Lady in Mourning stood-there it was, another path paved with worn black stones.

That was so typical of Paxington.

There were areas hidden, he guessed, from freshmen, and maybe for good reason. Things probably got rougher for the upperclassmen, which probably would have been lethal for him. That would explain why Eliot only rarely saw older students on campus.

Just how big was this school, anyway?

Eliot walked onto the new path.

The trees grew larger here, oaks with ancient black trunks that twisted upward into the sky.

The forest gave way to lawn with a sculpture of a Dixieland band playing. The path circled about the sculpture, and then descended into an entrance underneath.

Eliot paused a moment to stare at the frozen bronze figures, smiling, with drums and horns-all of them looking like they’d been captured having the time of their lives.

He entered a steep tunnel. Gas lamps flickered along the rock walls, and after twenty paces, Eliot stood before a marble arch three times his height. Set within this arch was a double set of mahogany doors, and upon them carved scenes of a rock concert, a stage magician sawing a girl in half, and acts from Shakespeare’s plays.

Running along the edge of the arch were the following words: MUSES UT RIDEO RISI RISUM, TRIPUDIO, PLORO, INTEREO, QUOD NASCOR DENUO.[49]

Eliot consulted his map. This was the end of the line, literally-with an X marked and a scrawled note: “Grotto of the Muses.”

He took a deep breath and pushed through the doors.

Beyond was a cavern. In the center sat a platform lit by stagelights and additional spotlights above. Four columns-where stalactite and stalagmite had melded together-stood equidistant about this stage. Also ringing the stage were seats of violet crushed velvet with padded armrests.

A dozen students milled near the stage, whispering to one another. They had instrument cases from piccolo-to tuba-sized.

The acoustics were amazing. Hushed murmurs across the room echoed and bounced and sounded as if Eliot stood right next to the others.

As quietly as he could, he approached the stage. . and felt the first stirrings of butterflies in his gut.

Eliot recognized two students from his Mythology 101 class, but no one he had ever actually ever talked with.

He almost tripped when he spotted Sarah Covington.

Great. All he needed were her snide remarks before his audition.

She’d pulled back her hair into a tight bun, wore none of her usual makeup. . and looked as nervous as Eliot felt. She didn’t have an instrument case, though. So what was she doing here?

She saw him, smiled, and walked over. “I was hoping you’d try out,” she said. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”

Eliot blinked and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder-to see if she spoke to someone behind him. That’s what usually happened. But no. . she stared right at him. Audrey and Cee had drilled years of polite responses into him; otherwise, he’d have floundered.

“Thanks,” he said. “Good to see you here, too.”

And it was. If Sarah Covington of the haughty Clan Covington was here and just as nervous as he was, then maybe it was okay to feel like he was going to throw up.

“I’ve admired your playing,” she whispered, and bit her lower lip. “You’re good. I just wanted to say that before we started.”

Eliot waited for the punch line-you’re good. . for an amateur-or good. . for someone with eight thumbs-or for a rhonchial musicaster.[50]

But she said no more, instead turned as the stage lights dimmed and the spotlights brightened.

Eliot and Sarah sank into two adjacent seats.

Why was she being nice after an entire semester of being mean? Girls were so weird.

A curtain rustled stage left, and a flowing silhouette appeared among the shadows. A spotlight snapped on, revealing a deeply tanned woman in a gold dress. She was elegant with diamonds adorning her fingers, wrists, and neck; but wild at the same time, with her dark hair a frenzy of curls. With one graceful step, she was on the stage.

Four more spotlights angled on her, making her sparkle. She smiled at her audience, and it was more dazzling than any gold or diamonds. She had that unassailable confidence that every Immortal had, but more: she had the glamour of a star.

“Welcome, students. I’m Erin DuPreé. In my class, you call me Erin or Air, but never teacher or Ms. DuPreé or ma’am or any of that other nonsense. There’s too much real stuff going in here to mess with such silly formalities.”

Eliot liked her. He relaxed into his seat.

Next to him, though, Sarah tensed and gripped her armrests.

“I don’t care about your technical skill,” Ms. DuPreé told them in a lowered voice. “Oh, that’s the easy part, baby. If you came thinking you’re going to learn to play Mozart better-you go take lessons somewhere else and practice your scales.”

She sat on the stage’s edge, leaned closer to them, and whispered, “We’re going to get what’s inside you out into the world. Make real music. Make people feel something.” She rolled her hands in dramatic flourishes. “And do magic that’ll make all that other stuff seem like three-card monte.”

The spotlights on her focused. “I’m talking about the music in your souls, kids.” She made a fist and held it over her heart.

Eliot sat on the edge of his seat. That’s what he wanted. . but then he remembered the permission slip in his backpack, and his excitement cooled.

It read,

I, (FILL IN COMPLETE NAME), hereby relinquish any claims and responsibilities of the Paxington Institute with respect to the class known as THE POWER OF MUSIC for damages to my psyche, soul, and mental state for the duration of the semester, and if I continue to practice the musical arts, in perpetuity. All mental aberrations, diminishment of spirit, lost faith, substance abuses, and other similar conditions are solely the undersigned’s responsibility to avoid and, if possible, correct.

(SIGN FULL LEGAL NAME HERE) / (DATE)

He’d signed it, of course. It wasn’t such a big deal. Eliot knew he was already in over his head with his music. . so much so that his soul burned a little every time he played.

So let it-even if there was nothing left but ashes. He had to know how far he could take it, if his music would eventually save him. . or destroy him.

Ms. DuPreé clapped her hands. “So,” she said, excitement gleaming in her eyes, “you got what it takes to be a great musician? You got real soul?” She stood and waved toward them. “Who’s going to show me first? Someone make me laugh. Someone make me cry.”

A boy stood and walked onto the stage. He was a junior or senior, with a goatee and a long black braid down his back. He carried an electric guitar.

Ms. DuPreé motioned, and stagehands quickly set up amplifiers and speakers. Then with a bow, Ms. DuPreé turned the stage over to him, backing to the shadowy edges.

Eliot couldn’t help but stare-not at the boy, but at his guitar. It was solid black with silver rivets, powerful and masculine, everything dinky Lady Dawn was not.

The boy took a deep breath and then played a rock ’n’ roll riff-tough and rough and shifting keys fast and furious as sound distorted through the speakers, so loud it made the hairs on Eliot’s arms dance and his insides quaver.

The boy’s face contorted with exultation and agony, as if this song caused him joy and pain.

Eliot clenched his hand into a fist. He could relate.

But more fascinating than the music was the guitar: Eliot wished he had something that. . well, wouldn’t embarrass him every time he took it out to play in public.

Lady Dawn was a beautiful instrument. Eliot loved her. She had been his father’s heirloom before given to him, and he respected the music they made together.

He squeezed the never-quite-healed wound in his palm where Lady Dawn had cut him with a snapped string, and remembered there was a price to pay for playing her, too.

The boy onstage finished with a screaming crescendo and slid onto his knees.

Eliot and the others clapped. He was great.

How was Eliot going to pass any audition following that act?

The boy grinned and stood, and he held up one hand to the applause in mock modesty.

Ms. DuPreé clapped as well, but slow and without enthusiasm as she walked toward him. “A technically perfect performance,” she purred. “High marks for showmanship, too.” She moved closer and whispered to the boy-but with the perfect acoustics, Eliot still heard: “But you didn’t move me, kid. So go live a little, and then show me something next year.”

The boy’s smile contracted to a grimace, but he nodded, seeming to take her criticism seriously. He gave her a bow, picked up his guitar, and left without looking back.

Ms. DuPreé addressed the remaining students, “Somebody make me feel something,” she told them. “Don’t just perform-move your audience.” She looked at each of them. “So who’s next?”

Sarah stood, trembling. “I’ll go, ma’am, I mean Erin, if you please.”

“Show me what you got, kid.”

Eliot touched her arm lightly and nodded to her.

Sarah nodded back.

It was a simple gesture between them, but genuine: his reassurance and hope. . her gratitude for the kindness.

Sarah walked to the stage with slow deliberation. Ms. DuPreé offered a hand and helped her up.

Sarah had no instrument, nor did Ms. DuPreé signal for any to be brought out. Instead Sarah clasped her hands in front of her and sang.

Eliot didn’t understand the words, not even the language, Gaelic maybe. But while the words didn’t mean anything to him, the song did.

She sang of marshes and glens and trees and birds. He could almost see the land, and almost smell the heather and the ocean in the distance. He knew how she felt, that her heart was still at home. How she missed it all. How she loved that place.

Sarah finished and looked down.

No one clapped.

Not because it was bad, but because Eliot and the others were in shock. He’d never realized the human voice could be so lyrical and evocative.

Ms. DuPreé came to Sarah, took one of her hands, and petted it. “Very nice.”

Sarah managed a tight smile.

Ms. DuPreé waved her back to her seat and then looked to the rest of them. “That’s what I’m talking about. Who’s next?”

Sarah shakily sank back into her seat. She looked ill.

Eliot understood how music like that could drain you. He wanted to tell her, too, that’s how it was for him when he poured himself into his music.

“No volunteers?” Ms. DuPreé sounded disappointed.

A spotlight snapped on Eliot.

Adrenaline flooded through his body, and he cringed in surprise.

“How about you, then, Mr. Post? Why don’t you show us all what you’re made of?”

Eliot froze as if he were a deer in the headlights of an onrushing truck. Everything he knew about music was suddenly gone from his head.

Sarah whispered to him, “Go show her a thing or two.” There was a bit of her usual sarcasm in her tone, although Eliot didn’t think it was directed at him this time.

It was strange: Eliot’s confidence returned (what little of it there was) because he didn’t want to let Sarah down. He didn’t understand why he should care what she thought, but he did.

Well, he’d come to audition. He’d give it his best shot.

He grabbed Lady Dawn’s case, plodded to the stage, and stepped up without taking Ms. DuPreé’s proffered hand.

Ms. DuPreé gave him a wry look. “Well, Mr. Post, I’ve heard you got a spark in you, but so did the boy up here before you. Do you have soul? Can you make me cry?”

Eliot snorted. He felt irritation prickle at the back of his neck.

She wanted him to make her feel something? He flipped open the violin case and removed Lady Dawn, set her on his shoulder, grabbed the bow. . then stopped.

He had to play a song that meant something to him, though. It couldn’t just be “Mortal’s Coil” or “The Symphony of Existence” or the “The March of the Suicide Queen.” They were great pieces, but they were other people’s songs.

Even “Julie’s Song” wasn’t Eliot’s. He’d taken what was inside Julie, turned it inside out, and added a melody, that’s all.

This had to be all his. Like Sarah had sung about her home, revealing a part of herself he would never have guessed existed. . exposed herself in front of all of them.

He swallowed.

There was one nursery rhyme he recalled-or thought he remembered. It was like fog in his memory, shifting-there but ghostly, something he thought his mother might have once sang to him. Maybe the only thing she had ever sung to him.

Eliot set aside his bow. He wouldn’t need it.

He cautiously plunked out the tune.

A girl in the audience snickered. “That’s ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ ”[51]

Someone shushed her.

Eliot paid them no attention and kept playing. This song, whatever it was, was his and his family’s. It was the mother he’d had, if only for a moment, before Louis left and everything changed-before Audrey severed her connection to him and Fiona. A connection he’d never get back. . that he mourned over.

The song was simple, slow, and full of that loss. Each note was leaden and painful in the still air. He felt completely alone up on the stage.

It was a stupid little baby thing. . but it was his.

He put himself into the song, all the love and happiness of his perfectly imagined family that had never been: growing up with a real father and mother. . having Audrey’s tenderness, Louis’s guidance-not 106 rules.

But that was a lie. The notes soured under his fingers, and he shifted to a minor key.

About him, the spotlight flickered and dimmed.

He’d never had real parents. Nothing about his family was normal. He cast aside his dream and faced the fact that he was the son of the Eldest Fate, Atropos, and of Lucifer, the Great Deceiver. Maybe that made Eliot a freak, or a nerd, but something in him had to be part divine and part darkness.

The simple song under his fingertips now spoke of the heavens wheeling overhead, and among them a boy. . ascending to stars-or falling like his father, crashing and forever burning.

One day he would be very much more than simple Eliot Post.

He finished, the last notes echoing throughout the grotto like the beating of his heart.

There was no clapping.

Eliot couldn’t see any faces in the dark.

He trembled from the exertion and from the humiliation that he’d put everything he was out there for strangers to see.

Ms. DuPreé set one hand on his shoulder. “That was good,” she whispered. “Real good, kid.” She smiled and her eyes sparkled. “Stick with me, and one day I’ll make you a star.”

Fiona followed her stupid map to the far side of the Ludus Magnus. She was irritated they thought she needed a map when she’d been wandering around here for a half a year already. . more irritated that she had needed the map.

Although she had seen the far side of the Ludus Magnus before, had even had a bird’s-eye view from the top of the obstacle course, she’d never noticed this tiny sister coliseum.

Instead of columns, giant statues stood along curve of its outer wall: an armored knight, a one-breasted Amazon, and a gladiator with trident and net.

She passed through the wide entrance. The inside training grounds were the size of a softball field, with sand and mud and grass and concrete surfaces, dotted with wooden practice dummies; steam-powered, multi-armed robots; barricades of spikes and razor wire, racks of swords and shields and spears-and lots of open space to fight.

In the center stood Mr. Ma. About him in a loose circle were ten boys in their Paxington school uniforms (not gym sweats).

Fiona’s heart skipped a beat. Of course Mr. Ma would be the combat instructor. Who else but sadistic, by-the-book Mr. Ma?

She did a double take, though, as Mr. Ma laughed and smiled and patted one of the students on the back. He seemed more at ease here than in gym class. Maybe she’d catch a break and he might actually be nice to her. Unlikely.

The boys in the class were bigger and more serious than the ones she usually saw on campus. Upperclassmen. Two of them she recognized from that first-day demonstration of the obstacle course; one had had a broken arm, but he looked no worse for the injury today.

Fiona worried that she might be late-despite having made sure that she had an early start this morning. It was one of those things that just seemed to happen to her: misreading the grandfather clock at home, class getting moved up. . Eliot doing something to mess them up, like start a small war.

She checked her phone. No, she still had ten minutes.

As Fiona walked toward them, however, she noticed one more thing different with this picture.

Robert Farmington.

He stood with the other boys (just as tall but not quite so filled out), and he looked completely at ease-as he always did. He had a black eye, but nonetheless laughed along with Mr. Ma, and grinned-until he saw her.

His smile dried up. The others turned.

Mr. Ma’s smile similarly vanished, and he was once again the same stern figure who made her life miserable in gym.

“Good morning, Miss Post,” he said.

The way he said it, though, was laced with disapproval-as if what he meant to really say was: Good morning, Miss Post, and notice that while you’re on time, you’re not early. . indicating that you don’t have the dedication to the martial arts that these other fine young men do, so why don’t you go back to bed and get your beauty sleep and not worry your not-so-pretty-little head about such things?

Imagined or not, irritation made her neck flush with heat.

“I’ve come to learn how to fight,” she told him as confidently as she could (which sounded more like a squeak to her).

“I’m sure you have,” Mr. Ma replied. He nodded to Robert. “But as you can see, I’ve already had one freshman who has contested the prerequisites for this course. I have no desire to babysit two such fledglings. It would not be fair to the others.”

Robert looked at the ground, unable to meet her gaze.

The prickly heat on her neck spread across Fiona’s chest. Anger or embarrassment or both-she wasn’t sure.

It was completely unfair. Just because Robert had gotten here a few minutes earlier and passed Mr. Ma’s stupid test? A test she was sure she could pass, too.

“Miss Westin said I could challenge your prerequisites.” Fiona had wanted to say this calmly and logically, as if Mr. Ma had just overlooked some bookkeeping error, but it came out sounding petulant.

“I’m sure she did. But Miss Westin’s influence stops at the entrance of this hall.”

Fiona pursed her lips. Something solidified in her. . a titanic, immovable mass of stubbornness.

“I will challenge your prerequisites,” she told him. She had made that sound exactly as she wanted this time-as if she were contesting Mr. Ma personally.

The other students collectively inhaled and held their breaths.

Mr. Ma narrowed his eyes slightly as he took her in, and then after a moment said, “A challenge, is it?” He chuckled. “What would be the point, Miss Post? You need a signed permission slip first.”

He turned back to the others.

“I have one.” Fiona got out the piece of paper and handed it to him.

Mr. Ma looked at the permission slip-which covered all the things she had expected: a dozen hypothetical near-fatal injuries, and the four Ds (death, decapitation, dismemberment, and disembowelment). . as if there weren’t already a million different ways to get beaten, broken, or killed in Paxington.

What was absolutely fascinating to Fiona, though, was that Audrey had signed it.

Fiona had gone back and forth on the best way to approach her mother-how learning to fight would actually increase the odds of her graduating-it was better to learn in a structured and supervised environment where there were medics nearby rather than doing so outside of classes where anything could happen.

Audrey hadn’t listened. She had simply taken the permission slip and signed it.

On the signature line of the page, her mother had printed Audrey Post, and then next to it she had drawn an infinity symbol with a line stricken diagonally across.

Mr. Ma gazed upon her signature, and his face crinkled so hard in concentration that it looked like a prune with two deeply set dark eyes. As he continued to gaze at it, Fiona saw the ink was thicker than she recalled, almost bulging off the page. . and it scratched deeper into the surface than it ought to have without tearing through.

He ran his thumb over the symbol. Mr. Ma then folded the paper and tucked it into his warm-up jacket.

“So be it,” he whispered. “I accept your challenge.”

One of the older boys stepped forward, but Mr. Ma held a hand up at him and shook his head. “I will do this.”

The other students looked amongst themselves, confused.

Robert’s eyes widened. “Don’t fight him, Fiona,” he said. “It’s a trick.”

A smile creased Mr. Ma’s wrinkled lips. “Listen to your friend, Miss Post. He is correct: I do intend to trick you.”

Fiona saw real concern on Robert’s face. But Robert was always overprotective. . and he didn’t know what she was capable of anymore. Besides, if he had done this to get into the class, so could she.

“You can try,” she told Mr. Ma.

Mr. Ma looked her over and gave a snort.

He stalked to a rack of weapons, considered the sticks and shields and practice swords, and then selected a pair of wooden samurai swords, bokken, and tossed one to Fiona.

She hefted it. Heavy.

From her studies of kendo, she knew these solid wooden swords couldn’t cut. They had a simple chiseled simulated edge, but nonetheless had enough weight to bruise quite effectively, break bones. . or even bludgeon a person to death.

Her confidence flagged and her stomach flip-flopped.

What did she think she was doing? Mr. Ma had a million times more fencing experience than she had.

No. She’d sparred with Uncle Aaron and did okay (and she bet Aaron could have walloped Mr. Ma). And when she had fought the Lord of All That Flies, Beelzebub, she’d held her own. . for a while. At least the Infernal had treated her as a real threat.

Not like a joke, as Mr. Ma did.

Fire sparked inside her and the fear evaporated.

Mr. Ma held the tip of his bokken up. “Come at-”

Fiona lunged.

He deflected her point and whipped his sword around.

She blocked-but the force of his blow sent her skidding sideways in the dirt, and pain shuddered up her forearm bones.

The old man was stronger than he looked. Faster, too.

She feigned high, drop the tip of her sword-thrust up toward under his chin.

Only Mr. Ma wasn’t there. He’d sidestepped a split second before, and his sword was a blur coming toward her.

She twisted out of the way.

Too slow.

The bokken hit her side. Ribs shattered. Every particle of air blasted from her lungs.

Fiona crumpled. . although somehow stayed on her knees and didn’t sprawl facefirst into the dirt.

She also managed to hold on to her bokken. A small victory.

Necessary, too.

Because Mr. Ma didn’t show mercy. He swung his bokken in a double overhand stroke.

Through a haze of agony, she lifted her sword to block-barely. The impact sent new lightning strikes of pain shuddering through her bones.

She fell, dropped her bokken, and panted in the dust. Helpless.

Mr. Ma stood over her.

Fiona couldn’t breathe, it hurt so much. She couldn’t move. He had her.

“That,” Mr. Ma said, looming over her, “should be quite enough, I think. Go away, Miss Post. . or you will lose your head.”

His tone was irritatingly polite with just a hint of pity. He turned and walked back toward his students.

No one, but no one, ever turned their back to her in combat. She was Fiona Post, daughter of Atropos and Lucifer-daughter of Death incarnate and the Prince of Darkness. She was a goddess in her own right. . and more.

The world tinged red through her eyes. She welcomed the pain of her broken ribs. Let it set her mind aflame. Let it burn.

Fiona grasped her wooden sword.

She stood.

There was more pain, but it didn’t matter. The pain was in some other Fiona Post, one she’d pushed deep inside. Some new Fiona surfaced. This other Fiona said: “You should’ve finished me when you had the chance, old man.”

Mr. Ma halted and cocked his head.

The other students, even Robert, stared, astonished. . and backed farther away.

Mr. Ma slowly turned, his eyes narrowed, and he nodded. “Perhaps I should’ve at that.”

He lunged at her; she met him.

He struck three times. Her arms moved on their own-without thought-and parried. She riposted, but he just as effortlessly deflected her blows.

Mr. Ma slipped inside her guard and struck her dead center in the chest. The force shattered his bokken into splinters.

The impact pushed Fiona backwards into a crouch.

It had force enough to shatter a person’s rib rage and liquefy a human heart.

Fiona gritted her teeth. Fortunately, she wasn’t feeling very human at the moment. She smiled. His strike hadn’t even bruised her.

The world to her looked as if it were on fire-all brilliant ruby red and tinged with the blood that pounded through her, blazing with anger.

Mr. Ma backpedaled as she approached. He grabbed two new bokkens off the weapons rack.

Fiona swung with wild abandon, screaming her rage.

He parried each blow. His defense was solid. . perfect, in fact. She would never get through. She would beat on him until he wore her down, and then she’d make a mistake, or collapse from exhaustion, and she’d lose.

Her anger doubled and redoubled, and it felt as if her world would explode.

But the other, submerged Fiona started thinking again. She had to get around that perfect defense of his somehow. . from behind? Under? No, those wouldn’t work.

Maybe the way around his defense was straight through.

Fiona stepped back and gazed upon the chiseled wooden surfaces of her bokken, and forged her hate into something stronger: resolve.

The planes and fibers of the wood stiffened, and the length of the bokken hummed with power. The rounded notched surfaces smoothed to a clean edge, a line that seemed to slide in and out of her vision, it was so fine.

A cutting edge.

Her rage subsiding, she strode toward him, her bokken held high-and brought it down.

Mr. Ma must have sensed a flaw in his perfect defense, some danger-even before her bokken touched his, because his ever-calm expression puckered and she saw the tiniest flicker of fear in his eyes.

Her bokken passed through his as if it weren’t there, cleaving the wood in two.

Mr. Ma leaned back.

Not far enough, though.

The tip of Fiona’s bokken crossed his face. . and she felt resistance along her cutting edge-something hard, so she pushed harder with her arms and her mind-and his flesh yielded.

It was nothing serious. She hadn’t wanted to cut off his head. It was just a reminder that he should never turn his back on her again: a nearly microscopic slash curved from his cheek to chin.

She stepped back.

Mr. Ma felt the wound, and his fingers came away a tiny smear of red. He stared at it for the longest time.

The other students stared, too.

Fiona no longer felt the anger; she wasn’t even glad that she’d given Mr. Ma a taste of his own medicine.

Something was wrong.

It felt as was if she’d broken a rule-and not just some Paxington rule that might get her expelled. This rule felt like it should not have been able to be broken, like gravity. The entire universe felt as if it might unravel because of what she’d just done. . starting from where Mr. Ma stood. . from that one tiny cut.

Mr. Ma curled his fingers into a fist and took a breath. The wound on his chin stopped bleeding.

He moved toward Fiona.

The bokken slipped from her grasp. She started to say she was sorry-but halted herself. She wasn’t sorry, and she wouldn’t lie about it.

Mr. Ma gazed into her eyes. He wasn’t angry. It was as if he were searching for something that he’d misplaced a thousand years ago.

And then he blinked and nodded. “Very nicely done, Miss Post. Come, we were covering the basic fighting stance. . which I note you could use some improvement on.” He motioned for her to join the other boys, and very much made a point of not turning his back on her.

Fiona hid her surprise. So now he was actually inviting her to join the class? She didn’t understand, but she wasn’t going to question it, either.

As she joined them, though, the other students shuffled away. Not one of them offered their congratulations or would look her in the eye. Not even Robert.

Fiona stood by herself.

Mr. Ma showed them how to stand and fight, how not to lose one’s balance as they shuffled their feet.

She watched and listened and learned, but felt hollow inside, as if she were alone in the world. . as if she’d severed much more with that one little cut than she had meant to.

________

“Robert! Wait.” Fiona jogged after him along the trail through the grove, catching up. She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Robert, please. What’d I do? Is it because I’m the only girl in the class?”

Robert stopped, looked at her, but didn’t say anything.

It felt weird trying to get Robert to talk to her, almost pleading, after working so hard to put some distance between them. But he was in her class now. They’d have to talk, wouldn’t they? Not talking would be weirder.

She waited for Robert to explain, but instead he turned and walked away.

He stopped after two paces, sighed, and turned back to her. “It’s not that.” He shook his head, but then seemed to decide something. “You cut him, Fiona.”

“That was the point, wasn’t it? Show him I was good enough to get into the class? It’s the same thing you did.”

Robert paled. “I didn’t fight Ma. I wouldn’t have the guts to try.”

“Okay, so one little paper cut.”

Robert stared at her, unblinkingly. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Fiona shot him the look that she usually reserved for Eliot, the obviously you’re being too stupid for me to understand look.

“I guess not,” Robert said. “It’s in The Mahābhārata.”

“East Indian mythology? Miss Westin hasn’t covered that yet, so how could I know?”

Robert blinked. “It was a movie. Pretty cool one, too. Look, sorry, I just assumed everyone knows this stuff. . ”

Fiona crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you forget that until last summer, Audrey kept Eliot and me isolated? As in a total-vacuum-of-all-things-diabolical-and-divine type isolated?”

“Okay, it’s just that Mr. Ma is an Immortal, and has the power to choose when he dies.”[52]

“So what?” Fiona demanded. “No kidding: he didn’t die today.”

“He’s not supposed to,” Robert explained. “Not until the end of things. He’s not supposed to get touched. Not a bruise, not a chipped tooth. . not even one little cut.”

“One little cut. .,” Fiona echoed, and her stomach twisted into knots. “I still don’t see the big deal. So I caught him off guard with-” She stopped. “Wait, what do you mean ‘until the end of things’?”

“Mr. Ma is supposed to get hurt only at the end. . of everything.”

That sense of wrongness was back. As if when Fiona had cut Mr. Ma, she’d broken something unbreakable. . that couldn’t be repaired.

“The end of days,” Robert whispered. “Ragnarok. Armageddon. That’s what everyone’s freaking out about. They think because you hurt him, well, maybe you might have started it.”

Eliot sat cross-legged on his bed. He had a lot to do. He’d tackle the hard stuff first: tonight’s music homework.

He had to play his violin for fifteen minutes without repeating himself. Ms. DuPreé said he had to or “the bit of creativity that hadn’t been sucked out of him yet would solidify like concrete.”

But repetition was part of the music Eliot knew. Self-taught with “Mortal’s Coil,” “The Symphony of Existence,” and “The March of the Suicide Queen”-those pieces had ordered stanzas and repeated phrases that built on each other.

How did you make music without repetition?

He pushed his violin case away. Maybe he’d get to that later.

The next problem on his list was Fiona. He’d hardly seen his sister this semester. She came home late from her Force of Arms class, showered, slept, and then got up at 3 A.M. to do homework. She was such a zombie by the time they walked to Paxington in the morning, he barely got a grunt or two out of her.

Which normally would’ve been great. . except he had a feeling they’d need to work together more than ever to survive the rest of the school year.

Any free waking moments Fiona had between classes, she spent with Mitch. Not that it was any of Eliot’s business, but Robert was hanging out less with their group because of it. He couldn’t decide if Robert and Fiona not being together was a good or bad thing.

Which brought him to the next problem to solve: gym class.

Team Scarab practiced like their lives depended on it. Sarah was great. She’d learned how to harmonize with Eliot’s music, and together they could shatter a three-foot-thick beam halfway across the course. Fiona and Robert were just as impressive, stronger and faster than they’d ever been. . although there was definitely some unresolved tension between Mitch and Robert. The only one who didn’t seem to be trying so hard was Amanda. Jeremy shot her glances that could kill, and occasionally he’d lose his temper and stomp out of practice.

The problem with gym wasn’t them, however, or even the competition. It was the unfair ranking system.

The lowest-ranked team had been dissolved: Team Soaring Eagle because of a disastrous accident during their first match this semester. Six deaths.

He’d thought about quitting that day. No school-no matter how fantastical or magical-was worth dying for.

But Fiona convinced him it was just an accident, a terrible accident, but one that could happen anywhere.

Maybe. But it wasn’t just anywhere where you had to dodge spears and swords sixty feet off the ground.

The result of Eagle’s dissolution hadn’t been a review of safety rules, a suspension of play, or the academic bell curve normalizing. Instead every team slipped down in the ranks one notch (sliding the entire freshman population that much closer to flunking). To make the cut and graduate, Team Scarab had to win two of their remaining last three matches.

Of course, gym would be a lot easier if they had their strongest player. Jezebel’s presence, however, would generate a whole new set of problems. . but they’d be problems Eliot would want.

He dug through his pack and found Jezebel’s handkerchief, still stained with the blood from when she kissed him, still smelling like vanilla and cinnamon.

She hadn’t been at school since the start of the semester. Two weeks and no trace.

How long before they kicked her out?

It’d be the least of her worries, though; it meant the war in the Poppy Lands was still on.

Where she’d be fighting. . or hurt.

Or dead.

His blood chilled at that thought.

So why was he here? He should’ve been back on the Night Train and helping her-whether she wanted it or not.

Was it because he knew they’d get in a big fight and she’d just try to get rid of him again?

Or was he just the world’s biggest chicken?

He swallowed, remembering the swarms of Droogan-dors that had enveloped Queen Sealiah’s knights. . and left only frost and shadow in their wake.

Eliot made a fist, crushing her handkerchief, and then tossed it over to a corner of the pack.

His skin itched just thinking about her. She was so obstinate.

He was getting nowhere with these human relationship problems. Like music, they had patterns: attraction, coming together, fighting, breaking up-wash, rinse, and repeat.

Eliot pulled his violin case closer. Maybe he could make some progress on Ms. DuPreé’s assignment. He got Lady Dawn and admired her fiery wood grain that looked like molten gold and amber.

He played slow and strived to define his confused feelings. It swelled from him, roiled and swirled about him in the room, making homework pages flutter and books tremble on the shelves.

But it felt dangerous, too, like he was tapping into emotional waters deep and dark.

As he started thinking about how to express himself, his fingers fell into old habits, and they repeated a phrase, and built upon it.

He stopped.

That was right. That was how the music should be played, but it wasn’t the assignment.

He hissed his frustration.

Why was it that the others in music class never had these problems? They just played. They just did it. Their passion flowed from them effortlessly.

David Kaleb had a silver horn that flashed the reflected spotlights like his own light show. When Sarah Covington sang, she seemed warm and friendly (everything she actually wasn’t). And the older boy who had auditioned, his guitar had been bold and strong and big. Masculine.

Eliot glanced at Lady Dawn. Was he outgrowing her?

When he practiced in front of the others, he’d been embarrassed. Lady Dawn was the instrument a “good little boy” would play.

There was something else. When he had summoned the dead that first time at Groom Lake, she’d snapped a string. He curled his hand, still feeling the pain. It was as if she had done that on purpose because she disapproved. . like she was alive.

Eliot had to be just imagining that.

He set aside the violin and stared past the gleaming surfaces, trying to feel more.

She was quiet. There wasn’t even that subsonic hum he usually sensed about her. She was sulking.

“It’s time I tried something else. .,” Eliot told her. “I mean-”

He couldn’t continue. What if she were really alive? Hadn’t he seen crazier things? It didn’t matter, though-real or imagined, the problem between him and her would still be there.

“It’s not like we’re breaking up or anything,” he continued, fidgeting his hands. “Look, I just need to try out a few other instruments. Something a little more. .”

Eliot searched for a rational excuse (flimsy or not) to tell her.

“I’m tired of living in my dad’s shadow,” he said. “The violin is his instrument. I need something that belongs entirely to me.”

Lady Dawn just sat there.

Eliot couldn’t stand it. He picked her up, set her in her case, and slammed it shut.

Okay, so he was losing his mind. Maybe. But tomorrow he was going to find a new instrument to play.

He opened the giant tome he’d checked out from the Hall Of Wisdom. It was Volume Twelve of the Copper-Prince edition of The Mahābhārata, tonight’s assigned reading. Miss Westin had jumped ahead in their syllabus and had them working on Eastern Indian mythologies all of a sudden.

He read about battles, and betrayals, and family politics, stuff that usually interested Eliot, but he felt guilty about setting aside his trusted violin.

Eliot pressed his forehead to the page and groaned.

He just needed to clear his head, rest his eyes for a moment, and then he’d read. . and make a few notes. .

________

This was the most moronic dream Eliot had ever had. He dreamed that he slept in his bed. No dragons to slay, no being late for some midterm he’d never studied for. . just drooling on his pillowcase, snoring gently, books pushed aside.

Did he really look like such a dork when he slept?

The lamp was off to his room, but light streamed in from under his door. Half shadows gave his room a weird underwater feel.

There was a sigh nearby, and Eliot knew he wasn’t alone in his dream.

A person stood by his bed. . a girl.

Eliot was wide awake now (at least in his dream) as he sat up and saw this girl wore nothing-just a silhouette of skin and long hair that was half pinned up, half escaped in loose curls.

She was too small to be Jezebel or Sarah. Maybe Amanda?

The girl stepped closer.

“Look into mirrors,” she whispered, “and thou beholdest not what is before your eyes, Son of Darkness.”

Definitely not Amanda, either. This girl’s voice was silk smooth and sounded so familiar.

The girl leaned against his bed, planted one knee, and eased onto his legs.

“For thou would I do anything, be anything,” she said. “Thou art the one I have waited for.”

Eliot wanted to say something-but his tongue wouldn’t work.

She slid onto his body. Her flesh was warm and she didn’t stop until her face was directly over his.

Eliot finally saw her. Beautiful didn’t describe her features. She had something beyond human, Immortal, or Infernal beauty. Her eyes were amber flecked with gold and blazed wild with passion.

“Not since before time was, doth I so offer myself,” she said, her breath tickling his neck. “Thou art the one I was created for, and thou created for me.”

Eliot could no longer breathe.

Her lips were directly over his. Every curve of her body pressed into his.

“No other hath ever made me feel like thou dost. Not even thine father.”

She kissed him.

Eliot tensed and pulled her closer, smothered in sensation. Every nerve flamed. Color flashed across his closed eyes.

He’d never been kissed like this-not Julie’s urgent passion-not Jezebel’s narcotic sting. This was high art and animal instinct blended. This was beauty and lust and heartbreakingly perfect. It was what every kiss should have been. . but never could be.

The girl pulled away, panting.

“We shall together make music the likes of which even God has not yet dreamed,” she whispered. “Music to end the world if thou desire.”

She pressed her lips back to his. They embraced and burned.

________

Eliot bolted upright.

He was drenched in sweat, and sheets tangled about him. His face hurt as if someone had punched him, bruised, and his lips felt sunburned raw.

Eliot got up and noticed, much to his mortification, something amiss with his groin. He grabbed a pillow to hide the state of his physiology there.

Pulse still pounding, he remembered the dream-especially the girl. How could he forget? And yet, the details were fading fast.

He fumbled for the light on his nightstand, found it, and snapped it on.

Homework papers and books lay scattered on the floor. It was as if someone had come in, tossed it all, and then danced in the mess for good measure.

His violin case wasn’t there.

Eliot dug through the debris. Panic shot through his heart as he found the violin case-just the case neck, busted off and smashed flat.

He held his breath. Was it possible he’d done this? Subconsciously repressed all the anxiety about his music and taken it out on poor Lady Dawn? Crushed her in his sleep?

He tore through the mess, searching, and found more bits of cardboard and leather from the case, but no trace of his beloved violin.

Eliot breathed again.

Okay, it had to be somewhere. He riffled through the papers, piling them on his desk. He looked under the bed, too. The violin wasn’t there, either.

He’d never forgive himself if he’d damaged Lady Dawn. His father had given him the instrument.

His father.

Eliot remembered something the dream girl had said. It was hard to recall much more than her kiss or the way she’d pressed into his body, but hadn’t she said that he made her feel like no other had. . not even his father?

Eliot would have to review his Freud to figure that one out.

He paused, suddenly wary. Anything involving Louis, dream or not, had some trick to it.

Eliot froze as he realized there was something in his room that hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep. It stood, propped against the corner bookcases.

A guitar.

It wasn’t just any guitar, either, but an electric guitar. Its wood gleamed amber and gold and brass fittings glistened like crystallized sunlight. The fingerboards were ebony with mother-of-pearl inlays in the shapes of stars and swords and crows. There was a bar to adjust string tension on the fly, and six knobs and a few switches along the bottom that he had no clue what they did.

Eliot did know, however, he wanted nothing more than to pick it up, and play it.

But he halted as he recognized the wood grain pattern. . so mirror-smooth that he saw his face reflected in its flaming colors. He’d seen it countless times before.

Lady Dawn.

“No way,” he whispered.

But why not? What if, in dreaming, he had done this? Played some song of transformation. The Covington conjurers could change one thing into another. . so it was, in theory, possible.

Eliot didn’t think his magic had ever worked like that. And it’d never worked with such precision.

If he hadn’t done this, though. . that left only one logical conclusion.

Her.

The dream girl had said: “For thou would I do anything, be anything.”

Could she be real? Alive?

Was that dream even a dream? The thought of an instrument who was also a young girl-who’d been in his father’s hands for so many years-it sent a shiver of revulsion down Eliot’s spine.

Still. . he reached out and held his fingers a hairsbreadth over the guitar, feeling a subsonic thrum of her power, of anticipation for his touch.

Eliot took her and slung the guitar over his shoulder.

She was a perfect fit.

His fingers slid along the six steel strings. Different from his violin. Familiar, though, too. Definitely weird.

“We shall together make music the likes of which even God has not yet dreamed. Music to end the world if thou desire.”

Not yet.

Eliot was going to track down his father first. Louis had questions to answer.

Louis puffed on a cigar he had borrowed from the Night Train’s humidor. He opened a window. These cars were stuffy with the sweat and fear of its usual passengers.

The engine’s screams echoed through the tunnel.

Amberflaxus licked its black fur in the seat next to him. It flicked its ears forward, thinking that noise was prey.

Louis felt better away from San Francisco, no longer obsessing over Eliot and Fiona, and his beloved lost Audrey. How wonderful to be away from the world of light and love!

He was annoyed that he was even thinking of the memory of their memories. . and yet, he found it nearly impossible to stop.

Louis exhaled smoke and watched it mingle with the steaming screams outside.

But stop he must and concentrate on his deceptions, namely how to play with Sealiah and Mephistopheles.

Manipulating mortals was one thing, even Immortals, but his Infernal family? That was ten times the danger. He had to proceed with great care.

Should he betray Sealiah? Or side with her against Mephistopheles?

He chuckled. As if the Queen of Poppies would want him on her side, as if he would stick his neck out and actually stoop to physically fighting anyone in her war.

No, the best option was to play both sides against the middle, and then pick over what was left. To accomplish this, however, Louis would need leverage, some fact about the tactics and plans of one to ingratiate himself with the other-just long enough to get into the proper position to backstab and double-cross.

Sometimes the most clichéd schemes were best. . because they worked.

He marveled at his willingness to embrace the simple truth of it.

The huge Ticket Master entered the car and bowed. He then adjusted the slightly out-of-place tassels of his uniform’s brocade and brushed a bit of ash from the black fabric.

“May I approach, O most noble of deceivers?”

“No,” Louis muttered. “I need nothing.”

“Yes, Lord,” he said, smoothed a hand over his bald head, and then added, “your stop is next, the Poppy Lands.”

Louis cocked one brow. “Oh? I don’t recall saying that was my destination.”

“No, my lord. It’s just your most illustrious offspring was here. . ”

“Yes, yes,” Louis said with careless wave.

Eliot had been to the Poppy Lands?

“Had been” being the operative verb tense, because Amberflaxus spotted the boy just last night entering that Pacific Heights hovel of his-no doubt to dutifully practice his violin or do his Paxington homework.

But he obviously was not the good little boy everyone believed. He had not consulted Louis as he had promised, and any visit to the Poppy Lands had to have broken dozens of Audrey’s rules. How delightful.

Louis smiled at this new development.

Sealiah’s plans involving Eliot had to be further along than he had dreamed.

But when had he crossed? And more curiously, how had he returned?

All this Louis considered in a heartbeat.

“My business today takes me past the Mirrored Realms,” he told the Ticket Master.

The Ticket Master looked disappointed, for he hadn’t tricked any salable information from him.

The Night Train’s last stop was the Mirrored Realms-and anything past that in the Hysterical Kingdom was only the business of the fool who attempted such a journey.

Louis had spoken the truth: He did have business past the Mirrored Realms with Mephistopheles. . just not at this time.

The Ticket Master bowed again, left, and the train slowed.

Louis glanced outside at impenetrable jungle. The only path was the train tracks that cut through. Every flower was in full bloom. Every fungus clouded the air with spore. How deadly. How lovely.

The Night Train pulled into the station house, paused only a moment as required by the Infernal Transportation Pact, and then the brakes released, and the engine chugged ahead.

No one either had departed or gotten on.

Louis looked into the car ahead. No sign of that gossip-mongering Ticket Master.

He turned to Amberflaxus and held one a finger. “Stay,” he ordered.

The animal continued to lick itself, pretending (as always its habit) not to notice him.

Louis borrowed a small bottle of whiskey from the wet bar, and then from the poker table scooped a handful of diamond-studded chips along with a set of dice-the minimal supplies one might need in the wilderness.

He slipped out the back and off the train. . and infiltrated the Poppy Lands.

The hothouse train station had been shelled, and most of the frosted panes were shattered. A billion bits of glass glistened on the ground.

Of course, the station would be an obvious target. It was only a matter of time before Mephistopheles cut the train tracks as well.

Louis had to act with haste, gather information, and then be on the next train out.

He wrapped his cloak about him and walked in the ditch alongside the road toward Sealiah’s Twelve Towers, her so-called Doze Torres. She would no doubt make her stand in her castles, where she felt safest.

The poppy fields were on fire: violet, lemon, pink, and crimson blossoms withered in the flames. Green smoke drifted over the lands and flashed with hypnotic phosphorescence.

Louis held his breath.

Droogan-dors fought on the distant hills and valleys, flitting wraiths among the gloaming.

A mere league to his left, hundreds of shadow creatures swarmed and circled a legion of Sealiah’s noble knights, the Order of the Thorn. The dark tore at the warriors. . then their fires burned out. . and the shades moved in. Frost crackled over the ground there, killing all traces of vegetation.

Mephistopheles was no fool. He carefully whittled away parcels of her land, gathering strength while Sealiah lost hers.

But Sealiah was no fool, either. . and Louis wondered what trick she had yet to play.

Motion ahead on the road caught his attention: a fat shadow writhed between a dozen poorly defined shapes-rat-crow-worm-camouflaged in the blackness.

Louis slowed, creeping artfully so that nothing should be able to detect him.

A black eye materialized in the mass of the Droogan-dor, however, tracking him, the body underneath coiling to pounce.

He smiled at the creature. “Nice doggie,” Louis whispered. “Just a neighborly visit from a neutral observer. Nothing to raise one’s hackles over.”

It sprang.

Louis sidestepped its charge and dug his nails deep into the shadow flesh, clenched his fists-ripped hide free from flesh and bone.

The thing screamed as it dissipated into an oily mist.

Louis grinned and his pulse pounded. Such wonderful violence. He had not felt the thrill of destroying a lesser opponent in a long time.

Such trivial pleasures would slow him. . still, Louis paused to admire the black velvet sheen of the Droogan-dor’s skin.

He started again-then halted as he saw how seriously he had miscalculated.

About him, growling and crouching, were a dozen Droogan-dors-each the size of a house, each growing rows and rows of dagger teeth.

“Now boys.” He held up both hands. “Can’t we all be friends?”

The monstrosities all took a step back, simultaneously shaking their heads to clear the confusion from the hell-blaspheme oath. Friends was not a word uttered without some effort in the depths.

Which is when Louis attacked them.

He didn’t transform. . not entirely. That would’ve garnered him too much attention. But just a partial shift, claw and fang and wing of bat-to rip and rend and slash.

How could he pass up such fun?

He paused, panting, and realized there was nothing left to fight. . only shreds and quivering pieces that lay about him.

And curiously, a single cut ran down along his forearm. A trickle of black blood congealed there.

Careless of him.

Or had Mephistopheles’ minions gathered power enough to actually hurt an Infernal Lord?

Indeed. He snugged his cloak tighter and trotted. Time was far shorter than he had realized.

Miles ahead, he spied the tallest tower of the Sealiah’s castles, burning bright with beacons and the swoop and swirl of armored bat defenders flying about.

Skirmishes raged upon the plains and hills and what was left of the jungles, but Louis noted a procession of knights had the right idea. . as they steadily limped down the road back to the castle, dragging those too injured to walk on their own.

A retreat? So early? It seemed unlikely, yet the evidence was before his eyes.

The damned of Hell mended bone and flesh after a long painful process. Wounded typically were not removed from battlefield. It was a measure that smacked of desperation-not mercy-for there was only one reason to bother: to deny Mephistopheles converting even the weakest of her warriors to his cause.

It also presented Louis with an interesting problem. He slowed his pace and hid in the ditch. Sneaking past so many numbers would take time.

He glanced about, seeking opportunity.

And he found it: a battle had taken place here recently. Among broken lances and smoldering opium stalks, one knight lay in three pieces, each part struggling to find the other and its missing head.

Louis removed the warrior’s thorned mail. “Might I borrow this?” He then kicked the knight’s head across the road into the far ditch. “I thank you, brave sir.”

He donned the armor-a tad loose for his frame-and then shuffled forward along the road, joining the ranks of despondent soldiers marching toward their doom.

Through his spiked and slotted visor, Louis watched as the twelve towers of Sealiah’s fortress loomed larger. Atop each flickered a tongue of flame to keep darkness at bay. This fire was ghostly blue. . marsh gas piped in from the surrounding flooded lands. In their murky waters, tangles of razor vine squirmed and thrashed and waited for something to wander into their hungry embraces.

More soldiers joined their ranks-hundred and hundreds, but not the numbers that he knew Sealiah had at her disposal.

How badly had Mephistopheles beaten her?

This concerned Louis, not because he felt any pity for his most beautiful adversary, but because it would not give him the chance to take advantage of her first.

Or perhaps there was more to this? Certainly Louis had no monopoly on deception (even if he was the best at it).

He and the others marched along drawbridges that spanned the wide black waters of the Laudanum River. Along the banks, barrels of oil sat half-buried, awaiting the torch to transform them into floating sheets of fire-unassailable proof against the dark. . for a time.

Louis then stood before the base of the towering mesa that held Doze Torres. The wisteria-covered earthen ramps that had once zigzagged along the cliff face had been torn away, leaving only sheer rock.

He looked straight up and saw industrial cranes perched on the castles’ walls. On their steel cables, a lift descended that could carry three hundred soldiers.

Louis got on with the others, and it rose into the air.

From this aerial vantage, Louis saw not hundreds, but thousands of soldiers and wobbling cannon and catapults and wagons piled high with soldier pieces struggling back toward the castle from every direction. Most of these ragtag lines came under attack from the darkness.

Louis heard their distant screams and futile shots.

Although if he hadn’t just walked through the killing fields himself, he would have sworn it all had an air of theater to it.

The crane lifted his platform over the ramparts.

A silk spider line brushed Louis’s face, and he absentmindedly brushed it away.

Louis then saw a pleasant surprise: the art of the Poppy Queen’s duplicity.

Within the outer walls surrounding the Tower of Whispering Lilacs, camped under tarps to shield their glow, were ten thousand knights-each with gleaming silver rifle-lances and phosphorescing fungus sprouting from their armor and flesh. There were lines of spore catapults, steam-powered missiles, and squadrons of hanging cluster bats. Firepower to not quite assault the Vaults of Heaven. . but enough to have given them a run for their money should they dare.

Certainly equal to any force Mephistopheles could muster.

He glanced back at the devastated, deflowered Poppy Lands.

All a calculated lure? He didn’t quite think so.

Sealiah’s lands (much like herself) had admirable natural defenses, ones she would not have so casually abandoned. The fact that she had chosen this particular deception was telling.

It was also information that Louis could sell-perhaps so ingratiate himself with the Lord of the Mirrored Realms that he could learn something of his plans. . and in turn sell that information to Sealiah for her most delectable favors.

All the while eroding any advantage either might have over the other, so when the final battle came, the victor would be weakened.

He licked his lips. So dangerous. But so tempting.

The crane set him and the other knights down and they limped toward the Tower of Nightshade, darkest among its fellow flowering structures.

Louis fell behind.

There were precious few shadows in the courtyards with all the pink and lime green and robin’s-egg blue light pulsing from the fungus that grew everywhere. He found a sliver of shade, however, entered its welcome depths, and slinked away unnoticed toward the Oaken Keeper of Secrets.

That was where Sealiah’s map room was (if he remembered correctly). All her plans would be laid out there for the taking.

He almost giggled. How easy this would be.

Of course, she would not expect such a skilled infiltrator-and not him of all her relations. Who was he? Lowly Louis? The earth under her feet? It would not be the first time others had fatally underestimated his cunning.

Louis passed the guards and triple-locked outer door of the keep without notice, and glided up the stairs.

The map room would be on the third floor, where her winged insect spies brought the latest intelligence from the field.

He set one finger on the living wood of the map room’s tiny door.

No pulse beyond. It was empty.

He then undid the puzzle knots that would have given any mathematician specializing in topology psychotic fits. He slipped inside and ever so carefully eased the door shut.

Louis was grateful for the cool darkness within. The only light twinkled from the map table in the center of the chamber. From the decided lack of echoes, he felt of the dimensions of this place were larger than he recalled.

No matter. He tiptoed closer and saw the snaking Laudanum River and the Valley of the Shadow of Death, smoldering jungle and patches of black silk draped over fields that marked the locations of Mephistopheles’ armies in the Poppy Lands.

He also noted with great interest that a game of Towers had been set up alongside the map table, white and black cubes stacked and arranged to fight, and a handful already removed from play.

How intriguing.

Torches whooshed to life-thirteen fiery brands about the perimeter of the room-each held by a Champion of the Blood Rose, Sealiah’s personal guard.

Sitting upon a tiny throne, orchids twinning along her arms, was Queen Sealiah in armor that appeared as if it had been painted upon her body-curves of dark silver that flashed with light and shadows and reflections of fire. . and pulsing a nacreous green from the emerald set upon her exposed throat. She was all the more lovely because her features also smoldered with the angry passion that came from bloodlust. . and lust. . and anticipation of the kill.

She held a sliver of dark-matter steel that had existed before the mortal Earth had been dust gathering in void: Saliceran-the broken sword. Its blade wept poison from its Damascus metal folds that had sent many to a painful demise. She pointed the jagged tip at his neck.

“Welcome, Great Deceiver,” Sealiah said in a mocking tone. “Welcome to your death.”

Sealiah, Queen of the Poppy Lands, raised one finger, and her thirteen personal guards set their torches in wall sconces and lowered their rifle lances at Louis. They would not miss.

“Not a word from you,” she cautioned Louis.

She held her rage in check only because she felt the smug satisfaction of being right.

Louis had come. He had tripped but a single of her black widow warning lines that crisscrossed every square meter of her castles’ walls. Even without the warning, though, she knew he would eventually have tried to enter this room. It was too much of a temptation for one so far fallen from glory.

And for once, the crowned, clown Master of Deception had been caught red-handed. Perhaps weakened by his association with too many mortals? Or had he only allowed himself to been captured. . part of some more intricate ruse?

Nothing was ever what it seemed with this one.

Louis sighed and nodded his head in the slightest of bows. The rogue even had the temerity to smile!

She admired such daring. Almost enough to forget he had come to betray her and sell her battle plans to Mephistopheles.

Would the slightest of dalliances hurt? Louis was handsome and cunning once more-all the things she remembered that had once attracted her to him. And he was never more attractive than when in the midst of his duplicity.

But such thoughts made her vulnerable. She exhaled. If she took advantage of his weakened position for her pleasures, she would be exposed in their intimacy. . and he would take advantage of her as well.

Perhaps mutual vulnerability was the very definition of “intimate.”

Louis opened his mouth.

Sealiah held up one hand and stood, keeping the jagged end of Saliceran pointed at his throat. She walked over to him.

Louis shut his mouth, no longer smiling.

“Your words are too sharp,” she whispered. “So I shall not give you the chance to cut me.”

She motioned and three of her champions searched him. They found wallet, cell phone, handkerchief, poker chips, dice, and bottle of Irish single malt whiskey-but no weapons.

“His cloak,” she said. This was a game for her now. Certainly Louis would not be here without tricks up his sleeves.

Her champions ripped it off and examined it: ordinary black wool.

Louis held up his hands in mock surrender.

As if this would make her think him defenseless. She knew better than to fall for his simpleton’s misdirections.

She looked from his hands, to his animated angular face, to the floor-to the flickering shadows cast by her guards. . to the decided lack of any shadow attached to Louis’s feet.

“Of course,” she said, “you would not risk coming with it. But where I wonder does your shadow now roam?”

Louis shrugged, and the simpleton look of innocence on his face told her no answers would be soon forthcoming.

“So be it.” She moved to his back and raised Saliceran.

One thrust and she could forget Louis. That would be best.

Under normal circumstances, having him underfoot was dangerous. In wartime, leaving Louis alive could be a fatal oversight.

And yet why did she still imagine him joined with her? Was that so impossible? Him by her side as Urakabarameel once had stood?

Yes.

And a thousand times no.

It had been so long since she trusted another. This above all else was why the Post twins fascinated her: brother and sister, part Infernal, and yet they worked together. It was such an obvious strength, something her kind had long forgotten.

She lowered Saliceran (although the blade twisted in her grasp, sensing her equivocation-and sensing that it would not taste Infernal blood tonight).

“Take him to the Well of Mirages,” she told her Captain. “Set three guards to watch him at all times. Have them stuff beeswax in their ears so he may not trick them with his silvered reptile tongue.”

The Captain grabbed Louis by his shoulders.

“I yet have a use for you,” she said.

Louis’s smile returned-that smirk all men don when coming to the wrong conclusion.

Sealiah was all too happy to deflate his zeppelin-sized ego. “Not for that, my un landed and unimportant cousin. I would not stoop so low for so quick a snack.”

His unassailable grin faded.

“I have another use for you. . involving your family.”

Louis eyed her with suspicion, and he twisted in her Captain’s grasp. “Eliot is mine,” he growled. “Leave him to me.”

The Captain struck the back of his head with a mailed fist, and Louis fell to his knees.

Sealiah laughed. It was good to see him so clueless. There was no greater satisfaction than hoodwinking one’s relations. She ran a razor-edged fingernail down his chin. . careful not to break the skin because the scent of his blood would drive her crazy.

“Not Eliot, my dear Dark,” she whispered. “I already have the boy well in hand.”

Louis’s face registered confusion for one instant, then crystallized into an unreadable mask. He was quickly analyzing and recalculating his plots.

But too late. The Deceiver was no longer playing in this game.

“There’ll be none of your usual tricks,” she said. “The Well of Mirages has once more been repaired and will not bend or fold to your will. Glow fungus covers its walls, so there are no shadows to slip through, either.”[53]

Sealiah ordered her Captain, “Make him comfortable.”

The Captain nodded, understanding that she meant the opposite. He dragged Louis off, and the Deceiver did not even struggle.

In fact, his smile returned.

Perhaps she should have skewered him while she was in the mood. Well, if he turned into his usual annoyance, she could always fill the Well of Mirages with molten lead. Let him grin at that!

But such pleasantries aside, she had more serious matters to consider. Time was short, and Mephistopheles moved closer with every heartbeat-to either destroy her or be destroyed by her trap.

Sealiah turned to the map table and examined the pieces in play. Mephistopheles’s shadows were near the station house. A few more hours and he would cut the rail lines.

Her trap was not merely the hidden army within Doze Torres. Even those forces would only make the final battle more bloody; their two sides were too evenly matched.

Two more pieces have yet to be brought onto the board-figuratively and literally.

The timing was delicate; she had to wait until the last possible moment to maximize the drama. That was a necessary risk. Sealiah knew the hearts of men and how to manipulate them, but she also had to make up the mind of a young woman-and that was a much more difficult task.

She withdrew the letter she had written weeks earlier, and made sure all was in proper order and her signature and seal were intact. All as it should be. No need to let some fussy Paxington protocol stop her greatest ploy.

She gestured at the ceiling, and a tiny mouse-tailed bat spiraled down. It lit onto her cupped hand.

She rolled the letter into the tube fixed to the creature’s leg. “Take this to the Ticket Master. Caution him to tamper not with the seal. He would not wish to irritate the intended recipient. Few survive the disapproval of Miss Westin.”

The bat chirped once, understanding.

She tossed it into the air and the bat fluttered out the window.

So much in balance. Forces of destruction and love and betrayal orbiting her the likes she had not seen since the War in Heaven. She smiled, tasting the anticipation of victory on her lips.

Sealiah turned to her guards and, with a nod, singled out their shortest member.

Her champion came to her, kneeling on one knee, head bowed.

Sealiah gestured for the spiked helmet to be removed.

Jezebel shook loose her platinum curls. Her eyes burned with hate and she quickly lowered her gaze. “He is dangerous, My Queen. I beg you; give me the order to destroy the Deceiver.”

Sealiah smiled. “Not yet, my pet.”

She appreciated her protégée’s viciousness. Under normal circumstances, she would have agreed with her. It was an instinctual reaction: erase one’s smartest enemies when the opportunity presented itself, and allow the stupid ones to live to breed inferior competition.

But instinct changed and evolved or a species perished. Even for the Infernals. Especially facing the new order heralded by the Post twins.

Sealiah lifted Jezebel’s face. The girl’s shattered bones had mended, and her battle-won bruises all but faded. Only the slightest imperfection marred her features, but for what Sealiah needed her for next, her broken doll had to be perfect.

“We must make you ready.” The bones would have to be rebroken and properly aligned. Sealiah brushed a finger over her cheek.

Jezebel stiffened and stood straighter, and a flicker of horror flashed across her features.

“Are you ready for the next act of our little drama?”

“Yes, My Queen,” Jezebel relied. “I will perish for the cause if so ordered.”

“Very good,” Sealiah whispered, “because that may be precisely what I require.”

Fiona stood in the middle of a war zone.

Not entirely unexpected. . not after the last few times when Mr. Ma had ramped up the difficulty of the obstacle course, but this was ridiculous!

She ducked-a jet of flame roared over her head.

Eliot knelt next to her and pointed his guitar at the pipe hissing fire. He twanged and held a single note, made it waver and warble and growl with feedback.

The pipe sputtered and sparked. It exploded, extinguishing the flames.

She twisted the shutoff valve closed.

Fiona wasn’t sure where Eliot had gotten his new instrument (or, for that matter, how an electric guitar made so much sound without any wires or an amplifier). He’d just showed up at the start of gym class today with the thing. No explanations.

Time for question and answers later. . if they made it through today’s class. She scanned the course, trying to reorient.

They were thirty feet off the ground. The ramp she crouched upon was aluminum, fireproof thankfully (one of the modest safety considerations Mr. Ma had allowed for his reconstructed course), but the surface reflected heat so she felt as if she were in an oven.

Mitch was at the top of the ramp. So was Amanda.

Twin waters cannon pelted her teammates with high-pressure streams-forcing them into a corner to keep from getting blasted off the edge.

Mitch tried to shield Amanda from the worst of it, but they both looked as if they were drowning.

“Are you sure this is the easiest way?” she yelled at Eliot over the noise.

Eliot gave her that I know what I’m doing look, but nonetheless strummed his guitar, turned back and forth, and nodded his head.

Fiona squinted through the smoke and mist. Lines of fire crisscrossed the obstacle course. She didn’t see any trace of Team Falcon. . or how far ahead of Scarab they’d gotten.

Team Falcon was the number one team at Paxington. They’d taken an early lead on the course-and then disappeared.

But there’d been no gunshot signaling the end of the match. . so Scarab still was in the game.

“We’ve got to free them up!” Eliot yelled and pointed to Mitch and Amanda.

Fiona nodded, but stayed where she was, thinking. She didn’t want to rush up there and have the cannon turn on them-get knocked off this slick-with-water ramp.

She traced the water pipes as they snaked back around the supports.

She leaned over the ramp and with care looped her rubber band about the two-inch water main. She eased back, focused her mind along the edge-made the cut.

The pipe ruptured.

Steel twisted into a jagged flower. Pressurized water sprayed high into the air and arced onto the field below.

“Fiona!” someone called from above.

She shielded her eyes from the sun. Jeremy and Sarah were twenty feet above her on the next level. Jeremy’s hands were pitch black.

“We’re stuck,” Sarah cried. “Everything up here is covered with tar! You’ll have to go around.”

For the bazillionth time today, Fiona wished Jezebel were here. Infernal schemes or not-even with all the drama between her at Eliot-it would’ve been worth it. She could’ve easily gotten up there, freed the Covingtons, and then they’d have three team members close to the top. Almost a win.

But no use wishing. It was a fact Scarab was down its best player. Fiona’s job was to figure out how to win anyway with only seven.

Seven: Her and Eliot. . Jeremy and Sarah. . Mitch and Amanda. .

She turned to Eliot. At the same time they both asked, “Where’s Robert?”

“Here!” Robert called. He extended a hand up and over the edge of the ramp; Eliot then helped Robert onto the steaming aluminum surface.

“Are you okay?” Fiona crouched next to him.

She wanted to touch his arm, just to reassure him, but with all the weirdness between them lately. . and all the stuff happening between her and Mitch, she decided not to.

“I’m just peachy,” Robert muttered. He slicked back his wet hair. “Nice plan-charge straight into a trap.”

She glared at him. “I didn’t see it. And Eliot said it was the way.”

“It is the way,” Eliot replied, annoyed. “I keep telling you.”

“So we keep going,” Fiona said, and then to Robert, “and try not to fall off this time, okay?”

“I didn’t fall.” Robert frowned and his brows knit together, uncharacteristic worry lines creased his forehead. “But we’ve got to go back.” He pointed over the edge. “Team Falcon is there. They’re down.”

Fiona stood and set her hands on her hips. “If they’re down, isn’t that a good thing?”

Robert shook his head. “They cut a gas line to stop the fire. . and there’s no shutoff valve. They’ve passed out.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she whispered.

Robert narrowed his eyes. “Come on. They might be dead already. I need your help. I can’t do it myself.”

Mitch and Amanda trotted to them. “What’s going on?” Mitch looked back and forth between her and Robert.

“New plan,” Eliot told him.

Fiona’s face burned-not from anger, but from shame that she had actually considered moving ahead and capturing their flag. . at least getting four of them up there, instead of going back to help people who were dying.

This was not a war. This was just a class. Everything at Paxington was warping her sense of right and wrong.

“Okay,” she said. “New plan.”

Fiona figured they’d been on the gym for about five minutes (she made a note to buy a shockproof, waterproof watch after this). So there’d be time to do the right thing and win. But there was no time for Team Falcon if they were breathing methane-so they were the priority.

“Robert, Eliot, and Amanda get down there,” she said. “I’ll be right behind you. Go!”

The boys nodded, Eliot slung his guitar over his back like a samurai sword, and they clambered over the side.

To Mitch she said: “Get up to Jeremy and Sarah. They would have transformed that tar if they could have, so something’s stopping them. Get them free, and then get down to help us.”

Fiona tried to communicate all her concern and her confidence in Mitch with a nod, and failed miserably, she was sure, but Mitch smiled anyway.

“I’m on it,” he said.

Amanda looked at her feet. “I can’t go down there,” she mumbled. “Not near the gas.”

Was Amanda really so much of a coward that she’d let people die? Maybe she was more shaken from those water cannon than Fiona had realized-almost getting knocked off the course and then nearly drowning.

“Okay,” she told her, “go help Mitch.”

Fiona scrutinized the course, a lattice of supports, ramps, stairs, and moving clockwork parts-and the plumes of water and fire that filled the air, mixed smoke and mist. . and then she glanced down. Somewhere down there a cloud of natural gas billowed and expanded, complexly invisible. . and lethal.

The encyclopedic part of Fiona’s mind clicked on. Natural gas was primarily methane, and lighter than air, so it would be rising. If it didn’t ignite off the open flames, it’d displace the oxygen and asphyxiate them all.

Either way-this was not the place to mull over what to do next.

She eased over the edge and climbed down.

Methane was odorless, but the gas companies added mercaptans as a safety feature so it smelled like sulfur.[54]

She hesitated, only a second, but the fear washed over and through her all over again.

No. She had to do this.

That’s what Mr. Ma had been teaching her in the Force of Arms class-to push past doubt and fear on the battlefield-to keep thinking and trying and moving even if it looked like you were going to die.

She continued down. The fear was there, but she could deal with it.

She stepped onto a bamboo platform.

Eliot and Robert were waiting.

So was Team Falcon. All of them passed out (or dead, it was hard to tell) on the floor ten paces away. Near them, but too deep to reach in a tangle of pipes, a ruptured gas line hissed.

Eliot was on one knee and strummed his guitar. Robert stood by him. The notes were a simple scale, but they make the air swell and ripple about them.

Fiona got dizzy.

She ignored the urge to run as fast and far away as she could from the danger, and instead joined Robert and Eliot.

The stink cleared. The air within the circle Eliot had created smelled sweet.

“Can you make this area of clean air bigger?” she whispered. “Or move closer?”

“Methane concentration too high closer,” Eliot said, through gritted teeth. “Trying to expand the circle from here. Still getting used to the steel strings. The methane in the air is. . slippery.”

Fiona stopped asking questions. Eliot had tried to explain the intricacies of his music, and it’d been as enlightening a square trying to explain “corners” to a circle.

Robert looked at her expectantly, and then stepped toward the fallen members of Team Falcon. “They can’t wait any longer.”

Fiona grabbed his arm. If Robert charged in and tried to pull them out one by one, and she’d end up rescuing him, too.

“Agreed,” she said, “but that way is too slow. She nudged Eliot. “Strings?”

Eliot paused a beat. The odor of sulfur rushed back. He ripped off a tiny envelope taped to the back of his guitar and handed it to her. After Lady Dawn had busted a string, he always carried spares.

Eliot went back to playing. The air cooled and the noxious odor again vanished.

Fiona took two strings from the envelope, uncoiled them, stared along their lengths-and the steel wire stiffened straight.

She looked up into the lattice of the course and spotted Sarah, Jeremy, Mitch, and Amanda as they clambered to a pole and slid down to safety. Good. Four less lives to worry about.

“We do this my way,” Fiona said. “Get the rest of them down all at the same time-fast.”

Robert nodded. “A twenty-foot drop.” He looked over the platform that held Team Falcon. “Four supports,” he said. “I’ll take the closest. You get into position near the far two.”

“Then we go together.”

Robert held her gaze. Emotions flashed in his normally too-cool-to-let-anything-show eyes. There was courage and determination. . and worry.

At that moment he had never looked like more of a hero to her, and she knew that she still cared for him.

Fiona looked away. There was no time to feel for Robert now, though.

She took a huge breath and ran.

She jumped over the prone bodies of her classmates and stopped on the far side of the platform-between two telephone poles that held up the bamboo floor.

Robert darted to the other corner. He dropped to all fours, stared at the foot-thick posts, lashing, and bamboo. . and drew back his fist.

He struck.

The wood shattered.

Robert rolled back as the platform, now free from the support, dipped toward the mangled corner.

The brass knuckles he’d worn when he’d displayed such feats of strength before weren’t there. Robert had done that bare fisted. He was stronger, and tougher, and it wasn’t just from the training they were getting in Mr. Ma’s class. Something else was going on with him.

Robert knelt by the post on the far side and looked to her.

Fiona, still holding her breath, nodded.

She held one stiffened steel string in each hand. She looked along one, then the other; the metal glistened. She fixed them both in her thoughts, imagined them thinner and thinner until their leading edges were so fine and sharp that they flickered in and out of existence.

She lashed out-both arms at once, angled to intercept the floor, ropes, and two supporting telephone poles.

Robert punched.

It sounded like shotgun fire-three shells simultaneously blasted as wood cracked, bamboo fractured, and ropes snapped.

The platform hitched and dropped.

Fiona fell along with it and lost her focus. The bamboo floor rushed up and swatted her. She crumpled-hard-and bit her tongue. The edges of her vision blurred.

She spit and shook her head to clear her confusion.

Dust filled the air, but it no longer stank of sulfur.

She shakily stood and saw Robert dragging two Team Falcon boys away by their feet.

Eliot dropped down, too, and helped by picking up and carrying off one of the unconscious girls.

Fiona grabbed the nearest limp body, a boy, and pulled him by his armpits to the relative safety of the grass-far enough from the jungle gym so if it blew up there was a decent chance they wouldn’t all get incinerated.

Mitch, Amanda, and Jeremy and Sarah (both covered in black splotches) appeared as well, and got the remaining members of Team Falcon away from the danger.

Fiona checked the pulse of the boy at her feet. It was weak, but steady. Would there be brain damage?

How could Mr. Ma do such a dangerous thing?

Robert started mouth-to-mouth, and got one boy breathing again.

The other Falcon team members groaned, threw up, and slowly regained consciousness.

“That was too close,” Eliot whispered.

Jeremy glanced at his wristwatch. “Saving these folk be all well and good,” he murmured, “but there be three minutes. We can still get the flag.”

A gunshot cracked through the air.

The arcs of water and fire on the obstacle course stopped and only swirls of smoke and fog remained.

Mr. Ma strode onto the field. He clicked his stopwatch, made two marks on his clipboard, and then announced: “That is time.”

Fiona approached him. She felt dizzy again, her feet uncertain. Maybe she’d gotten a lungful of that gas. . but something definitely felt wrong.

“Mr. Ma, there has to be a mistake,” she said. “We have three minutes.”

“I do not make such mistakes, Miss Post.” He narrowed his dark eyes to slits.

“No, sir,” Fiona said. There was no way she was going to say he was wrong. She glanced back to Jeremy, who looked incredulous, shook his head, and pointed emphatically at his watch.

Jeremy might have been sneaky enough to set back his watch, but there was no way he’d be stupid enough to try such a simple lie on Mr. Ma.

“Could you please check again?” Fiona asked.

Mr. Ma stared at her. It felt just like when he stared at her that first day in the Force of Arms class-when he’d fought her.

“No,” he said.

“That’s not fair!” one of the boys from Team Falcon said. “We had a perfect record.”

“Had.”

Fiona understood then what felt so wrong. The rules of gym class were brutal, but in their own way fair (even if Mr. Ma was apparently cheating). The rules stated that if neither team reached their flags before time ran out, then both teams tallied a loss.

A loss for Falcon was no big deal. A little wounded pride. They were still at the top of the rankings.

But for Team Scarab, a loss bumped them below the passing/failing cut off.

She turned to the teammates. Robert glared after Mr. Ma. Eliot shook his head and wandered back to the locker room. Amanda slumped to the ground. Mitch ignored them, and kept helping some of his still-groggy classmates. Jeremy and Sarah crossed their arms and looked at Fiona as if this were her fault.

It was. She was their team captain, after all. It had been her decision to save lives instead of going for some stupid flag.

And what if she had gone for the flag? She’d bet Team Falcon would have died. . and that gas would have ignited and blown them all to smithereens.

There had to have been a way to win, though.

Or did there? What if Mr. Ma was just trying to kill them?

There was only one thing she knew for sure: They had to win the next match, or they would flunk out of Paxington.