All That Lives Must Die

SECTION VI. DITCHING

Eliot stood on the sidelines. He was scared. There was no shame to admit that. . not under these circumstances.

He’d faced Lords from Hell, stood up to a gigantic crocodile, the Hordes of Darkness, and a mother who was Death incarnate, and put up with a sister whose abrasive personality was probably what she used to cut through high-carbon steel.

This was different.

This was a live audience.

Eliot had watched the other students go first. It had all been arranged by Ms. DuPreé. One by one, they were supposed to go onstage between sets at the Monterey Jazz Festival. . in front of people who knew music and had just listened to professional signers, jazz quartets, and the most inspirational folk singers that Eliot had ever heard.

Eliot reread the program clutched in his sweaty hands: “Hear California’s finest young musicians sing and play their souls out for you!”

Eliot hoped that was a metaphor. Although given the way things worked at Paxington, he wasn’t taking anything for granted.

“Practicing alone is one thing, playing for your classmates another,” Ms. DuPreé had told them on the bus ride out. “But when you stand in front of a real audience-you’re going to sink or fly, baby.”

So here Eliot was: On a sunny day in the wings of the open-air theater, waiting to go on next-just him, about a billion stage lights. . and three thousand people in the audience.

Ms. DuPreé stood next to him and listened, as entranced as he, to Sarah Covington onstage, singing what she’d described as a “torch song.”

Sarah wore a dress as red as her hair. The fabric was tight and sparkled. A bass and piano accompanied her as she lamented about a man who had treated her so badly, but he could make her shiver with pleasure, and how she still loved him.

It was sad. It felt real to Eliot, as if Sarah had been through it all and still wanted to love this guy-even if it was a doomed relationship.

She held one last long note, reached out to the audience, and hung her head.

The crowd gave her a thunderous round of applause. Many stood.

When she looked up, though, all traces of her agony had vanished and she smiled and waved to her admirers.

There were hoots and yells for an encore.

Ms. DuPreé leaned close to Eliot so he could hear her over the noise, and said, “That is how it is done. She gave them everything, lost nothing, and got something more precious than gold.”

Eliot shot her a quizzical look back.

“Her moment in the spotlight, completely loved by them all,” Ms. DuPreé said as if this answered everything.

Eliot examined the audience and saw they did love Sarah at that moment.

He was also certain that clapping and love could easily turn to disgust and boos if they didn’t like someone’s performance.

Sarah bowed once more, and then exited the stage. The curtain fell behind her. She sauntered to him and Ms. DuPreé, all sparkles and grinning. She smelled of perspiration and Brandywine perfume.

“Knock ’em dead,” she told Eliot. “You’re better than all of us put together, you just don’t know it.” She said that like it was part compliment, part annoyance-and then she smiled at Ms. DuPreé and whirled back to the dressing rooms.

Ms. DuPreé gave him a gentle push forward.

Eliot moved, although his legs now seemed to be glued to the floor. It took all his strength to walk to the curtain, and then push through. . where he froze.

The three thousand people who had been applauding before looked expectantly at him. There was a polite smattering of claps.

Which stopped as Eliot continued to stand there.

Like a complete dork.

What was he doing? Sure he could play. If you needed the dead conjured, gravity warped, or a legion of Napoléon-era soldiers to blow something up-then he was your guy.

But play for people? Be entertaining? Move them? No way.

He wasn’t like Sarah. She had a gift with people (even if she was really cruel when you got her alone). That was real talent.

And before her, David Kaleb had wowed the crowd with his silver horn flashing like a mirror under the lights; the audience had gotten to their feet and danced even!

Sarah and David had had fun with it. Music used to be something Eliot had fun with, too. Now, though, it was a constant struggle to do better, to control the wild magic in him and Lady Dawn.

And why in the world had Ms. DuPreé made him go last?

The people in the audience whispered as he stood there. Some got up and left.

Eliot watched them and narrowed his eyes.

No one walked out on him-not before they’d heard him, at least.

He marched out front and center on the stage.

There was more polite, encouraging applause.

But there ended his bravery. .

And Eliot was stuck again-in front of all those people-them waiting for him to impress them-and him unable to move. So he did the only thing he could. Stall.

He fiddled with the knobs on the lower edge of his new Lady Dawn guitar. He then checked the cable plugged into her socket-a cord that ran backstage but actually connected to nothing. It was just for looks.

By adjusting the dials, flicking a switch or two, his new guitar could sound like an ordinary unpowered instrument one moment, then blast out amplified noise with reverberating electronic feedback the next. . all without having anything plugged in anywhere. Flip another switch, twist a dial, and the guitar echoed with the deepest bass notes.

He played it almost as well as he did the violin. It was like switching between writing in cursive script to block letters. It was something he could do without thinking about it.

His fingers drifted to the steel strings and twitched over them.

Faint sound pulsed. Pure and simple.

He’d start there.

He played the “Mortal’s Coil” nursery rhyme-straight up, one note after another, just like the first time he’d heard Louis play in that Del Sombra alley.

He kept his eyes on the strings, focused, and shifted notes up and down the scale. He made the sweetest sound, and there was a slight echo. . as if there were another guitar accompanying him.

Eliot looked up.

The audience nodded and moved to the rhythm. They weren’t exactly captivated as they had been with Sarah or David, but that was okay. He didn’t entirely suck.

Now he had to up the stakes-get these people really excited. Like Ms. DuPreé had been trying to teach them: put his soul into his music.

But why?

He stopped. Right in the middle of the song. His hair fell into his face.

Why was he doing this? Really? He didn’t want to be here. He’d never wanted to impress anyone with his music.

He slammed his hand across the guitar stings. The sound that came out was odd and dissonant and abrupt.

The audience jumped.

It startled him, too.

He hadn’t known he could do that-scare people. Without magic.

Maybe that was the best magic of all. .

He played-and didn’t even think about it-just moved fingers over strings. It was classical, a bit like Mozart. It reminded him of the way he felt the first day at Paxington, at least, the way he thought it was supposed to have been: learning about mythology and his family, surrounded by books and other students just as smart and dedicated.

That music was too predictable for his mood, though. . and it seemed like a lie to force himself to play it that way.

Eliot flipped a switch and the sound looped. He riffed over the piece, shifting to bass notes.

He picked up the pace and his music felt like all the fighting that went on at Paxington-the duels and the team battles in gym class.

It was rock and roll (one of several terms he had studied in class last week) and he made Lady Dawn snarl.

He dialed up the feedback and sound tore through the air.

Head down, he focused on the notes, no magic, no ghosts or chorus of kids singing along. He was alone and that suited him fine.

He even tuned out the audience. He didn’t look. He didn’t care.

Lady Dawn heated under his hands, her wood flashed like liquid fire, and her strings felt sharp as if he were pushing her past her engineered limits.

He shifted back and forth between styles that he’d just discovered-mariachi to bluegrass-classical Chopin to jazz to the ancient ballads of Charlemagne and then with a long slow grinding changeover, he beat out some heavy metal.

He wasn’t playing to do anything. No miracles. No life-or-death situations that he had to save himself from.

He wasn’t playing for anyone, either. Not to impress Julie, or Jezebel, or Ms. DuPreé.

He just played.

Music-for the thrill.

Because he wanted it.

Lady Dawn resonated and flexed under his hands, soaking up all his anger and frustration and power, amplifying it. . and wanting more.

He blasted out the last power chord, flourished with the phrase of a little lullaby, and stilled her strings.

He was bored with this. . and done.

He finally looked up.

Not a single person in the audience moved. They sat and stared openmouthed.

Far away, dogs barked and howled and a dozen car alarms warbled.

Eliot didn’t care what any of them thought. He turned and started to walk backstage.

Ms. DuPreé waited in the wings; Sarah had come out to listen to him as well, and both their eyes were wide at his audacity.

They hadn’t liked it? Maybe Ms. DuPreé would kick him out of her class. It seemed so silly and trivial now to play for her approval.

Eliot had almost reached the curtain’s edge when the applause came-waves of it along with wild cheering and calls for more.

He turned. Every single person in the audience was on their feet, clapping and waving their lighters in the air.

They’d loved his music and him.

And none of it mattered to Eliot.

He went to Ms. DuPreé and Sarah. The applause behind him intensified. The look on Ms. DuPreé’s face shifted, and her mouth snapped shut. She wasn’t astonished anymore; the narrowing of her eyes signaled something closer to disapproval. It was hard to tell.

Sarah’s mouth, however, remained dropped. Then she blinked and shouted to him over the applause, “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Do me a favor?” he shouted back.

“Anything!” She seemed out of breath.

“Borrow your phone?”

Sarah frowned, like this wasn’t what she’d wanted him to say, but nonetheless, she turned and rummage through her backpack. She handed Eliot her phone.

Eliot dialed, held the speaker to his head, and stuck his finger in the other ear.

There was a connection. The person on the other end picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“Robert?” Eliot yelled as loud as he could.

“Geez,” Robert said. “I can barely hear you. Speak up.”

Eliot ended the called and texted Robert instead: need 2 get out of here. give me a ride?

send gps, Robert texted back. ill get u-where 2?

anywhere, Eliot thumbed. just need to ride.

Fiona crackled her knuckles and stretched. Team Scarab had the gym for an hour of practice, drills, and figuring out the new course. It was a golden opportunity and couldn’t be wasted.

She squinted though the hazy morning air at the new eight-story obstacle course. There were coils of razor wire and nozzles that belched frozen carbon dioxide. Chain-link ramps swayed in the breeze. Two new top levels rippled, swathed in plastic, and had OFF-LIMITS signs all over them. Inside workers hammered and sparked with arc welders. More surprises courtesy of Mr. Ma.

But the course wasn’t the only thing they had to figure out. They had to fight and win now against the grade curve, too.

Not only had Team Soaring Eagle been disbanded because of their disastrous accident. . but Team Red Dragon, too; they’d been declared ineligible because they had too many injured players-and their remaining members had been picked up by other teams down a person or two.

The problem was that these two disbanded teams got removed from the ranks. All the other teams slid down-without moving the cutoff point for failing.

This morning when Fiona checked the roster, Team Scarab was now well below that cut.

She turned to face and rally her team. . at least, the half of her team that was here.

Robert, Jeremy, and Amanda sat on the bleachers.

Amanda scanned a moldy book called The Non-Illusion of Law as she weaved her hair into a braid.

Jeremy peered into a little book, jotting the occasional note.

“We have to win the next match,” she told them. “Let’s get up there and practice.”

“We’re going to practice without everyone?” Amanda asked. “Let’s compare notes on Miss Westin’s last lecture instead. I’m not getting this whole ‘dharma’ thing.”

“What do you want us to do, Fiona?” Robert said, and picked at a crack in the wood. “Run a few laps?”

Fiona frowned and crossed her arms.

Eliot and Sarah were on a field trip for their music class. She didn’t blame them; they had to keep their grades up. It still irked her, though, knowing they were off having fun while the rest of them had to work.

Jezebel was still missing. Six weeks and she hadn’t even shown up at Paxington. Was she dead on some battlefield in Hell? They might be permanently down one team member.

And Mitch? He was missing, too.

“Did you try Master Stephenson’s cell phone?” Jeremy asked without looking up from his notebook.

“Twice,” Fiona said. “No answer. Just a text.”

He’d sent her a text message a few hours ago:

FIONA

I’LL BE LATE FOR PRACTICE. START W/O ME.

FAMILY STUFF TO DEAL WITH.

COFFEE LATER? A WALK?

MITCH

When she’d tried to call, she got the “subscriber out of service area” message. And when she texted back, there’d been no response.

Mitch had never missed a practice. It worried her. This “family stuff” he had to deal with. . was that the same problem he’d hinted at over winter break?

Whatever the reasons for their missing teammates, Fiona got why no one wanted to practice: They needed one another.

Without Sarah here for Jeremy to boss around and show off in front of, he seemed more lazy than usual (if that were possible). Fiona made a mental note to ask Sarah later if they were first cousins or more distantly related. He was from the nineteenth century; Sarah from the twenty-first. Their relationship had to be. . complicated.

And without Mitch, Robert seemed more rude than usual (which was not so hard for her to imagine). It was as if he acted civil these days only with Mitch around. What was up with that? Some too-cool alpha male thing? She doubted she’d ever understand the boy psyche.

Fiona had to do something to motivate her team, though.

“We should look at the new parts of the course,” she said, “see if we can figure out what tricks Mr. Ma has planned.”

“Wouldn’t that be breaking your sacred rules?” Robert said, arching one eyebrow.

“They’re not my rules,” she replied. “They are the rules-and those signs up there just say ‘off-limits,’ not ‘don’t peek.’ Besides, I’m willing to test the boundaries of the rules if it means saving the necks of my teammates.”

Amanda shook out her hair and closed her book. “Sure-let’s go,” she murmured. “I can’t wait to see if we’re going to get frozen solid next time or chopped into bits.”

Jeremy smirked. “A tad dark for you, lass, no?”

Amanda turned and held Jeremy’s gaze until he looked away.

Robert jumped off the bleacher suddenly, startled, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone.

“You brought that to practice?” Fiona asked.

Robert shrugged. “I have people that need to get ahold of me.”

Fiona didn’t like that. Who needed to stay in touch with Robert so desperately that he couldn’t leave his phone in his locker for one hour? Was he still spying for Uncle Henry? Or maybe it was as simple as him having other friends she didn’t know about. Perhaps a girlfriend? Well, he was certainly entitled to have a life outside school-the only reason it irritated her was that it was cutting into their practice time.

Robert pressed the phone to his ear.

Amanda moved closer to Robert. “Is it Mitch?”

Robert held up a finger and shook his head. “Geez,” he said into the phone. “I can barely hear you. Speak up.”

He then looked at the phone’s screen, started to close it, then paused. “Not Mitch,” he told them. Robert texted whoever it was, waited, texted again-then snapped the phone shut.

He looked at Fiona and pursed his lips. “I’ve got to go. Sorry.”

“What!” Fiona said. “We’ve got the course for thirty more minutes. You can’t leave.”

Robert squinted at her, and his face flushed. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t work for the League anymore. You can’t order me around.”

It felt like he’d slapped her in the face.

She wasn’t ordering anyone around. She was just trying to win-so they could all graduate.

But before she could say any of this, Robert walked away.

She watched him go. Furious. Helpless.

Jeremy came to her side. “Let him go, lassie. There be no point in practicing today with so many missing, anyway.”

He stood so close, Fiona felt his body heat, too near for comfort. She took a step away.

“Whatever. .,” she muttered, trying as hard as she could to sound like she didn’t care.

“It only goes to show how unreliable some members of this team are.” Jeremy tapped his notebook. “I’ve been so bold as to prepare a list of suitable alternatives.”

“Alternates?” Amanda jumped up and came over. One of her tiny hands had balled into a fist. “You can’t just kick people off the team.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Jeremy told her.

Fiona made a calm down gesture at Amanda. “It’s okay,” she said. “I think I know what he means. Planning ahead, right?”

Something had happened to Amanda over the break. She would’ve never stood up to Jeremy Covington like that before. Was it that dorm fire Fiona had heard about? Three people got hurt. Maybe Amanda had rescued them, and that had boosted her self-esteem. Fiona should’ve hung out with her more to find out. . but oddly, Amanda hadn’t even tried to speak with her since the start of the new semester.

“Precisely,” Jeremy replied. “Planning ahead. What shall we do if our esteemed Infernal teammate never returns? Or Mitch? What if he has met some unpleasant fate? Or Robert. . what if he just rides off one day?”

Now it was Fiona’s turn to glower at him. Mitch had not met some unpleasant fate. And Robert wouldn’t just ride off and leave them. But he did have a point about Jezebel.

Jeremy leaned closer and his silky blond hair fell into his face in a distractingly attractive way. He touched one finger to his lips, trying to hide the smile growing there. “Just in case. .,” he whispered.

Fiona glanced at his notebook and the list of names in neat calligraphy.

“We should start talking to some of the other students,” she said. “The ones on teams down two or three members already-before someone else snaps up the best of them.”

“Aye,” Jeremy said. “That be where my expertise is pure gold. I’ll be able to sort through the chaff for ye.”

Amanda gave a dismissive snort.

Fiona agreed with her assessment-at least that Jeremy was a relic, rude, chauvinistic-but she also saw the truth of the situation. The maneuvering for replacements, the politics of picking new teams; Mr. Ma had to have known this would happen in the later half of the year. She saw that this was part of gym class, too. Fiona had to learn how to recruit and, at the same time, stop other teams from getting her best players.

She imagined this process only accelerated as finals drew near. For most Paxington students, their loyalties would dissolve the instant they thought they were on a losing team.

“We’ll have to act quick,” Fiona whispered, more to herself than Jeremy. She was about to ask him what he had planned when she spotted someone on the far side of the field.

Mr. Ma emerged from the locker room. He wasn’t in his usual Paxington sweats. Today he wore camouflage fatigues, a khaki shirt, black combat boots, and a red beret. He looked all business, grim, and his dark eyes fixed upon her.

“Miss Post,” he said, as if her name were an accusation.

“We were just going to start,” she said, feeling suddenly guilty about not being on the gym.

But she stopped herself, disgusted at feeling so weak-when she’d done absolutely nothing wrong. Fiona stood straight and told him: “We’re just about to figure out the best strategy to get to the very top of the new course.”

A flicker of irritation passed over Mr. Ma’s face as he turned and glanced up to the top of the gym structure. He then looked over Jeremy and Amanda.

“A fine idea,” Mr. Ma said, “but there will be no practice for you today. Where is Mr. Farmington?”

“No practice? We need it,” Fiona protested. “Team Scarab was signed up for this time.”

She decided not to say anything about Robert’s phone call and his ditching. Why she was protecting him, though, she had no clue.

“Team Scarab, yes,” Mr. Ma agreed. “But you are coming with me. There’s a special field trip for the Force of Arms class today.”

“A trip?” Fiona said. “Where?”

“South,” Mr. Ma told her. “We have a chance to study a revolutionary war in progress. . firsthand.”

Eliot had never ditched before, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Study? That was the only thing that came to mind. . but it sure seemed to defeat the purpose.

It was nice to be out of class and in the sunlight, though. And when Robert had picked him up (in a sidecar attached to his Harley) outside the Monterey Fairgrounds, the outraged look on Sarah’s face had been great. Ms. DuPreé, though, had said nothing, looking almost as if she approved of this rebellion.

He was sure he’d pay for it-but for now, he’d enjoy it while it lasted.

Robert slowed his bike as they got to the exit of the fairgrounds’ parking lot. “So where to?”

Eliot tried to think of something he’d always wanted to do, but never had the time or freedom for.

“How about miniature golf?”

Robert gave him a you’ve got to be kidding look.

Eliot shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Robert snapped his fingers. “There’s a Mardi Gras-a real blowout bash. Just a bit south, if you don’t mind the drive to Costa Esmeralda.”

There was something funny in Robert’s eyes, though; like this Mardi Gras thing was a deep memory surfacing. . as if he was in a trace.

“Sounds good,” Eliot replied.

“Cool.” Robert grinned, and the look vanished. “Hang on.”

They drove fast-same as when Robert had chauffeured Uncle Henry’s limousine-breezing down the California coast to the border in ten minutes-then they blasted down the Pan-American Highway past cars and trucks, and through Mexico City traffic like it was frozen in amber.

Rocketing just a foot off the ground in the sidecar was scary and fun. Eliot might as well have been strapped into the front seat of a first-class roller coaster that never stopped (not that he’d ever ridden a roller coaster, but this was how he imagined it’d feel).

“That exit there!” Eliot shouted, and pointed.

Robert veered onto the off-ramp. They raced past a sign that read

COSTA ESMERALDA, CENTRO DE CIUDAD 8 KM

Eliot recognized this stretch of jungle coastline. It was the same place Uncle Henry had driven him a month ago, crowded with palm trees and ferns and flowers, and flocks of parrots that called out to him. In the roar of the wind and surf, he heard his rejuvenating song echoing still.

His guitar was wedged next to his thigh. He’d never be able to play such a delicate song on this new version of Lady Dawn, and almost regretted her transformation.

Eliot ran his hand over the mirror-smooth wood, the bold brass fittings, felt a thrum with her coiled steel strings. But there was more power in her now. . or in him, and that was a good thing.

The jungle thinned; there were patches of bare dirt, and then pavement, and small buildings that crystallized into suburbs: tiny houses with dark metal roofs. Clean, too-not a speck of trash or pollution.

As they sped on, the houses became factories and then rose into clusters of office towers arranged in orderly rows.

And all of them without color: faded black asphalt, concrete sidewalks and walls, bare iron pipes and lampposts-everything shades of gray. It was depressing.

The strangest thing, though, was the traffic. There were three lanes full of honking cars and trucks, but all going north. On the southbound lane that they traveled on. . it was empty.

Pretty weird, if there was a Mardi Gras.

Robert slowed as they approach the end of the off-ramp and looked around. Down either side of the street was a towering canyon of office buildings. The only movement was papers blowing in the gutters. No people.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Eliot asked.

“Positive,” Robert answered, annoyed. He sounded unsure now about the reliability of his sure thing Mardi Gras tip.

A few blocks away, thumps echoed from the city center.

“Come on,” Robert muttered. “Sounds like something’s going down. Maybe the party’s started or it’s a parade.”

Eliot nodded, but he detected something in Robert’s voice he didn’t often hear: worry.

Eliot’s hand rested on Lady Dawn’s strings, just in case.

Robert eased the Harley into gear and went slow, the bike’s engine shaking the frame.

Eliot had an urge to get out and walk, so, if nothing else, he could properly hold his guitar. It was claustrophobic in this sidecar. Sure, the leather padding was comfortable. . but it kind of reminded him of a coffin on wheels.

On the other hand, maybe it was best to stay in the vehicle that could accelerate past the sound barrier-in case they had to make a quick exit.

They moved closer to the downtown office towers, each with the same dirty square windows, the same square entryways. There were, however, splotches of color here and there. Plastered on the walls were posters. In them, a man stood in a heroic pose holding a pistol in one hand, a sword in the other. He was drawn in angular red, white, and black lines. A red flag waved behind him. At the bottom of each poster, black bold letters proclaimed: COL. V. C. BALBOA. PRESIDENTE DE POR VIDA.

This guy gave Eliot the creeps.

Robert pulled up to a four-way stop and predictably rolled through the ALTO sign into the intersection. This gave them an unobstructed view into the center of Costa Esmeralda.

And they saw exactly who was throwing this “Mardi Gras.”

There were hundreds of soldiers. They wore faded green uniforms and held rifles with bayonets. A few hefted bazookas. Squads moved among the buildings, rounding up civilians and ordering them to stand against a wall.

One man shouted at the soldiers-and got clubbed to the ground for his trouble.

Eliot’s hands rolled into fists. Seeing this enraged him more than anything, even the unfair, potentially lethal classes at Paxington-those students were there because they wanted to be. They knew the risks. This was just a bunch of bullies picking on people.

Eliot wanted to climb out, grab Lady Dawn, and. .

All his heroic thoughts ground to a halt.

On a corner three blocks away squatted an armored tank, its muzzle pointed down the street at head level. . at them.

Robert gunned the Harley, spun around, and roared down a side street.

They went fast, but it was just fast. Not the fast that Eliot knew they could go-fast that made the rest of the world stand still.

They raced for two blocks, screamed around three corners, and Robert skidded to a halt. He doubled over, examining the bike’s exposed V-pistons.

“Something’s wrong,” Robert murmured.

A block behind them, two primer gray Humvees careened through an intersection.

Gunshots cracked.

Holes chipped in the wall over Eliot’s head. “No kidding something’s wrong! Just go!”

Robert twisted the throttle and they sped off, quickly outpacing the larger vehicles-slalomed around two corners-then down an alley.

Rolling to block the alley’s exit, however, were two more Humvees. These had their tops off, roll bars exposed. . with mounted fifty-caliber machine guns. They fired.

“Holy-!” Robert ducked, spun them around, and peeled out, scraping the alley’s wall.

Behind them, gunfire chewed through the concrete. Eliot instinctively crouched deeper into the sidecar (as if the fiberglass were going to stop a bullet).

Robert plowed through a row of trash cans.

Sparks flew and bullets puckered the metal. . both cans and the bike’s frame.

Then the Harley was around the corner.

Robert accelerated to ninety miles an hour. . still nowhere near the magical speed Eliot wished they were going.

Four blocks away, a helicopter skimmed over the rooftops. It rose, spun, and angled toward them.

Robert spotted it, too. He pressed his body low and went faster.

But there was no way they’d outrun a helicopter. They needed another option.

Eliot gripped Lady Dawn. He could summon Napoléon-era cannoneers and cavalry. Or that ghostly fog. At least that’d give them some cover.

But nineteenth-century artillery and soldiers on horseback against automatic weapons, bazookas, or armored tanks? They wouldn’t last two seconds. Fog would get blown away by the helicopter, and besides. . the spirits inside that fog wouldn’t care if they attacked soldiers or civilians.

The Harley flashed through an intersection.

Eliot looked for more Humvees or tanks. The adjacent street was a blur of concrete gray and iron black-except for a spot of gleaming white and chrome.

He knew those colors. Not what specifically they belonged to, just that he had seen them before.

He tapped Robert and made a circle around motion.

Robert nodded. He braked, turned, and gunned the bike back the way they’d come.

The helicopter thundered overhead, overshooting their position.

Eliot pointed down the side street. Robert leaned the bike into the turn so far that the sidecar wheels lifted.

One building on this street was different. It was three stories, and on top was an enclosed glass atrium, gleaming in the tropical sun. There was an iron statue in front: the same gun and sword-wielding Presidente in the posters. Red flags fluttered alongside the wide stairs that led to steel double doors.

But this is not what Eliot had recognized, not what now made his heart catch.

Parked in front of the building was a 1933 Rolls-Royce limousine, all white curves that seemed to never end, chrome that looked like dripping quicksilver, and the woman-with-wings-swept-back-and-arms-held-forward hood ornament.

It was Laurabelle. Uncle Henry’s car.

“Hang on and duck!” Robert shouted.

He veered past the limo’s bumper-over the curb, shot up the stairs, and crashed though the double doors.

The Harley flopped over and skidded into a wall. The engine coughed and died.

Eliot tumbled out, Lady Dawn in one hand. . the room spinning.

He was in was a lobby with more flags and oil paintings of Colonel V. C. Balboa, Presidente de por vida, but otherwise it was deserted.

Robert went to the doors that hung askew in their frames and shoved them back (more or less) into place.

Eliot looked over his shoulder. There was a thump as that helicopter passed overhead and faded-then the shadow of a jet flashed across the street and there was a teeth-shaking rumble-followed by three Humvees that rolled by. They didn’t stop.

Eliot sighed and opened his mouth to ask Robert a million questions.

Robert shook his head. He pulled out a gun from the holster in the small of his back. He pointed his eyes and the up and down the lobby.

Eliot nodded, hung back, and slung Lady Dawn over his shoulder. . fingers just over her strings.

Robert checked one end of the lobby, then came back and motioned Eliot to follow.

Eliot took one last glance outside. He didn’t see any pursuing soldiers.

He and Robert entered an abandoned courtroom. They crept past rows of seats, flags and official seals, and through the curtain behind the raised judge’s bench.

They found an office with walls of legal books. There was a mahogany desk upon which sat a drained bottle with hand-painted gold leaves embellishing a label that proclaimed: TEQUILA.

Robert nodded toward stairs that led up. A second bottle lay on the steps, liquor spilled, smelling smoky and pungent.

Uncle Henry had to be up there, or someone, at least, who had his car. Either way, there were answers, and maybe a way out of sunny, festive Costa Esmeralda.

They climbed up. Robert swept his aim as the stairs angled back and forth.

Two more flights. This reminded Eliot of the obstacle course in gym, and adrenaline surged though his blood and his fingertips lit upon Lady Dawn’s strings. The barest subsonic resonant thrum came in response to his feather touch. The paint on the walls crackled.

Robert looked at him, but said nothing.

They eased along the last steps to a glass door, pausing to let their eyes adjust to the sunlight.

On the other side was a garden of palm trees, cacti, and bromeliads with flowers like fanged mouths. There was a table with shade umbrella, and lounging there with his back to them was Uncle Henry in his white suit (his jacket off) and straw hat, shot glass tilted in his hand, its contents dribbling down his arm.

Robert eased open the door, scanned the garden right to left.

There was no one else there, but he didn’t lower his aim.

Eliot didn’t understand. It was Uncle Henry. He tapped Robert and gave him a What are you doing? look.

Robert shrugged him off and shot back a glare that could have given Fiona a run for her money in the withering-flesh department.

Without turning, Uncle Henry said, “Robert’s quite right to be wary, Eliot. This is a war, after all.” He gave a dramatic wave that sloshed out the remains of the tequila. “Dangerous elements loose in the streets. .” He reached for the bottle and knocked it over. “Can’t even trust one’s liquor to stand still at such times.”

Robert sighed, clicked on his gun’s safety, and lowered it.

They went to Henry. Eliot plucked up the bottle and set it right.

“You’re drunk,” Robert said.

“I certainly hope so. Otherwise a perfect waste of several bottles of Tequila Casa Noble Extra Anejo.”

Eliot surveyed the city from behind the glass walls. Tanks and Humvees rolled into the city center where he and Robert had stopped. There were more people in the streets, and more soldiers shoving them around, and one thing he hadn’t seen on the far side of the city’s center square: an older section with a cobblestone courtyard and church that looked like it could have been built by the original Spanish missionaries. Dozens of people streamed toward the church, taking shelter within-scared people, crying people, children, and women carrying bundled babies.

Eliot set a hand on the glass, wanting to help them.

“You said this was going to be a party. .,” Robert told Henry, stabbing at him with a finger.

“Did I?” Henry crinkled his brow. “Oh, perhaps I did at that.” He frowned. “Really, Robert, you know better than to take me literally. This is more of a wake for a friend, actually.”

Eliot turned. “Why is the League doing this? Why are you letting them?”

It was just a guess the League was involved-but a darned good guess in Eliot’s estimation. All the organized violence. Uncle Henry here, doing. . whatever he was doing.

“I had not the time or the strength to stop them,” Henry whispered. “They’re right, of course: Balboa must go. But you’re right, too, Eliot; there were other ways for those with patience.” He shook his head. “And I have so few friends left. Even if the Colonel had all those nasty habits-suppression of free speech-communism-a taste for women a tad too young.”

Henry took a deep breath and continued. “Alas, he committed the one unpardonable sin: not following the exact letter of the League’s bidding.”

He studied his empty shot glass, surprised it was no longer full. “And communism-ha! — that has never worked among mortals. Even among the Immortals-Zeus and his ‘fair’ autocracy. . what a farce. Only the Bright Ones ever came close.”[55]

Robert’s eyes widened with realization. “Balboa has one of your cars.”

“Yes,” Henry said with a sigh. “The 1970 Shelby. So naturally, the League sent me here to prevent him from spiriting away.”

“That’s why the bike didn’t work,” Robert muttered to Eliot. “Henry’s blocking.”

Eliot didn’t understand completely, but he did enough to know they’d be stuck here until Uncle Henry let them go.

“If this is a League-sponsored revolution,” Eliot asked, “why use the military? Why not just let people vote?”

Uncle Henry wobbled to his feet and joined Eliot by the glass wall. “I do love you, child, and your idealism. It is one of the few fragile joys left to me.”

“You could’ve taken Balboa out neat and easy,” Robert spat out. “The only problem is, it might’ve left tracks-and the League couldn’t have that. Nothing covers tracks like a little blood, huh, Mr. Mimes?”

Uncle Henry sobered. “Yes. And even better than a little is a lot. I do wish there was a way to stop this, but set in motion, these things take on a life of their own, I’m afraid.”

Eliot didn’t know what to think. He detected no lie in Uncle Henry’s words. And he did indeed look remorseful (or maybe he was just drunk like Robert said). Still, this situation seemed utterly wrong.

“Look here,” Uncle Henry said, and fished a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket. It was a stamp, triangle shaped, with a pineapple printed on it. He ran a finger over its perforated edges. “Every conflict between two forces has three outcomes. One side can win. Or the other side can.”

He placed the stamp in Eliot’s hand and closed his fingers over it.

“What’s the third option?” Eliot asked.

“Haven’t a clue,” Henry replied. “But I do know there’s always a third option. People just never seem interested in looking long enough to find it.”

Eliot didn’t understand. . but his hand closed about the stamp. He’d keep it.

He turned and watched as soldiers moved toward the church. One of them shot at a shadow moving behind a stained glass window. Rainbow fragments littered the ground, out of place in this city of gray.

Eliot stomach twisted. He turned Robert. “I have to get down there and stop them. They’re going to kill those people!”

Robert pressed his lips into a single white line. Through gritted teeth, he told Henry, “Unblock my bike, man. We can save them.”

Uncle Henry hesitated and then, “I cannot. I want to, but the League would know.” Henry then cocked his head and looked at the courtyard. “How refreshingly unexpected!”

Eliot stared unbelieving as a single person strode into the courtyard-blocking the soldiers’ advance on the church.

It was Fiona.

Fiona stood on a rooftop and watched soldiers in the courtyard below. They went from building to building, searching, pulling people out into the street. It was awful.

Behind her stood six boys from the Force of Arms class, wide-eyed, also watching with fascination. Among them was also the upperclassman who had given her a tour the first day at Paxington, the handsomely chiseled Dante Scalagari.

Mr. Ma observed as well, impassive, arms folded over his chest.

Fiona just wanted to leave.

She glanced back at the Paxington helicopter perched on the roof. It had whisked them from the landing pad behind the Ludus Magnus over the Pacific-then the turbines had kicked in and blasted them through the sound barrier.

They’d flown south at that terrific speed, so Fiona guessed they were somewhere near the equator from the position and strength of the sun overhead.

. . Sunlight that clashed with the chilling events in the streets.

The boys whispered about how the soldiers covered each other with overlapping patterns of fire. There was a nervous edge their voices. They were worried, too-for the people down there or for themselves, she wasn’t sure.

Mr. Ma had briefed them on the flight. They were to observe a coup d’état, the beginnings of a democratic revolution. If, he had stressed, none of the heroes of the revolución got greedy and seized the dictatorship for themselves. It would be a chance for them to watch urban combat tactics, and to witness the rarer occurrence of ideologies clashing on a battlefield.

Fiona didn’t understand that last part. All she saw were people getting pushed around.

“This situation has similarities to the battle of Ultima Thule,” Mr. Ma said. “Instead of Immortals and Infernals, however, there are many lightly armed rebels fighting a lesser number of soldiers who are better trained and armed.”

On the street, a squad of soldiers shoved a family out of their apartment building. There were older men and women and a dozen children-all so scared, they stumbled and huddled together for support.

This wasn’t even close to Ultima Thule. The few armed nonmilitary men she’d spotted had been running away. Meanwhile, the soldiers had automatic weapons and an armored tank on the corner. Similarities? Mr. Ma was crazy.

He was stone-faced, though, and his dark eyes were as unreadable as two blank blackboards.

Fiona felt sick.

She didn’t trust him. With six upperclassman boys here (charming Dante Scalagari or not), well outside the watchful eye of Miss Westin and the regulations of Paxington, Mr. Ma could do. . she wasn’t sure. . something awful to her. . or, at least, try to.

Fiona took two steps away, and only then did she return her attention to the street (still keeping Mr. Ma in her peripheral vision).

The soldiers herded the civilians from the apartment building toward another group. They made them stand against a wall and turn around.

The people weren’t fighting back. How could they? There were kids in the line of fire.

But then again. . there were little kids there. How could they not fight?

“W-what are they going to do?” Fiona whispered. Her knees shook. She locked them, forcing them to still.

“What do you think they’re going to do?” Mr. Ma replied without glancing at her. “What would you do if you had your enemies helpless before you?”

Fiona sure wouldn’t line helpless people against a wall and threaten to execute them.

“We have to do something.”

“Yes,” Mr. Ma said. “We watch and learn what we can. But only that.”

“What!” She turned. “Why?”

The boys in her class stepped back, astonished that Fiona had questioned Mr. Ma. Dante nodded, apparently sharing her sentiments, although not daring to offer an opinion.

Mr. Ma twitched a single eyebrow. “This is a League matter, Miss Post,” he said. “Paxington’s charter states we must preserve our neutrality among the Immortals, Infernals, and mortal magical families. Staff and students are not allowed to interfere. . regardless of how much we wish.”

“The League’s doing this?” Fiona asked, but more to herself than to Mr. Ma.

She was part of the League of Immortals-but only because the Council had decreed it so-not that she actually worked with them. They never even told her what they did. She chewed her lower lip. She wasn’t sure why they’d do this, but if they had a reason for a civil war here, the League was capable of making it happen, she bet. . and make it appear as a military coup.

Mr. Ma looked back to the courtyard and continued his vigil.

Uncertain what else to do, Fiona turned and watched, too.

A mother and her child sneaked away from the others. They made a run for the church at the opposite side of the courtyard. Several others rushed though its doors, too, seeking refuge.

“This is no Ultima Thule,” Fiona declared. She heard the rising indignation in her voice and couldn’t stop it. “Those people will be slaughtered. Is that what you wanted to teach us today?”

Mr. Ma gripped the metal railing on the edge of the rooftop so tight, it creaked. “Perhaps,” he said.

Fiona’s jaw clenched. “I’m going down there and stopping them.”

“I have told you,” Mr. Ma said with strained patience, “I cannot permit school staff or students to-”

Fiona shrugged out to her Paxington jacket. “Then I’m ditching.”

Without waiting for him to tell her to stop, or some acknowledgment that she was doing the right thing from Dante or any of the other boys-Fiona jumped over the railing onto a fire escape.

She padded down and around the ladders and landings. . pausing on the last.

She’d need a weapon. She unzipped her book bag.

What was she was doing?

She should have thought this through. These weren’t shadow creatures or Paxington students with swords. They were men with guns that could kill her before she got close to them.

Her hand closed about her wooden yo-yo. What good was that going to do?

She had to do something, though. What was the point of being a real goddess-of everything she’d learned at Paxington-all that training in gym class, if she couldn’t put it to use?

She touched cold metal and jerked her hand from the book bag.

Her father’s gift, the slightly rusted steel bracelet, had wrapped itself about her wrist. The bracelet had unclasped and grown to a heavy chain before, its links tapering to razor edges. . it had lengthened a dozen feet and whipped through a Parisian lamppost.

It was magic. An Infernal thing. A thing to cut.

And precisely what she needed.

Okay. Mr. Ma was training them to fight. So she’d fight.

She squeezed the metal. It warmed, squirmed, and heated. . just like her blood.

Infernal or Immortal rage, that didn’t matter, and it didn’t matter that the anger was the only emotion that seemed to come easily to her these days. Right now, she was going to use it to do some good.

Fiona slid down the last ladder and strode across the courtyard. She walked straight toward a soldier who watched the church. He shielded his eyes to see through its stained glass windows, raised his Kalashnikov machine gun, and shot at the shadows.

Part of Fiona knew not to be afraid. She was half goddess, and half. . whatever her father was.

But she was afraid.

She was still the same old Fiona Post.

And yet, there was something else in her: a fighter. Something extraordinary. She clung to that-and strode forward to find which Fiona she would become.

She uncoiled the length of chain now in her hand and loosed a slur that would have never qualified for a round of vocabulary insult with Eliot. “Hey!” she called out. “Perro que come excremento!”[56]

The soldier wheeled.

Fiona lashed her chain at him.

Before the chain struck, however, he shot her.

A staccato burst: three rounds in her chest and gut.

The impact blasted her back; she spun and bounced and flipped and skidded along the cobblestones to a halt. . facefirst.

The pain was beyond anything she’d felt. It was lightning that flashed and unfurled from her belly button to sternum to her spine-bone shattering, organ shredding-it ricocheted teeth to toes.

She lay still. Dead.

Boots on cobblestones approached.

She had to be dead. . didn’t she? Of course.

So why then did she feel her heart thump-pumping, faster, until blood thundered through her veins?

She got up.

The man who’d shot her stood there, mouth open, blinking. He raised his Kalashnikov.

Fiona didn’t give him another chance. Chain wrapped about her fist, she slugged him.

His head snapped back, and he fell, and didn’t move.

Three holes smoldered in her shirt and skirt. Her belly was a solid bruise, but it was in one piece. . which was more than she could say about her uniform. Custom fit by Madame Cobweb-how was she going to replace it?

Heat surged through her and seared away the pain.

Six more soldiers saw her over their fallen comrade. They ran at her, yelling, and leveled their weapons.

She moved toward them.

They opened fire.

This time the bullets felt like wasp stings. They hurt. A lot.

But Fiona shrugged them off.

She whipped her chain around-it elongated, links clinking-and cut through black gun metal, wooden stocks. . fingers, and hands.

The soldiers screamed and writhed on the ground. The smell of their blood repelled her, and, at the same time, it was intoxicating.

When she’d cut Perry Millhouse in half, that had been a different Fiona Post. She’d actually mourned the death of that killer.

These men were murderers, too. They would have killed innocent people. Little kids.

The only thing she felt for them was contempt.

She stepped over them-left them crawling, in shock, bleeding-and strode toward the church.

Every soldier in the courtyard saw her now, though. There were two dozen of them. They screamed. Some made the sign of the cross. Others ran away.

Most opened fire.

They couldn’t touch her. She was no longer Fiona. No longer susceptible to mortal inconveniences like death. Power and hate pulsed through her every fiber-

A monstrous diesel engine coughed to life behind her.

Fiona froze. She’d forgotten one very important thing.

She whirled and her overblown ego deflated. . along with her sense of invulnerability.

The armored tank on the corner belched black smoke from a tailpipe. Treads chewed through cobblestones as it and its turret rotated and the main gun arced toward her.

Stupid. Stupid!

How could she have been so blatantly arrogant to turn her back on an armored tank?!

Three options flashed through her mind.

First, she could stand here like an idiot and get blown to bits (an option her body seemed to favor at the moment because her knees wouldn’t unlock). Not that it even had to hit her to kill; the overpressure blast from the cannon could do that without ever touching her.

Two, she could run. She was sure, though, all that would accomplish was to get her blown up a few paces from where she stood. Great.

Or three. . she could do what she came down here to do: fight.

Her body moved before she finished that last thought-as it had when she’d fought Mr. Ma. Her muscle and sinew knew more about saving itself apparently than her brain.

Fiona sprinted toward the tank. The chain played out through her grasp.

The turret locked on her dead center.

She jumped and flicked the chain forward. The slender bracelet that had loosely fit about her wrist was now five times her body length, each link as large as her fist, the edges razor sharp. It wrapped about the tank’s turret-whipped around and lashed twice about the main gun’s muzzle.

Fiona felt rapid pings through the metal in her grasp. . the shell clicking into the tank’s firing chamber.

She grasped the chain with both hands and pulled.

Infernal metal shrieked through hardened steel. The turret slid apart at an angle where it’d been severed; half the muzzle clattered to the ground.

The tank fired.

Turret cut in half, firing mechanisms no longer aligned, the shell exploded inside. . along with the rest of the tank’s munitions.

The air filled with firecracker flashes, each as bright as the sun.

Fiona only distantly registered this as she was hurled back, felt a thousand stings-and then a section of steel tread hit her.

There was blackness. . It was quiet. .

That was nice. Peaceful.

But then a ringing intruded on her rest, which started faint and then turned up to an ear-and then skull-splitting intensity.

She blinked. There was a dull blur. The sky? Clouds?

Yes; they were nice. Fluffy. That one looked like a hand. Those, a flock of white crows.

She rolled over. The courtyard where she and the tank had been a moment ago was a crater of smoldering bits of metal and shattered cobblestones.

Everything hurt. Fiona was cut and bleeding and a slash in her side bubbled as she tried to inhale. It felt as if she were drowning.

At least she stopped those creeps before they killed anyone. . except, maybe, her.

She laughed. That hurt, too.

She spotted three soldiers. They’d retreated into an alley and peered at her, astonished at what she had done. . and that she still moved. One held a radio, spoke into it, looking at her-then up at the sky-back and forth.

She didn’t want to die here. The anger that had made her so strong before, though, was nowhere to be found. All she felt was her pain and a bitter cold as shock set in.

She hallucinated that Eliot and Robert stood by her. Oh-how she wished that were true. She would have given anything for Robert to take her hand and help her up.

She got to her knees. Hallucinations or not-she wouldn’t lie here and bleed to death.

She had to defend herself. Or get back to Mr. Ma.

Or, if she couldn’t do that, she’d at least be on her feet if this was the end.

Dizzy, Fiona pushed on her knees and rose. She looked at the clouds again. A line in the sky flattened and arced toward the street.

That was a contrail made by jet engines. She squinted and saw a Korean-war era warplane: a MiG-15. They had two 23 mm cannon.

It was doing. . what was it called? A strafing run.

Funny how her last thoughts were from the old encyclopedia-loving Fiona Post. Maybe that’s what she truly was made of after all.

That was okay. She liked that Fiona Post.

She clutched the chain in her hands. She had no regrets about what she’d done. It had been the right thing-the only thing she could have done.

Fiona stood tall and proud and faced death as it rushed at her.

Eliot hung onto the sidecar for his life.

Robert’s Harley clipped an overturned car, and then narrowly missed several people (civilians and soldiers) running from the courtyard.

He swerved around a burning pickup, and Eliot realized that their insane speed was warranted. Maybe. . they’d even gone too slow. In the center of the courtyard, Fiona stood nose to nose with an armored tank.

Eliot blinked to make sure he saw that right.

Fiona crouched and jumped at it, lashing forward with a thick chain. The chain wrapped about the turret and muzzle.

She pulled-severed metal from metal.

The tank exploded. Inside.

Steel and titanium mushroomed out-and a dozen detonations followed and lit the courtyard-blasted the armored tank to smithereens, as well the ground for twenty feet in every direction.

Fiona tumbled through the air, bounced, rolled. . and lay limp in the dirt.

Was she dead? He and Robert should’ve gotten there faster. Done something. A cold, hard shape took form in Eliot’s mind-a dangerous thought that if his sister was gone, a lot of people were going to pay for it. . starting with Uncle Henry and the League.

Robert ducked but didn’t slow as molten metal and shards of stone whizzed past them.

He skidded sideways next to Fiona.

Eliot jumped out of the sidecar, guitar in hand.

Robert stayed on the bike, pulled his Glock 29, and aimed at the three soldiers huddled in the alley.

One of the soldiers spoke into a handheld radio and pointed at the sky. The other two had Kalashnikov machine guns. They looked stunned, at least for the moment.

Eliot’s reached for Lady Dawn’s strings.

Robert was faster. He shot three times-one round cratered the wall over the soldiers’ heads. Two bullets hit the Kalashnikov stocks and shattered wood.

The soldiers dropped their weapons and ran.

Fiona moved. . got to her knees, and slowly stood.

“Are you okay?” Eliot asked, helping her up.

This had to be the stupidest thing he’d asked in weeks, because blood trickled from Fiona’s ears and nose. She ignored Eliot and looked with glazed eyes up at the sky.

. . To the same spot where that soldier had pointed.

Eliot turned. A MiG-15 jet dived toward them on what had to be a strafing run.

Robert stood next to Fiona and propped her with one arm. She must really have been hurt because she let him touch her, even leaned against him. She tried to raise her hands, but the chain she clutched seemed too heavy for her to lift. Robert had his Glock and frowned at it. Useless against a jet.

Eliot stepped in front of her and Robert and whispered, “I got this one.”

Fight or run-there wasn’t much of a choice.

The MiG would close in seconds, not enough time to cross the courtyard.

And there wasn’t just him and Fiona and Robert to protect; there were all those people in the church in the line of fire. Eliot was partially responsible for them, too. Not just because he wanted to save innocent people, but because he was connected to this: Uncle Henry had said the League engineered this war-Robert’s “party tip” to drive down today-and Fiona (what was she doing here?). It was too much of a coincidence. . like the League had pulled a fistful of tangled strings to trick them into coming. Why? So he and Fiona could pass another of their cruel tests?

It was like Area 51 all over again. People getting killed because of them; only this time, he’d do something to save them.

Eliot heard the roar of the jet. Felt the rumble in his bones.

Its dive leveled and it angled on a straight shot through the open street of Costa Esmeralda’s cityscape canyon.

Eliot gripped Lady Dawn, his hands sweating, and he played.

There was no time to warm up with nursery rhymes. He needed raw force-fast-enough to destroy.

He flicked out a bassy power chord, throwing the strength of his arm into it. The notes resonated from Lady Dawn’s body and shook the dust off the cobblestones and blew away smoke and ash.

The jet wobbled on its trajectory, but kept coming-and shot. Twin cannon spit fire and death at them.

Bullets sparked in the air between him and it, bouncing off a wall of sound, peppering buildings, tracers making spirals.

Nothing got through.

But as the jet streaked toward him, Eliot’s barrier shuddered and contracted-force meeting force.

Eliot needed more power.

He double-pumped the strings and danced his fingers up the scale, back and forth; wavering mirage air and water vapor flashed outward.

The MiG spun, righted, and ceased the machine gun fire.

It launched two missiles.

Lady Dawn jumped under his hands-and his fingers stepped up the register-a lightning-fast bridge, found, and held, a high C.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Eliot saw the shadows in the alleys lengthen and sharpen into slices of darkness that cut through the noontime light. . and sway as if they danced to his music.

The missiles streaked at them, hit the wall of noise, and blossomed in sparkling rosettes, shattering glass and blasting apart the steel frames of nearby office buildings.

The jet was almost on them. It shuddered, a blur, and its metal skin peeled-wingtips fluttered to pieces. The fuel tanks breached and ignited.

The pilot ejected, a plume of white smoke that arced from the craft.

But the flaming, out-of-control MiG fighter aircraft was still on course, plummeting straight at Eliot.

He let go of the single note and flicked the strings-power chord upon power chord, building upon their resonant echoes, increasing in pitch and intensity, sucked in the air from the courtyard, blasted out feedback-laden notes, waves of pressure, and lines of force that seemed to emanate through and from his body as much as Lady Dawn’s.

It was as if they were one, rocking back and forth, playing together.

Glass ruptured off every building for six blocks. Asphalt bucked and crumbled. Water mains burst and showered into the air.

The MiG-15 exploded: fire and spinning metal and burning fuel still on an impact course.

Eliot pounded on Lady Dawn as hard as he dared. . and then as hard as he could. Her strings cut into his fingertips.

Before the jet crashed into him, Eliot found the strength for one last downward power stoke.

Buildings on either side of the street shook and cracked, and two toppled over.

The tumbling wreckage of the MiG-15 detonated again-driven back as if someone had blown out a lit match.

Confetti bits of metal and trails of oily smoke drizzled down. . harmless.

Eliot exhaled. He shook out his numbed hand and arm.

“Very cool,” Robert murmured.

Fiona shook her head as if just now seeing them. “What are”-She looked back and forth between them-“you two doing here?” Her brow scrunched and her expression was a mix of confusion. . and, as she concentrated on Eliot, annoyance.

She doubled over in pain.

Robert caught her and his hand came away bloody. He scrutinized the seeping, bubbling wound on her side. “She needs help.”

Fiona went limp.

Eliot took a step forward, feeling helpless to do anything, forgetting everything he’d ever read in Marcellus Master’s Practical First Aid and Surgical Guide.

“Shock,” he said. “Her pulse is strong, though. That’s a good sign, but we’ve got to get her to a doctor.”

A crowd emerged from the church and stared at them.

Eliot called out, pleading, “Is one of you a doctor? Hay un médico?”

The people gaped, pointed, and they ran away.

How could they not help them after he’d just saved all their lives?

Eliot felt, then heard, subsonic quaking and thunderous crashes behind him. He wheeled and watched every office building for three blocks collapse into dust and rubble-a swath of destruction he had caused.

Those people in the church might have been grateful, they might have helped. . if they hadn’t been scared out of their minds.[57]

Eliot touched Lady Dawn, ran his bloody fingertips over her fiery wood grain. He smiled. He liked this new incarnation of the violin. She no longer fought him. How much power could they together summon?

He had also enjoyed the destruction and havoc they’d wreaked.

The smile on his face vanished. Fiona was in shock and bleeding to death-what was he thinking?

“Get her into the sidecar,” he told Robert. “I’ll ride on the back. Just go slow until we get on the highway.”

Robert lifted Fiona into his arms. She yelped, but clung to him and let him carry her toward his bike.

The power when Eliot had played was seductive. He had felt glee as he blew the jet apart, rapture at seeing buildings fall at his whim. . and was horrified that he wanted to do it all again.

“Put her down,” someone behind Eliot commanded.

Mr. Ma dropped off the last rung of a fire escape, followed by six upperclassmen Paxington boys. Dante Scalagari was there, and he looked grim, made a move toward Fiona-but Mr. Ma checked his motion with a hand on his shoulder.

“I shall take Miss Post,” Mr. Ma told them. He pointed toward the roof of the building he’d climbed down. A jet helicopter sat there, blades spinning up to full speed.

Robert glared at Mr. Ma and held Fiona tight.

Mr. Ma continued toward him. “You cannot jostle her on a motor bike with a punctured lung,” he said, glancing down at her, “and likely other internal injuries.”

Robert’s glare faded and the color drained from his face.

Mr. Ma stopped before Robert and held out his arms. “We have medical supplies on board. I can stabilize her.”

Robert looked to Eliot.

Eliot wasn’t sure. How much did he trust any Paxington teacher? Especially one who tried to kill them every few weeks? Enough to literally place his sister’s life in his hands?

But Mr. Ma was right: On the bike they might hurt Fiona more. And if the unthinkable happened. . the League would kill Robert for trying and failing to save her life.

“You won’t hurt her?” Eliot asked.

Mr. Ma blinked. “No.”

Eliot listened with great care. There were no weird echoes or any backward whispers that he detected from the lips of liars.

Eliot nodded to Robert. Robert passed Fiona to Mr. Ma.

Mr. Ma held her as if she weighed no more than a feather.

“I’m going with her,” Eliot told Mr. Ma. “We’re stronger together.” His tone left no room for discussion on the matter.

Mr. Ma looked at him a moment, then nodded.

The Paxington helicopter lifted off the roof, turned, and lit in the courtyard.

As they walked toward the craft, Eliot glanced back at Robert. Worry and helplessness etched his friend’s face, and Eliot understood that pain. He’d felt the same thing for Jezebel. . and he knew at that moment that Robert loved Fiona.

Near the helicopter, Mr. Ma ducked, and held his unconscious sister closer.

Eliot barely made out his whispered words over the noise of the blades. “School rules give me no choice in the matter.” Mr. Ma told her. “You get an F for today’s lesson.”

But then for the first time, Mr. Ma’s craggy features softened, and tiny laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “And even though I must hate you, young lady, for we appear to be on opposites sides of fate. . for dueling an armored tank to save people that meant nothing to you, you deserve an A-plus.”

Henry Mimes tried on the captain’s hat and regarded himself in the mirror bolted to the wall of the guest quarters. The pilfered cap was a tad too big, and the golden fringe and black canvas didn’t look right with his silver hair. Not his colors, alas.

It was just another reminder that he was a mere passenger on this submarine.

He twirled the hat on his finger. It was hard to let go of the rudder, even among friends, when one was used being the Captain.

A fluted speaker whistled to life. “Mr. Mimes?” said a tinny voice. “They’re ready for you, sir.”

“Tell them I’m on my way,” Henry replied.

He left his cramped quarters and entered an equally cramped corridor. Two uniformed ladies bumped into him.

Henry smiled, did his best to bow, and greeted them both.

They returned his salutations. . and his promising smile.

“Would you lieutenants be good enough to take this to the bridge?” He handed the hat to the athletic brunette.

They said they would. There were more smiles and flirtatious glances, and then they went on their way, squeezing past.

Henry watched them go.

Or perhaps such close accommodations did have some advantages, after all.

And yet the Coelacanth was definitely not a craft he could spend more than a day bottled up in. Wolves did not do well beneath the waves. He preferred the open sea and fresh air. No matter how much opulence one cocooned oneself in, all submersibles were susceptible to a loss of buoyancy and gravity, and could become more coffin than vessel.

He ran a hand over the brass pipes that curved along the walls. Every square millimeter was polished and etched with tiny porpoises and sardines and scallops. Still, it was a lovely sinking tin can. Gilbert ran a tight ship.

It was technology millennia ahead of anything else when it had been forged. There was nothing like it in all the seas. In thirty years, however, American or NATO or Russian naval engineers would have the technology to detect her subtle, silent movements through the waters.

Men glimpsing legends.

Which was one of the reasons Henry knew change was coming. “A matter of time” as Cornelius might have said, although he and the other Council members seem determined to ignore that fact as long as they could.

Henry moved through three pressure doors, down a spiral stairs and entered the launch bay. The walls of the cavernous chamber were ribbed for strength, and from the ceiling a variety of small submersibles hung like mechanized insects caught in a web.

The Tinker, however, was the one Gilbert had selected for their journey today.

Unlike the other modern titanium-and-polycarbonate-composite mini-subs here, this diving bell had been part of this vessel’s original complement, crafted by the same master of the seas who had forged the Coelacanth.

The Tinker was a treasured relic-a gleaming geodesic bubble of foamed gold alloy encrusted with half-meter circles of diamond windows coaxed from the earth and polished to perfection-constructed to withstand pressures that would crush her modern counterparts like Styrofoam coffee cups. The mermaids along her curves still gleamed and beckoned as if they had been carved yesterday.

The diving bell was lowered into the moon pool, and a soft blue light glowed to life as she touched the ocean.

Gilbert and Aaron waited for Henry, and from the crossed arms and look on Aaron’s face, he could tell they had been waiting some time.

“Am I late?”

“Is that a question?” Gilbert muttered, and straightened the cuffs of his black captain’s uniform. “By the way, have you seen my hat?”

“Not recently. .,” Henry replied.

Henry could see why Gilbert, with beard trimmed in precise stylish angles, and the Coelacanth had inspired Mr. Wells to write an entire novel about them.

Aaron donned a leather bomber jacket and offered one to Henry.

“No thank you,” Henry said. “I shall be quite comfortable.”

Gilbert boarded the craft. Henry crossed the gangplank and ducked through the tiny doorway. Aaron was right behind him (cowboys boots clonking over the metal), and once aboard, he irised the outer hatch, and then wheeled tight the inner hatch.

Portals offered views all the way around, as well as up and down. Control panels, levers, and valves made a ring of controls along the outer surface of the Tinker-which Aaron and Gilbert busied themselves pulling and prodding and checking. One panel was dotted with empty vacuum tube receptacles, and a laptop computer had been soldered upon it.

Henry gravitated to the center of the craft, where shrimp cocktails lounged on a bed of chipped ice, along with caviar and fresh sushi. A dozen thermoses of heated sake were labeled: KAKUNKO JUNMAI DAI GINJYO.

Dire circumstances and the possible end of the world notwithstanding, Cousin Gilbert could always be counted on to be an impeccable host.

“Care to lend a hand?” Aaron growled.

“Not really,” Henry replied as he munched on a shrimp.

Gilbert spoke into a tiny gramophone-like device: “Ready to launch, Mr. Harper. Steady as she goes.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” a voice from the gramophone replied.

“Mark gyrocompasses,” Gilbert told Aaron.

Aaron flipped switches. “Online and checked.”

The Tinker eased below the waterline. Her glow lines intensified to a brilliant blue as they descended into the darkness.

Gilbert then spoke to gramophone again: “Sever connections, Mr. Harper. Coelacanth to station keeping.”

“Station keeping, aye, sir. Tinker away.”

There was a clack, and then the diving bell floated free. . and proceeded to sink to the bottom of the ocean.

The exterior lights were bright enough that Henry saw the seafloor beneath his feet. It grew as they approached a crack in the earth a hundred meters wide. This particular abyss had remained undiscovered by man, and Henry hoped it would remain that way for a long, long time.

They entered the chasm, and Henry spied the columns and stairs that zigzagged at angles that should not (in any strict Euclidian sense) exist. He averted his eyes and tried not to look at the tentacled idols and cavernous temples that clung to the walls like ancient crustaceans. The shadows of shadows moved within those places. These were the remains of a civilization that predated the Titans: the Old Ones who had vanished from this world. . or as some feared, were still dreaming in a nonstate in the In-Between Places.

Henry just hoped that, as League experts predicted, this trench would in a century subduct under the mantle. Only then would he be able to safely forget about it.

Until then, everyone avoided the place. . which was precisely why they were here. Eyes and ears had followed them everywhere else.

“Ablate the portals,” Gilbert ordered.

Aaron twisted a dial and the windows darkened.

“Counter aetherics,” Gilbert said.

Aaron tapped on the laptop computer. “Circuits warming; channels alpha through gamma all in the green.”

“Initiate sound cancellation.”

Aaron nodded.

“That’s it, then,” Gilbert said, and both men exhaled and seemed to finally relax.

Aaron grabbed one the silver bottles of sake, popped the lid, inhaled its steaming contents, and downed the thing in a single draft.

“We sulk about like children hiding from their elders,” Aaron muttered with great sarcasm. He opened another sake. Although from this bottle, he took only a sip, and then set it aside because he knew-despite his bristling-these drastic precautions were indeed warranted.

“Tell us about Costa Esmeralda, Henry,” Gilbert said.

His coconspirators leaned forward and listened.

So Henry told them what had occurred yesterday in Central America-everything that he and his spies had observed: Fiona’s reaction during her Force of Arms class, and Eliot’s and Robert’s charge to her rescue.

Aaron’s fists clenched harder as Henry related how Fiona had stood up to a Soviet T55 main battle tank, cut it down, and survived the resulting explosion.

Both men shared worried glances as Henry related the raw destructive force that Eliot had unleashed with his guitar.

Aaron let out a long whistle. “They’ve progressed further and faster than I would’ve predicted,” he said, and tugged on his long mustache.

“Than anyone,” Henry agreed.

“But how do they feel?” Gilbert asked. “Is the League’s plan to make them sympathetic to their cause working?”

“Eliot doubts the League and their intentions,” Henry told him. “A wise thing for any teenage boy to question authority. So, unless I have completely misread the situation, he is where we want him.”

“I have a concern,” Gilbert whispered. “There had been a hundred witnesses…”

“In fact, an entire church full of them,” Henry replied.

“And you took care of it?” Aaron asked. His eyes narrowed.

“Oh, relax.” Henry patted his hands together. “Even I would not do such a thing to protect our secrets.”

Aaron looked unconvinced.

“Besides, there was no need,” Henry said.

Gilbert quirked an eyebrow. “A hundred ‘God-fearing’ people saw our nephew destroy several city blocks-and there’s no need?”

“Well, ‘god-fearing’ is exactly the point.” Henry reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

Aaron clamped a hand on his arm. “Must you always play the Fool? We’re breathing almost pure oxygen.”

“Oh. .” Henry smiled. He had, of course, not forgotten; he just enjoyed rattling Aaron. “Where was I-oh yes, those hundred people did indeed see Fiona and Eliot. They believed them two angels sent to deliver them from evil.”

Gilbert and Aaron sat perfectly still.

“The implications are chilling,” Gilbert whispered.

Aaron scoffed. “A coincidence,” he said, “that this happened on the footsteps of some Catholic church. Nothing more.”

Gilbert raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Let us not waste our time with such superstitions, gentlemen. What of Fiona? Where is her heart on these matters?”

“That’s the rub,” Henry said. “Fiona has strong convictions and is not easily swayed. She is balanced among numerous forces. . and suitors. Even I would not dare predict the mind of a lady in such a situation.”

“Then we still have time to take action.” Aaron stood halfway, remembered where he was, and stopped before he bumped his head. He looked like a caged animal. “We must convince her.”

“In point of fact,” Henry replied, “we are out of time.”

“The Infernals?” Gilbert asked.

“Indeed,” Henry said. “My contact at Paxington has informed me that a letter has been sent. The Fallen Ones make their move for the children. . today.”

“You tell us this now?” Aaron said, his eyes widening. “We must do something!”

Henry could practically feel his cousin’s pounding pulse within the tiny bubble. “No-it is precisely why we cannot take action,” he said. “We are bound by the Pax Pactum Immortalus.”

Aaron loosed an explosive sigh. He grabbed the sake he had set aside and drank it.

They were silent a long moment. Henry sensed the crush of the endless sea around them and found it oddly comforting.

How he missed his uncle. Were Poseidon’s ashes scattered in these very waters? What would he say to all this? Madness? Folly? Or perhaps The game is on?

“Your Paxington contact,” Gilbert finally whispered. “Did they give you any specifics on the Infernals’ plans?”

“The school is neutral, which makes them the most elusive, and perhaps the most dangerous, players upon the board.” Henry’s hand felt his throat (a silly instinctive reaction). “And the cost to extract even this morsel of data,” he murmured, “. . I must not push.”

Gilbert nodded. His lips pressed together into a single grim line. “And Dallas,” he asked, “can she be made to see our side of things? Help us?”

Henry flipped his hand dramatically. “Her loyalty flits and dances hither and yon.” He cocked his head. “I don’t know where she will land, but we dare not underestimate her. When she awakens, she may be our greatest asset to play. . or our fiercest opponent.”

Aaron shook his head. “I will not stand against Dallas, I–I cannot, if it comes to that.”

“Well,” Henry said, and eyed the sushi. “We need not decide such things today. Try the soft-shell crab. It looks divine.” He plucked up chopsticks and mixed soy sauce and wasabi on a plate shaped like a flounder.

“How can you eat?” Aaron asked, sneering at the fish.

“Really, Henry. Don’t you ever take anything seriously?” Gilbert demanded. “It’s not just our necks on the chopping block if this goes badly. And not just Eliot’s or Fiona’s either. It’s everyone. Everywhere.”

Henry picked up a piece of sushi and toasted Gilbert. “Oh yes, yes, I completely understand the stakes, Cousin. That’s precisely what makes it so much fun!”

Fiona crossed her arms tight over her chest and watched the others pace. Nervous didn’t begin to cover it. When the Headmistress of Paxington called you up to her office. . it wasn’t going to end well.

She and Eliot and Robert were probably here to get expelled for what they did in Costa Esmeralda. That was fine. Fiona had done the right thing saving those people. Miss Westin could kick her out of school if that’s what she wanted.

If that were the case, though, why had everyone on Team Scarab been called here?

“Here” was the waiting room outside Miss Westin’s office. It was on the thirteenth floor of the Clock Tower attached to the Southern Wing of the House of Wisdom. The tower was a twin to London’s Big Ben (except the roof of Paxington’s tower was polished copper and gold filigree).[58]

This tower looked all the more startling because Fiona hadn’t even seen it until this morning-not to mention the entire Southern Wing of the library. Where had that come from?

Like the smaller coliseum where she had her Force of Arms class and the helipad north of that. . this was more of the Paxington campus that had just appeared as if it was kept hidden from freshmen. How much more of this place was there?

She gazed out the wall of windows. The school was laid out for her in miniature. The quartz paving stones in the main quad glittered like a jewel box. The Poseidon fountain was a blur of white spray, and a spiderweb of paths wound through the Grove Primeval toward Bristlecone Hall and other places that vanished deeper in the forest, and then there was the Main Gate.

Fiona squinted and swore she saw Mr. Dells standing there, looking back at her.

Blanketing the rest of the campus was thick, roiling fog.

As much as Fiona loved a good puzzle, she’d have to figure this one out later. There were more pressing problems today. She turned back to her teammates.

Apart from the large window, the other three walls of the waiting room were covered in cream-colored wallpaper with red pinstripes-perfectly aligned with the black-and-white checkerboard floor. The effect of pattern and reflection and geometry made her dizzy.

Jeremy and Sarah Covington stood together in the far corner, whispering, looking at her and then Eliot-probably, as usual, blaming her for this.

Amanda was by herself in the other corner, hovering near a standing bronze ashtray that smoldered with old cigars. She just stared off into the distance like she’d been hit over the head. Fiona was torn between going over there and asking what was wrong, and shaking her to snap her out of it.

Along the opposite wall were three red couches. Eliot and Robert sat there, far apart.

Eliot had his guitar in his lap. He looked at Fiona and shrugged apologetically. . as if he had anything to be sorry for. It irked her that she’d needed saving in Costa Esmeralda, but she was grateful.

Fiona shrugged back. The Covingtons were probably right: If this trouble today was anyone’s fault, it probably was hers.

Robert reclined and looked obnoxiously comfortable. She bet he’d love to get kicked out of Paxington.

Jezebel, of course, was still missing.

And Mitch hadn’t shown up all week, either.

She sighed. This day had started out as normal as it could after yesterday.

She’d gotten stitched up last night and had her punctured lung fixed by Paxington medics. They’d told her that she healed at miraculous rate, owing to her genetics, and she’d be as good as new by morning.

A lot they knew: It hurt even to breathe, and every bone ached.

Of course, Audrey had insisted that if Fiona could stand, she walk to school. She wasn’t even allowed to take the bus.

Their mother seemed impossibly distant. As if now that Eliot and she knew about their heritage, they were supposed to take care of themselves like they’d been part of the League all their lives.

Or maybe the distance Fiona felt from her mother was her own fault. She didn’t bother to tell her about Costa Esmeralda. Uncle Henry and the others let her know. And why even try to win Audrey’s approval? Might as well try to catch a breeze with her bare hand.

At least Eliot was his usual mopey self this morning. She tried to thank him for yesterday, but he’d told her that it “hurt too much to talk.” She hadn’t seen any cuts or bruises on him. It had to be Jezebel still depressing him. When was he going to get over her?

She didn’t try to cheer him up with some vocabulary insult, either. Why waste calling someone a “monoicious Marchantiophyta” when they wouldn’t even hear you?[59]

Fiona’s gaze drifted to the fiery wood and bold brass fittings of Eliot’s new guitar. It creeped her out. That thing had more power than his violin (it was more like artillery than a musical instrument, as far as she was concerned).

Eliot had told her when she woke up on the helicopter that it was Lady Dawn transformed. The change in shape wasn’t what bothered her. . it was that it was a magical thing. . a thing that had been her father’s. . an Infernal instrument.

Like her bracelet-useful, but not to be entirely trusted.

But the thing that’d really thrown a wrench into their morning had been at Paxington’s Front Gate. Mr. Dells gave them a note. On Paxington letterhead, in a typewritten script was the following:

The presence of Team Scarab is hereby requested in the Office of Miss L. Westin, Hall of Wisdom, Clock Tower, thirteenth floor. PROMPTLY at 9:45 A.M.

And so here they were.

Fiona checked her phone to see if Mitch had texted or called, but then the door to Miss Westin’s office creaked open and a boy emerged.

He was maybe twelve years old, pale, and his dark hair was cropped short. He met none of their eyes. “You may go in now, good ladies and masters,” he whispered, and held the door for them.

Fiona went first, and the rest of her team followed.

Miss Westin’s office was long. There were no windows. The only light was from dozens of Tiffany lamps and light sconces. The walls were polished walnut, rubbed to a mirror sheen, and every five paces there were doors: double doors, tiny doors that looked like they belonged in dollhouses, even a round door. Between the doors were oil paintings, sketches, daguerreotypes, and modern photos of students in Paxington uniforms-some in powdered wigs, others in cloaks, some with peace symbol medallions. A few of the paintings were Rembrandts, Cézannes, and there was even a Picasso sketch.

There were no books, though. Not one volume.

That made Fiona even more nervous.

Miss Westin’s desk was large and black, with thick claw-footed legs. The entire surface was a touch-screen computer. There were layers of icons and text files and windows.

Miss Westin looked up as they approached. With a single sweep of her hand, the screen blanked.

There were no chairs for them.

Fiona guessed Miss Westin didn’t often have guests in her office. . and when she did, they weren’t supposed to feel comfortable.

Miss Westin assessed them from behind her octagonal wire-rim glasses and then said, “I have two announcements. I shall be brief, as we have class in ten minutes.”

She opened a filing cabinet and withdrew two letters. The first was neatly typed on white paper and signed at the bottom. The other was ancient vellum and curled as if it had been rolled. Its letterhead was festooned with poppies and vines. It smelled of vanilla and sulfur, and it repelled Fiona.

Miss Westin tapped the ordinary letter. “Mr. Stephenson has requested a two-week leave of absence, and I have granted it. His homework assignments shall be forwarded. His gym rank remains attached to Team Scarab’s, but obviously he cannot participate in any matches that may occur during his absence.”

“Is he okay?” Fiona blurted out.

Jeremy Covington cleared his throat. “How are we expected to perform without one of our best teammates?”

Miss Westin frowned at them. “I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Stephenson’s personal matters,” she told Fiona icily. To Jeremy, she said, “And I am coming to the matter of your so-called team, Mr. Covington, if you’d be kind enough to remain silent for thirty seconds.”

Jeremy flushed. He shut his mouth, though, and looked at his loafers.

Fiona suddenly didn’t care about her team or their ranking or anything other than what might be wrong with Mitch. She strained to read his letter upside down, but before she could make out a single word, Miss Westin set the other letter on top.

“My second announcement regards Miss Jezebel,” she told them. “Her guardian has petitioned me to withdraw her from this semester at Paxington, citing internal Infernal matters that cannot be avoided. I’m inclined to grant this request as well.”

Eliot stepped forward. “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he whispered. All the color drained from him. “So she’s not coming back?”

Under normal circumstances, Fiona would’ve been happy to hear Jezebel was gone for good. . but the expression on her brother’s face was almost more than she could bear. It looked like he was going to die.

Miss Westin sighed and her impassive features thawed-for a microsecond-as she told him, “She shall receive an incomplete for her work this semester. If, however, she enrolls in summer school, she will be able to make up her courses.”

Eliot nodded and stepped back.

“This leaves Team Scarab with but six members,” Miss Westin said. “If you choose to play in such a state, there is little chance you would win your next match, let alone survive the final. This leaves you two options.”

Miss Westin stood and straightened her shirt, donned her black wool jacket, and did up its pearl buttons all the way to her throat. She then picked up a slender leather folder that held her class notes and marched toward the door they had entered.

“Follow,” she ordered.

They did, and Miss Westin talked as they all walked. “According to school traditions, your first option would be to recruit two new members from disbanded teams. There are several excellent surviving players who now need a home.”

She paused at the door. “Or Team Scarab may disband. . and you each would have to find new teams.”

Fiona felt as if she were sinking in quicksand. Disband the team? Her team? Had she been that much of a failure as Captain?

Miss Westin ushered them into the waiting room and locked her office door. “I leave the choice between those two options up to you.” Her gaze fell on Jeremy and then Fiona, lingered a bit on Eliot, and then she blinked. “I must, however, impress the seriousness of this. Your team is below the grade cutoff. Fail Mr. Ma’s class, and I will have no choice but to flunk all of you.”

And with that, she turned and left them there. Stunned.

Fiona recovered from the shock, and started thinking. . and getting mad. “This is completely unfair,” she said.

“’Tis not like we haven’t seen it coming,” Jeremy told her. “Though ’tis a shame about Mitch. I thought him made of sterner stuff.”

“Shut up,” Robert said. “You don’t know what’s going on with Mitch. He said he’ll be back in two weeks-maybe in time for our next match.”

Sarah said to Robert, “I sympathize for whatever Mitch is going though, but I’m not going to risk graduating on ‘maybe.’ ”

Amanda skulked to a couch and sat, head between her hands. “Maybe we should just disband,” she muttered.

Fiona had to rally her team-while she still had a team. She went to Amanda and set a hand on her shoulder. The girl’s skin was blazing hot. “I’m not giving up. Scarab is a good team. We stick together, and we can get through this. We’ll win our next match, and who knows what the rankings will look like after that? Let’s not panic.”

Jeremy nodded. “No one be panicking, my dear Fiona. But we should consider the hard facts of playing without two key members. And what if we break apart as Miss Westin suggested? Would it be so bad to find open slots on a team that needs us?” He stared pointedly at Amanda as he said this.

“No way,” Fiona told him. “Like I said, Scarab is a good team-maybe the best team, regardless of Mr. Ma’s rankings. We beat both Dragon and Wolf teams during the midterm. And we would’ve won that last match against Falcon if Mr. Ma hadn’t cheated. It’s like they don’t want us to graduate.”

Jeremy considered this, then said, “A wee bit suspicious, I grant you. So let’s consider Miss Westin’s other alternative: get replacements for Mitch and our dearly departed Jezebel. If Mitch comes back-lovely-according to the rules, we then have an alternate attached to the team.”

Robert flopped onto the couch. “I don’t know. It makes sense. . but it feels like we’re giving up on them or something.”

Sarah sat next to him, close, so her knees touched his. “They are the ones who left us,” she said. “And it’s not like we have much of a choice.”

“But we do,” Eliot whispered.

Fiona turned and saw Eliot standing by the door to the Headmistress’s office in the only shadow in the room. He gripped Lady Dawn tight in his hands, and his eyes were hard and cold. “There’s a third option Miss Westin didn’t mention.”

“Oh, come now, Post,” Jeremy said with a little laugh. “What other option could there be?”

“Jezebel,” Eliot said. “She’s not here because she’s trapped in Hell fighting a war. So. .” He straightened and looked them all in the eye. “We go and rescue her.”

Audrey shut and locked the door to her new office. Her space occupied the topmost floor of the house’s Victorian turret.

It was a tiny space, clean, and lit by skylights.

Behind the plaster of walls and ceiling and under the oak floors were sheets of lead burned with mathematics and arcane symbols to keep outsiders out. . and her thoughts in.

Her favorite books sat on the encircling shelves: The works of Aristotle and Thoreau, Norse proto-runesongs, and the secret whisper hymns of the Saints of Glossimere. These comforted her.

There was a chair with ample padding and a desk. What more did one require?

Privacy.

She strained to hear Cecilia prattling about the house. Not a sound. The old hag slept more each day, saving her strength, she claimed.

Audrey held her breath.

All this waiting drove her mad. Once she thought her patience limitless-before the twins had come.

She ran a hand over the desk and settled into her chair.

But was not waiting an action, as well? No. Waiting was waiting. All the philosophizing in the world did not change that.

Her desktop was a slab of partially marbleized limestone, streaked with color and crystal, and tiny snail and trilobite fossils. She traced their curls. So old. And like her, frozen.

She had to start, a tiny step forward, her journey toward action. . by seeing what she could.

From a drawer, she with took out a corkboard, a box of plastic pushpins, and a ball of yarn. She picked pins at random and-without looking-stabbed them into the board. Her other hand wound the yarn about the pins.

She stared at the leaded crystal skylights; refracted rainbows streamed through the air and onto the blank walls. Audrey didn’t think. . she drifted. . let her subconscious surface.

Her hands continued to move, sticking the pins, wrapping the yarn.

Some pinpoints turned in the box, and stabbed her. She let them taste her blood. This was part of the ritual as well.

At last, she exhaled and stopped.

Her pins had been arranged on the cork, and tracing a web of connections among them was the yarn, dotted with her blood.

In the center were two pins-one red, one blue-together (although they leaned away from one another). This represented Eliot and Fiona.

Surrounding them were random constellations of the other pushpins. The yarn twined about them, this way and that. Audrey discerned three linked groups: The League, the Infernals, and scattered hither and yon, the so-called neutrals of Paxington.

Two pins were near the twins: one green (this had to be Dallas) and one silver, leaning at a rakish angle (which was Henry).

One frayed line, however, connected Henry to a Paxington neutral. Curious.

She’d suspected, even expected him to be engineering some trickery with Aaron and Gilbert. But to align with the neutrals? That was trouble of an entirely other magnitude.

For now, she would keep this a secret. . until it could be wisely spent.

Her hand drifted to the pin box. Only two were left: one black and one white. The white was bone white, death white-that was her. The black had to be Louis.

Where did he fit?

And more interesting, why hadn’t she placed either of them among the others?

She focused all her attention back on the board, and only now saw there were dozens of pins along the very edges-as if repelled from the center. . far away from the main players and events.

She touched them. Felt nothing.

They were not League members, nor were they Infernals, and all the Paxington neutrals were accounted for.

That left whom. . the mortal magical families? She scoffed. All too feeble to be involved in any significant way.

This mystery drifted through her mind like mist, filling it with silence and dread. After all these years, who else was out there?

She jumped. Blinked.

There was no reason to start. . but her gaze riveted upon the black 1970s-era phone on her desk. It had not rung, but it felt like it had. The ghost of its trilling hung in the air.

She waited for it to actually ring.

It seemed like it wanted to sound, as if there was someone trying to contact her, and yet so far off, it had not the strength to quite make the connection.

Audrey tentatively picked up the receiver and listened.

There was a hiss and a crackle, and a voice broke though the white noise.

It was Louis. He was singing off-key: “Six little children to market went: Orpheus and Faustus, the Empress of Kansas, the Spirit of Christmas, Bacchus, and the Governor of Texas-”

“Louis?”

He stopped singing.

“Audrey!” he cried. “Beloved, it is your Louis!” His enthusiasm deflated. “How long have you been listening? No, never mind. There is little time. I’m using Eliot’s phone and a child’s trick with a Klein sphere to make this connection.”[60]

Audrey’s first impulse was to hang up on Louis, the greatest of all liars. But he was also the Louis she loved.

She held those thoughts balanced in her mind. Tip one way and she would hang up and forever sever their connection on more than one level.

Or listen, and tip the other way: embrace this madness she felt for him still.

Cutting the tie would be easiest. She had done that before with Eliot and Fiona, leaving her maternal duty but severing the irrational love.

But what was easiest often was not best. . and not without regrets.

“Please,” Louis whispered. There was desperation in his voice.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“This is not about us-well it is in a way, and I know I have made an ultimate mess of things between us, all my fault. . again, not the point. What I’m trying to say is it’s about the children.”

Audrey glanced at the red and blue pins in its center of the corkboard. So many other pins surrounded her children, so many who would use them or remove them.

“I must be quick,” Louis whispered. “I am down to one pixel on this phone’s battery, and it’s winking red.”

There was a burst of static. Audrey pulled the receiver away until the noise died.

“Louis?”

“Yes. . still here.” His voice was barely audible. “My relations make their move today. You must save Eliot and Fiona before they make decisions that cannot be undone. Before they are lured-”

A whoosh of screams and crying and the laughter of the mad flooded the connection.

There was a click. Then nothing.

“Louis?” Audrey whispered.

Her heart pounded and she rose. She believed him.

She had to go to battle, fight, protect her children from the others, and somewhere in those feelings was the foolish urge to protect Louis as well.

Audrey looked back to the corkboard and yarn and pins.

She then understood why her subconscious had left those last two pins. She had to make up her mind-deliberately, and accepting all the consequences-where they belonged.

And so she did.

She set both black and white pins together. . nestled next to the red and blue pins of Eliot and Fiona.

She slammed the receiver to the cradle and then picked it up and dialed the direct line to Lucille Westin’s private and personal office. She’d have Fiona and Eliot pulled from class and kept with Miss Westin until she could get there.

If there was still time.

Cecilia watched Audrey storm out of the house, not even bothering to close the front door.

She followed and eased it shut, spotting Audrey’s Jaguar XKSS through the door’s stained glass windows as the roadster roared out of the driveway. The car smeared into a midnight blue streak of chrome and taillights.

Audrey was gone. Finally.

Cecilia locked the door and meandered upstairs to the dining room. The long-abandoned game of Towers she and Eliot had been playing had been moved to the end table. The circular mat and cubes were covered in dust. Smudges dotted some cubes where Eliot had touched them recently, perhaps thinking of his next move.

On the surface, this was just a game. . but deeper, it was a magical metaphor for all their lives. . and deeper still, it represented a game of dire consequences played by those with millennia more experience than she or Eliot possessed.

With that in mind, Cecilia had no qualms about cheating.

Her eyes filmed over milky white, and she fumbled over the playing field, feeling the threads of fate that wove about the pieces, pulling and tugging, and with tiny clockwork flicks advanced them forward to their next moves.

To the future.

Audrey would have Cecilia’s head if she knew. But the great Cutter of All Things was not here to stop Cecilia this time.

Still, she took great care not to let a single quantum vibration escape her fingertips. There were others than Audrey who would not approve of her prying into their affairs, others who were far crueler.

In her mind, she saw the Towers field-lines and circles radiating from the center like a spiderweb. Many of the stone cubes were easy to identify: Audrey, Eliot, Fiona, that boy called Robert, and a smattering of Infernals, humans, and Immortals.

Fiona’s piece was near the center, but tiny cracks crisscrossed the white marble. Eliot’s cube was by hers. They both stood before a stack of five black, a tower whose might was unassailable.

Eliot’s cube had one face smeared with soot (or possibly blackberry jelly), a black spot upon the white. Audrey would’ve denied it, but Cecilia knew this was an omen most ill.

Poor Eliot. It was too late for him.

But it was not too late to adjust her plans. She had always been good at turning lemons into lemonade-why, look at her now! How far had she come in this so-called body and her half-cheated immortality?

She blinked and her eyes cleared.

Yes. . Cecilia knew what to do. She always knew. If others had not the conviction to protect her lambs, then she would.

She rolled up the Towers mat-pieces and all-so they scattered into chaos, and put it all in the cupboard. She then ambled back to the children’s bedrooms.

Fiona’s door was locked, but a simple word of unbinding did the trick, and she entered.

The room was as neat as a pin. Cecilia was so proud of Fiona. All that schoolwork and responsibility, and she still had time to make up her bed. There were precise stacks of papers on her desk, neat piles of books, flash cards, and a sketch of the Immortal family tree.

Fiona was a good, hardworking girl, and it pained Cecilia to do this. She took careful note of the location of every object-and then ransacked the room, turning over pillows, pulling out books, tossing clothes from the hamper, pulling out drawers and shaking their contents onto the floor.

When she got the lowest bookshelf, she tossed aside Rare Incurable Parasites, Volume 3, and found a hidden shoe box.

She cradled it with trembling arms and sat on the rumpled bed.

Inside, carefully placed was a scandalous bikini. Cecilia held it before her. She could not imagine her Fiona ever wearing such a tarty thing. She set it aside.

Next was a stack of old-fashioned Polaroids showing Fiona and that boy, Robert, splashing in the water, palm trees in the background. Those were from last summer, when Henry had flown them out to his island before school (chaperoned by Aaron, so she knew Robert had made no ungentle-manly advances upon poor, innocent Fiona).

There was one last item in the shoe box: a rolled-up sock.

Inside was something heavy and hard.

Cecilia took the sock out, unrolled it on the bed, and then gingerly coaxed out the object within.

She gasped as a sapphire the size of an egg tumbled upon Fiona’s gray wool bedspread-gleaming with blue brilliance and crisp facets.

The stone’s name was Charipirar. It was the mark of power of that Hell-creature Beelzebub, Lord of All the Flies, once Chairman of the Infernals, and the beast whom Fiona had killed-by pulling this, his own talisman, through his neck.

She’d kept the trinket as a souvenir.

And everyone had forgotten about it. Almost.

She found herself gazing into the depths of the stone, and quickly averted her eyes before it pulled her too deep. Using two pencils, Cecilia pushed and prodded the stone back into the sock and rolled it up.

This could change everything, even save Eliot. . and perhaps damn millions of souls.

What did that matter? As long as Cecilia saved the ones she loved.

Eliot stared at his teammates.

They stared back at him like he was crazy. Even Amanda-always on Eliot’s side-looked shocked.

“Rescue Jezebel?” Jeremy asked with a smirk. “The Jezebel who is an Infernal duchess? The one who could pummel you if she had half a mind to do? You want to rescue her?”

Eliot took a step toward Jeremy. His classmate didn’t know how far Eliot had come in the last few months. How Jezebel had smashed a rock against his head that should’ve crushed it and he’d barely felt it. How he’d leveled a few city blocks with his music in Costa Esmeralda.

And how. . right now, he was more than willing to prove himself to the ever-irritating Jeremy Covington.

Sarah jumped up and stood between them.

Eliot’s temper cooled a bit as he remembered how she’d been nice to him recently.

Jeremy, however, continued his mocking glare.

Sarah said, “It’s a noble thing you’re proposing, Eliot, but Jezebel has withdrawn from Paxington. There’s nothing to be done.”

“Jezebel withdrew because she had to,” Eliot said. “Because she’s trapped behind enemy lines. We get her out, and that all changes. Miss Westin said she was ‘inclined to grant the request’-she hasn’t actually done it yet. There’s still time.”

Fiona shook her head and wouldn’t even look at him.

“She needs our help.” But Eliot’s plea was weak and pathetic-everything he was trying not to sound like.

How could he be so powerful and heroic one moment, and the next be such an ineffectual dork?

They were all silent. Eliot’s gaze dropped to the black-and-white checkerboard floor of Miss Westin’s waiting room.

“Just to be clear,” Amanda finally whispered, “you are talking about going to Hell? The real burn-forever-in-eternal-torment Hades?”

“I’ve been there,” Eliot told her, unfazed. He looked up. “It’s not that bad. . well, parts of it aren’t that bad.”

Fiona scoffed. “We were at the Gates of Perdition. Once. We never went inside.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Eliot said. “I took the Night Train into Hell. It runs from the Market Street BART station into the Blasted Lands, and then to the Poppy Lands where Jezebel lives. It’s no big deal.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “You did what?”

A few months ago, he would have told her everything he’d done. Now he was able to keep secrets.

He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

Eliot explained it all to them: the Night Train, the conductor, and how there were even private trains in Hell to take them back.

“What about the war?” Amanda asked, twirling strands of hair about her pinkie. “That sounds dangerous.”

“There are a few shadows loose,” Eliot said. “But Fiona and I have fought them before. Heck, the six of us together? Nothing could stop us. It’d be easier than a gym match, I bet.”

Jeremy laughed, sat, and reclined on one of the waiting room’s chaises longues. “Oh, to be sure-minus the medics on standby and the ten-minute time limit, and being in the middle of one of the most treacherous-to-mortals places in the outer realms.”

His cousin Sarah shot Jeremy a withering look, which he ignored.

Eliot continued, “But we’re not going to fight their war. We get in, get to Jezebel’s twelve castles, and get her out.”

Sarah bit her lower lip. She looked. . Eliot wasn’t sure what the look on her face meant. It was the look she’d given him after he played at the Monterey Jazz Festival. Part impressed at his bravura, but something misty in her gaze that might have been disbelief at his stupidity. It was so hard for him to tell with girls.

“No way,” Fiona said, folding her arms over her chest. “If you go, you’re on your own.”

“Then I’ll go by myself,” he said, “if I have to.”

There was no challenge in that statement. It was simply a fact.

Fiona narrowed her eyes to gray slits and looked at him like she thought he was the biggest moron in the universe.

And maybe he was, because there was one small fact he hadn’t told anyone: Jezebel didn’t exactly want to be rescued. She was loyal to her Queen and the Poppy Lands. Her strength and life were literally tied to those lands.

So Eliot would stay there this time and fight with her-win this stupid war. How hard could it be? A few more Droogan-dors? What was that after he’d blown up a jet? And if he could get Robert or Fiona to come with him, it’d be that much easier.

Eliot decided not to mention this detail just yet. He figured it was already implied by him saying they had to “rescue” Jezebel.

No. He couldn’t fool himself. That was a lie.

It was only a lie by virtue of leaving out selected truths. . but that was worse. It was more calculating.

He knew what he felt, though. He’d gamble everything, his life and the lives of the others, lie, cheat, and steal to save Jezebel-or lose it all.

“I’ll go with you,” Amanda meekly offered. She stared at the checkerboard floor, unable to look up.

Eliot blinked, surprised. She was the last person he’d expect to go willingly to Hell.

“I’m part of the team, too, aren’t I?” Amanda said. “I like Jezebel, though I don’t think she likes me. That’s kind of beside the point. I just want to help.” She swallowed and continued, “Guess if our positions were reversed, I just wish someone would come and rescue me like that. That’s what friends do for one another, right?”

Amanda pulled back her long brown hair and tied it into a knot. She finally looked up. Her dark eyes smoldered with determination.

“Hey, if Amanda’s going,” Robert said, “I’m in, too.” He cracked his knuckles and then shrugged. “How hard could it be? Plenty of guys have gone to Hell and come back-Dante, Ulysses, Orpheus, Bill, Ted. Besides, you know I’m a sucker for that damsel-in-distress stuff.”

“Thanks,” Eliot told them. . although a rotten feeling started to gnaw at his stomach.

No. He wouldn’t chicken out now. He was going. And he’d take any help he could get.

And he’d accept all the consequences.

Sarah worked her mouth. Nothing came as she struggled with her words.

“It’s okay,” Eliot told her. You don’t have to-”

“We be coming,” Jeremy said, getting up from the chaise longue. “Was there ever any doubt? A bonny adventure in the outer realms? Perhaps even a wee bit o’ treasure in it for us, eh?” He winked.

Sarah looked shocked.

Jeremy gave her a subtle look, and there passed between them some kind of speed-of-light nonverbal communication-just as Eliot and Fiona sometimes managed, but on a frequency Eliot couldn’t decipher.

Sarah twisted back around, uncertainty and fear in her eyes, but she nodded. “Of course we’ll be going.”

“Uh. . thanks,” Eliot said.

Something nagged Eliot about Sarah’s reaction and Jeremy’s never-fading mischievous grin, and how easily he’d agreed to risk his own neck. But who was he to understand the motivations of a nineteenth-century Scottish conjurer, one who’d been stuck in the Valley of the New Year for hundreds of years and then thrown into the present?

Eliot turned to Fiona.

Fiona hadn’t unfolded her arms. She hadn’t dropped her narrowed slit of a stare, either. If anything, her arms were more tightly crossed and her gaze sharper as she turned and assessed them all.

“Don’t encourage his suicidal delusions of grandeur,” Fiona told them.

Eliot wanted to admit to her that above all others, he needed her help on this-that they were stronger together. But he couldn’t say any of those things. It’d just give her a reason to stay-be the anchor that kept him here. . because she was that stubborn.

He took a step closer to his sister and whispered, “In Costa Esmeralda, when you were about to get cut down by that strafing MiG-I didn’t tell you what you were doing was suicidal or a delusion of grandeur.”

“That was completely different,” she whispered back, her face scrunching into angry lines. “People’s lives were at stake.”

“Yeah, it was different,” Eliot told her. “I didn’t ask any questions when I stepped between you and certain death. I just saved your life because I’m your brother, and that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

Fiona’s eyes went wide and her gaze bored into his.

“You owe me,” he said.

It was a rotten card to play on his sister, but Eliot had to. He needed her. . even if it meant she’d be mad at him for the rest of his life.

Fiona hissed through clenched teeth, and it sounded like exploding steam. “You’re going to get yourself and the rest of the team killed.” Shaking her head, she continued. “So, I cannot believe I am saying this-but all right, I’ll go. If for no other reason to make sure you all come back in one stupid piece.”

Eliot wished he could tell her how much her coming meant to him, but he only managed a nod.

“But we make a beeline straight for Jezebel,” Fiona told him. “Get her if we can and get out. And if things get too dangerous, we stop and turn back.”

“Sure,” Eliot said.

He looked over his teammates and considered telling them everything. They deserved to know all the details of Jezebel and her ties to the land.

He exhaled and shut his mouth.

He wished Mitch were here. His white magic had kept them safe before from the shadows. That would have come in handy. And having him there would have been a great boost to Fiona’s morale.

Robert glanced at his wristwatch. “You said there was a train to catch?”

Eliot stuffed his moral misgivings into a dark corner of his mind to sort through later. “Yeah,” he replied, “there’s a secret entrance to the Night Train under the Market Street BART station.”

Sarah pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll have a cab meet us outside the Front Gate.”

Before Sarah punched a single button, however, another phone jangled: an old-fashioned trilling bell inside Miss Westin’s office.

The sound went straight through Eliot’s skull and down his spine like a shock.

He jumped. And so did Fiona.

They looked at each other. Fiona’s eyes were wide and her pulse pounded along her neck. Both of them went still.

The phone jangled again (he swore this time louder and sounding impatient).

Eliot and Fiona together whispered, “Audrey.”

“She knows,” Fiona said.

Eliot wasn’t sure how they knew it was Audrey, or how they knew she knew what they were about to attempt. . but he knew that feeling was right. Why else would she be calling Miss Westin at this exact moment?

There was a third ring-although this one terminated mid-jangle.

Eliot breathed a sigh of relief.

But an instant later, from inside Fiona’s book bag came the stirring notes of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” Her cell phone’s ring tone.

“Don’t answer it,” Eliot said.

Fiona pursed her lips, and he could see her mentally teetering back and forth, deciding. . but then she nodded.

“Come on,” he told them all, “we don’t have much time.” He sprinted for the stairs.

They followed, running as if the building were on fire.

________

Eliot stared at the sign hung on the ticket booth window. He couldn’t believe it. All that convincing and cajoling, all the struggling to overcome the moral ambiguity of the situation. . for nothing.

They’d ditched class, run out of Paxington, and caught one of the eco-friendly SF Green Cabs. (A wad of cash from Robert persuaded the driver to let them all squeeze in.)

They’d gotten to the Market Street BART station, tromped down the out-of-order escalator, and found the hole in the wall. After carefully crossing the tracks, they’d entered the breach and clambered down the steep staircase into the hidden Infernal train station.

Only to find the ticket booth abandoned, and a sign that read

All trains, including but not limited to: the Marshall Pass Express; the Six Pence; and Der Nachtzug (aka the “Night Train”) are hereby suspended due to civil conflicts in the realms they service. The management apologizes for any inconvenience this may cause, and full service shall resume as soon as possible (as demanded and required by the Infernal Transportation Code, Section IX).

“Rotten luck,” Jeremy said, reading over Eliot’s shoulder. “I suppose our dear Jezebel will have to fend for herself.” There was genuine disappointment in his voice.

“But there’s another way,” Fiona said. She stared at Eliot. “And you’re going to try it, aren’t you? No matter how dangerous it is.”

“I am,” he said. “Even if it is the long way around.”

“What do you mean ‘dangerous’ and ‘long way’?” Amanda asked, her fingers worrying together.

Fiona held up a hand to forestall questions, got her cell phone, and dialed. She handed it to Eliot.

“She said she’d give us a ride if we ever needed one,” Fiona told him. “But you’re going to have to ask her.”

Eliot scanned the number and name just before the phone connected.

“Hi? Aunt Dallas? It’s Eliot and Fiona. We kind of need a lift.”

Fiona rolled her eyes at this colossal understatement.

“Really? Thanks. Where? I can explain on the way. Oh, uh, okay. . well, Uncle Kino’s graveyard. The Little Chicken Gate.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, so Eliot continued, “I need you to keep quiet about it. Yes-I’ll explain everything. Outside the BART station on Market Street. Okay. Thanks again. Bye.”

He handed the phone back to Fiona.

“She’s picking us up in five minutes,” Eliot said.

“And taking us where?” Robert asked, looking concerned for the first time since agreeing to go.

Eliot swallowed, and then replied, “The Lands of the Dead.”

Fiona tried to scrunch down low so no one would see her as Aunt Dallas turned her 1968 VW van into Presidio Park.

Talk about embarrassing. Even in San Francisco, the van got looks. It was painted in tie-dye swirls, and over that were plastered decals of cherry and peach blossoms. It looked like the van had tumbled through an orchard and then thrown up rainbows. It also left a litter of real flowers in its wake.

Dallas kept well below the posted speed limit as they wound along the streets, creeping past a funeral in progress.

Fiona didn’t see any of the roads Uncle Kino had used. . and wondered if she’d ever have found her way back to the entrance of the Lands of the Dead by herself.

She glanced to the front passenger’s seat, where Dallas had insisted Eliot sit (much to Jeremy’s disappointment). Eliot scrutinized every tree and tombstone, leaning forward and searching.

Fiona hoped Eliot survived this attempt at heroics, and that he survived Jezebel. All by herself, that girl was more treacherous to her brother’s well-being than any gym class or duel.

Fiona shifted in her seat.

By some unfortunate quirk, she sat next to Jeremy and Sarah on the middle bench of the van. Jeremy slid into her at every turn, no matter how slight.

Behind them, Robert stretched out, and Amanda had wedged herself in a corner of the backseat.

When Aunt Dallas had picked them up, both Covingtons had greeted her with great formality-even though Dallas looked like a college drop-out in her cut-off shorts, flip-flops, and a top that was little more than a handkerchief and spaghetti straps. Of course, thanks to Miss Westin’s Mythology 101 class, they knew she was the goddess Clothos, sometimes called Mother Nature, and a dozen other equally impressive names throughout history.

Aunt Dallas had smiled at Sarah. . not so much at Jeremy (who couldn’t take his eyes off her tanned skin).

When she saw Amanda, however, Dallas made much over her, running her fingers through her tangled hair as if she were a beloved pet, and somehow smoothing out the mess and restoring its fiery luster. Amanda had hugged her, briefly but fiercely.

Robert bowed and muttered a greeting. Dallas had ordered him to sit in the very back. This chilly exchange had to be due to the fallout from when Robert quit working for Uncle Henry. Apparently, employees of the League were only rarely terminated (in the nonlethal sense of the word).

And Dallas’s greeting of Fiona. . well, there were no embraces or smiles. Dallas hadn’t been able to get past her disappointment that Fiona wore her old, ill-fitting Paxington uniform.

Fiona tried to explain that Madame Cobweb’s custom creation was dirty (as in blasted to tatters by an exploding tank) but Dallas hadn’t listened.

Once the greetings were over, though, Dallas turned to Eliot and said, “Tell me what this is all about. And don’t skip any details-especially about this girl.”

No one had mentioned anything about a girl. Somehow Dallas just knew.

Eliot took a deep breath and told his story: who exactly Jezebel was-even how she’d been Julie Marks, died, went to Hell, and then got recruited by the Infernals to tempt him.

All light and happiness drained from Dallas’s features as she listened.

Eliot explained that back in Del Sombra, Julie could have brought him over-but she didn’t. Then she got punished and changed by the Infernals into one of them. . although this last bit, Eliot admitted, was a guess on his part.

He went on telling Dallas that Team Scarab needed Jezebel to win the next match and their finals.

Dallas then turned her attention back to the road as it turned deeper into forested graveyards. The asphalt became covered in eucalyptus leaves, shadows crisscrossed their way, and the breeze stilled. It looked like no one had traveled down here in months.

The van whooshed through the leaves and the way became a dirt path that wound through trees and crowded headstones that leaned at odd angles.

The road branched, one way back to Presidio Park, and one way blocked by two posts with a chicken wire gate hung between them. A rooster perched upon a faded sun had been carved on one of the posts.

“Wait inside,” Dallas ordered them.

She got out and examined the posts, and then got on her knees and looked up at the gate.

Jeremy leaned forward to get a better look (and not at the gate).

Fiona elbowed him.

Jeremy slammed back into the seat. “No harm done, dearest Fiona,” he said, gasping. “Just observing the local scenery.”

Behind them, Amanda gagged with disgust.

Dallas stood, hands on her hip, and touched the gate. With a squeak, the chicken wire door swung open.

A breeze swirled eucalyptus leaves into the air-blinding them to the outside world.

Dallas opened the driver’s door and climbed in.

The leaves ceased their motion and dropped immediately to the ground.

Fiona got that “elevator sinking” feeling she was beginning to associate with shifts in space, although it looked as if nothing had changed.

Dallas swung her knees around to face Eliot. “Before we go any further,” she said, “there are things I must tell you, and one thing I’ve got to get straight from you, nephew of mine.”

Eliot swallowed. “Sure.”

Fog covered the sky and the sun dimmed.

“Heroes are always tromping off to Hell,” Dallas whispered, “but only the ones with a good reason return to tell the tale.”

Eliot squirmed in his seat.

He was hiding something. Eliot was lousy at keeping secrets. They both were. Why bother to develop such a talent when Audrey had seen through every fib they’d ever told in their adolescent lives?

“For every Orpheus or Ulysses or Dante who came back,” Dallas continued, “there were hundreds looking for knowledge, or eternal youth, or just very uncool treasure seekers”-she cast a sidelong glance at Jeremy-“and those guys never get out.”

It was Jeremy’s turn to squirm now.

Fiona pressed her lips into a straight line. This was ridiculous. She and Eliot had faced monster crocodiles and Infernal lords. Sure, a trip to Hell wasn’t going to be easy-but they could handle it.

“We’re not little kids,” Fiona said.

Dallas held up a finger to silence Fiona.

Fiona (quite involuntarily) shut her mouth.

“So, clue me in, Eliot,” Dallas said. “Tell me there’s more to this than passing a gym class.”

“Well,” Eliot replied, his voice dry, “if we don’t pass gym, we don’t graduate our freshman year at Paxington.” His gaze dropped to his lap.

Dallas lifted his chin so he couldn’t look away. “There’s a time when it’s cool to be coy,” she whispered. “This ain’t one of them.”

“Okay,” Eliot said. “. . I care for her.”

“Care?” Dallas asked. “I care about puppies and daffodils, but I wouldn’t risk my life for them. I wouldn’t risk the souls of my friends and family, either.”

Dallas scooted closer to Eliot. “Give me the truth and nothin’ but, or I turn around.”

Eliot flushed.

Fiona felt the heat from Eliot where she sat, but he wasn’t embarrassed; his eyes gazed straight into Dallas’s.

“I love her.”

Dallas was quiet and stared back, nodding.

“When I think of Jezebel,” Eliot whispered, “I burn. I can’t think of anyone or anything else. I’d risk everything I had, or ever will have, for her.”

Fiona’s mouth opened to protest. Or maybe it’d just dropped open from the shock of hearing those words come out of her brother. . the only occasionally heroic, and always nerd-now so determined, and against all odds. . so romantic.

It was a side of him she’d never seen. A side, quite frankly, so devoid of reason, she could have done without.

And yet, it might be a sign that her immature brother was finally growing up. He was making the wrong choices, sure. . but at least making his own wrong choices for once.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. Wisely, though, he said nothing.

Sarah and Amanda sat on the edge of their seats. They hung on Eliot’s words.

Robert looked outside, pretending not to hear. (This had to be a macho guy thing; they’d die before they’d ever admit to having a romantic bone in their body.)

Dallas sighed and fanned her face and chest. “I believe you, and I’ll do everything I can to help.”

She put the van in neutral and rolled through the gate.

Then Dallas floored it.

The van raced down a stone-paved path and through a city of mausoleums. Rows of gravestones stretched to the horizon.

They went over a hill, and there were lawns and fields and a clear river running alongside them. Many mausoleums here had their walls torn down, and the stones used for barbecues and playgrounds and handball courts. People tossed Frisbees and ran and laughed and ate and drank and looked like they were having the time of their lives.

Fiona shuddered. But that wasn’t right: no one here was having the “time of their lives”. . because they were all dead.

The honored dead, Uncle Kino had called them, resting here before they went somewhere else. “The dead are restless,” he’d said. “No one living, not even I, understands what moves them.”

The van’s rear wheels slipped on a patch of grass. Dallas leaned over the steering wheel, concentrating.

Fiona checked her seat belt. “What’s the rush? We want to get there in one piece, right?”

“Exactly why we need speed,” Dallas said.

They slid around a curve. The van bounced, rocked, almost tipping.

“Kino has alarms that go off when anything alive enters his domain,” Dallas said. “His guards will investigate, and then they’ll fink us out.”

She swerved around a tree growing in the middle of the road. The side mirror hit and shattered.

“Why should Kino care who comes here?” Eliot asked, hanging on with both hands to a ceiling strap.

“He protects Elysium Fields,” Dallas replied. “Infernals, Outsiders, and Older Things always try and muck up the natural order. They collect souls.”

Eliot looked at Fiona and shrugged.

Jeremy, though, nodded. He apparently had more experience with the dead, having spent centuries in the Valley of the New Year in Purgatory.

“I can get you to the edge of the Borderlands,” Dallas said. “If I cross that, then Kino himself will notice and personally come. That would put an end to everyone’s trip.”

Fiona remembered how mean her Uncle Kino was. Worse even than Mr. Ma.

“So how are we supposed to find the gate?” Fiona asked. “You said you’d take us there.”

“I said ‘I’d get you there.’ There’s a big difference.”

The road’s paving stones became a broken jumble. The trees looked dry and sickly and the grass was dead. Wind buffeted the unaerodynamic van. Iron gray clouds covered the sky.

“We’re almost there.” Dallas looked right and left, squinting.

“What are we looking for?” Eliot asked.

“Your guide. Someone dead always shows up for a true hero. They never get top billing in the stories, but Dante had Virgil, and Ulysses had Old One-Eye Farius who figured everything out for him.”

“But we don’t know anyone like that who’d help us,” Fiona told her. “I mean, no one that’s dead.”

Dallas perked up in her seat. “Then who’s that?”

She pointed to a clump of twisted trees and the person-shaped shadow standing there. It stepped out and waved at Dallas’s van.

Fiona squinted. She couldn’t see who this “spirit guide” was supposed to be.

Aunt Dallas eased the van to a halt and flicked on the headlights.

The person waiting outside was a man.

Robert jumped up, banging his head on the roof, but that didn’t slow him as he opened the side door, jumped out, and ran to the man.

It was Marcus Welmann-the middle-aged man who’d come to their old Del Sombra apartment on their fifteenth birthdays-the man who had taught Robert to be a League Driver-and the person who’d been killed by their mother. He’d also been nice enough to help them escape the Borderlands the first time they came here.

Mr. Welmann opened his arms and embraced Robert.

The two stayed like that as Fiona and the others climbed out of the van, and then Mr. Welmann released Robert and looked into his eyes.

Tears streaked Robert’s cheeks, something Fiona thought she’d never see. She wanted to look away; it was such an intensely personal moment, but Robert then turned to face them, smiling (and quickly wiping away any traces of those tears).

Mr. Welmann wore the same AC/DC T-shirt, camouflage pants, and sneakers they’d last seen him in. Did the dead ever change clothes?

“Marcus says he can get us to the Gates of Perdition,” Robert told them. “Open the thing, even, if we want.”

“Mr. Welmann,” Fiona said with a nod of greeting. “How’d you know we were coming?”

“Hi, kids.” Mr. Welmann bowed toward Dallas, and he added, “M’Lady.” He cleared his throat and straightened his shirt. “Remember how I said last time the dead are restless and get an itch to move on? Well, I got that feeling right after we parted ways.”

Robert shot Fiona an accusatory glance that could have melted cast iron.

She’d never told Robert about Uncle Kino’s kidnapping them and bringing them here, or about Mr. Welmann. But what was she supposed to say? Oh, Robert-by the way, Eliot and I were in the Land of the Dead yesterday and we bumped into your old teacher, the one our mother killed. That would’ve gone over well.

But Mr. Welmann had also asked her to pass along a warning to Robert: that whatever he was doing at Paxington, he was in over his head. That he should just ride away.

Between the relief at surviving that trip to the Borderlands, homework, and the dramas of gym class, though, it’d slipped her mind (Eliot’s too apparently).

That, and she and Robert hadn’t exactly been speaking to each other all year.

How had they ended up so far apart? What had started as her trying to protect him from the League by putting a little distance between them. . had become a huge rift. She wasn’t sure if they were even friends at this point.

“I felt pulled here.” Mr. Welmann looked toward the darkening skies farther into the Borderlands. “It’s not exactly the direction I had thought I’d be going.” He shrugged. “But I figured it couldn’t hurt too much to take a look-see.”

He clapped Robert on the shoulder. “When you guys showed up, I knew it was right. Like fate or something?” His gaze drifted to Dallas, and he raised an eyebrow.

Dallas shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. Hang on a sec.” She rummaged under the driver’s seat and got a purple day pack with a stenciled peace sign. She tossed it to Mr. Welmann. “A few things I’d packed for emergencies: granola bars, water, first aid kit-stuff like that.”

Mr. Welmann hefted the tiny pack (which seemed heavy). “Thanks.”

It was odd that Mr. Welmann got a “feeling” and came here just when they needed him. Coincidence? Aunt Dallas trusted him. . but Fiona didn’t know.

Dallas looked back to Elysium Fields and cocked her head. “If you’re going to do this, you better move. I hear him coming.”

“Kino,” Mr. Welmann muttered. “Not someone to tangle with.”

Fiona strained to hear, but heard only the wind.

“Go-” Dallas made little shooing motions. “I’ll drive around and leave false tracks for that old sourpuss.”

“Oh, Eliot, wait.” Dallas leaned close to him and whispered. Eliot nodded, and then she kissed him on the forehead.

“This way,” Mr. Welmann said, hefting the pack over his shoulder. “I know a shortcut.” He bowed once more to Dallas (she curtsied back this time) and then he marched toward a forest of dead trees.

Robert followed, and so did Eliot.

Fiona looked back to Dallas for some encouragement or parting words of wisdom, but her aunt’s attention was firmly fixed on the Borderlands. Without another word, Dallas climbed in the van and drove off.

The scant sunlight (and a fair amount of Fiona’s courage) faded with her aunt’s departure.

“Let’s go,” Fiona muttered to Jeremy and Sarah and Amanda-all three of them suddenly looking less thrilled by Eliot’s quest.

Nonetheless, they followed Mr. Welmann into the forest.

“What’d she tell you?” Fiona asked Eliot.

He looked away. “It was personal.”

Probably some advice on how to get a girl not to hate you-Eliot desperately needed that.

Fiona itched all over. She didn’t want to be here, either. This was beyond stupidity; Eliot was going to get them killed. . which was precisely why she had to go along: to make sure that didn’t happen, dragging him back unconscious and bleeding if that’s what it took.

But Fiona swore it was the last time she’d get him out of trouble of his own making.

They trod upon a crooked path through the forest. Overhead a few stars appeared through the tangle of skeletal branches. Fiona didn’t recognize any constellations; the points of light seemed smaller and colder than they should have been.

The dead forest ended at the edge of a dry lake bed. The earth was cracked and blasted, and volcanic ash spiraled into whirlwinds. A hundred yards from here, the land fell away-plunged miles down to the lava fields of Hell. The sky was coal black, but beyond the cliff’s edge, the horizon glowed like a furnace.

Amanda stood transfixed, staring at the roiling thermals and flashes of fire.

There was, thankfully, a fence between them and Hell. It looked as if a monolithic dinosaur had crawled onto the edge of the cliff, clung there, and then perished, leaving curved femurs and rib bones and talons that made a gigantic tumble of a barrier. For good measure, someone had added rolls of concertina wire (bits of cloth and flesh clinging to its spurs) along the top.

Set in the center of this fence stood the Gates of Perdition. They were bronze and rusted steel, gears and cogs and worn filigreed hinges oxidized blue-green. Spikes bristled from every surface. There were six combination locks. . some thimble tiny, others that you’d need both hands to turn.

Only a certified crazy person would try to open this thing.

“So how do we open it?” Eliot whispered to Mr. Welmann.

“I can do it.” Mr. Welmann ran a hand over his beard-stubbled face. “Then I’ll jam the lock so it doesn’t shut. It’d be a heck of a mess if we got stuck on the other side.”

“How exactly are you going to open it?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Mr. Welmann’s bushy eyebrows bunched. “But I know I can. Like I knew to wait for you and your brother. I think dead heroes are supposed to be able to get into Hell”-he swallowed-“unfortunately.”

Fiona heard the rumble of approaching thunder.

She turned.

Headlights pierced the haze of volcanic ash-far away, but they turned and vanished.

Robert closed his eyes and concentrated. “V-8,” he said.

Mr. Welmann nodded. “That’s a three hundred ten horsepower V-8,” he corrected. “Specifically from a black 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham.”

“Kino’s car?” Fiona asked.

Robert slipped on his brass knuckles.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mr. Welmann warned Robert. “Your aunt might be crazy enough to play chicken with Kino in that van of hers. . but even she wouldn’t dare tangle with the Lord of the Dead on his home turf.”

Amanda trembled. “I don’t know about this anymore,” she whispered.

Jeremy and Sarah shared a worried glance, and then Jeremy gave his cousin a slight shake of his head.

“Get to the Gate and you’re safe,” Mr. Welmann told them. “It’s Infernal property. Kino’s not allowed to cross or even touch it. Just step across, and you’ll have all the time you’ll need to figure this out.”

Amanda paled and looked sick-caught between the gates of Hell and the Lord of the Dead.

Eliot glowered at them, maybe understanding that everyone was coming to their senses and support for his crazy plan was faltering.

“Okay, listen up,” Fiona said. “We run for the gate. Eliot and Marcus-take point. Amanda you keep up with me. After us, Jeremy, Sarah, and Robert bring up the rear and yell if you see those headlights.”

This felt like a gym match: Fiona providing the strategy and Team Scarab pulling together to overcome a series of insane obstacles. It was as if they’d trained for this all year. Maybe there was something, after all, to Mr. Ma’s methods.

She glanced over her shoulder. If this didn’t work, if Kino got to them, it’d be best to scatter. She would make a stand and face him while the others got back to the forest.

“Go,” Fiona ordered.

They sprinted for the gate (probably the first people in all history to actually run toward the entrance to Hell!), and then skidded to a halt before its closed doors. Six dial combination locks (the largest the size of a hubcap, descending to one the size of a dime) were set into a precise dotted line next to the Gate’s massive bronze handle.

Far away headlights reappeared in the haze. . turned to the right and then the left, and then crept forward.

“Hurry,” Fiona whispered.

Mr. Welmann spun the combination lock dials-one by one, using both hands, not even pausing-then he stopped them and spun them the other way. “My birthday,” he muttered. “Those lucky lotto numbers. . license plate of my first car. .”

He finished with the first, largest combination.

There was a click and a series of pings that resonated throughout the metal.

Fiona looked for the headlights. They were gone. A bit of luck, maybe.

Mr. Welmann stopped four more dials in quick succession and they clicked into place.

Fiona heard the ratcheting of large wheels, squealing and groaning as if they hadn’t been oiled for centuries.

An engine’s roar made the air tremble.

Fiona jumped as high beams flicked on and illuminated the Gate.

The Cadillac had crept up to them, lights off. It was a hundred yards away, now peeling out straight toward them.

Amanda clung to Eliot.

Eliot tried to shrug Lady Dawn off his shoulder and maneuver it around, but Amanda was in the way.

Jeremy and Sarah stepped forward, though, faces rigid with concentration. They held up their hands-waved them as if performing some sleight of hand stage magic.

Dust and ash filled the air, and the grit congealed into a pane of mirrored glass between them and Kino’s car.

The Cadillac fishtailed to a stop, momentarily confused by the appearance of another pair of headlights racing toward it on a headlong crash trajectory.

“Nice work,” Fiona said. For once, she was glad the two pain-in-the-rear conjurors were on her team.

But that trick wouldn’t fool Kino long.

Mr. Welmann clicked the last dial in place.

The Gate’s internal mechanisms hissed steam and sparked. A seam appeared and one side opened wide enough for a single person to squeeze through.

On the other side a rocky path zigged and zagged toward and over the cliff. Far below, lava geysered, rivers of molten rock snaked, and volcanoes belched smoke.

All they had to do was cross over-shut the door (but not completely)-and they’d be safe from Uncle Kino. But Fiona decided this was crazy dangerous. . and they hadn’t even gotten to Hell yet! So, she’d wait until Kino left, and then she’d abort Eliot’s rescue mission, and get them out of here (dragging her brother out by his ears if necessary).

But Fiona couldn’t move.

Her feet rooted to the earth, and fear chilled her despite the furnace heat that billowed through from Hell.

No-she was a goddess, the daughter of Death. She was scared. . but fear would have to wait.

“Move,” she whispered, and ushered Amanda to the opening.

But Amanda dug in her heals and stopped.

Robert stepped up and slipped one arm around her. “It’s okay. We’ll get through this,” he told Amanda.

She nodded. Together they crossed over.

“Mr. Welmann,” Fiona whispered. “Jam the lock. Eliot, get your guitar ready. We might need cover.”

Eliot and Mr. Welmann passed through.

She glanced back. Kino’s Cadillac sat there idling, not getting any closer.

Fiona inched toward the gate. Her shoes crunched over desiccated soil. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and stepped to the other side.

She exhaled and blinked.

It was hot, as if someone had opened the oven door and she stood in front of it. Not hot enough to blister, not quite. Hot enough, though, to make her instantly thirsty and sticky with sweat.

Mr. Welmann reached into the exposed lock mechanism. “I think I see it,” he said. “Give me a second.”

Jeremy and Sarah lingered on the Borderland side. Sarah frantically whispered to her cousin-not frightened. She looked agitated.

“Come on, hurry!” Fiona called to them.

Jeremy stepped up to the slight opening. His blond hair was plastered with perspiration. He grinned-and pulled Sarah behind him. She cried out in pain as he wrenched her arm.

Jeremy threw himself against the Gates of Perdition-

— and slammed it shut.

Mr. Welmann jerked his hand out of the gate’s mechanism just before there was a series of clacks. . as its locks clicked into place.

They were trapped in Hell.