All That Lives Must Die (36 page)

               41               

EXPELLED

Fiona stood on the field of the Ludus Magnus with Team Scarab. She shifted nervously. This wasn’t over yet.

Everyone on her team had made it . . . well, except Jezebel, who lay on a stretcher ten paces away, being treated by Mr. Ma.

The instant she’d seen Mr. Ma, Fiona suspected he had
let
Donald van Wyck do this. How else could a student engineer such a colossal two-against-one cheat in the middle of midterms with everyone watching?

Had Mr. Ma colluded in this scheme? Or had he just looked the other way? She’d probably never know.

One thing she was sure, though: Mr. Ma wouldn’t have shed any tears if Team Scarab had lost.

It was strange looking at them. Mr. Ma was so dark and Jezebel so pale. He was old and wise . . . while Jezebel would likely be forever young and, just as likely, forever irresponsible.

She was a total mess, her chest and arms bandaged. Fiona didn’t know why she hadn’t been carried off in the ambulances with the other seriously injured players.

At least, to Fiona’s relief, there’d been no casualities during this mismatch.

Mr. Ma helped Jezebel sit upright and whispered to her. She nodded while Mr. Ma shook his head. He then helped her stand, which she shakily managed, and then he escorted her to stand with the rest of Team Scarab.

“Bloody glorious work back there,” Jeremy said to her.

“Yeah,” Robert added, “uh, very nice.”

Jezebel nodded to them, apparently too hurt even to come up with her normal condescending replies. She locked eyes with Eliot, but neither of them said a word to each other. Jezebel limped away from Eliot and stood next to Amanda.

Behind them was the jungle gym . . . well, what was left of it. The area had been cordoned off with yellow
HAZARD
tape. Half had been demolished in the match. Parts were on fire. A dozen workers in hard hats chainsawed and bulldozed over the rest because it had been declared unsafe by Mr. Ma.

She thought this ironic, since it’d been engineered to be “unsafe” in the first place.

At the far end of the field, Miss Westin spoke to Harlan Dells. The Headmistress had her back turned to the students. Mr. Dells faced them, however, his eagle eyes on every student. From his narrowed glare, it was clear how displeased he was.

Miss Westin turned and strode toward them.

Fiona tensed and felt like she might be sick.

The other students being treated for minor cuts, burns, and broken bones also got to their feet and quickly shuffled toward their teams.

Teams Dragon and Wolf stood facing Team Scarab.

Green Dragon was down two members. They stood stoic with eyes fixed straight ahead.

Team Wolf was down three members, and Donald van Wyck’s head hung low.

“Breaking rules at Paxington is never tolerated,” Miss Westin said as she walked between the teams. Her words were like stones dropped from a great height; each felt like it thudded into Fiona’s stomach.

Miss Westin glanced at the carnage behind them, and then turned to scrutinize them, taking her time, allowing her silence to smother their thoughts. She inhaled a deep breath, seeming to decide something, and let out a great sigh.

This struck Fiona as odd because she’d never seen Miss Westin sighing . . . and now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her breathing.

“But before we talk of rules . . . and punishment,” Miss Westin continued, and nodded to Mr. Ma as he joined her, “Mr. Ma and I have discussed this so-called midterm match and have come to a decision.”

Fiona stood taller, proud that Team Scarab had not only survived two-to-one odds, but won.

“I declare this match invalid,” Mr. Ma said.

“What? . . .” Fiona whispered, her high spirits deflating.

“No supervisors,” Miss Westin said. “An inappropriate match.” She cast a haughty glance at Jezebel. “Illegal metamorphosis.”

Jezebel tilted her head in defiance.

“But,” Fiona countered, “. . . that’s not fair.”

Miss Westin wheeled toward her. “Fair? Life is not fair, Miss Post. Ever. Not for mortals or young goddesses. Be thankful you learn this lesson when the stakes were merely your team’s rank and their lives.”

This sounded like something Audrey would say.
Merely our lives at stake?
What more could be at stake?

Fiona wanted to shrink back, but she fought the impulse and remained standing tall. What she really wanted to do was give Miss Westin a piece of her mind. And yet Fiona sensed something important in the Headmistress’s words . . . so she kept her mouth clamped tight.

A slight smile rippled over Miss Westin’s pale lips as she watched Fiona’s internal struggle. And then, seeing her student hold her temper, the Headmistress nodded.

“Team Scarab,” Miss Westin continued, “for their valiant efforts, however, will be given a ‘non-grade’ for the match. Their midterm grade will be based wholly on their
individual
accomplishments in the Midterm Maze . . . which I note are miraculously identical scores of A-minus.”

Fiona took that in, stunned, but quickly recovered.

Okay, so they wouldn’t get the win, but it wouldn’t count against them, either, in gym. She could live with that. Still, that left Scarab in a precarious position of having one win, one loss, and a draw.

It was, however, nice that they’d gotten an A on their midterm. Eliot had really pulled off a miracle in the maze, and yet, it irked her that it was an A–. What was the
minus
for?

She knew better, though, than to let out even a squeak of a complaint in front of Miss Westin.

Fiona shot a quick warning glance to the rest of her teammates—especially bigmouthed Jeremy Covington.

Miss Westin turned to face the other students. “Team Dragon.”

The Dragons stood at full attention.

“You were slated to compete against Team Scarab,” Miss Westin said. “I accept that you were led astray by unscrupulous influences, so we shall record the loss of this match on your gym record.”

The Green Dragon students stiffened as if struck.

The huge boy who was the Green Dragon Team Captain ran a hand over his crew cut and answered, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Miss Westin then strode to Team Wolf, slowly pacing before them.

They looked as if they were about to be executed, shuffling feet, the color draining from their faces; one girl looked as if she were hyperventilating.

“Team Wolf,” Miss Westin said. “We shall also mark you down as a loss for this match.” She halted before Donald van Wyck.

He looked up, but reluctantly, as if he had no choice in the matter, and whispered, “May I speak, Headmistress?”

“No. I have spoken to your family,” Miss Westin told him. “They lobbied quite vigorously on your behalf, but you sealed your fate when you diverted Mr. Ma’s attention and arranged this demonstration of your ‘superiority.’ Pride, arrogance, and underestimating a worthy opponent—these are among your many failings.”

Van Wyck remained standing, but his shoulders slumped.

If Fiona hadn’t hated him so much, she would have felt some pity.

“These personality traits we might have addressed and corrected here at Paxington, given enough time,” Miss Westin continued. “But broken rules?
That
I will not abide.”

She turned her back to him.

“You are hereby
expelled
.”

Donald van Wyck looked up, eyes wide. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He glanced helpless to his teammates, but none of them would look his way.

Harlan Dells moved to his side and set one massive hand on his shoulder.

Van Wyck looked at Fiona, eyes pleading.

Maybe she should say something.

No—he’d tried to kill her, Eliot, and everyone on her team. Fiona’s glare sharpened. He was getting off easy.

Miss Westin nodded to Mr. Dells, and the Gatekeeper marched him off the field.

Fiona watched until they vanished into the tunnel.

Miss Westin withdrew her tiny black book and made a note within.

“There,” she said. “I believe that ends this matter. Students, you are dismissed.”

The Dragons and Wolves skulked off the field.

As they left, Jeremy whooped and danced a celebratory jig. He hugged his cousin Sarah.

Robert and Mitch exchanged a more reserved high five.

Fiona should have felt like celebrating, too. Instead, she was wary, as if something else bad were about to happen.

Eliot stepped next to her and whispered, “I wonder if we’ll see him again.” He gazed at the dark tunnel through which Donald van Wyck had left.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I hope not.”

Had they won today? Or made an enemy for life? Or with his Van Wyck necromancy . . . had they made an enemy for eternity?

Fiona’s attention turned as she saw timid Amanda Lane approach Jezebel, working up the courage to speak.

Fiona marched over to them and heard Jezebel reply, “I need no mortal’s assistance.”

The Infernal glared at Amanda, who took a step back.

Jezebel glanced at Fiona, and in a less threatening tone, said, “No help. Thank you.” She picked up an abandoned Paxington blazer off the grass and snugged it about her shoulders—wincing. A dot of blood seeped through.

“There is only one place that can help me,” Jezebel murmured. “Home.” She limped off the field.

Robert and Mitch joined Fiona and Amanda, and they watched her stalk off.

“Is she going be okay?” Robert whispered.

“I don’t know,” Fiona said. “But I know there’s nothing we can do for her—not when she’s so . . . I don’t know what she is.”

Mitch shook his head as he watched Jezebel leave. “Don’t let her get to you. We did good today.”

Fiona felt a twinge of irrational anger toward the Infernal. She wasn’t sure why. Jezebel had made it possible for them to win the match. Maybe even saved all their lives by nearly throwing hers away. And yet . . . something was so wrong about her.

Fiona turned to ask Eliot if he had a clue.

But Eliot was nowhere on the field.

               42               

CONSEQUENCES BE DAMNED

Eliot tried not to think about what he was doing . . . but that wasn’t his best thing.

Getting into trouble
, Fiona would say would’ve been his best thing.

Rescuing the damsel in distress
, Robert might tell him.

Or perhaps as Louis would declare,
Rushing in where angels fear
. . .

But this was none of those things. Eliot followed Jezebel because he had to. Something inside him pulled him along the sidewalk, a magnetic force he was helpless to resist—but something also repelled him from her and held him back from rushing to her side and wrapping his arms about her broken body.

Jezebel walked ahead of him half a block. She had someone’s oversized Paxington jacket on. She half stepped, half stumbled along, and then paused to lean against a building.

Other people didn’t notice. Tourists with Chinatown maps, a bunch of older women complaining about the President, and a policeman on bicycle—none of them offered to help or even ask if she was okay.

Of course, if they had tried, Jezebel, the Protector of the Burning Orchards and Handmaiden to the Mistress of Pain, might have torn their throats out . . . so it was probably some primitive human instinct for self-preservation that made them shy away.

Self-preservation instincts that apparently Eliot lacked, because he had slipped out of the Ludus Magnus when he overheard Amanda and Fiona talking to Jezebel, and her adamant refusal for help.

He knew she’d never let anyone help her. Just as Eliot knew that she desperately
needed
help.

Eliot was determined to make sure she was okay. Even if that meant sneaking out ahead of her, lurking in the shadows, and then following her like some creepy stalker.

Although he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Make sure she got home okay, he guessed—make sure she got there without bleeding to death in some gutter along the way.

Why was she
so
stubborn?

She trudged ahead, south one block down Webster Street, east one block along Golden Gate Avenue, and then zigging back south. If she kept going, they’d end up in the Mission District.

The sun broke through the fog and painted the streets with lines of light and shade.

Eliot drifted into the shadows to stay unnoticed.

Jezebel mirrored his steps, clinging to the darkness.

Eliot let her get a bit ahead as he waited to cross busy Van Ness Avenue, and then hurried just as the stoplight changed.

As he set one foot into the street, however, it felt as if he plunged into warm running water. It didn’t slow him as normal water would, but it felt very different from the space he’d been in.

As he crossed back onto the sidewalk, the sensation vanished.

Eliot stopped and looked around, perplexed.

Then he spotted the difference: The crosswalk was in sunlight . . . and he stood once more in the shadows.

Although the fog softened everything, the edge where light met dark was razor sharp to his eyes.

Everyone on the sidewalk went out of their way to step around the shadows, like they were too cold. None of them looked at Eliot either as he stood in the shade. They strode past him, ignoring him as they did Jezebel.

Eliot stepped into the path of a girl walking a Yorkshire terrier.

The tiny dog’s head snapped up and it barked, startled, at Eliot. It hadn’t seen him.

Eliot had an urge to kick the miniature canine. He didn’t like dogs.

“Sorry,” Eliot whispered.

The girl smiled and moved on, jerking the dog along—not really wanting to interact with him, but at least
seeing
him.

Eliot slinked back into the shadows.

Weird.

He could live with weird, though; he had for a while. And today he preferred to be in the shade. To be unremarkable. Invisible almost.

He followed Jezebel like that for another block, keeping to the dark, and then they turned onto Hyde Street.

She was headed downtown. Buildings towered over them and the sidewalk was red brick. The people here had to enter the shadows (or end up walking in the street), and as they did, they shuddered, pulled up their collars, and sped along to the next patch of sunlight.

The only exception was a velvet black cat that sat on a trash can, watching Jezebel, him, and then its amber eyes locked back on to her—crossing in front of, and almost tripping, her.

Jezebel hissed at it.

The animal hissed back and scampered across the busy street—ignoring traffic—making it to the opposite side.
40

Jezebel watched it go, then walked fast, turning onto Market Street ahead of him.

Eliot followed, but Jezebel was gone.

There was a bus stop, but there were people still waiting. There was a theater she could have ducked into. And just in front of it, stairs that angled under the street: A BART station.

That had to be it.

He hurried down the steps into a vast open space well lit with flickering fluorescents. There were token vendors, automated turnstiles, bike racks, and information kiosks directing people to all the places the Bay Area Rapid Transit system could take them.

It was deserted.

There were three escalators to the next level. One had an
OUT OF ORDER
sign and yellow warning tape draped across it. The tape dangled, torn.

Eliot went to it and saw the escalator was still. It was dark down there.

He took a deep breath—not quite sure he was doing anything remotely smart, but knowing he couldn’t stop now. He crept down the motionless escalator. The edges looked disturbingly like metal teeth.

He emerged onto a wide hallway. Only every fifth fluorescent light overhead was lit.

Eliot’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. A yellow stripe divided the white tiles where people were supposed to wait well away from the sunken tracks of the BART train.

As above, there was no one here on this level. No train, either.

And still no Jezebel.

Had he made a mistake and lost her? Jezebel could have spotted him and broken that tape on the escalator to throw him off her trail.

A single black dot caught his attention. It was tiny, but obvious on the white tile. It called to him, sounded like a perfect note plunked in his mind.

He glanced once more down the platform and then crept to the spot.

Eliot reached out and touched it. The spot was liquid, tarlike—half-congealed. It smelled of vanilla and cinnamon and rust.

Blood.
Her
blood.

She
had
been here.

The question was, where had she gone?

She hadn’t been so far ahead of him that a train could have come, picked her up, and left without him hearing.

He spied another drop of blood. This one was by the tracks.

His gaze continued, and he spotted a third drop on the far side of the train tracks . . . right under a shadow. The shadow looked just like the dozen others on the far side of the train tracks . . . only it fell
directly
under one of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Eliot moved to look at it from another angle.

It looked like any other shadow, translucent, and flickering with the same frequency as the lights. Only there was nothing between it and the light to cast it.

This shadow fell directly between two concrete squares, and as Eliot turned his head back and forth, he caught a glimpse of more: a darkness that stretched beyond the flat plane of the wall.

A doorway.

If that’s where Jezebel went, he’d follow. Maybe she was hurt and had crawled in there to rest or hide from more of those things that had jumped them in the alley outside Paxington. Or maybe she had gone in there like some wounded animal to die.

Eliot held his breath and listened for any rumble that might indicate a train. He heard only his heart thudding.

With extreme care, he crept past the yellow safety line. Eliot then eased over the edge onto the channel with the train tracks.

He swallowed and gingerly stepped across the electrified third rail—pressed himself against the cool concrete by the fake shadow.

If a BART train came by now, he’d get pasted.

Eliot inched to the shadow. So close, it was easy to see how it extruded deeper into the wall, a passage that sloped at a steep angle. There were stairs and handrails. He twisted closer to looked straight into it; there was a flicker of amber light at the end . . . a very long way down.

He hesitated on the threshold.

Some part of him screamed that if he went down there, he wasn’t coming back. Ever.

As surely as he knew this could be a one-way trip, though, he also knew Jezebel needed him. Like every daydream he’d ever had: The hero charged in to save his lady in peril, no matter what.

More realistically . . . he knew Jezebel—or more accurately, the part of her that was still Julie Marks—was the key to unraveling the Infernal plots circling about him. She still cared for him. She was still his friend . . . and possibly, hopefully, more.

He pushed into the darkness.

Eliot reached and pulled his pack around. He undid the top flap and opened Lady Dawn’s case. He wanted her handy. When things got this weird, they usually got dangerous, too.

He moved down the stairs.

As he neared the bottom, Eliot smelled moisture and brimstone and mold. He saw red and gleaming gold.

There was a rumble in the distance and a train’s whistle—that wasn’t a single shrill note, but rather a collection of tortured human screams. It got louder. It cut through him and twisted his insides. Eliot wanted to clap his hands over his ears and curl into a ball.

But he’d heard this noise before. In Kino’s Borderlands . . . at the Gates of Perdition.

His father’s words came back to him:
“We are monarchs of the domains of Hell, the benevolent kings and queens over the countless souls who are drawn there to worship us.”

Countless souls.

Knowing what the sound might be, though, didn’t make it any less horrific, but Eliot was able to set it aside in his mind. He could be scared
and
keep moving forward.

He got to the foot of the steep stairs and peeked around the corner.

A room stretched as far as he could see, another train station, but not like upstairs. This place looked like it was from the late nineteenth century. Red and gold tiles covered the floor and had a million cracks, as if the place had survived the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 . . . or maybe it hadn’t and had sunk down here. Columns of carved teak and inlaid ivory stood like a dead forest. There were stained glass windows (bricked up on the other side) and tarnished silver candelabras set out here and there, flickering with smoking candles.

The screams grew to a crescendo, and bright light flashed from within a tunnel and filled one end of the station, illuminating a crisscross of train tracks.

Billows of steam blasted forth, and a train engine appeared, chugging, wheels screeching to a long agonizing halt.

The main cylinder of the engine glowed red. Black smoke billowed from twin stacks. Three coal cars were pulled behind this, and after them were passenger cars with rich wood paneling and gilt scrollwork that curled about picture windows. Red velvet curtains framed those windows and hid the interiors.

Eliot squinted at the first passenger car and saw lettering in ornate silver cursive:
Der Nachtzug, Limited.
41

With one last massive sigh, the engine came to a full stop and the tortured voices fell silent.

Jezebel stepped out from behind one of the columns. She’d been waiting there for the train. She staggered and barely made it to the first passenger car. She hung her head and leaned against it.

An old porter emerged. He bowed before Jezebel and then set down a tiny step. He took her hand and gently helped her up and onto the train.

Jezebel had said there was only one place where she could get help for her injuries: home. Eliot hadn’t taken her literally when she said that. He thought she’d head to an apartment in the city.

. . . Not actually return to Hell.

The old porter glanced about the station, looking for other passengers.

Eliot ducked back into the stairwell.

Now what?

Three options occurred to him.

Eliot could let her go. Jezebel had to know what she was doing. But hadn’t she said her clan was fighting a war? He had a feeling she was headed into even greater danger.

The second option was to talk to her, try to get her to stay. There had to be someone here who could help her.

Of course, that would involve Eliot actually speaking to her and her responding in a rational manner. That never seemed to happen. Whenever they interacted, it seemed to be charged with emotion . . . and anger.

That left the last option: Go with her and help her.

That thought turned to ice inside Eliot.

Go to Hell
on purpose?

The locomotive hissed. Its wheels squealed to a slow start and sparked along the tracks.

Louis had said Sealiah was Jezebel’s mistress . . . and that she was Queen of the Poppy Lands of Hell. Poppy Lands. Eliot wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

He decided not and turned back.

At the top of the staircase, light and shadows flashed: A BART train had entered the normal human station.

Normal. Human. A world he was feeling more and more apart from.

Besides, hadn’t he
really
decided when he ventured down here? To find out more about the Infernals and their plans? Wasn’t he committed to helping Jezebel? That was the right thing to do—no matter where it took him.

Eliot ran back.

The train picked up speed, cars accelerating past his view.

He ducked his head and sprinted after the last car as it raced toward the tunnel.

His hand caught the railing—he leaped—swung himself up and onto the swaying floor.