All That Lives Must Die (45 page)

“But?” Fiona asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

Fiona bit her lip. That was it?

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

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

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

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

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

Fiona wasn’t letting him slip away this time.

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

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

What she had here and now was everything she wanted.

46
. Genevieve Stephenson-Hines, one of the longer-lived of the Stephenson clan, retired from the practice of white magic at the age of 106. Whereabouts unknown, but no record of her death exists, so she may still be alive. —Editor.

47
. The mythohistorical origins of fairies remain inconclusive, although there are many theories: the dead, angels (demoted or otherwise), elemental forces, transformed mortals, baby’s laughs, or pagan gods. Supposedly fairies live in a realm severed from the remote nether realms, borderlands, and purgatories. To travel to, and more notably
back from
, their realm is fraught with danger even by nether realm standards. Journey is never by happenstance, and beings only rarely depart by special permission (e.g., the Faery Queen’s Silver Bough, which must be held at all times to avoid the glamours and charms of her realm and subjects).
A Primer on the Middle Realms
, Paxington Institute Press, LLC.

48
. “When I trod to Avalon / not did man come back anon. / ’Tis not me now writing this. / My soul lost, a’ wander bliss.”
Mythica Improbiba
(translated version), Father Sildas Pious. ca. thirteenth century.

               52               

AUDITION OF STARS

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

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

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

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

That was so typical of Paxington.

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

Just how big was this school, anyway?

Eliot walked onto the new path.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took a deep breath and pushed through the doors.

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

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

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

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

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

He almost tripped when he spotted Sarah Covington.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eliot and Sarah sank into two adjacent seats.

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

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

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

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

Eliot liked her. He relaxed into his seat.

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

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

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

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

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

It read,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eliot and the others clapped. He was great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Show me what you got, kid.”

Eliot touched her arm lightly and nodded to her.

Sarah nodded back.

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah finished and looked down.

No one clapped.

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

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

Sarah managed a tight smile.

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

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

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

“No volunteers?” Ms. DuPreé sounded disappointed.

A spotlight snapped on Eliot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallowed.

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

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

He cautiously plunked out the tune.