All That Lives Must Die

her glances that could kill, and occasionally he’d lose his temper and stomp out of practice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How long before they kicked her out?

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

Where she’d be fighting. . or hurt.

Or dead.

His blood chilled at that thought.

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

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

Or was he just the world’s biggest chicken?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped.

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

He hissed his frustration.

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

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

Eliot glanced at Lady Dawn. Was he outgrowing her?

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

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

Eliot had to be just imagining that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Dawn just sat there.

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

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

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

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

Eliot pressed his forehead to the page and groaned.

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

________

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

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

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

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

A person stood by his bed. . a girl.

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

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

The girl stepped closer.

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

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

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

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