All That Lives Must Die

What was he doing? Sure he could play. If you needed the dead conjured, gravity warped, or a legion of Napoleon-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. DuPree 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. DuPree 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. DuPree.

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. DuPree 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. DuPree 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. DuPree and Sarah. The applause behind him intensified. The look on Ms. DuPree’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.