All That Lives Must Die

“The worst thing,” Eliot said, “is all the fighting.”

He struggled with his words. Eliot wanted to talk about this, but he didn’t want to sound like a whiny kid.

“I mean, I know the Immortals and Infernals were at war, then there was the battle at Ultima Thule, and then the treaty, the Pactum Pax Immortalis, but there’s still violence and plots. . as if both sides want to fight. Like it’s part of what they are.”

Eliot was careful not to say “what we are” because he still wasn’t sure how he fit within the Immortal and Infernal families.

Henry leaned forward. “Go on. . ”

“It’s not only the families,” Eliot whispered. “It’s Paxington, too. Gym class is a battlefield. There are duels every day, and the other students are beyond competitive. Why is it that way?”

Henry considered this, tapping his lower lip. “We are creatures of struggle and strife, my dear Eliot. We kill to live, and some of us live to kill. Many have tried to make a lasting peace, but they perish, their words soon all but dusty histories. Those who fight, win and survive.”

Eliot sensed this to be true. Why then did it feel so wrong?

“We have to fight?” he asked. “There’s no other way?”

Henry eased back. “All living things fight to survive. Even gods.” He sighed. “Especially gods. Or perhaps”-a sly smile appeared on Henry’s lips-“there is another undiscovered way? Waiting for someone to find it?”

Eliot didn’t understand this, but he didn’t immediately ask what Henry meant. Something secret and powerful echoed in his words just then. Something that was part puzzle, part prophecy, and part, Eliot was sure, something even Henry didn’t quite understand.

The Rolls-Royce slowed.

Outside were palm trees and white sands, and a flock of red parrots took to the wing. The air conditioner kicked on.

Eliot had ridden with Uncle Henry before. His car could get anywhere in the world in a matter of hours. They could be in Florida, or Mexico, or farther.

Henry looked up. “We’ve arrived.”

Smears of the surrounding countryside resolved into sand dunes, plantain trees, and a wide river. Laurabelle ran along a four-lane road crowded with chemical tankers and older sedans-all of them bearing a molecular logo that had planet Earth as one of its atoms.

They turned a corner and the world changed.

A chunk had been ripped from the tropical landscape. For miles in every direction were stumps and smoldering fields.

Nestled in the center of this hell on earth (and Eliot thought he was qualified to make that distinction having recently been there) squatted a refinery. A multitude of towers shot flames and oily smoke into the air. Pipes wormed from every crevice, leaked sludge, and tinged the nearby ocean red.

The Rolls-Royce turned into a parking lot and pulled into a space marked DIRECTOR MUY ESPECIAL.

Eliot opened the door.

The smell overwhelmed him: burning plastic and sulfur and something so repugnant that his nose shut and he gagged. He was barely able to get out and stand.

“Ah,” Uncle Henry said, “that.” He covered his face with a handkerchief. “A rather unfortunate side effect of the manufacturing process. Come, let us retire to my office. My secretary makes the most wonderful iced tea.”

It was so hot, the pavement stuck under Eliot’s loafers. He shrugged out of his wool Paxington blazer, his shirt beneath already soaked with perspiration.

“Wait,” Eliot said. “Why’d you bring me here?”

Henry waved dramatically about. “For what every young man needs: a part-time job.”

Eliot blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand.” He had the same feeling he had had as he watched Louis shuffle his three cards at the cafe, like some misdirection was occurring.

Uncle Henry slipped out of his white jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. “I know you feel bad about Fiona’s rising prestige, especially within the League. I also heard from your mother how you lost your phone. So, I wanted to give you a chance to restore your confidence. ‘Step up to the plate,’ as the Americans say. I do love all their wonderful sports metaphors. . and let you ‘knock it out of the park.’ ”

“Still not understanding,” Eliot said, getting annoyed.

“This place makes things,” Uncle Henry said. “Oh, I don’t know all the specifics-petrochemicals, pasta, plastics-something that begins with a p that the world simply cannot do without. It employs thousands of workers whose families would otherwise starve. And I am giving it all to you, my boy.”

Eliot stared at the place, revolted by the mess, the odor, and the devastation of the land. . but trying nonetheless to see the good that Uncle Henry spoke of.

“Run it on behalf of the League,” Uncle Henry whispered. “Use its profits to buy a yacht or two-or reinvest the capital and transform it into whatever you desire.” He patted him on the shoulder. “I have faith in you.”

“Thanks. .,” Eliot reflexively said. Audrey had taught him to always thank everyone for everything, no matter if he wanted it or not. “I’m busy with school, though.”

“Oh, you don’t actually run it.” Uncle Henry laughed. “You have other people do that for you. You just make the big decisions.”

Eliot imagined himself sitting in a boardroom wearing a white suit and executives hanging on his every instruction.

Why not? Maybe he could turn this place into something better. Prove to the League that he was. . what?

Responsible? Capable? One of them?

Like Fiona?

Something inside Eliot writhed and rebelled against this idea.

Eliot didn’t want to be molded into someone else’s notion of what they thought he should be.

He wanted. . What? He wasn’t sure. But this factory wasn’t it.

And yet, he couldn’t just refuse and leave this place as it was. Uncle Henry was right on one count: It needed help.

“I appreciate the offer,” Eliot said, “but it’s not going to work for me.”

Uncle Henry’s face fell. “My boy, this corporation is worth a great deal. Millions. . or billions. . I forget.”

Money didn’t mean much to Eliot. When did he have time to spend money?

“I’m still saying no, Uncle Henry, but”-Eliot returned to the Rolls-Royce and got his backpack-“I think I can do something for you.”

“Oh?” Uncle Henry’s eyebrows quirked.

“Just come with me and listen.”

Eliot marched to the corner of the parking lot and mounted a sand dune to get a better view. The land was surrounded by a fringe of burning jungle. There were acres of plastic-lined pits holding pools of fluorescent lime and yellow chemicals. Eliot set one foot on a pipe that jutted from the earth and got his violin case.

He pulled out Lady Dawn and stroked her amber grain. “This time,” he whispered to her, “we work together.”

“Eliot?” Uncle Henry said, a slight unease creeping into his voice. “What are you doing?”

Eliot held his violin bow between Henry and himself, brandishing it like a conductor’s baton. “You said you wanted me to ‘step up to the plate’ and ‘knock it out of the park.’ That’s what I’m going to do.”

Eliot turned his back to him and focused.

He’d only been able to make little things happen on purpose: finding the crocodile, Sobek, in the sewers and Amanda Lane in that burning carnival-that dissonant chord he’d struck and sent a Team Knight student flying backwards.

The big things he’d done. . summoning the dead, battling Beelzebub, and calling forth an army. . those were from songs already written: “Mortal’s Coil,” “The Symphony of Existence,” and “The March of the Suicide Queen.”

He closed his eyes and set his bow to Lady Dawn’s strings. Under his fingertips, she pulsed.

For what he wanted to do now, Eliot would have to use bits and pieces of songs he knew, and invent new