All That Lives Must Die

“Miss Post first.” Miss Westin opened Fiona’s file.

Miss Westin scanned her official Paxington record. From across the table, Eliot saw an account of her duel with Donald van Wyck, and photographs of her looking ferocious in gym class.

“Your performance last semester was remarkable,” Miss Westin said.

Fiona sat up straighter, basking in this rare praise from the Headmistress.

“Most freshmen, however, fail to maintain their grades in the second semester,” Miss Westin went on without looking up. “They are either too stupid to keep up with their studies, or more concerned with their social agendas to grow and excel.

“So,” she said to Fiona, “shall I sign you up for Mythology 102 and Mr. Ma’s classes and call it good?” There was a challenge in her voice.

It was wasted on Fiona, of course, because she had already decided to take that advanced fighting class, Force of Arms.

“No, ma’am,” Fiona smugly replied. “I’ve already picked out an elective.” She opened the catalog and turned it for Miss Westin to see.

Miss Westin smiled.

That smile chilled Eliot to the core. The only thing that came close was the lethal permanent grin of the crocodile oracle, Sobek. There was nothing unusual in her smile-just perfectly white and straight, but ordinary teeth, and yet Eliot sensed death in her bite.

Miss Westin glanced at the catalog. “Force of Arms?” One eyebrow arched.

“Is that a problem?” Fiona asked.

“There are prerequisites.” Miss Westin flipped to the next page. At the top, the Force of Arms entry continued.

Fiona looked startled, as if she hadn’t seen this before.

It read:

PREREQUISITES: For sophomores or older students. Must have parental/guardian consent. Must pass a test of minimal expertise.

“Oh. .” Fiona started to pull the catalog back, and her forehead wrinkled.

Miss Westin, however, kept the book, pinning it to the desk. “Perhaps,” she said, “in light of your record, it would be appropriate for me to waive to sophomore requirement. . if you could manage to pass the qualifying test and obtain a signed permission slip.”

Fiona licked her lips. “I can pass any test, ma’am.”

Fiona, though, made no comment on the signed parental permission slip. That would be the tricky part.

Miss Westin made a few marks on Fiona’s record. “Very well. Let us hope that your talent for passing tests translates to real-world challenges.”

Miss Westin then closed her file and turned to Eliot’s.

Eliot had near identical grades. There were photos of him in gym class, too (although he looked more clueless than heroic somehow in his shots). There were also several handwritten notes on Paxington stationery. The script was too tiny for him to make out. . but Miss Westin made disappointing clicking noises as she read over them.

She looked up. Because they were both sitting, and because the angle was just right, for one brief moment in the candlelight Eliot saw behind her glasses. Unfiltered by the lenses, her eyes were not their usual brown. Instead, the irises were clear and brilliant like cut diamonds.

“And for you Mr. Post? What shall it be? Trivial social pursuits? Or would you like to learn something this semester beyond the bare minimum and keep pace with your sister?”

Eliot bristled at that.

He wasn’t going to take any class that got him bruised and battered any more than he was already getting in gym (and with Robert after school).

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “I mean, yes, I’ll be taking an elective class.” He nodded at the catalog. “Page twenty-three, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Miss Westin ran a finger along the edge of the catalog, flipped open to the precise page, and scanned the class descriptions.

“Extraordinarily dangerous,” she murmured, and tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“What is it?” Fiona leaned forward.

Miss Westin turned the catalog to face him. “This one, correct?” She pointed to

THE POWER OF MUSIC: Seminars discussing music as applied to theoretical magical structures. Practice for instruments and/or voice held twice a week with emphasis on emotive control. Periodic evaluation before live audiences. Prerequisites: Must pass an audition. Signed waiver for the student’s soul.

“For the soul?” Fiona whispered. “What does that mean?”

“The class is far more perilous than any physical combat,” Miss Westin explained. She turned Eliot. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Eliot whispered.

When he first read that part about the soul, Eliot had thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. It’s what he felt every time he played-and something weird and strange and wondrous happened. There was a connection between the magic and the music and his soul-and risk as well. He knew that his soul teetered on the edge of some unknown precipice when he played. . and he had to know why.

Next to him, Fiona shuddered. She opened her mouth as if she had something to say, but couldn’t articulate it, and then after a moment, she whispered, “Are you sure about this?”

Eliot met his sister’s concerned gaze.

There was another reason to take the new course. Last semester, he and Fiona had had every class together. These electives would separate them. Cee had told them, and it’d been proved over and over, that they were stronger together.

But that was the point.

Eliot sometimes felt like he was only strong with his sister. He couldn’t go through his entire life depending on her. He had to stand on his own feet.

“Yeah,” he whispered back. “I’m sure.”

Worry and then resolve flashed over Fiona’s features, and she nodded. . maybe even on some level understanding him for once, for once even agreeing.

Eliot guessed she had come to similar conclusions about the two of them-maybe she would be happy to finally be getting rid of her “little” brother. . or maybe she had something to prove as well.

Miss Westin signed the bottom of Eliot’s record and closed it. “I do believe,” she said, “you will have a most enlightening experience this semester-provided you two survive.”

50 NO MATCH FOR HIS CHARM AND INTELLECT

Louis Piper took one of the many twisty and illegal passages that led to the main entrance thoroughfare of the Paxington Institute. He had to squeeze through shadows and push past trash cans and those homeless wretches who belonged neither in the Middle Realms nor in the island of space that Paxington occupied.

Bums. Beggars. Prostitutes.

Myths and heroes and nightmares who’d fallen on hard times: Mordred. . Mr. Nox. . the ever-blinded Gorgon. Why couldn’t they respectably crawl into a bottle and try to make themselves disappear as he had?

He avoided their lecherous, leprous touches and piteous calls, turned the corner-

— and emerged in the sunlight and relatively fresh air behind the Cafe Eridanus.

Louis glanced at the Dumpster but avoided it (although old habits died hard and he