by Eric Nylund
Lev scooped up the dice, scowled, shook them violently, and threw.
The dice cracked together like a billiard break-bounced against the far bumpers, and rolled back in front of him. Four and three-seven: dead center in the probability distribution. The worst possible roll.
Lev’s giant hands clenched about the table’s railing and crushed it. He swallowed his rage, muttering.
Infernals heeded no rules. . save one: No one ever went back on an agreement once dice were on the table.
Abby set her pet locust down, and it skittered out under the door. She stood on her tiptoes to reach the dice and rolled next.
A pair of the dancing dogs. Four. The lowest result yet.
She turned to Sealiah, challenge glimmering in her red eyes.
Sealiah toyed with the dice on the table, as if she could commune with their delectable randomness. She snatched them up and, with one graceful toss, sent them flying across the table, bouncing off the far end-impacting each other and coming to rest in the center. Two sixes, twelve crows on the wing-a murder, so called, or more commonly among mortals, boxcars, as they resembled a pair of freight cars on a train.
“Congratulations,” Ashmed said. “We have one side.” He looked between Sealiah and Abby. “Perhaps a matchup?” The Chairman’s face was unreadable.
“Perhaps. .” Sealiah plucked up the dice. To Louis’s astonishment, she offered them to him.
Louis held up both hands. “I’m no Board member. I have no place in this.”
In truth, he had no place because he was not a tenth as powerful as his cousins. Engaging in a war with a landed Infernal Lord was guaranteed suicide.
“You were present when we voted,” Ashmed said. “I do not remember specifically excluding you.” He pointed his smoldering cigar at Louis. “Your children should care for you more than for any of us. So your involvement would guarantee them running to your aid.”
Sealiah smiled. “The way I hear it, they might run to aid his destruction.” Her hand remained outstretched, offering him the dice.
“Stop squirming,” Lev told him. “Roll.” He took a step closer, one meaty hand curling into a titanic fist.
“Well. .” Louis’s smile never wavered as he reached for the dice. “Since you insist. I am honored.”
He grabbed the cubes without touching Sealiah.
Louis tilted his palm. . and with the most undramatic of gestures let the dice fall.
The cubes bounced onto the table once and stopped: a one and a two. A total of three.
His heart skipped a beat.
Abby growled and stamped her foot.
“It seems, Louis, we are fated to dance once more,” Sealiah said.
“Not so fast, peddler of poppies,” Mephistopheles said.
Talons raked the Nagas of Dharma across the green felt. Mephistopheles grabbed them, shook, and tossed. They came to rest directly in front of Sealiah: a pair of the self-consuming ouroboros serpents.
She flinched. “Snake eyes,” Sealiah said. “How appropriate.”
Louis almost fell over with relief.
Mephistopheles vanished. Only shadows remained where he had once stood.
“So be it,” Ashmed declared. “The Board sanctions Civil War between Sealiah, Queen of Poppies, and Mephistopheles, Lord of the House of Umbra.” He glanced at Louis with disdain. “You are dismissed.”
The door behind him squeaked open.
“Happy to have been of assistance.” Louis bowed and scraped and stepped backwards and bowed once more-as the door slammed shut in his face.
“Too close,” he breathed.
Louis turned in time to see Amberflaxus tearing the head off Abigail’s locust, munching and crunching its fat body.
“Come, my friend,” Louis whispered. “There’s much to prepare. Chaos and opportunity abound today!”
He paused, however, wondering if placing his children in the greatest of dangers had been the best possible outcome.
For him-yes.
But what of them?
There was a faint, annoying whisper of doubt, a remnant of his mortal being. . Perhaps in time, it would go away like a blister healed after being popped.
No matter. He had plans and schemes and double-crosses to orchestrate.
5. PLACEMENT AND DISPLACEMENT
The clock tower chimed its ninth bell as Fiona and Eliot trampled up the worn marble steps of Bristlecone Hall.
There was a central yard dominated by a large silver tree, and classrooms extended to either side. Four doors down on the right was a sign: PLACEMENT EXAMS.
They sprinted for it, crossing the threshold of the classroom as the tenth and last bell sounded.
Panting, ready to fall over, Fiona saw one wall was floor-to-ceiling panes of glass-panes as small as a postage stamp on up to bedsheet-sized, and each slightly tilted or out of focus, magnifying or inverting the image of the old tree in the yard.
Her eyes adjusted to the darker room and she saw twelve rows of desks, twelve deep. They had rolled tops, ancient inkwells, attached stools that swung out, and wrought-iron footrests. At the front of this room was a massive blackboard, and along the walls were gaslight globes of opal glass.
As the last bit of her vision cleared, Fiona saw students at all the desks save two-and all the students turned to stare at Eliot and her.
“S-s-sorry,” she said, and flushed.
“Apologize only if there is reason to,” said a woman with a slight British accent.
This woman was the only person standing in the classroom besides Fiona and Eliot. She might have been thirty years old, and wore a long black skirt and a high-necked linen shirt with black pearl buttons. Her dark hair was up, and she wore octagonal spectacles that magnified her eyes.
She wasn’t human.
The woman’s skin and features were too perfect, too pale, more alabaster than organic, like a Greek statue.
Or perhaps an Immortal.
There was something else, too, in her brown-eyed stare. Fiona felt herself fall into that gaze until the world was swallowed. Fiona had felt this before, staring down the endless maw of Sobek, the crocodile eater of souls.
It was death. It was oblivion.
Fiona blinked, came out of the trace, and shuddered.
The woman opened a tiny leather book and consulted it. “Miss Fiona and Master Eliot Post.” She made marks with a fountain pen. “On time.” She spared them a glance. “By the skin of your teeth. Sit.”
Fiona and Eliot obeyed, taking the only two unoccupied desks halfway to the front, on opposite sides of the center aisle.
The woman walked to the lectern. “I am Miss Westin, the Headmistress of the Paxington Institute,” she said. “I wield absolute authority here.”
No one spoke or shifted in their seats.
“You will find today’s placement exam in your desks,” Miss Westin continued, “along with three pencils and an eraser. See that you have these materials now. Do not break the seal on the examination.”
Every student opened a rolltop desk.
In hers, Fiona found a stack of twenty pages secured with a cardboard band. All three pencils had been sharpened to a deadly point.
Miss Westin waited as the students settled down, keenly observing all. “I am delighted that you can follow instructions.”
Fiona swallowed and heard the collective inhalation of the other students.
“You will find,” Miss Westin said, “that at Paxington, we take our rules seriously. Last year, two students prematurely opened their examinations and were expelled.”
Fiona felt like she was going to faint or throw up. Had Miss Westin briefed everyone on other rules before she and Eliot got here? What if they made a mistake?
She caught a motion in the corner of her eye.
The boy on her left waved to her. He was cute, with brown curly hair to his shoulders, and expressive eyes. He flashed a smile, nodded reassuringly, and then turned his attention back to Miss Westin.
Those simple gestures eased her fear. Fiona wanted to thank the boy, but thought better of doing so while Miss Westin spoke.
Miss Westin produced a silver pocket watch and flipped it open. “We shall begin the examination in sixty-four seconds. You will have one hour twenty minutes-which is four minutes per page-to finish. Budget your time accordingly.”
One boy near the windows raised his hand. “If I break one of these marvelous writing implements?” he asked, brandishing a pencil.
Fiona recognized the Scottish accent. She squinted against the glare. Yes. . it took a second for her to be sure. . the blond hair, the roguish grin: it was Jeremy Covington, the boy she and Robert had found in the Valley of the New Year. He had escaped with them.
But the Valley was part of Purgatory. That meant Jeremy had been dead, didn’t it?
“You have two spares, Mr. Covington,” Miss Westin told him. “I suggest you break no more than three.”
“And if I need the little boys’ room, ma’am?” There was an undertone of smarm to his question.
Miss Westin stared him down. “Then I shall escort you myself to the urinal.”
Jeremy’s head dropped, and Fiona saw his ears redden.
“Hey,” Eliot whispered. “Good luck!”
You, too, she mouthed back.
Four other older students entered the room.
Miss Westin nodded to them as they took positions in the corners. Miss Westin then glanced at her watch. “Begin. . now.”
A hundred-some cardboard bands ripped, and a multitude of pages turned, sounding like a flock of birds taking wing.
The first section was on history. That should be a breeze. Fiona and Eliot had studied all of history from Earth’s formation to global warming.
There were questions on Egyptian pharaohs, the reasons for the American Civil War, and influences on the Industrial Revolution.
She answered them all-could have done it in her sleep.
She turned to the next page, and there was a list of events to be chronologically ordered: Sargon and the formation of the Akkadian Empire. . the discovery of the Americas. . the founding of Rome by Romulus and Remus. .
But Fiona froze when she got to, King Arthur dies/departs for Avalon.
The tales of King Arthur had been banned by Audrey. “Too many fairy tales and lies,” she had told them.
Fiona scrunched her lips in irritation. She marked this with a question mark and moved on. She’d have to come back later and figure it out.
The next section was on mathematics.
She blasted through geometry and algebra problems, and slowed only a little on the trigonometry.
Fiona thought this was going well, but she wished she had a watch.
She looked around but spotted no clock. She did see, however, that Miss Westin walked the aisles, and the four older student proctors watched everyone with hawklike intensity.
Fiona noticed that Eliot (now wearing his spectacles) was ahead on his test, scribbling away on some essay.
She was about to get back to her test when she saw a girl three rows over staring at her. The girl had acne and long brown hair that fell into her face. Fiona knew her. . but couldn’t quite recall from where or when.
She turned back to her test; Fiona didn’t want anyone to think she was cheating.
She focused on the next section: English.
Fiona knew all the great authors, their themes, styles, and techniques. In her comparative essay, she quoted Shakespeare and Shelley and Shaw from memory. She paused to admire her dramatic cursive handwriting before she flipped to the next section.
All her confidence drained as she read the heading: Magic-Theory, Engineering, and History.
Magic, legends, fairy tales, fantasy, and science fiction-all the things specifically forbidden in their household for the last fifteen years.
She took a deep breath, willed herself to stay calm.
The first question was, Name the four classical elements, and discuss Plato’s and Aristotle’s inclusion of the fifth element.
Five elements? There were more than one hundred elements: hydrogen, helium, carbon, nitrogen. . Were they talking about something else?
She wouldn’t panic. Not yet.
She skipped ahead to see if there were easier ones.
The next question was, Name seven mortal magical families. Compare and contrast. Bonus: Name three extinct families.
Mortal magical families? She knew there were Immortals, fallen angels. . but there were more collections of magical people?
The back of Fiona’s throat burned. She paged ahead.
There were questions on alchemy, divination, and necromancy.
How was she ever going to figure any of this out?
Next to her she heard pages rustle. She saw Eliot flip back and forth through this section as well — but then he stopped, and started scribbling.
He was guessing. Had to be.
It was just like Eliot to try something reckless when he didn’t know the answer.
But why not? Miss Westin hadn’t said it was forbidden.
Fiona set the tip of her pencil on the page, but couldn’t force herself to write. It felt like a lie.
Across the classroom, she heard whispers. She ignored these voices and flipped back to the history section and King Arthur. If she had to make a guess, she’d make an educated one.
The whispers, however, got louder. There was a tiny laugh.
She looked up and saw Jeremy Covington, eyes sparkling, talking to a redheaded girl next to him-both had their test booklets closed, pencils set neatly on top. They were done already!
Jeremy had been just as rude in Purgatory: trying to kiss Fiona when he hadn’t been invited to. She had a feeling he was going to be three times the trouble alive that he had been dead.
She couldn’t waste energy thinking about him. She had to-
“Time!” Miss Westin announced, and snapped her pocket watch shut. “Pencils up.”
Every student instantly complied.
Fiona was furious. She’d never not finished a test before.
She looked over to Eliot. He gave a little apologetic shrug, as if to say, What can you do?
There had to be something. She could claim extenuating circumstances-explain to Miss Westin about their weird mother and how they were brought up.
Miss Westin and the proctors moved to the head of each row. They picked up the test and graded them right in front of everyone-marking wrong answers with a red pen.
Miss Westin finished grading first and scrawled a large D on the front.
“Insufficient,” Miss Westin told the crestfallen boy. “We allow only those with the potential for excellence into Paxington, young man. You may leave.”
The boy hung his head and skulked from the room.
This was so cruel. A trickle of molten iron anger flared within Fiona. She gripped the edge of her desk. Her nails dug into the wood, splitting the grain.
Ever since Fiona severed her appetite, she’d been unable to easily feel anything-except this sudden anger.
She imagined grabbing the desk and throwing it across the classroom and through the window. Destroying everything.
The shadow of Miss Westin crossed her gaze. “Test, Miss Post?”
Fiona’s anger instantly quenched, as if it’d been plunged into liquid nitrogen. Chill bumps crawled over her arms.
“Yes, ma’am.” She handed her the pages and noticed the Headmistress’s hands were slender and bony.
Miss Westin flipped through the pages, barely making a mark until she got to the section on magic-and then she made a flurry of Xs.
It felt like the blood was draining out of her. Fiona wondered if she’d have the courage to stand and walk out of the classroom if she failed. What would she tell Audrey? Or the League?
Miss Westin turned to the cover, scribbled on it, and handed it back.
A fat red C stared at Fiona. . which looked like it was laughing at her.
“Welcome to P
axington,” Miss Westin said, and moved on.
Fiona stared at the grade. A C was barely passing, and failure by Audrey’s standards. On the other hand-she exhaled-it was apparently sufficient to get her into Paxington.
She turned to Eliot for reassurance, but Miss Westin was grading his test, too.
She finished, leaving Eliot looking confused and worried. . but also relieved. On the cover of his examination was a C+.
Fiona flashed him her test. “How did you do better?” she asked.
She was happy that he’d passed-Fiona couldn’t even imagine what it would have been like if only one of them had gotten into Paxington-but how had he scored better?
Fiona watched as a girl behind her failed the test, and then two more students, who quickly picked up their bags and shuffled out of the room. Miss Westin was ruthless in her pronunciations to them: “failed. .,” “insufficient. .,” and “. . you must now leave.”
By the time she and the student proctors finished, one in ten had been dismissed.
Some students murmured: “I heard one girl killed herself last year after she flunked out. .,” and “it’s supposed to get really hard now,” and “fewer losers around here-good.”
That last cruel remark had come from the redheaded girl next to Jeremy. She looked inordinately pleased with her test, which she held up so everyone could see her A-.
Miss Westin returned to the lectern.
Everyone fell silent.
“Welcome, freshman class, to the Paxington Institute,” Miss Westin told them. Sunlight reflected off her glasses and made her eyes appear luminous and preternaturally large. “We will now cover some basics.”
She pushed on the blackboard, revealing another blackboard behind it covered with pie charts and handwriting so perfect it made Fiona’s look like epileptic scratches. Miss Westin indicated the title: Mandatory Courses for First-Semester Freshmen.
“All freshmen have two classes their first semester,” she explained. “Mythology 101, in which I shall be your instructor, and gym class, taught by Mr. Ma.”
Mythology? Was that the equivalent of their family history? She and Eliot might actually learn something practical about their world.
