by Eric Nylund
Or was he too much of a gentleman to kiss on the first date?
Or was it a sign that he wanted to be friends? And just friends?
No way. All that talk about “looking into her soul” and “knowing she was the one for him.” That was not “friend” talk.
Maybe if they went out again. . he’d kiss her. Really, what was the rush?
She fidgeted and sighed, exasperated.
The kitchen door swung open-kicked by Dallas as she entered with both arms loaded with plates. The sun broke through the Bay Area fog, and golden light filled the room.
Her aunt did know how to make an entrance.
She set the plates on the table.
There was wild mushroom quiche and crêpes suzette, steaming cinnamon buns with icing, fresh squeezed juices, croissants that smelled divine, artful arrangements of sliced fruits and cheeses, and for each of them-Fiona, Eliot, and Cee-their own steaming cups of cappuccino with heart shapes swirled in foam.
“It’s not much,” Dallas apologized, “but it was the best I could whip up in your dinky kitchen.”
Cee made a strangled coughing noise, poked a croissant, and then retreated back into her kitchen.
Eliot dug in.
So did Fiona. “M-thanks,” she said as she chewed fluffy egg and chomped drizzled cinnamon glaze.
Fiona’s stomach rumbled, feeling already full, but she forced herself to eat more. It was good.
Dallas sat cross-legged in the chair next to hers and grinned.
Fiona wanted to tell her that she could come over anytime, cook for them morning, noon, and night if she wanted to, but didn’t. It would’ve crushed Cee.
Eliot rolled his eyes. He was in the same predicament, not being able to thank Dallas properly-but not pausing in his feeding to do anything about it.
Fiona took a gulp of pomegranate juice.
“Thanks, Aunt Dallas,” she whispered.
Dallas nodded, but her attention was on the school catalog, reading it upside down. . and her fingers touched Mitch’s letter.
Fiona wanted to snatch it away. But that would be rude, especially to someone who just cooked you the best breakfast ever. So instead Fiona gingerly tried to pull the catalog and letter across the table. “That’s nothing,” she told Dallas. “I was just worrying about classes this semester.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” Her tone indicated that she meant things more important than school. Dallas kept one finger on Mitch’s letter, as if she could discern the contents within the envelope through her fingertips.
Dallas considered, smiled, and released Mitch’s letter. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I was dizzy and confused the first dozen or so times I got married.”
Confused didn’t begin to cover how Fiona felt. What she didn’t know about boys could fill books, volumes-libraries, even. Someone should’ve told her how complicated it all got.
On the other hand, if she told Dallas about Mitch, wouldn’t that be like telling the League? Would they take an interest in him. . make sure he was safe and appropriate for their youngest goddess?
And what if they found him wanting? Fiona shuddered.
What was Dallas? In cutoffs and a tank top, she looked more like her older sister than the goddess who had wielded two golden swords and stood toe-to-toe against Abbadon the Destroyer.
Fiona took another sip of juice to clear her throat. “No, I’m okay,” Fiona said, but then changed her mind. When would she ever get a chance to talk to an expert on boys? “Well, maybe. .”
Fiona cast a frustrated glance at her brother.
He sighed, understood that she wanted him gone, and in a rare magnanimous gesture, Eliot excused himself to go to the bathroom.
When Fiona was sure he was out of earshot, she continued, “There’s one boy.”
Dallas’s eyes widened. “One you like, I take it?”
Fiona nodded, feeling the heat rise in her face. Why did she always lose her cool when it came to boys?
“What’s stopping you?” Dallas asked.
Fiona huffed out a tiny laugh. “The League. Mother. Who knows what they’d do if they found out I wanted to-”
Fiona couldn’t finish the thought. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from Mitch. To go out on more dates? To be his girlfriend? And then what?
It was crazy. In her life, with people trying to kill her, how was she supposed to ever have a normal relationship?
“Wait.” Fiona’s smooth forehead wrinkled with bewilderment. “You were married before? To people in the family?”
Dallas laughed. “Never to an Immortal, baby. Don’t get me wrong: some of your cousins and uncles are fun”-she looked away, distracted-“and incredibly talented, but that’s not what I need in a partner. I need someone who can appreciate me for me, not my power, or how being with me alters the politics of the League.” She sighed. “Not that it’s ever uncomplicated. I just get a better connection with a mortal.”
“And the League doesn’t mind?”
Dallas stiffened. “It’s none of their damned business.”
Fiona was stunned at this revelation.
Her aunt was 100 percent correct: It was none of their business. Fiona had rights as well as responsibilities in the League.
“For people like us,” Dallas whispered, “there come too few chances at bliss. You find something that makes you happy-grab it with both hands and don’t let go.”
Fiona had a lot to process. Like how to balance her life in the League and at school. . with having a life at all.
“Thanks, Aunt Dallas. That helps. A lot.”
Dallas smiled. “It’s cool. Anytime.”
Eliot came back then (his entrance so well timed that Fiona suspected the sneaky Rattus rattus had been eavesdropping).
“Oh-there’s one more thing that’s been bugging us,” Fiona said. “Maybe you can clear it up.”
Eliot starting eating-then stopped, picking up on Fiona’s train of thought. They’d discussed this at length: What had happened to the ancient families’ leaders? Satan and Zeus?
“Oh yeah,” he said. “At the Battle of Ultima Thule, when you and the others were fighting the Infernals.”
“What really happened to Zeus?” Fiona asked. “Mr. Ma said he died there. But there was no body. It was like he walked off or something.”
Fiona had a fascination with Zeus. He was the only one ever to lead the entire League of Immortals by himself. She’d studied everything there was about him in their assigned textbooks, and had checked out the more obscure references from the library (although there hadn’t been any time to crack them) like: Lightning Eaters and other Tales of the Titans, The Seven Forbidden Lovers, and Divum sub Terra.[44]
At the mention of Zeus, however, her aunt’s smile vanished. Outside, fog swallowed the sun.
“Oh, him.” Dallas sneered. “The greatest womanizer in all history.”
Fiona knew what she meant-all those classical stories about his seductions, the transformation into swans and showers of gold (whatever that was).
“He had to be more than that, though,” Fiona whispered. “We saw him leading you. He looked so brave. He was willing to die to save you.”
Dallas waved her hands, dismissing those words. “In the old days, maybe. So far back, who can remember?”
“But he did lead the League,” Eliot pressed. “Before there was even a Council?”
The light outside further dimmed, and rain pelted the metal roof of their house.
“Yeah.” Dallas’s face hardened, and she sounded more like Audrey as her tone chilled. “He was a different man-organizing us against the Titans, saving us all. . before the age of treaties and politics. . before he grew fat and lazy and lecherous and forgot what he was.”
“Did he die?” Fiona asked.
Dallas was quiet a long moment, and then whispered, “I don’t think so. He was wounded at Thule. . but he limped off the battlefield. After we started to talk peace with the other family, though, he said his time had come a
nd gone. . that things were changing, and he no longer wanted to change with them. He left us. Maybe to go die.”
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed out a half hour.
Cecilia came out of the kitchen. “Your lunches! I forgot.”
“Oh, stop clucking,” Dallas said, and her smile returned. “They’re made.”
On the table by the stairs sat two paper bags. Scribbled with crayon upon them were masterwork impressionistic scenes: one of the dark forest, the other a seascape.
“A little something for my favorite niece and nephew,” Dallas explained with a wink.
“Then off to school with you both,” Cee exclaimed. “Miss Westin will skin you alive today if you’re late.”
Fiona jumped to her feet, not sure if Cee was being literal or not.
Eliot raced for the stairs.
Fiona hesitated, glancing back at her aunt.
“You’re just like him,” Dallas whispered, “. . minus the lechery.”
Fiona detected a bit of regret in her aunt’s eyes, and something else burned inside that she had seen in the Dallas who on the battlefield was fighting for her life-a fire full of power and life and passion.
Then Fiona blinked. . and noticed the table by the stairs was empty.
She raced after her brother. That rat! He’d grabbed both lunches!
49 ELECTIVES
Eliot and Fiona entered the Grand Spring Ballroom. It was the size of an aircraft hangar, filled with crystal chandeliers and miniature lights that mimicked the stars on a clear summer solstice night. Floor-to-ceiling tapestries of courtly dances, pastoral scenes, and major battles covered the walls and made the place seem even larger.
Freshmen usually weren’t allowed in here. Eliot shuddered. Good thing, too-because some freshman girls might get the idea they were supposed to have dances.
Miss Westin probably wanted her freshmen focused on studying (and surviving) their first year. For once, Eliot was grateful for homework.
In the center of the ballroom sat a dozen executive desks spaced ten paces apart. Around them students queued, waiting to sit and talk to the adults at the tables. It wasn’t just freshmen here, but Paxington upperclassmen, too.
He spotted Amanda, hair in her face, not exactly confident as she’d been the last time he saw her in gym glass-but still a long way from the shy and scared creature she’d been that first day of school.
He’d heard one of the dorms had caught fire over the break. Three students had been hospitalized. Amanda stayed in the dorms, and he was glad to see she was okay.
Eliot and Fiona started toward her, but then it was Amanda’s turn in line and she sat at one of the desks.
Eliot examined the adults at the tables. They were dressed in business suits, and each possessed that indefinable air of superiority he’d come to associate with people of power.
“Those must be our counselors,” Fiona whispered.
“Teachers?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “We’ve never seen the other teachers before, though. I mean other than Mr. Ma and Miss Westin.”
Jeremy and Sarah Covington sat at one table. Jeremy spoke vigorously to the little old man on the other side of the desk. Jeremy stood and paced, gesticulating wildly. . although still smiling. The old man smiled, too, but kept shaking his head.
Sarah fidgeted in her seat. She made eye contact with Eliot and looked away.
The funny thing was, Eliot didn’t hear anything from their table. . none of them, actually. Like the sound didn’t travel.
A group of girls spotted Fiona. “Oh, Fiona!” one called out. They all moved toward her.
That was her pack of admirers. They were always trying to make small talk and find out what it was like being a goddess in the League.
Fiona sighed, but nonetheless smiled and waved back to them. . trying to move on, but she was too slow and they intercepted her.
Eliot dropped back.
How was it that everyone loved Fiona (or at least loved the fame, money, and immortality they thought she represented) but not one of the students at Paxington had made the connection that Eliot, her brother, her twin, might be in the League of Immortals, too?
It was like last week when he had followed Jezebel to the Market Street BART station. When he stayed in the shadows, no one saw him. Like he was invisible.
At school. . he wasn’t invisible, not optically anyway. For some reason, though, he seemed to be socially transparent.
Maybe it was some Infernal power, a sort of mental sleight of hand that he was doing without thinking about it.
He looked for Jezebel, but saw not a trace of her platinum curls among the crowds. Jezebel didn’t blend well. She would have had a crowd of boys around her. That would be okay with Eliot-just to know that she was here, safe.
No luck.
And no Robert, either. Although if he had wanted to blend, Eliot was sure he couldn’t have spotted him. He made a note to ask how Robert did it. . and compare notes on social invisibilities.
“Hey!” someone called out.
Eliot looked. Across the room, Mitch Stephenson waved at him.
So much for the “invisibility” theory. Mitch saw him just fine.
Eliot waved back.
That was a mistake, a humiliating one. Mitch had waved to get Fiona’s attention-not his.
He noticed Eliot waving like a complete dork, though, and shifted his glance a notch. His waved at Eliot, too, trying to make it look like that’s what he’d been doing.
Eliot appreciated the gesture, but didn’t feel any better about his near-zero social status.
“Mr. Post?”
Eliot turned to the deep baritone voice behind him.
Harlan Dells stood there, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked like a funeral director today in a black suit and tie, his blond beard braided into a single tight cord.
“Uh, hey, Mr. Dells. How are you?”
“Fine, young man, but you and your sister have an appointment now. And your counselor is not known for her infinite patience.”
Mr. Dells gestured to Fiona. She saw him even while surrounded by her pack. The other girls saw the Keeper of Paxington’s Gate as well, and all simultaneously shut up.
Fiona trotted to Eliot’s side. “Hello, Mr. Dells. What can I do for you?”
“There.” Mr. Dells nodded to the far corner of the ballroom. “Do not keep her waiting, more than you have already.”
Eliot squinted into the shadows. There was some light in the corner: four candles floated in the gloom. No. . as his eyes adjusted, he saw the candles sat on the corners of large desk, almost hidden in the folds of black curtains.
And sitting, watching them, her glasses reflecting flames, was Miss Westin, her hands steepled on the desk.
“She’s our guidance counselor?” Fiona whispered.
Miss Westin looked like a spider in the center of a dark web. . one that no student dared get close to. Just like the repellent field that Eliot seemed to have around him. Maybe he and the Headmistress had something in common, after all.
“Come on.” Eliot crossed the room, moving deeper into the dark, away from the crowds. He settled into one of the high-backed chairs across the desk from her.
Fiona caught up and sat in the other chair.
“Good morning, children,” Miss Westin said. She pulled out two file folders with their names printed on the sides and set them down.
“Good morning, Headmistress,” they said in unison.
“No sound may leave the confines of this desk,” Miss Westin said. “This session is completely confidential even from your parents.”
Eliot glanced at Fiona and she shot back the same curious look. Why the secrecy? It was just their class schedule. Like Audrey wouldn’t know what it was in a few hours anyway.
But maybe that was the point: Their mother would know in a few hours, after they’d signed up for their elected classes. . and too late to make any objections. This would be entirely th
eir choice. How often did that happen?
“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.”
