All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [115]
The ribbon of chain link had been nailed to a wooden beam overhead. That beam, in turn, ran straight to a zigzag of stairs . . . that would take them to the top, and Team Scarab’s flag.
Robert, Mitch, and Amanda, already limped up those stairs.
They were close to winning. Once they got to their flag, all it would take was either him or Jeremy—it didn’t matter who—to get there as well.
That would make four. The match would end.
Maybe Eliot could stop this before anyone else got hurt.
He glanced down.
The Wolf boys had Jezebel surrounded. She held her hands up in a martial arts stance.
A thin fog blew in and vapors swirled around her.
The smallest Wolf boy (Eliot recognized him from the duel by the fountain) had a wooden club. He darted in, struck her leg—and danced out of her reach.
She fell to one knee, but didn’t cry out.
“Jezebel!” Eliot cried.
Another boy stepped closer, grabbed her injured shoulder.
Jezebel winced, shrugged off the boy’s hold, and backhanded him—off the platform.
She whirled toward Eliot. “Stick to the plan!” she shouted.
Van Wyck moved in—his hand ghostly insubstantial, the bones within visible, his motion trailing increasingly thick fog vapors.
Jezebel deftly avoided his grasp.
She shot Eliot a hate-filled glare. “Go!”
Nothing was worth this, Eliot decided—not winning—not even if it meant flunking out of gym class. Seeing Jezebel fight alone, already injured, he couldn’t stand it.
He started back.
The chain link that Eliot and Jeremy clung to, however, pinged, and the nails holding it to the beam popped out.
They plunged—jerked to a halt and dangled . . . one corner tenuously secured by three nails in the beam overhead.
Eliot’s heart hammered in his throat, but still all he could think of was Jezebel.
He searched for her. The fog below, however, made it impossible to see the platform. He heard the Wolf boys moving, grunting; there was the cracking of wood.
There was no choice on which way to go for him, though; he was certain he wasn’t over the platform anymore. Eliot pulled himself up, hand over hand.
Jeremy hauled himself up, too. “I’ll be first to the flag,” Jeremy whispered.
Eliot straddled the beam and offered Jeremy his hand.
A curious look narrowed Jeremy’s eyes as he reached forward and clasped Eliot’s hand.
Eliot pulled.
Jeremy gripped the beam with his other hand and pulled himself up—yanking Eliot hard.
The unexpected motion threw Eliot. His hand slipped from Jeremy’s sweat-slick grasp . . . and Eliot tumbled off.
Airborne, panic spiked through Eliot. He was in free fall, arms and legs thrashing.
Three fingers dragged along the chain link—grabbed—and he whipped around, slamming into it.
Overhead, two more nails screeched out.
Jeremy had pulled him off deliberately.
He’d said he had to “be first to the flag.” Was winning so important to Jeremy he was willing to murder Eliot? Maybe. Then he could find a replacement for Eliot on the team, too.
Eliot scrambled up onto the beam.
Jeremy had already made it halfway across the beam to the stairs. He had his hands outstretched for balance.
Eliot ran. He didn’t worry about balance. He was concerned only with momentum. He plowed shoulder-first into Jeremy—shoved him off the beam. Not so hard, however, that he’d go flying off as Eliot had, but enough so he fell down.
Eliot stepped in the middle of his back and ran over him.
He didn’t look back. He’d wasted enough time and breath on Jeremy Covington.
Eliot bounded the stairs three at a time—just like he was racing Fiona at home—until he emerged at the top of the jungle gym.
Wind whipped his face. There were layers fog and cloud, and far overhead, crows circled and cawed. Eliot saw the entire campus, and beyond, all the way to Pacific Heights and the bay.
Robert, Mitch, and Amanda yelled to him and waved.
Eliot snapped out of it and sprinted for the flag.
It seemed like he ran forever . . . never quite making it to his goal . . . never getting closer . . . like some nightmare. Then his hands brushed the black silk.
Far away on the ground was a