All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [123]
“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 café, 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,