All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [128]
Louis shook his head, and his hand curled over his heart. “But I supposed she has already dashed the lovely thing into a million pieces, hasn’t she?”
Fiona didn’t have the heart to answer. She stared at him, which was enough to communicate all that had happened.
He stood mute.
She knew a little of how this must feel—not being able to be with the one you felt the most for. But she couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to have that person utterly reject you.
“Maybe I could talk to her,” Fiona said.
Louis chuckled. “Oh no, my dear. Audrey would never hear of it. And I’m sure she would find some suitable punishment for speaking on the behalf of such a disreputable character.”
“But if you still love her—?”
“Some things are beyond the reach of even love,” he whispered. He hesitated, opened his mouth, stopped, but then finally said, “Just one more thing before I leave you this morning. About Eliot. The boy should not be alone. Things will be tricky for him. Stay close.”
Fiona believed that Louis truly cared for Eliot.
Quite possibly her, too.
And most especially Audrey.
They were so close to being a real family . . . and yet it felt like they were light-years apart. Why was it so hard?
Yes, Louis was the Infernal Prince of Darkness, and yes, he was truly a monster with bat wings and horns and talons, and utterly disgusting. But he was also her father, wasn’t he? That had to count for something.
Louis leaned closer, gingerly took her chin, and tilted her head down. He kissed her on the forehead.
It felt like a warm autumn breeze, like sleeping on soft blankets, like . . . like coming back to a home she had only dreamed of before.
Fiona looked up
Only the fog remained.
To her disappointment—and her relief—her father was gone.
34. Fuligo septica the scientific name for a species of slime mold more commonly called the “scrambled egg” or “dog vomit” slime mold. —Editor.
36
CRAMMING FOR THE MIDTERM
Robert focused on the five two-by-fours he’d duct-taped together and set on cinder blocks. He knelt before them as if in prayer.
One such board, even two would have been easy to break if you were trained or even if you wanted to “brute force” it and bruise your hand.
Sure, it was a stupid test. In their sparring sessions, Aaron had disdained such tricks. “Breaking wood—fah! Useless. How many boards ever fight back?”
Robert struck.
The boards broke like eggshells.
He gathered the pieces and stacked them again, ten high.
He hit once more without hesitation.
The boards shattered—so did the cinderblock. The floor cracked, too.
Now that was more than a stupid test.
Robert flexed his fist and examined it. Red, but otherwise not a mark.
There was a lot more to Aaron’s lessons and Mr. Mimes’s Soma liquor than he’d first guessed. He knew he was part of some larger scheme they’d hatched—and he hated being used by them . . . but he couldn’t complain about the results.
That had been the deal, too, when he was a Driver for Mr. Mimes. There’d been danger and intrigue, but a heck of a benefits package that included near total freedom and an unlimited expense account.
His gaze fell on the stack of books by his futon. He should have been reading and taking last-minute notes for today’s midterm. That stuff was so dry, though. So many dates and facts to memorize. Besides, he figured he knew everything he was going to. Five more minutes wouldn’t . . .
Something was near. He sensed it in his apartment.
Robert whirled about, standing, and raised his hands . . . and found Mr. Henry Mimes leaning against the wall.
“Shall I send a carpenter to fix that?” Mr. Mimes nodded at the broken floor.
“No, thanks,” Robert said, hiding his astonishment at yet another of Mr. Mimes’s miraculous entrances. “There’s leftover bamboo from the remodel. I can handle it.”
“As you wish.” Mr. Mimes stood and rubbed his hands. “I just popped by before school for an update on young Eliot.” He waved