All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [167]
When she had first seen the catalog, Fiona laughed—like she had time for a third class.
It was only after she’d watched Eliot flip through the thing for an entire day that she grew curious.
There were the classes she had expected, like Introduction to Alchemy. Take that, and you’d learn how to manipulate the mythical elements and combine them with the mundane ones—brew universal solvents, dreaming potions, and similar stuff.
She could just see setting her hair on fire, or spilling the universal solvent, alkahest, on her books and dissolving them all.
No thanks.
But there were also ones like Mythic Forging Techniques, where you could learn how to blacksmith the Four Winds and the might of volcanoes into a blade. That sounded cool. Naturally, though, the prerequisite was two semesters of alchemy.
There were dozens of exotic languages that intrigued her: the ancient rune scripts of Atlantis, Egyptian hieroglyphics, and the anti-poetical cadence tongues of the Ancient Ones. (Although for that, you had to pass a psych evaluation, be at least eighteen years old, and sign an insanity waiver!)
It figured that the best classes were open only to juniors or seniors or had ludicrous requirements like “must have tamed animal spirit” or “endure trial by fire” or “must provide documentation of wilder ancestry” (whatever that was).
The one that really intrigued her, though, was a class called Force of Arms.
FORCE OF ARMS: A series of weeklong intensive instructions, sparring exercises, and field trips to train the already proficient warrior in hand-to-hand techniques, fencing, athletic prowess, and strategies, with an emphasis on defending against magical techniques with physical force.
This was exactly what she needed for gym—which had seemed more battlefield than obstacle course during midterms. It was also a perfect fit for her after-school lifestyle—having to fight off an army of shadows or something else every other day.
She glanced at Eliot.
His eyes were on the Towers board, flicking among the stacks of stones Cecilia had on her side.
“This game would be better,” he murmured, “if there was an element of chance.”
“It has been suggested more than once,” said Cee without taking her gaze off the board.
“Something like dice.”
Cee looked up. “Your mother would not approve.”
“So what else is new?” Eliot moved a stack of three inward toward the center of the circular board.
Cee’s brows furrowed. “. . . Unexpected.”
Eliot brushed the hair from his face. It’d been a while since he got his hair cut—that is, since he let Cecilia put a bowl on his head for one of her trims.
Grooming habits weren’t the only thing changing with him. His already dark mood had gotten gloomier over break. He hadn’t gone over to see Robert once; he hardly studied; he just moped about pretending to do his chores; or occasionally he’d plunk out some sad little tune on his violin.
It was getting on Fiona’s nerves.
The only clue he’d given as to why was when he got home late that first night of vacation. Audrey was gone, and Cee was already in bed—or else Eliot would’ve gotten grounded. He’d told her that he tried to follow Jezebel and help her . . . and that hadn’t gone as planned.
Great. So her brother was still following the Infernal around, working overtime to find more trouble. Jezebel wasn’t some stupid, simple crush to him. Eliot was really hooked on her. And Jezebel was—by her own admission—trying to seduce him to the other side of the family . . . maybe drag Eliot down to Hell with her.
A confrontation was inevitable between Fiona and Jezebel.
If Eliot got any worse, Fiona would consider breaking their unbreakable rule about never telling on each other—and snitch to Audrey.
That’d put an end to Jezebel once and for all.
One day, though, Fiona was going to have to let Eliot solve his own problems.
Or maybe she should just let him be sad for the rest of his pathetic, moping life—if that’s what he really wanted. Talk about picking the absolute wrong person to fall for.