All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [181]
Mitch led her down the path until it faded, and then through the deep shade of a banyan tree—
—and they stepped from its shadow to one cast by a lamppost onto Pacific Avenue in San Francisco.
“There we go,” Mitch said. “A few blocks from home, all safe and sound.”
Fiona bit her lip. That was it?
Then she stopped her pout. Mitch had just revealed one of his deepest secrets to her, taken her to the Himalayas, probably to Indonesia, and back here. She was getting spoiled by all the magic . . . and all the attention Mitch was giving her.
He stepped closer, still holding her hand, and said, “Don’t tell anyone how I feel about Paxington and the families. I can imagine what they’d think or do if they knew I was such a rebel.”
She touched his lips with her finger, silencing him. The softness of his flesh sent a ripple of electricity along her arm.
“I won’t tell—even though I think what you’ve said is the noblest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He nodded and pulled back a tiny bit. “Well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I guess we better hit the books, huh?”
Fiona wasn’t letting him slip away this time.
She grabbed him and pulled him back—her lips met his, and she melted into his arms as he wrapped them about her.
Whatever happened next . . . let Robert and the rest of them sort it all out. Let Team Scarab crash and burn and fail, for all she cared.
What she had here and now was everything she wanted.
46. Genevieve Stephenson-Hines, one of the longer-lived of the Stephenson clan, retired from the practice of white magic at the age of 106. Whereabouts unknown, but no record of her death exists, so she may still be alive. —Editor.
47. The mythohistorical origins of fairies remain inconclusive, although there are many theories: the dead, angels (demoted or otherwise), elemental forces, transformed mortals, baby’s laughs, or pagan gods. Supposedly fairies live in a realm severed from the remote nether realms, borderlands, and purgatories. To travel to, and more notably back from, their realm is fraught with danger even by nether realm standards. Journey is never by happenstance, and beings only rarely depart by special permission (e.g., the Faery Queen’s Silver Bough, which must be held at all times to avoid the glamours and charms of her realm and subjects). A Primer on the Middle Realms, Paxington Institute Press, LLC.
48. “When I trod to Avalon / not did man come back anon. / ’Tis not me now writing this. / My soul lost, a’ wander bliss.” Mythica Improbiba (translated version), Father Sildas Pious. ca. thirteenth century.
52
AUDITION OF STARS
Eliot followed the map he’d been given by Mr. Dells. “For your audition today,” Mr. Dells had said, and then told Eliot that he had to go alone. Mr. Dells had handed Fiona a similar map and wished her luck.
It was weird—Eliot and Fiona going to different courses—but Eliot couldn’t imagine Fiona in a music class, and there was no way he was signing up for more organized mayhem at Paxington. Gym class and boxing lessons with Robert were enough.
The map was crudely drawn. The Ludus Magnus was an oval, and the paths around squiggles. The way he was supposed to take was indicated by a stick figure. That path supposedly wandered through the Grove Primeval . . . only there wasn’t a path there. He knew, because he’d walked this way a hundred times and never seen it.
And yet, when he approached the spot marked on the map where a willow tree everyone called the Lady in Mourning stood—there it was, another path paved with worn black stones.
That was so typical of Paxington.
There were areas hidden, he guessed, from freshmen, and maybe for good reason. Things probably got rougher for the upperclassmen, which probably would have been lethal for him. That would explain why Eliot only rarely saw older students on campus.
Just how big was this school, anyway?
Eliot walked onto the new path.
The trees grew larger here, oaks with ancient black trunks that