All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [182]
The forest gave way to lawn with a sculpture of a Dixieland band playing. The path circled about the sculpture, and then descended into an entrance underneath.
Eliot paused a moment to stare at the frozen bronze figures, smiling, with drums and horns—all of them looking like they’d been captured having the time of their lives.
He entered a steep tunnel. Gas lamps flickered along the rock walls, and after twenty paces, Eliot stood before a marble arch three times his height. Set within this arch was a double set of mahogany doors, and upon them carved scenes of a rock concert, a stage magician sawing a girl in half, and acts from Shakespeare’s plays.
Running along the edge of the arch were the following words: MUSES UT RIDEO RISI RISUM, TRIPUDIO, PLORO, INTEREO, QUOD NASCOR DENUO.49
Eliot consulted his map. This was the end of the line, literally—with an X marked and a scrawled note: “Grotto of the Muses.”
He took a deep breath and pushed through the doors.
Beyond was a cavern. In the center sat a platform lit by stagelights and additional spotlights above. Four columns—where stalactite and stalagmite had melded together—stood equidistant about this stage. Also ringing the stage were seats of violet crushed velvet with padded armrests.
A dozen students milled near the stage, whispering to one another. They had instrument cases from piccolo- to tuba-sized.
The acoustics were amazing. Hushed murmurs across the room echoed and bounced and sounded as if Eliot stood right next to the others.
As quietly as he could, he approached the stage . . . and felt the first stirrings of butterflies in his gut.
Eliot recognized two students from his Mythology 101 class, but no one he had ever actually ever talked with.
He almost tripped when he spotted Sarah Covington.
Great. All he needed were her snide remarks before his audition.
She’d pulled back her hair into a tight bun, wore none of her usual makeup . . . and looked as nervous as Eliot felt. She didn’t have an instrument case, though. So what was she doing here?
She saw him, smiled, and walked over. “I was hoping you’d try out,” she said. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”
Eliot blinked and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder—to see if she spoke to someone behind him. That’s what usually happened. But no . . . she stared right at him. Audrey and Cee had drilled years of polite responses into him; otherwise, he’d have floundered.
“Thanks,” he said. “Good to see you here, too.”
And it was. If Sarah Covington of the haughty Clan Covington was here and just as nervous as he was, then maybe it was okay to feel like he was going to throw up.
“I’ve admired your playing,” she whispered, and bit her lower lip. “You’re good. I just wanted to say that before we started.”
Eliot waited for the punch line—you’re good . . . for an amateur—or good . . . for someone with eight thumbs—or for a rhonchial musicaster.50
But she said no more, instead turned as the stage lights dimmed and the spotlights brightened.
Eliot and Sarah sank into two adjacent seats.
Why was she being nice after an entire semester of being mean? Girls were so weird.
A curtain rustled stage left, and a flowing silhouette appeared among the shadows. A spotlight snapped on, revealing a deeply tanned woman in a gold dress. She was elegant with diamonds adorning her fingers, wrists, and neck; but wild at the same time, with her dark hair a frenzy of curls. With one graceful step, she was on the stage.
Four more spotlights angled on her, making her sparkle. She smiled at her audience, and it was more dazzling than any gold or diamonds. She had that unassailable confidence that every Immortal had, but more: she had the glamour of a star.
“Welcome, students. I’m Erin DuPreé. In my class, you call me Erin or Air, but never teacher or Ms. DuPreé or ma’am or any of that other nonsense. There’s too much real stuff going in here to mess with such silly formalities.”
Eliot liked her. He relaxed into his seat.
Next to him, though, Sarah tensed and gripped her armrests.
“I don