All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [218]
Confetti bits of metal and trails of oily smoke drizzled down . . . harmless.
Eliot exhaled. He shook out his numbed hand and arm.
“Very cool,” Robert murmured.
Fiona shook her head as if just now seeing them. “What are”—She looked back and forth between them—“you two doing here?” Her brow scrunched and her expression was a mix of confusion . . . and, as she concentrated on Eliot, annoyance.
She doubled over in pain.
Robert caught her and his hand came away bloody. He scrutinized the seeping, bubbling wound on her side. “She needs help.”
Fiona went limp.
Eliot took a step forward, feeling helpless to do anything, forgetting everything he’d ever read in Marcellus Master’s Practical First Aid and Surgical Guide.
“Shock,” he said. “Her pulse is strong, though. That’s a good sign, but we’ve got to get her to a doctor.”
A crowd emerged from the church and stared at them.
Eliot called out, pleading, “Is one of you a doctor? Hay un médico?”
The people gaped, pointed, and they ran away.
How could they not help them after he’d just saved all their lives?
Eliot felt, then heard, subsonic quaking and thunderous crashes behind him. He wheeled and watched every office building for three blocks collapse into dust and rubble—a swath of destruction he had caused.
Those people in the church might have been grateful, they might have helped . . . if they hadn’t been scared out of their minds.57
Eliot touched Lady Dawn, ran his bloody fingertips over her fiery wood grain. He smiled. He liked this new incarnation of the violin. She no longer fought him. How much power could they together summon?
He had also enjoyed the destruction and havoc they’d wreaked.
The smile on his face vanished. Fiona was in shock and bleeding to death—what was he thinking?
“Get her into the sidecar,” he told Robert. “I’ll ride on the back. Just go slow until we get on the highway.”
Robert lifted Fiona into his arms. She yelped, but clung to him and let him carry her toward his bike.
The power when Eliot had played was seductive. He had felt glee as he blew the jet apart, rapture at seeing buildings fall at his whim . . . and was horrified that he wanted to do it all again.
“Put her down,” someone behind Eliot commanded.
Mr. Ma dropped off the last rung of a fire escape, followed by six upperclassmen Paxington boys. Dante Scalagari was there, and he looked grim, made a move toward Fiona—but Mr. Ma checked his motion with a hand on his shoulder.
“I shall take Miss Post,” Mr. Ma told them. He pointed toward the roof of the building he’d climbed down. A jet helicopter sat there, blades spinning up to full speed.
Robert glared at Mr. Ma and held Fiona tight.
Mr. Ma continued toward him. “You cannot jostle her on a motor bike with a punctured lung,” he said, glancing down at her, “and likely other internal injuries.”
Robert’s glare faded and the color drained from his face.
Mr. Ma stopped before Robert and held out his arms. “We have medical supplies on board. I can stabilize her.”
Robert looked to Eliot.
Eliot wasn’t sure. How much did he trust any Paxington teacher? Especially one who tried to kill them every few weeks? Enough to literally place his sister’s life in his hands?
But Mr. Ma was right: On the bike they might hurt Fiona more. And if the unthinkable happened . . . the League would kill Robert for trying and failing to save her life.
“You won’t hurt her?” Eliot asked.
Mr. Ma blinked. “No.”
Eliot listened with great care. There were no weird echoes or any backward whispers that he detected from the lips of liars.
Eliot nodded to Robert. Robert passed Fiona to Mr. Ma.
Mr. Ma held her as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“I’m going with her,” Eliot told Mr. Ma. “We’re stronger together.” His tone left no room for discussion on the matter.
Mr. Ma looked at him a moment, then nodded.
The Paxington helicopter lifted off the roof, turned, and lit in the courtyard.
As they walked toward the craft, Eliot glanced back at Robert. Worry and helplessness etched his friend’s face, and Eliot