All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [223]
Jeremy and Sarah Covington stood together in the far corner, whispering, looking at her and then Eliot—probably, as usual, blaming her for this.
Amanda was by herself in the other corner, hovering near a standing bronze ashtray that smoldered with old cigars. She just stared off into the distance like she’d been hit over the head. Fiona was torn between going over there and asking what was wrong, and shaking her to snap her out of it.
Along the opposite wall were three red couches. Eliot and Robert sat there, far apart.
Eliot had his guitar in his lap. He looked at Fiona and shrugged apologetically . . . as if he had anything to be sorry for. It irked her that she’d needed saving in Costa Esmeralda, but she was grateful.
Fiona shrugged back. The Covingtons were probably right: If this trouble today was anyone’s fault, it probably was hers.
Robert reclined and looked obnoxiously comfortable. She bet he’d love to get kicked out of Paxington.
Jezebel, of course, was still missing.
And Mitch hadn’t shown up all week, either.
She sighed. This day had started out as normal as it could after yesterday.
She’d gotten stitched up last night and had her punctured lung fixed by Paxington medics. They’d told her that she healed at miraculous rate, owing to her genetics, and she’d be as good as new by morning.
A lot they knew: It hurt even to breathe, and every bone ached.
Of course, Audrey had insisted that if Fiona could stand, she walk to school. She wasn’t even allowed to take the bus.
Their mother seemed impossibly distant. As if now that Eliot and she knew about their heritage, they were supposed to take care of themselves like they’d been part of the League all their lives.
Or maybe the distance Fiona felt from her mother was her own fault. She didn’t bother to tell her about Costa Esmeralda. Uncle Henry and the others let her know. And why even try to win Audrey’s approval? Might as well try to catch a breeze with her bare hand.
At least Eliot was his usual mopey self this morning. She tried to thank him for yesterday, but he’d told her that it “hurt too much to talk.” She hadn’t seen any cuts or bruises on him. It had to be Jezebel still depressing him. When was he going to get over her?
She didn’t try to cheer him up with some vocabulary insult, either. Why waste calling someone a “monoicious Marchantiophyta” when they wouldn’t even hear you?59
Fiona’s gaze drifted to the fiery wood and bold brass fittings of Eliot’s new guitar. It creeped her out. That thing had more power than his violin (it was more like artillery than a musical instrument, as far as she was concerned).
Eliot had told her when she woke up on the helicopter that it was Lady Dawn transformed. The change in shape wasn’t what bothered her . . . it was that it was a magical thing . . . a thing that had been her father’s . . . an Infernal instrument.
Like her bracelet—useful, but not to be entirely trusted.
But the thing that’d really thrown a wrench into their morning had been at Paxington’s Front Gate. Mr. Dells gave them a note. On Paxington letterhead, in a typewritten script was the following:
The presence of Team Scarab is hereby requested in the Office of Miss L. Westin, Hall of Wisdom, Clock Tower, thirteenth floor. PROMPTLY at 9:45 A.M.
And so here they were.
Fiona checked her phone to see if Mitch had texted or called, but then the door to Miss Westin’s office creaked open and a boy emerged.
He was maybe twelve years old, pale, and his dark hair was cropped short. He met none of their eyes. “You may go in now, good ladies and masters,” he whispered, and held the door for them.
Fiona went first, and the rest of her team followed.
Miss Westin’s office was long. There were no windows. The only light was from dozens of Tiffany lamps and light sconces. The walls were polished walnut, rubbed to a mirror sheen, and every five paces there were doors: double doors, tiny doors that looked like they belonged in dollhouses, even a round door. Between the doors were oil paintings, sketches, daguerreotypes, and modern photos of