All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [282]
She spotted one picture that made her stop in her tracks. Eliot did the same, and they stared at a group of freshmen.
Among the hundred or so students were Tamara Pritchard, David Kaleb, and even, much to Fiona’s chagrin, Jeremy and Sarah Covington.
It was their freshman class portrait . . . one they weren’t in because they’d obviously missed picture day at school.
Her hands twisted together, and for a moment she wanted to cut that thing in half—right through Jeremy Covington’s face.
“Nice,” she muttered, and kept walking.
Miss Westin’s desk was a few paces ahead. Last time there had been no place to sit. Today, four high-backed chairs sat opposite the Headmistress. Not a good sign. Miss Westin obviously wanted them off their feet when she delivered the bad news.
Miss Westin sat there, nodded, and murmured something, but didn’t spare either of them a glance. Her attention was focused solely on those chairs.
There was another person. A pair of skinny legs and the edge of a skirt dangled over the seat, but the chair’s high back obscured the rest.
Miss Westin finally finished and then gestured for that person to leave. Only then did the Headmistress glance at Fiona and Eliot, and all traces of civility left her face.
The other person got out of their chair.
Fiona stared, not believing what she saw.
“You’re . . . dead,” Eliot whispered.
Amanda Lane looked them over. Her lips pressed into a frown, and her gaze narrowed.
For someone whom Fiona had seen blown to smithereens, Amanda looked great. Her school uniform was neatly pressed. A tiny daisy was pinned to her lapel. Her hair had been cut and feathered back from her face—hair that now had a lot more auburn in it that Fiona recalled.
She wanted to run over and give her a hug, but Fiona still couldn’t believe she was real.
Amanda stood tall and proud, though. Her skin flushed and Fiona felt the unnatural heat from where she stood.
“I’m not dead,” she told them. “Obviously. But no thanks to either of you.”
“The bridge . . . ,” Eliot started.
“And that volcano . . . ,” Fiona added.
“I did those things,” Amanda said, her voice rising. “And what’d I get for my trouble? For risking my life? No one came back to even look for me. Do you know how hard it is to climb out of a river of lava? While it’s solidifying?”
Fiona blinked and tried to process this. Shy, helpless Amanda was telling them she had caused all that massive geological-scale upheaval—and then had survived it, apparently immune to the tremendous heat.
“Do you know how long I had to look until I found those stupid train tracks?” Amanda set her hands on her hips. “And how long I walked until I found the tunnel back to the Market Street station?”
“I’m so sorry,” Fiona said. “We just assumed . . .”
“I was ready to die for you guys,” Amanda told her. Despite the heat coming from her, her voice was icy. “And you just marched off looking for Jezebel. What kind of friends are you?”
Fiona crossed her arms over her chest. She wanted to tell her they got a little occupied trying to outrun a tidal wave of magma—worried about the millions of damned souls that might’ve chased after them—oh, and not to mention their complete astonishment at seeing her turn into a miniature sun and then going supernova on them.
Eliot, however, spoke first. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “We shouldn’t have left you there. No matter what. I’m sorry.”
Amanda’s lip trembled, and Fiona thought she might cry.
She stuck out her chin, though, and recovered. “At least I know where I stand with my so-called friends now.” She moved past them, adding in a whisper, “At least the people I thought were my friends.”
Amanda crossed Miss Westin’s office and slammed the door shut.
Fiona was thrilled to see her alive, but she wasn’t sure what was more shocking: seeing her alive, or seeing her so strong . . . and so angry. Fiona felt like Amanda had just kicked her in the stomach.
Miss Westin tapped a pen on her desk to get their attention.
Fiona and