All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [56]
One name was most peculiar in that it had been written, crossed out, and then rewritten: Lucifer—the Prince of Darkness, the Morning Star, aka Louis Piper, her father. . . .
“The Infernals are the exception to the preclassical cutoff date for living immortal beings,” Miss Westin explained. “Many of the fallen angels are still active in their Lower Realms . . . and occasionally venture to the Middle Realms as well.
“Other immortal branches”—Miss Westin gestured to a half dozen others, grayed out—“the Fairies or Folk of the Aire, the King’s Men, Atlanteans, and the Heavenly Angels are all thought dead or departed.”
Jeremy leaned over Eliot’s lap, closer to Fiona. “The Fairies be hardly gone,” he said. “I’ve seen them—chased the little buggers, even held their gold. That’s how I came to find myself in the Valley.”
Sarah sighed as if she had heard this a hundred times.
Fiona nodded to be polite, but she really wanted to hear Miss Westin’s lecture, and wished he would shut up.
“Now,” Miss Westin said, “on to the mortal magical families.”
She pulled down a section of the adjacent blackboard. On it was a detailed expansion of the younger, topmost branches with dozens of names, including Van Wyck, Covington, Kaleb, and Scalagari. There were also more cryptic titles like “The Dreaming Families” and “Isla Blue Tribe.”19
“The thing about Fairies,” Jeremy continued to tell Fiona, oblivious of the lecture, “is that they didn’t want anyone to know they’re still alive. They had it in for me because I knew. Lured me with a trail of gold . . . just to shut me mouth. What they didn’t know was—”
The pale boy in front of them turned and quietly but firmly told Jeremy, “Too bad they couldn’t keep it shut, Covington. Close your piehole, before I close it for you.”
Jeremy considered this threat, and his lips curled into a cruel smile.
“Here we go,” murmured Sarah. She closed her notebook and set down her pen.
Jeremy eased back in his seat and held up both hands. “Of course, laddie. My apologies.”
The boy glared at him a moment and then turned back to the lecture.
Jeremy picked up his copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology—and slammed it into the back of the boy’s head.
The boy reeled forward, scattering his papers onto the floor.
Fiona was stunned. She knew there could be fights at Paxington; she’d seen that duel the very first day . . . but in class?
Miss Westin clapped her hands once. That instantly got the entire room’s attention. Even the boy who’d been clobbered looked at her, and didn’t move or say a word.
Miss Westin took a deep breath and in an even voice said, “Mr. Covington, Mr. Van Wyck—if you have differences to work out, do so outside my classroom.” She looked them over a moment, a gaze that reminded Fiona of glacier ice, utterly cold and unstoppably crushing. “I sense your blood is up, however, so the lecture will be suspended for ten minutes. Resolve this. Now.”
“Suits me perfectly,” Jeremy said, and stood. “This Van Wyck cad should be taught some manners, using such language before a lady.” He gave a quick bow in Fiona’s direction.
Fiona pushed herself deeper into her seat. She felt as if everyone were staring at her.
Jeremy hit him on her account? Or was that just an excuse?
The other boy got up.
Although he was on a lower row in front of them, he stood taller than Jeremy by a full head and was so bulky, it looked like he could, and would, pick up Jeremy with one meaty hand and crush him. “Okay, Covington, you’re on.” He stalked out of the lecture hall.
Jeremy pushed past Fiona. Sarah got up to follow her cousin.
So did Eliot . . . and then Fiona . . . and then everyone in the class.
Outside they all crowded about Jeremy and the Van Wyck boy. Looking at the ludicrous size difference between the two, Fiona was seriously worried Jeremy was going to get killed.
The Van Wyck boy looked down on Jeremy, pausing . . .