All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [6]
“Wait . . . ,” Fiona said. The words she had read felt like concrete poured around her . . . slowly but inexorably solidifying. “So we’re in the League of Immortals, and for the first time special and different—but we can’t tell anyone who we are?”
“Of course you can tell people who you are,” Audrey said. The warmth she had had in her voice earlier evaporated. “You will, naturally, say that you are Fiona and Eliot Post. That should be enough for anyone—including yourselves.”
A spark of resentment fanned to life in Fiona. More lies? That’s what the League was expecting from them?
“Fine,” Fiona muttered. “Whatever.” She stood and turned to her brother. “Come on. We better go.”
Although Fiona now stood while her mother remained sitting, Audrey still managed to make it feel like she was looking down at her.
Fiona hated that imperial look.
So she had finally called her Mother . . . at least, in her mind.
But Audrey would never be the kind of mother who showed her how to put makeup on, or helped her pick out clothes, or had that heartfelt talk about the pleasures and perils of boys.
No. Fiona knew exactly what kind of mother Audrey was: the kind she read about in Shakespeare’s plays—mothers who plotted and schemed and murdered and then compulsively washed their hands.
“Sit, young lady,” Audrey told her. “We are not done.”
The spark of resentment in Fiona chilled. She obediently sank into her seat.
“You are correct,” Audrey told them. “There is a need to start school with all due haste, but you also need these materials if you are to have any chance of success . . . success, I might add, which the League considers mandatory.”
Fiona shot Eliot a look. He shrugged, and his forehead wrinkled at this new development.
If they didn’t do well at school, the Immortals would do what? Kick them out of the League? Something worse? Maybe. The League considered passing and failing tests a life-or-death matter. If they’d failed its three heroic trials, the League would have killed her and Eliot.
But come on—they were in the League now, considered an official part of the family. They didn’t have to constantly prove themselves. Did they?
Audrey withdrew a blue envelope from her briefcase and slid it to them.
The envelope had a bar code sticker and a bewildering collection of stamps from Greece, Italy, Russia, places Fiona did not recognize, and finally the United States. It was addressed to “Master Eliot Zachariah Post and the Lady Fiona Paige Post” at their new San Francisco address.
And it had been opened.
As if her mother anticipated Fiona’s objections, she said, “I filled out all the forms to save time. There is a list of rules and regulations, which you may read after the entrance and placement exams today.” Audrey pinned the envelope with a stare. “Most important, however, there is a map—which you require immediately.”
Fiona pulled out the first page.
The impressive Paxington Institute crest—a heraldic device with shield, helmet, and sword; a sleeping dragon; snarling wolf head; winged chevron; and gold scarab—dominated the scrollwork of a letterhead. Fiona’s eyes gravitated to the boldface portion of the letter:
All students must be at Bristlecone Hall before 10:00 A.M., September 22, for placement examinations or their enrollment at Paxington will be FORFEITED.
Fiona and Eliot wheeled around. Their grandfather clock sat in the corner. It read a quarter until nine.
“Where is Paxington?” Eliot asked, sounding embarrassed he didn’t know.
Fiona riffled through the envelope, found the map, and pulled it out. She unfolded heavy cotton paper and saw exacting details of streets and landmarks like Presidio Park, Chinatown, and Fisherman’s Wharf. The edges of the map were yellowed with age.
She found the Paxington Institute address as well as these helpful directions:
The main entrance to the San Francisco Paxington campus is conveniently located at the intersection of Chestnut and Lombard Streets.
They glanced back at the map. Chestnut and Lombard were