All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [74]
She strained against the pulling grass . . . helpless.
Fiona heard a girl’s voice: “The Infernal is here, fool.”
She turned her head. Jezebel was five paces away. Her expression was cool and implacable—save her eyes, which boiled with caustic venom. The grass around her, instead of grabbing, bent toward her and bowed in supplication.
Jezebel crossed the distance to Tamara in two quick strides and backhanded her, sending the girl end over end through the air.
Tamara landed in the sod and didn’t move.
“Help,” Fiona whispered.
Jezebel looked down with contempt. “Help yourself. You have all you need at your fingertips.” She moved toward Eliot. “Do what you do best and cut.”
Cut? There was nothing at her fingertips besides grass.
. . . Which were very much like threads. Heck, they were even called blades of grass. She’d been such an idiot.
Fiona focused, felt the edges of every grass shoot touching her, saw their delicate edges—and pressed until they sharpened and focused to a laser-thin line—
—that cut—each other—the ground—everything, slicing itself into a million wriggling shreds of confetti.
Fiona got up and ran to Eliot.
One of the boys sat with his full weight on her brother’s shoulders, pinning him facefirst in the grass. The other boy strode to Lady Dawn. And the third boy moved toward Amanda . . . who, to her credit, was at least trying to outmaneuver the bully around a pole and get to Eliot.
The boy on Eliot reared back to hit his head.
Jezebel got to him first—tackled the boy—a blur of motion—they rolled together once on the ground. There was the snap of breaking bone.
The Infernal got up. The boy didn’t move.
Eliot shakily got to his feet.
Fiona joined him. “You okay?”
“I think so,” Eliot grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. “If my head’s still on straight.” He gazed riveted on his violin. “Hey! Don’t touch her!”
The other boy picked up Lady Dawn.
A string snapped and sliced the boy’s arm—cutting the vein at his wrist.
“Holy—!” The boy dropped her and clutched his wrist, blood dribbling out.
A whistle trilled, and that sent shivers down Fiona’s spine.
Mr. Ma had appeared on the field (although Fiona had not seen him anywhere close). “That is the match,” he declared. “Halt all activities.”
Mr. Ma pulled out a handheld radio and called for medics. He went to the bleeding White Knight student and sprinkled a powder on his wrist, which staunched the flow of blood.
“Thank goodness it’s over,” Fiona breathed.
She turned to thank Jezebel, but the Infernal was already walking off the field.
“Did we win?” Eliot asked.
Mr. Ma now had an extinguisher in hand. He blasted a jet of frozen carbon dioxide at a fire licking a wooden pole on the obstacle course.
Had one of the White Knights tried to burn something? Fiona hadn’t seen any of them set it, but who else? What wouldn’t these people do to win?
The other four White Knight boys and girls slid down ropes in formation.
Robert, Mitch, Jeremy, and Sarah clambered down along different routes . . . and from the long looks on their faces, Mr. Ma didn’t have to say who’d won.
How could this have gone so wrong?
“What happened?” she asked Mitch.
“Didn’t get there in time,” he said with a shrug, but otherwise seemed unfazed. “Once the music stopped, it took me longer than I thought to find the right way.”
Sarah stalked up to her. “Next time you be halfway to the flag, I suggest—strongly suggest—you keep going. The match would have been over in a blink if you’d let them have your brother a wee bit.” She trounced off.
Fiona was too shocked to reply.
She couldn’t image what those four White Knights would have done to Eliot. They would have put him in the hospital for sure.
Maybe that was the point.
A few broken arms, and you could reduce the number of opponents on the other team—maybe permanently, so if you had to play that team again, there’d be fewer of them, and a better chance to win.
Logical. And horrifying.
Robert, covered in sweat, came up to her and Eliot. “You guys all right?”
“We’re fine,” she told him.