All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [91]
Not telling Audrey—that would be easy. She might take the matter of Jezebel up with the League. That could get messy, fast. But not telling Fiona felt wrong.
He decided, though: He’d trust Louis this once.
Eliot held out his hand for his father to shake. “Deal.”
Louis’s face split into a crooked smile, and he grasped Eliot’s hand.
It felt as if Eliot grasped lightning and raw pumping blood and had a tiger by the tail all at once.
But it also felt good—like he and his father were now in this together.
Sure, it was stupid and dangerous to trust his father, the self-admitted Prince of Darkness, but at the same time, it also felt like the smartest, most important thing Eliot had ever done.
25
STONES THAT WEEP
Fiona stepped off the bus with the rest of Team Scarab.
It had been an awkward hour-long ride from Paxington through hills of central California.
First, on this small bus, she had had to sit behind Miss Westin—not the ideal location for gossiping or discussing with Eliot the politics of their Immortal relatives.
Second, Miss Westin had segregated the boys from the girls. Amanda was on Fiona’s right, face plastered to the window, alternately too shy to speak, and then exploding in rapid bursts of enthusiasm over her new clothes and Aunt Dallas, and when was she going to show up again after school?
Behind her sat Sarah Covington and Jezebel, who exuded icy silence at one another.
Thank goodness Mitch Stephenson had the seat across the aisle—and while not daring to cross the gender boundary that ran down the center of the bus, he nonetheless managed to occasionally communicate with her with a smile and roll of his eyes as Jeremy Covington went on and on next to him about his life and exploits in the nineteenth century and how the twenty-first century had gone to the dogs without servants and a rigid social order.
Robert and Eliot seemed to be having a normal conversation in back. Fiona caught only snatches of what they said. She thought they might have been talking about a video game because there were lots of gesticulations with fists and karate chops.
Sometimes they could be so foolish.
Eventually Fiona opened her copy of Homer’s Odyssey. She read (or rather tried), managing to reread the same paragraph about Circe about twenty times over the bumpy roads.
She gave up when the bus pulled onto a dirt road. They bumped along for a few more minutes and eased to a halt.
The door folded open, and Fiona stepped off after Miss Westin.
There was nothing here, just rolling hills, golden grass, and the occasional orange poppy that trembled in the breeze. The bent black oaks seemed to wave to her.
“Clear the bus,” Miss Westin instructed. “We have another group coming through.”
Fiona marched out the door, to the rear of the bus, and leaned against it. Another group of students marched toward them, escorted by Mr. Ma, who held his usual clipboard. It was Team White Knight. They queued in front of the bus’s doors.
The Knights glared at Fiona and the rest of Team Scarab; Fiona returned the favor.
Tamara Pritchard still sported a black eye from their match. Good.
Miss Westin and Mr. Ma carefully checked off names in her black book and on his clipboard, comparing notes . . . as if someone was going to get lost in all this open expanse of nowhere.
Fiona wanted to ask again what this was all about. She’d tried before when they’d been herded onto this bus from Miss Westin’s classroom earlier that morning.
Miss Westin had told her: “Words are . . . insufficient.”
Eliot was last to tromp off the bus.
Miss Westin then instructed Team White Knight to board the bus.
Mr. Ma moved between the two groups and crossed his arms (Fiona suspected, to make sure there was no trouble of outside of gym class between Team Scarab and the Knights).
Tamara Pritchard snorted as she passed Jezebel. “We told the Wolves all about your little tricks.” She sneered. “They’ll be ready for you.”
“Oh, really now?” Jeremy quipped. “We face Team Wolf next?” He tilted his head in mock appreciation. “Thank you