All That Lives Must Die by Eric Nylund

his wrist. He felt air move about him, and saw the coin jump to his notes—ricocheting this way and that—half random, but partially under his command now as well.
    It drunkenly rolled toward the boy he knew—who dived for it!
    Others leaped for the coin, too, dog-piling into a heap.
    Eliot held his breath, hoping.
    He quickly surveyed his team: Fiona, his ever-irritating sister; Amanda Lane, more of a social outcast than even himself; Jeremy and Sarah Covington, whom Eliot didn’t like one bit; Mitch Stephenson, a nice guy; and the Infernal Jezebel, who stared at Eliot and his backpack, leaning forward, one hand over her throat, fascinated.
    . . . and one last teammate.
    The boy stood from the pile of students, holding aloft the golden scarab.
    He turned and faced them, grinning, blood on his split lip. His James Dean appearance looked out of place in a Paxington jacket instead of his normal leather one.
    Fiona gasped.
    It was Robert Farmington.
    6 . Middle Realms (noun). Archaic usage refers to the Purgatory lands betwixt Heaven and Hell (sometimes Earth, depending on the context). Modern usage expanded to mean all realms between the Pearly Gates of Heaven and the First Fathomless Abyss of Hell (considered the upper and lower boundaries of the known worlds). Lexicon Primus. Paxington Institute Press LLC, San Francisco.
    7 . Freshman team selection at Paxington originates from the gladiatorial arenas of the Roman Empire. Slaves who won their freedom could leave or continue as paid gladiators. Such free fighters would often participate in re-creations of famous battles, but unlike slave gladiators, they were allowed to form their own teams. The victorious teams were glorified throughout the Empire (much like modern-day sports teams), bearing names like Hunting Wolf, Golden Eagle, and the Bloodied Hand. Your Guide to the Paxington Institute (Freshman Edition) . Paxington Institute Press LLC, San Francisco.

               7               
    THE FOOL’S OPENING MOVE
    Henry Mimes changed names like other men changed their hats. Along with his nom de guerre shifts, he altered his personality, often becoming the Name.
    Earlier this morning, he had been the Messenger. Now, though, as he stood close to Audrey in the private elevator that whisked them to the top of the Transamerica Building, he felt an impulse to try on the Big Bad Wolf.
    Audrey wore a dark silk blouse and looked as she had in the old days, clad in similar cold colors, offsetting her alabaster skin. The Pale Rider. She and her sisters were the first of them to show greatness; she was the first woman he had ever called a “goddess.”
    She ignored him.
    Lovely? Yes. Even more important: unattainable. Audrey was as perfect as a woman could be.
    Her diamond earrings cast a scattering of reflections over her shoulders and throat . . . her skin was so lustrous. One touch and he knew he could warm that stone-cold flesh. How lonely she must be.
    His hand rose toward her.
    But he sensed the lines of deadly force radiating from her.
    Henry reconsidered and dropped his hand. Perhaps the Fool best suited today’s dismal occasion.
    “Did you know,” Henry asked her, “that San Franciscans call the Transamerica Building—?”
    “Pyramid,” Audrey corrected him. “It is the Transamerica Pyramid .”
    “Quite right. They also call it the Great Alien Ring Toss. Others say it looks like an ice cream cone stuck into the earth.”
    Audrey turned, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
    So much for his attempt to lighten the Lady’s mood.
    Henry dug into his pocket and retrieved his silver hip flask, unstoppered it, paused to savor the scent of a thousand flowers, and then took a nip. The liquor exploded through his thoughts, leaving curlicues of smoke and memory. He exhaled the vapors.
    In truth, Henry’s mood needed lightening as much as Audrey’s did. He was attempting to think six moves ahead of the Council and the Infernal Board—a