All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [122]
Jezebel was no lady, though. She was Infernal and certainly capable of defending herself.
Eliot had been no knight, either.
He would’ve used his music, and who knew what would have happened. While his power seemed to increase every time he played, his control hadn’t. He’d probably have summoned a skeletal dinosaur or something equally weird, hurt lots of people, and gotten expelled.
But then the worst thing was that Fiona had stepped in and fought for him.
Eliot wasn’t buying her “Team Captain” excuse. She was trying to protect him, her little brother.
It was humiliating.
And to top it all off, Jezebel spilled the beans about Fiona being an Immortal.
Fiona’s social status had gone from nobody to instant celebrity.
They’d all made so much over her. Nobody even made the connection that he might be an Immortal, too. Maybe if he’d stuck around to bask in her glow, someone would’ve noticed—but he hadn’t been able to stomach all those fawning people.
Eliot glanced about. He’d lost sight of the bay. He was surrounded by old warehouses, and nothing looked familiar.
Great, add to his list of things gone wrong today: getting lost.
He reached for his cell phone. He’d use the global positioning to find out where he was . . . only Louis had stolen his phone, and Audrey had declared him too irresponsible to be given another.
He sighed. Could this day get any worse?
As if in answer, Eliot spotted that weird white car, parked ahead on the corner.
What were the odds of seeing two identical antique cars within a block? And even more astronomically impossible—what were they odds of two long vehicles like that finding parking spots in San Francisco?
Eliot marched toward it, suddenly angry.
Whoever it was—Immortal, Infernal—it didn’t matter. He’d demand to know what they wanted. He was tired of not being able to stand up for himself.
As he got closer, he saw the silver figure on the car’s hood: a woman with wings swept back and arms held forward. His eyes slid off the snow white surfaces, unable to find any angular features.
He blinked, strode up, and rapped on the driver’s window.
A window in back thunked down.
“Eliot.” Uncle Henry’s voice drifted from inside. “Get in.”
Eliot relaxed a notch. He didn’t trust Uncle Henry; he always seemed to be up to something, but he had tried to bend the League’s rules for him and Fiona. And although Eliot would never guess at the motives of a god, he believed Henry actually liked him.
The back door opened and Uncle Henry sat inside, wearing a white linen suit that matched the white leather interior. He smiled. “I was looking for you . . . but I sensed you needed time with your thoughts.”
“Yeah.” Eliot shrugged. “Not so much anymore, though.”
He glanced down the impossibly smooth length of this car, remembering how Robert had destroyed Henry’s last limousine, the black Maybach—crashing it into Beelzebub.
“Do you like it?” Henry asked. “She is my 1933 Rolls-Royce. We call her Laurabelle. I’ve given the girl a tad of engine and body work so she could keep up.” He patted the car lovingly.
“She’s great,” Eliot said. “Could you give me a lift home?”
“Unquestioningly. If you don’t mind a slight detour?”
“As long as it’s not like last time—Uncle Kino drove me to the edge of Hell.”
Henry tilted his head. “No. It’s not far. And it’s nothing dangerous.”
Eliot believed him. He got inside and sat opposite, facing Uncle Henry.
The Rolls-Royce accelerated and the streets became a blur—and then they were speeding though rolling hills of gold.
“So how are you?” Uncle Henry said. “Tell me everything—absolutely everything.”
Eliot did. He sketched his school year so far: the exams, gym class, his girl troubles (although he was vague about who and what Jezebel was), how Fiona was now Team Captain, and how Eliot seemed to be the social equivalent of a flaming leper.
Uncle Henry nodded and made sympathetic noises, but asked no questions.
Outside, coastal waters flashed. The road then plunged into green shadows.
“The worst thing,” Eliot said, “is all the fighting.”
He struggled