All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [145]
Fiona marched over to them and heard Jezebel reply, “I need no mortal’s assistance.”
The Infernal glared at Amanda, who took a step back.
Jezebel glanced at Fiona, and in a less threatening tone, said, “No help. Thank you.” She picked up an abandoned Paxington blazer off the grass and snugged it about her shoulders—wincing. A dot of blood seeped through.
“There is only one place that can help me,” Jezebel murmured. “Home.” She limped off the field.
Robert and Mitch joined Fiona and Amanda, and they watched her stalk off.
“Is she going be okay?” Robert whispered.
“I don’t know,” Fiona said. “But I know there’s nothing we can do for her—not when she’s so . . . I don’t know what she is.”
Mitch shook his head as he watched Jezebel leave. “Don’t let her get to you. We did good today.”
Fiona felt a twinge of irrational anger toward the Infernal. She wasn’t sure why. Jezebel had made it possible for them to win the match. Maybe even saved all their lives by nearly throwing hers away. And yet . . . something was so wrong about her.
Fiona turned to ask Eliot if he had a clue.
But Eliot was nowhere on the field.
42
CONSEQUENCES BE DAMNED
Eliot tried not to think about what he was doing . . . but that wasn’t his best thing.
Getting into trouble, Fiona would say would’ve been his best thing.
Rescuing the damsel in distress, Robert might tell him.
Or perhaps as Louis would declare, Rushing in where angels fear. . .
But this was none of those things. Eliot followed Jezebel because he had to. Something inside him pulled him along the sidewalk, a magnetic force he was helpless to resist—but something also repelled him from her and held him back from rushing to her side and wrapping his arms about her broken body.
Jezebel walked ahead of him half a block. She had someone’s oversized Paxington jacket on. She half stepped, half stumbled along, and then paused to lean against a building.
Other people didn’t notice. Tourists with Chinatown maps, a bunch of older women complaining about the President, and a policeman on bicycle—none of them offered to help or even ask if she was okay.
Of course, if they had tried, Jezebel, the Protector of the Burning Orchards and Handmaiden to the Mistress of Pain, might have torn their throats out . . . so it was probably some primitive human instinct for self-preservation that made them shy away.
Self-preservation instincts that apparently Eliot lacked, because he had slipped out of the Ludus Magnus when he overheard Amanda and Fiona talking to Jezebel, and her adamant refusal for help.
He knew she’d never let anyone help her. Just as Eliot knew that she desperately needed help.
Eliot was determined to make sure she was okay. Even if that meant sneaking out ahead of her, lurking in the shadows, and then following her like some creepy stalker.
Although he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Make sure she got home okay, he guessed—make sure she got there without bleeding to death in some gutter along the way.
Why was she so stubborn?
She trudged ahead, south one block down Webster Street, east one block along Golden Gate Avenue, and then zigging back south. If she kept going, they’d end up in the Mission District.
The sun broke through the fog and painted the streets with lines of light and shade.
Eliot drifted into the shadows to stay unnoticed.
Jezebel mirrored his steps, clinging to the darkness.
Eliot let her get a bit ahead as he waited to cross busy Van Ness Avenue, and then hurried just as the stoplight changed.
As he set one foot into the street, however, it felt as if he plunged into warm running water. It didn’t slow him as normal water would, but it felt very different from the space he’d been in.
As he crossed back onto the sidewalk, the sensation vanished.
Eliot stopped and looked around, perplexed.
Then he spotted the difference: The crosswalk was in sunlight . . . and he stood once more in the shadows.
Although the fog softened everything, the edge where light met dark was razor sharp to his