All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [148]
Jezebel stepped out from behind one of the columns. She’d been waiting there for the train. She staggered and barely made it to the first passenger car. She hung her head and leaned against it.
An old porter emerged. He bowed before Jezebel and then set down a tiny step. He took her hand and gently helped her up and onto the train.
Jezebel had said there was only one place where she could get help for her injuries: home. Eliot hadn’t taken her literally when she said that. He thought she’d head to an apartment in the city.
. . . Not actually return to Hell.
The old porter glanced about the station, looking for other passengers.
Eliot ducked back into the stairwell.
Now what?
Three options occurred to him.
Eliot could let her go. Jezebel had to know what she was doing. But hadn’t she said her clan was fighting a war? He had a feeling she was headed into even greater danger.
The second option was to talk to her, try to get her to stay. There had to be someone here who could help her.
Of course, that would involve Eliot actually speaking to her and her responding in a rational manner. That never seemed to happen. Whenever they interacted, it seemed to be charged with emotion . . . and anger.
That left the last option: Go with her and help her.
That thought turned to ice inside Eliot.
Go to Hell on purpose?
The locomotive hissed. Its wheels squealed to a slow start and sparked along the tracks.
Louis had said Sealiah was Jezebel’s mistress . . . and that she was Queen of the Poppy Lands of Hell. Poppy Lands. Eliot wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.
He decided not and turned back.
At the top of the staircase, light and shadows flashed: A BART train had entered the normal human station.
Normal. Human. A world he was feeling more and more apart from.
Besides, hadn’t he really decided when he ventured down here? To find out more about the Infernals and their plans? Wasn’t he committed to helping Jezebel? That was the right thing to do—no matter where it took him.
Eliot ran back.
The train picked up speed, cars accelerating past his view.
He ducked his head and sprinted after the last car as it raced toward the tunnel.
His hand caught the railing—he leaped—swung himself up and onto the swaying floor.
There. He’d done it.
Now he really was a hero rushing to the aid of his lady . . . the consequences be damned. Maybe, this time, literally.
40. Black cats have historically been associated with witchcraft, luck (both good and bad) and/or evil, and hundreds of other superstitions. A black cat crossing one’s path is almost universally considered bad luck, however. Black cats were also believed to be shape-shifters—witches transformed, traveling incognito, and doing evil. Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 5, Core Myths (Part 2). Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.
41. “The Night Train,” translated from German. —Editor.
43
A MATCH
Fiona and the others walked through the deserted corridors of Paxington. It was eerie. They were the only ones there. Everyone else must still be taking midterms.
She felt like she’d been through war, and couldn’t even imagine what finals would be like.
Her footsteps echoed on the flagstones. The lords and ladies, gods and angels painted on the nearby murals seemed to disapprove of her for making so much noise.
“I thought it was great,” Amanda whispered, breaking the spell of silence. “We creamed them.” She smiled, but it was short-lived.
Sarah rolled her eyes.
“She’s right,” Mitch said. “We should be celebrating, not moping around like we’ve been to a funeral.”
“Could we at least make that a wake?” Jeremy asked, perking up.
Fiona tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it.
Why not? There was cause to celebrate. They’d all gotten As (well, okay, A–s) on their midterms. They’d done it as a team, too—not giving in to the prevalent “win at any cost” attitude of Paxington.
What was dragging her down?
She glanced over her shoulder: Robert lagged behind.
He glanced at her for a fraction of a second—their eyes locked