All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [153]
He should have. But when it came to Jezebel, he was finding it harder to think and too easy to let his emotions drive him.
That’s the way it’d been with his music . . . all passion in the beginning. He reached into his pack and reassuringly touched Lady Dawn. Only now did he have even a little control. And how many people had he hurt in the process of learning that? How many times had he almost been killed?
It wasn’t a fair comparison, though. Lady Dawn, despite her namesake, wasn’t a real girl.
Then again, technically, neither was Jezebel anymore.
His eyes fell upon the poker chips on the table. They gleamed with inset rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. There were plastic-wrapped decks of cards, too. And there were dice—dozens of pairs of dice: ivory, some clear red plastic, others black iron.
He unthinkingly reached for them. He could let chance decide what he should do next. . . .
The door to the rear platform opened—slammed shut.
Eliot jumped up and turned.
The old man in uniform stood behind him, his arms crossed over his chest. “Ticket, young man?” he demanded.
Eliot backed up, almost falling over his chair. “I . . . I didn’t—”
The old man leaned over him, and a jagged smile broke his face. “Just pulling your leg, sonny.”
He offered a hand to shake, but there was no way Eliot was touching him, so he stepped back out of reach and politely nodded.
“So,” Eliot asked, “you don’t need a ticket to ride?”
“Oh, you most definitely do.” The man’s bushy white eyebrows arched. “But not for the trip going in. . . .” He winked. “It’s the return trip that’ll cost.”
A chill shuddered up Eliot’s spine.
The man set his thick fingers on the tiny typewriter apparatus on his belt. “Name?”
“Uh . . . Eliot Post.”
The man froze. “Not Master Eliot Zachariah Post, by any chance?”
Eliot nodded.
“A thousand pardons, sir.” The man eased to one knee and bowed so low that his bones creaked. “Allow this lowly Ticket Master to welcome you aboard Der Nachtzug, Limited Express to the Outer Domains of Hell, O Mighty Infernal Lord.”
Eliot wasn’t comfortable with this genuflection. “Sure. Thank you. Uh, get up, please.”
The Ticket Master obeyed. His expression was one of utter respect, and he rubbed his gloved hands together. “How may this most unworthy one be of service? A drink? A companion, perhaps?”
Eliot wasn’t about to disagree with someone mistaking him for a real Infernal Lord . . . especially someone who was big enough to flatten him with one fist. And besides, Eliot might be able to use this case of mistaken identity to his advantage.
“How about some information? Can you tell me what stop is—?” Eliot searched his memory. Louis had shown him an image of Jezebel in his ring, and her Queen Sealiah, and then he’d mentioned the name of the realm she ruled. “—the Poppy Lands?”
The Ticket Master flinched. His gaze darted to the front of the train.
“Stop after next, young Master.” He swallowed. “After the Slag Mountain Station in the Blasted Lands.”
Eliot followed his gaze up the train, seeing nothing. “Is there a problem?”
“The Protector of the Burning Orchards is also on board,” the Ticket Master whispered. His rubbing hands stopped. “Her clan and your father’s . . . I wish there to be no trouble.”
There was already trouble. Eliot was on a train to Hell. There was no guarantee of him getting back. No one knew where he was. How Jezebel reacted when she finally discovered him tailing her . . . that, at least, might be trouble he could delay.
“There won’t be any,” Eliot told him, “as long as she doesn’t find out I’m here.” He tried to sound elegantly threatening just as his father sometimes could.
The Ticket Master took an involuntary step back.
Eliot felt bad, so he added, “If you don’t mind, please.”
“It shall be as you say.” His hands smoothed over one another again. “If you require anything”—he gestured to a silver noose hanging on the wall— “pull that. I will come.”
The Ticket Master then bowed