All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [159]
But until he had come to Hell to save her, even Eliot hadn’t quite realized that. He just didn’t have the words . . . so he opened himself to her, let her look through the windows of his eyes into the depths of his soul.
Jezebel stared deeper and deeper; she held her breath, and held him, her hands clutching his jacket tighter.
The moment was broken as an engine chugged and strained against inertia, pulling three rail cars from the roundhouse.
She released him and took a step back; her hands, however, still rested lightly on his chest as if she couldn’t let go.
The train and its cars were all polished brass and gleaming rosewood. As it pulled in front of them, hissing steam, Eliot smelled lilacs and a hint of sulfur.
A bald porter emerged, set down a step, and bowed before Jezebel. With a flourish, he waved them both into the car. “Destination?” he asked.
“Market Street BART station, San Francisco, the Middle Realm of the Earth,” Jezebel commanded. “And relay my wish to the conductor to make no stops along the way.”
“It shall be as you command.” The bald porter hurried off.
Eliot followed Jezebel into the rail car.
The wall panels of the car were silver dust mirrors veined with filigrees of gold. The ceiling was Tiffany stained glass with lilacs and dragonflies, but along the edges were mushrooms and crystalline millipede motifs with tiny real bones. There were bloodred silk lounges, and a desk with modern computers and phones, and along the wall a bar with cut crystal decanters. In the back were red curtains, slightly parted, and within he spied the ruffle of a round bed.
“All the conveniences one could desire,” she told him.
There was velvet in her voice. It was nice. Not a lie per se . . . just something wrong nonetheless that heightened Eliot’s awareness.
She shut the door, moved closer, and her hand pressed against his chest, slowly running up and tracing his contours with her nails.
About them, dozens and hundreds of reflections of him and her all mirrored their touching. The air within the rail car turned hot.
Yes . . . something was very wrong; at least the rational encyclopedic part of Eliot’s mind was screaming that to the rest of him (and being ignored).
Her fingernails slipped inside his shirt and scraped along bare skin. It was electric.
Eliot set a hand on the small of her back and pulled her closer.
Jezebel sighed. “If only . . . ,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?” Eliot asked.
“I mean,” she said, taking a deep breath, “you may be perfect, Eliot Post, Son of Darkness, but you’re not the only one capable of sacrifice for”—she struggled with her next words—“the ones they care for.”
Eliot crinkled his brow, confused.
She leaned closer and kissed him. It was soft; then she pressed harder, her lips urgent.
Eliot caressed her and tasted honey. He drowned in that sensation, dizzy, only with her while the rest of the universe vanished.
There was a stab inside his cheek. Like a needle. It was lightning fast, the prick gone as fast as the sensation had registered.
Heat and pain lanced through his mouth and then his throat, pumping down the vein in his neck.
Eliot staggered back, one hand making a choking motion about his throat, the other brushing across his lips . . . and coming away bloody.
His lips went numb. Then his face.
Jezebel stepped out of his reach. She took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood—his blood—off her perfect, smiling lips.
“Ghhahh . . . ,” was all he managed.
She watched him, her features cold and calculating.
Eliot tried to grab her and demand to know what she’d done, but he couldn’t raise his arms. His legs didn’t respond, either. He crumpled to the carpet.
Only when he lay immobile and helpless, did she finally approach. “I had to,” she said with a tremulous whisper.
He never heard the rest of her words, because the darkness swallowed him.
________
Eliot’s face throbbed as if he’d gone a few rounds sparring with Robert