All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [17]
“Jezebel’s real influence has yet to be seen,” she said.
“And Beelzebub’s attempt to force a solution,” Ashmed continued, “proved disastrous.”
Indeed. Louis had been there when his darling Fiona had parted the head of the Lord of All That Flies from his body.
“We need a new deception to bring them into the family,” Abby said. “And since your blood runs through their veins, Louis, we had hoped you had a suggestion.”
There it was, the one shred of truth in this maneuvering: They needed him.
The universe spun around Louis. He, who was a second ago more common than dirt, was suddenly the golden key to the ambitions of the Infernal clans. This was his chance, but to do what? Place his only two children in danger to gain advantage and power? And land . . . one could not forget the land to be gained.
But Eliot was so talented, playing his Lady Dawn.
And Fiona was so beautiful and so strong, and she didn’t even know it.
Poisonous fatherly concern coursed through his veins and muddled his thinking.
This weakness—the vestiges of Louis’s human form, no doubt—would destroy him if he allowed such a cancerous influence to run its full course.
Thankfully, rational thinking prevailed.
Louis was many things, perhaps even a father to his children, but he had never been a fool in the face of opportunity.
“Yes,” Louis replied to the Board, “I know how this might be accomplished.”
The shadow form of Mephistopheles chuckled, and the subsonic noise made Louis’s teeth rattle.
“Doubt if you will,” Louis said, “but I know their weakness: They have been brought up to be ‘good’ children.”
They stared at him, rapt. Louis had them now.
“A good little boy and girl, with all the ingredients that lead to moral downfall, including the most important: good intentions.”
Ashmed nodded, picked up his cigar, and puffed, greatly pleased with this.
“Go on,” Abby said, her eyes sparkling.
“We require a theater of Shakespearean proportions to draw the twins closer . . . as they have proved themselves highly susceptible to familial drama.”
“Shakes-whos-its?” Lev asked. “You lost me.”
“Shakespeare: the basis for all those Mexican soap operas you so love, Cousin,” Louis explained.
“How, specifically, would one engineer this ‘drama’?” Sealiah asked.
“We shall do what we do best,” Louis said, and spread his arms wide. He congratulated himself on a smooth transition to using we to refer to himself and the Board as partners on this venture. “We shall do it by fighting amongst ourselves. A war, just a little one, should do the trick.”
Of course, he was telling them all this because wars had their winners and losers . . . and where there were losers, there would be pieces of land and power for Louis to scavenge.
Ashmed’s dark gaze was light-years distant. “A sanctioned Civil War could destroy many clans,” he said. “Are these two children worth that?”
“It need not be a full Civil War,” Sealiah said. “Two clans would suffice. Something intimate. With only two involved, the loss to us would be trivial—negligible after we reabsorb the power base of the loser. Naturally, the specifics of how to draw Eliot and Fiona into the conflict would be left up to the individuals with the most at stake.”
Despite this coming from Sealiah, Louis liked the addendum to his plan. With only two factions involved, he would not have to personally risk doing any of the dirty work.
“The destruction, however, of even a single clan,” Ashmed reminded them, “is still a considerable tactical liability, since we are on the eve of war with the Immortals.”
Lev laughed. “Terrible for the loser. Which wouldn’t be me. Sign me up.”
“I, too, want the chance to play,” Abby whispered. “It has been too long since we had such sport. I volunteer my clan to go to war.” Her hand clutched her pet locust, and it squealed.
“As do I,” Sealiah stated.
Mephistopheles hammered a fist upon the railing, and the entire table jumped. “Fools—we all want blood on our hands. I propose we dispense with the usual discussion and move directly either to violence or dice