All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [230]
“Then I’ll go by myself,” he said, “if I have to.”
There was no challenge in that statement. It was simply a fact.
Fiona narrowed her eyes to gray slits and looked at him like she thought he was the biggest moron in the universe.
And maybe he was, because there was one small fact he hadn’t told anyone: Jezebel didn’t exactly want to be rescued. She was loyal to her Queen and the Poppy Lands. Her strength and life were literally tied to those lands.
So Eliot would stay there this time and fight with her—win this stupid war. How hard could it be? A few more Droogan-dors? What was that after he’d blown up a jet? And if he could get Robert or Fiona to come with him, it’d be that much easier.
Eliot decided not to mention this detail just yet. He figured it was already implied by him saying they had to “rescue” Jezebel.
No. He couldn’t fool himself. That was a lie.
It was only a lie by virtue of leaving out selected truths . . . but that was worse. It was more calculating.
He knew what he felt, though. He’d gamble everything, his life and the lives of the others, lie, cheat, and steal to save Jezebel—or lose it all.
“I’ll go with you,” Amanda meekly offered. She stared at the checkerboard floor, unable to look up.
Eliot blinked, surprised. She was the last person he’d expect to go willingly to Hell.
“I’m part of the team, too, aren’t I?” Amanda said. “I like Jezebel, though I don’t think she likes me. That’s kind of beside the point. I just want to help.” She swallowed and continued, “Guess if our positions were reversed, I just wish someone would come and rescue me like that. That’s what friends do for one another, right?”
Amanda pulled back her long brown hair and tied it into a knot. She finally looked up. Her dark eyes smoldered with determination.
“Hey, if Amanda’s going,” Robert said, “I’m in, too.” He cracked his knuckles and then shrugged. “How hard could it be? Plenty of guys have gone to Hell and come back—Dante, Ulysses, Orpheus, Bill, Ted. Besides, you know I’m a sucker for that damsel-in-distress stuff.”
“Thanks,” Eliot told them . . . although a rotten feeling started to gnaw at his stomach.
No. He wouldn’t chicken out now. He was going. And he’d take any help he could get.
And he’d accept all the consequences.
Sarah worked her mouth. Nothing came as she struggled with her words.
“It’s okay,” Eliot told her. You don’t have to—”
“We be coming,” Jeremy said, getting up from the chaise longue. “Was there ever any doubt? A bonny adventure in the outer realms? Perhaps even a wee bit o’ treasure in it for us, eh?” He winked.
Sarah looked shocked.
Jeremy gave her a subtle look, and there passed between them some kind of speed-of-light nonverbal communication—just as Eliot and Fiona sometimes managed, but on a frequency Eliot couldn’t decipher.
Sarah twisted back around, uncertainty and fear in her eyes, but she nodded. “Of course we’ll be going.”
“Uh . . . thanks,” Eliot said.
Something nagged Eliot about Sarah’s reaction and Jeremy’s never-fading mischievous grin, and how easily he’d agreed to risk his own neck. But who was he to understand the motivations of a nineteenth-century Scottish conjurer, one who’d been stuck in the Valley of the New Year for hundreds of years and then thrown into the present?
Eliot turned to Fiona.
Fiona hadn’t unfolded her arms. She hadn’t dropped her narrowed slit of a stare, either. If anything, her arms were more tightly crossed and her gaze sharper as she turned and assessed them all.
“Don’t encourage his suicidal delusions of grandeur,” Fiona told them.
Eliot wanted to admit to her that above all others, he needed her help on this—that they were stronger together. But he couldn’t say any of those things. It’d just give her a reason to stay—be the anchor that kept him here . . . because she was that stubborn.
He took a step closer to his sister and whispered, “In Costa Esmeralda, when you were about to get cut down by that strafing MiG—I didn’t tell you what you were doing was suicidal or a delusion