All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [287]
And why not? Sealiah and delivered for him and the others the means of their salvation.
And Sealiah—now with lands and armies to rival Ashmed’s—was his near equal in power.
It was a powerful aphrodisiac.
She bowed graciously and took her seat (first, however, looking about the table for any potential threats . . . of which there were many).
Abby, The Destroyer, Handmaiden of Armageddon, and Mistress of the Palace of Abomination sat on her immediate left—a little too close for comfort. Abby had wrapped herself with black velvet ribbon, skintight over her slender curves. She played with a mouse, letting it scurry across the table—then trapping it with an upturned bone china cup—letting it go—capturing it again . . . and laughing all the while at the creature squeaking its sufferings.
A giant wasp sat on Abby’s shoulder, cleaning its antennae.
Across the table sat Leviathan, the Beast, Horror of the Abyssal Depths. About him was a disaster of broken plates and cups and saucers and spilled teas—which he dabbed up with a fistful of sponge cake. With his other hand, he brushed crumbs from the ripples of his tent-sized Nike jumpsuit and smiled a mouthful of food at her.
Sitting by himself at the other end of the table was Louis.
Sealiah hide her surprise as well, but she feared she let slip a double take.
Louis looked . . . delectable.
His hair had been trimmed short and neat on the sides, and the rest drawn back into a ponytail of silver and black and secured with a bloodred ribbon. His sideburns pointed to a stylish soul patch and pencil-thin mustache. He wore a black Armani tuxedo and a white shirt with diamond studs for buttons.
He smiled at her—all promises and remembrances of the passion that they had shared in the past.
This version of Louis had been copied by men throughout history: Don Juan, Clark Gable, Brad, and Johnny—all who were adored and made women’s hearts pitter-pat. None, however, did it as well as Louis . . . the original seducer of them all.
Flowing off his shoulders was a cloak so rich and black, the material seemed to absorb the light. It had been stolen by Mephistopheles long ago, and recovered by Louis on the battlefield. It looked better on Louis. Truly, Lucifer was back among them, the real Prince of Darkness, now fully restored to his proper power and prowess and pride.
Gooseflesh crawled up Sealiah’s arms and over her chest and caressed her neck. She shivered and regained her composure. “Lies and salutations, Cousins.”
“That was some nice work,” Lev muttered to Sealiah, spilling half-chewed contents from his mouth. “Never thought you’d get Meph to turn his back on you!” He made a fist and shoved it into the air for emphasis (jiggling his layers of fat as he did so). “Bang-O. A classic move.”
Abby lost her concentration at Lev’s motions and accidentally slammed her cup down too hard on her rodent plaything—smashing china and fur and splintering the table. She frowned at her broken toy, then shot the Beast a cross look.
She turned to Sealiah and raised both her eyebrows. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” she grudgingly offered.
That was the first. Sealiah had never heard Abby utter a kind word before.
Indeed, things were changing.
Sealiah inclined her head, and with tremendous difficulty, she replied, “Thank you very much, Cousins.”
Ashmed cleared his throat, uncomfortable with all these pleasantries. “Perhaps before we all lose our collective heads with Sealiah’s success, we should take care of one procedural item first.”
All of them glanced at Louis as he straightened in his chair, intensified his smile, and remained uncharacteristically silent.
“We have numerous petitions and pleas to be considered for the vacancy on the Board.” Ashmed gestured to a stack of paperwork on the table, considered it, and brushed it onto the ground. He lit one of his Sancho Panza Belicoso cigars and flicked the still-flaming match onto the heap of papers. They burned and