All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [294]
Eliot silently stepped back and felt as if he’d melted into the shadows.
Dante and the girls maneuvered around Fiona as she protested, but then she relented, saying it was no big deal and then telling them all about Elysium Fields.
Eliot let her. It might cheer her up.
It didn’t matter that Eliot was socially invisible once more. Apparently even though he was a school “legend” he had somehow nothing to do with their adventures.
Good. This time he was grateful for it. He would watch Fiona in the limelight and not have to answer a bunch of awkward questions.
It was as if nothing had changed.
He looked at his hands, and realized that nothing had changed. There were no claws. No scales. And he wasn’t going to be growing bat wings anytime soon, either, or suddenly becoming a superstrong six-story tall monster. The title of Infernal Lord was just that, a title.
So there was no big deal about winning a piece of land in Hell . . . besides being able to free Jezebel.
He looked around. Where was Jezebel?
He saw Sarah Covington staring at him—the only person in the room who noticed he was there. She looked at her loudmouth cousin and then back to Eliot, and rolled her eyes in exasperation.
Eliot then realized that one other person was missing. Robert.
Robert was probably the only one who even had a clue how he felt. Fiona hadn’t said a word to him after the battle. Robert hadn’t said much to her, either. When they’d all returned, Robert had told Eliot he needed “to take a ride.” He’d walked straight away from the BART station and they hadn’t seen him since.
Eliot called him from home, but just got a recorded message saying that number was out of service.
The ballroom doors opened, spilling light into the room.
A girl entered.
The way the light hit her, and from where Eliot stood, he could just see her silhouette.
Heads turned . . . a few at first . . . and the people who saw her trailed off in their congratulations. More people looked . . . until everyone stared at her and the ballroom was silent.
She sashayed in and the crowds parted for her.
Miss Westin and the other teachers looked astonished, and then their expressions soured into serious disapproval.
Then Eliot got a good look.
Jezebel. It was her, but not like he’d ever seen her before.
She was in her Paxington uniform . . . sort of. Instead of loafers, though, she wore thigh-high, high-heel boots of coffee-colored leather. Bronze studs curved from her ankle and spiraled about her leg. Fishnet stockings highlighted the hint of flesh that showed between those boots and the hem of her pleated skirt. A wide belt cinched her waist and covered half her bare midriff. The gleam of an emerald swayed in her pierced navel. She did have on the standard Paxington jacket with its distinctive school crest on the lapel, but instead of the white dress shirt, she had on a black T-shirt with a poison green radiation symbol stenciled with the words ATOMIC PUNK.
Her hair was straight and platinum blond, but streaked with black. She wore heavy eyeliner that made her blue-green eyes seem large and luminous.
Her features were no longer that perfect porcelain, either; they were human. Not the Julie Marks he had known, but part Julie, part Jezebel, and something entirely new. A hairline scar traced down from her temple to the corner of her mouth.
Her lips slipped into an easy smile as she saw him. It was the same dazzling hundred-watt smile he had fallen in love with, full of joy in life and the promise of what Eliot hoped might be a happy ending to their drama.
Jezebel walked toward him—a crooked stride that was hypnotic. She then stopped before him, beaming.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Eliot murmured to her.
“Then don’t say anything,” she told him, the faintest hint of her old Southern accent back in her voice. She drew close, wrapped her arms about him, and kissed him.
He held her and kissed her back, slow at first, but tasting her—feeling her poison spreading through