All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [295]
But he pulled away, coming up for air . . . and she set a hand on his chest and pushed gently back.
“There is good news and bad news, my liege,” she whispered. “Which would you like to hear first?”
Eliot hesitated, trying to wrap him mind around her calling him my liege after an entire year of her calling him a fool.
He supposed, technically, there was some sort of feudal relationship if he owned the land she lived on. It felt weird already, though, that she had kissed him and been so friendly, considering their new—what? Business relationship?
But that had been his plan, hadn’t it? Claim the land that Jezebel had been tied to and then set her free?
He took a step back and collected himself. “Uh, good news, I guess,” he said.
She licked her lips. “Miss Westin is giving me a chance to graduate. Even after missing the last semester.”
Eliot then noticed that almost everyone stared at them—especially Miss Westin, whose gaze was heavy with displeasure.
“The bad news,” Jezebel continued, and frowned, “is that to do so, I have to make up all my classes at summer school. All summer long.”
“Then you’re staying here?”
She nodded. “Sealiah has paid for everything: tuition, room and board, books, but . . .” Her gaze dropped to the floor. “It is now for you to decide if I stay at Paxington and continue on next year, or if I am to return with you now.”
Eliot lifted her chin. Her eyes were the color of aquamarines, and there wasn’t a trace of humor or falsehood in their depths. She wasn’t joking.
How was it his decision what she did? And return with him where?
“I’d never tell you what to do,” he said. “It’s your life. What do you want to do?”
Jezebel twisted from his hand. “As I said, it is for you to tell me. You are now the Lord of the Burning Orchards. I’m a part of those lands.” She added in a sad whisper so soft that he barely heard: “I belong to you.”
Eliot shook his head. “Nobody ‘belongs’ to anyone. Okay—forget that. It’s probably some weird Infernal custom. I’ll just set you free.”
She looked at him with a mixture of frustration and adoration on her face. “Oh, Eliot, it doesn’t work that way. No one can be set free in Hell. Ever.”
This was too much. There was no way Eliot was going to own another person. He was about to argue further, but sensed someone behind him.
“I hate to interrupt,” Fiona said, sounding very much like that was precisely what she wanted.
He turned and saw Fiona locked in a hate-filled stare with Jezebel.
Jezebel met Fiona stare for stare, and flashed her a smile.
“If you’re done embarrassing yourselves with that tacky liplock,” Fiona told her, “I need my brother back.”
Jezebel’s hand snaked around Eliot’s neck. “Oh, I don’t think we’ll be done for a long time. Why don’t you occupy yourself in the meantime with your own boyfriend?” She feigned a concern expression. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. You chased one of your boyfriends off . . . and the other one’s dead.”
Fiona turned white. She growled through clenched teeth, “Shut—your—mouth.”
Eliot extracted himself from Jezebel and stepped between them. To Jezebel, he said, “Don’t. We’ll talk later.” He turned Fiona. “You have my full attention. What’s up?”
Fiona grabbed Eliot’s hand and dragged him across the room. “We forgot someone—or rather, something.”
“What are you talking about?” Eliot pulled away from her and halted.
Fiona glanced back at Jezebel. “One day your girlfriend is going to go too far.” She then strode off without Eliot. “Come on. We have an appointment to keep.”
“Hey, wait up. I still don’t—”
Fiona marched straight to the Covingtons.
Eliot hurried after her.
“Ah, my dearest Miss Post,” Jeremy said, bowing with a flourish and shaking his hair into a golden mane. He held a flask in one hand, and the smell of whiskey hung in the air. The others in the group (Eliot assumed they were Covingtons, too, from their similarly freckled sardonic features) backed up a pace at the sight of Fiona.
Sarah,