All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [305]
Arranged under the sniper rifle were rows of modified .338 Lapua Magnum ammunition, each round the length of her index finger, and each individually tailored to her exact specifications of powder load, overall weight, and metallurgical tip composition. Each was engraved with identifying mnemonic phrases like: “Double Down,” “Flush,” “Inside Straight,” “Wildcard,” “Stand Pat,” and the ultimate, “Last Call.”
She could obliterate a dime-sized target on a moonlit night in high winds from two kilometers.
She could kill any living creature from a considerably longer distance.
As she ran her fingers over the cold metal, she remembered the pleasure of its recoil.
Dallas submerged into memory and was no more. She was a child’s toy that had to be lovingly packed away, perhaps to be taken out and played with another time . . . but not in this Age.
All believed that Audrey was the most dangerous of the Sisters of Fate—the Cutter of All Things, the Pale Rider, Kali, and Death incarnate; she was indeed terrible and impressive.
Some said that Lucia was the most powerful—the Weaver of the Threads of Fate, the Balance, Blind Justice, Lady Liberty, and She Who Topples Nations. She was certainly the most articulate and cunning of them.
But Dallas had also worn many names throughout history as well—happy-go-lucky avant-garde Dallas, Mother Nature, or simply Little Red . . . but before all these she had been dark and full of wrath, and cataclysms and destructions had followed in her wake.
And they had all forgotten.
She was the Waning Moon, Hecate, and the Storm Which None Survived.
She was once more Artemis the Huntress.
89
NO REST FOR THE WICKED
Robert kept his eyes closed and wished the world would go away. Behind his lids the sun beat on him—a nice, natural sunshine. The surf churned thirty paces from where he lay in the sand. He smelled the open cerveza and limes wedges in a nearby ice bucket.
He should’ve been 100 percent chill.
But all he saw when he closed his eyes with that swollen red sun in Hell . . . the flash of swords and shadows . . . and Fiona’s tear-streaked face as she cradled Mitch, watching him burn and die.
He felt his gut twist because the one girl he’d been hooked on now hated him.
He wasn’t in Hell anymore, though; he was in his hidden fishing cove near Puedevas, Mexico—a six-pack and lobster enchiladas from the cantina, and him lounging in the sand.
So why feel lousy?
Maybe living people weren’t supposed to come back from Hell. How had Dante Alighieri done it? (Inferno was one of the books Robert had read and actually enjoyed in Miss Westin’s class.) Dante Alighieri had walked through Hell, into Purgatory, and then into Heaven. He’d been able to do that because he got a hand from the poet Virgil, and his one true love, Beatrice.
Robert’s spirit guide, Marcus, hadn’t led him anywhere—except smack into a war. And he sure wasn’t no poet or Beatrice.
Robert also felt bad about Amanda. He should’ve gone back to look for her body. But how to get past all those angry dead in the Blasted Lands? The thought of her soul suffering in the fires of Hell made him shudder, despite the warm sun.
And what about Eliot? Now that he had Jezebel and was an Infernal Lord, was he staying in Hell?
Robert grabbed a chunk of ice from the bucket and pressed it to his forehead.
Trouble hadn’t miraculously stopped when Robert got back to San Francisco, either. There’d been a note on his apartment door: a summons to the Headmistress’s office.
Like any of that mattered anymore. Robert wasn’t going back to school.
There were also three voice mail messages from Henry. Robert had responded to these by ripping the answering machine out of the wall.
Sure, Henry could find him. He knew Robert’s hiding spots. But Robert thought he might be strong enough now to refuse Henry’s subtle suggestions and his not-so-subtle threats.
Robert curled his fist until bones cracked and sinews popped with tension. His new strength was from Henry’s