All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [312]
“Yeah.”
But once again, Eliot found his legs immobile. What he wanted to do was turn around and try to explain everything to Fiona, make her see his point of view, to somehow get her back on his side.
They were supposed to be stronger together.
But he couldn’t turn—if he did, he knew he’d chicken out and never have the strength to move forward.
He turned anyway and looked back.
Audrey was on the threshold, gazing longingly after him . . . seeming both sad and proud.
Fiona, however, had already gone back inside.
Audrey gave them both a tiny wave, and then hung her head and shut the door.
He somehow found the strength to turn and walk down the sidewalk.
After a block, he asked Cee, “So what’s the big rush?”
Cee kept pace with him, even though she carried those too heavy carpetbags. She wasn’t even panting. In fact, she looked a lot healthier than any 105-year-old woman had a right to look.
“The League of Immortals will soon know of the Night Train Station under Market Street,” she said.
“Because of Fiona,” Eliot finished for her.
Of course, Eliot’s departure was going to come up at the Council meeting tonight, and they’d want to know all the details of how he was getting back to Hell. If Fiona didn’t tell them outright . . . they’d find a way to get the information out of her.
“How long do you think the Immortals will tolerate an open path to Hell in the Middle Realms?” Cee asked.
“But the Pactum Pax Immortalis—,” Eliot started, and then stopped in the middle of that thought.
He was about to say they couldn’t do anything, because it was Infernal property.
But sure they could. They could fill the secret stairway to the Night Train Station with concrete—technically not touching any of the Infernal property, but nonetheless making it inaccessible. Or, if Eliot knew the thoroughness of the League, they might cause an earthquake and shift an entire tectonic plate over the site.
“I get it,” he said to Cee. “So once there, how are we going to get back?”
Streetlamps flickered on Pacific Avenue as the sunset faded and the eastern horizon darkened. Two crows landed on top of lampposts and stared at him.
Cee took Eliot by the crook of his elbow, sped up, and surprisingly pulled him along with her.
“You are an Infernal Lord now, Eliot. It is time you started thinking like one. You will find a way back if desire it. You will make your own way if necessary!”
Eliot didn’t know about that. Crossing dimensions was something only . . . only what? Only something fallen angels could do? Only the mighty Titans and gods had ever managed?
In his blood pulsed all those mingled lineages.
He was strong. He would find a way.
“And here’s something that will help.” Cee stopped, reached into one of the carpetbags, and pulled out an object wrapped in brown paper. She handed it to Eliot.
As he took it, Eliot felt that the thing possessed a gravity all its own. He felt a thrum of power within the paper and he heard a distant music, echoing and calling to him.
He unwrapped it.
A fist-sized gleaming sapphire nestled within the paper, and hundreds of water blue facets reflected his amazed face back at him. A tiny silver loop clutched the top of the stone, and a cord of leather snaked through it.
Eliot knew this thing. The last time he’d seen it, Fiona had pulled it through Beelzebub’s neck—decapitating that monster and saving them both.
“Every Infernal lord has a talisman,” Cee told him, as if that explained everything. “But hide it well. Even your mother does not know I took it. It is dangerous. But I believe it is absolutely necessary if you are to claim your rightful place.”
Eliot touched the stone. It felt cold, but warmed quickly under his fingertips. The dazzling blue tinged to midnight dark and then a coal black.
He made a fist about the stone.
It was now his—the power within, along with responsibilities he had yet to fathom.
He was Eliot Post, Master of the Burning Orchards, and Infernal Lord and Prince of the Lower Realms.
He undid the leather cord, pulled it through,