All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [81]
Like Jezebel being Julie.
Eliot’s instincts about her had been right all along. But she wasn’t really Julie anymore. She was an Infernal. Dangerous.
But was all of the Julie he’d known gone? There was hope, wasn’t there, that there was still something between them?
Or was he just an extreme loser, and that was nothing but wishful thinking?
Eliot sat on a bench. He set his roiling emotions aside—he’d try to sort through the facts.
First, Jezebel was an Infernal. That’s how she’d announced herself at Paxington, and he believed Miss Westin wouldn’t let her lie about something like that.
Second, she admitted she’d been Julie Marks.
Third, she had told him the truth . . . except when she told him she wished she’d never met him.
Eliot knew it was a lie. How he knew exactly, he wasn’t sure. But from her reaction when he’d accused her, he was certain.
All this left him with one solid speculation: The Infernal families were involved again in his and Fiona’s lives. They were using Jezebel . . . or Julie as a piece in some game whose rules he didn’t know.
And he knew this game could be deadly. Julie had been punished for her failure with him: killed again, dragged to Hell . . . and tortured.
Eliot’s mouth went dry.
His first priority had to be to learn something about the Infernals’ game. Then he’d move a few pieces of his own. Defensive moves. And maybe, just maybe, learn how to capture Julie and bring her over to his side of the board.
He got up and strode to the library to find Fiona.
A few students had gathered to chat by the Little Faun Pool, where several bronze statues of dancing fauns and satyrs, giant mushrooms and gigantic flowers were artfully placed about a reflection pool filed with lotus and koi.
Eliot recognized students from Team Wolf there. They’d won their first match in gym in six minutes four seconds, and inflicted three broken limbs on the other team to do so.
He hoped Team Scarab got their act together before they faced them.
Eliot veered away, not wanting any more confrontation today, and angled toward the House of Wisdom.
Within the library’s twin sandstone pyramids and under its glittering golden dome, Eliot and Fiona had gotten lost twice so far this year in the stacks. Someone should have handed out maps. There were hundreds of thousands of medieval books; illuminated manuscripts; ancient Roman, Greek, Chinese, and Egyptian scrolls; and first-edition Shakespeare folios with stories Eliot had never even seen cataloged.
They’d found weirder things, too: thin volumes that wavered as if they were mirages (he didn’t touch those), one room with marble busts whose eyes definitely followed him, and plenty of off-limits sections. Eliot wondered if there was a section of Infernal books.
Eliot spotted Robert Farmington on the long sweep of library stairs. He spoke to a girl (not Fiona) who had her back to Eliot.
He flashed Eliot a look of recognition and a warning to not interrupt.
Eliot nodded, understanding as he saw the girl’s hair: a tangerine color that could belong only to Sarah Covington.
Eliot didn’t want to cross paths with her. She’d been nothing but mean to him. He wondered how she had any friends at all—and yet, maybe being cruel was the secret to popularity at Paxington, because Sarah had dozens of admirers who surrounded her, smiled at her jokes, and hung on her every word.
Eliot could pass Immortal heroic trials and survive Infernal plots, but he flunked the basics of how to get along with people.
Robert and Sarah finished their conversation. She laughed and waved good-bye, and wandered up to the library without turning to acknowledge Eliot.
Robert trotted over to him.
“Hey,” Eliot said.
“What happened to you?” Robert asked. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“It’s complicated.” Eliot glanced up the stairs at Sarah Covington. She joined with a group of girls, and laughing, they entered the library. “Why were you talking to her? She’s not . . . very nice.”
Robert wriggled uncomfortably inside his Paxington