And logically, the more land that Infernal Lord had, the stronger he became. . while Queen Sealiah lost her land and grew weaker.
“What happens if you lose?” Eliot whispered. “Lose all the land?”
Her hand rose to her throat. “There would be no more Jezebel. At best, the soul of Julie Marks would belong to Mephistopheles. But in all likelihood, as a Duchess of the Royal House of Poppies, I would be destroyed.”
Eliot refused to accept that. His father had lost all his lands and not been destroyed. . but he was the Great Deceiver, and a full-blooded fallen angel. Jezebel wasn’t.
“Okay,” he said, “that’s it, then. I’m staying and fighting.”
“No, no, no.” She pursed her lips. “We’re only going to the castle so I can be safe and you can get an escort out of here. I won’t let you die for me.”
He crossed his arms. “I’m not leaving you.”
Cannon fire lit the nearby ridge, and bioluminescent puffballs whooshed overhead, lighting the sky like ghostly meteors-impacting and exploding on the opposite side of the valley with flashes of pastel lights, illuminating the solid wall of onrushing shadow.
Jezebel balled her hands into fists. “You-are-so-stubborn!” she said through gritted teeth, and she shook her platinum curls.
She grabbed his hand and raced back the way they’d come. “Fine. The train, then. My orders definitely do not cover this.”
As they ran, her wounds bled once more. Was it the sudden motion? Or was it because Queen Sealiah was losing?
Eliot risked a glance back.
Knights upon giant centipedes charged downhill; monster bats screeched overhead, dropping lines of phosphorescent napalm-and rushing down the opposite hill against these forces, a tide of dark, full of limbs and jagged maws and a thousand unblinking eyes.
Eliot turned and ran faster-and slowed only once they got inside the great glass station house.
“How long?” he panted. “Until another train?”
“
She went to a wrought-iron pillar and opened a call box. Inside was an ancient phone. She turned a generator crank and spoke into the fixed microphone: “Ready the
Jezebel replaced the earpiece and closed the box. She then moved to his side, seemed to deflate, and rested her forehead on his shoulder. “I was going to tell you you’re a fool,” she said, “but I think you already know that.”
Eliot held her lightly.
She let him, leaning closer. “I. . I just can’t believe you came for me,” she whispered. “I tried so hard to push you away. Why didn’t you go?”
Eliot tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes. They were a shade of blue-green he hadn’t seen before-part Jezebel, part Julie.
He wanted to tell her that from the moment he first played her song, learned what she was inside and out and what she could be, he had loved her.
But until he had come to Hell to save her, even Eliot hadn’t quite realized that. He just didn’t have the words. . so he opened himself to her, let her look through the windows of his eyes into the depths of his soul.
Jezebel stared deeper and deeper; she held her breath, and held him, her hands clutching his jacket tighter.
The moment was broken as an engine chugged and strained against inertia, pulling three rail cars from the roundhouse.
She released him and took a step back; her hands, however, still rested lightly on his chest as if she couldn’t let go.
The train and its cars were all polished brass and gleaming rosewood. As it pulled in front of them, hissing steam, Eliot smelled lilacs and a hint of sulfur.
A bald porter emerged, set down a step, and bowed before Jezebel. With a flourish, he waved them both into the car. “Destination?” he asked.
“Market Street BART station, San Francisco, the Middle Realm of the Earth,” Jezebel commanded. “And relay my wish to the conductor to make no stops along the way.”
“It shall be as you command.” The bald porter hurried off.
Eliot followed Jezebel into the rail car.
The wall panels of the car were silver dust mirrors veined with filigrees of gold. The ceiling was Tiffany stained glass with lilacs and dragonflies, but along the edges were mushrooms and crystalline millipede motifs with tiny real bones. There were bloodred silk lounges, and a desk with modern computers and phones, and along the wall a bar with cut crystal decanters. In the back were red curtains, slightly parted, and within he spied the ruffle of a round bed.
“All the conveniences one could desire,” she told him.
There was velvet in her voice. It was nice. Not a lie per se. . just something wrong nonetheless that heightened Eliot’s awareness.
She shut the door, moved closer, and her hand pressed against his chest, slowly running up and tracing his contours with her nails.
About them, dozens and hundreds of reflections of him and her all mirrored their touching. The air within the rail car turned hot.
Yes. . something was very wrong; at least the rational encyclopedic part of Eliot’s mind was screaming that to the rest of him (and being ignored).
Her fingernails slipped inside his shirt and scraped along bare skin. It was electric.
Eliot set a hand on the small of her back and pulled her closer.
Jezebel sighed. “If only. .,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?” Eliot asked.
“I mean,” she said, taking a deep breath, “you may be perfect, Eliot Post, Son of Darkness, but you’re not the only one capable of sacrifice for”-she struggled with her next words-“the ones they care for.”
Eliot crinkled his brow, confused.
She leaned closer and kissed him. It was soft; then she pressed harder, her lips urgent.
Eliot caressed her and tasted honey. He drowned in that sensation, dizzy, only with her while the rest of the universe vanished.
There was a stab inside his cheek. Like a needle. It was lightning fast, the prick gone as fast as the sensation had registered.
Heat and pain lanced through his mouth and then his throat, pumping down the vein in his neck.
Eliot staggered back, one hand making a choking motion about his throat, the other brushing across his lips. . and coming away bloody.
His lips went numb. Then his face.
Jezebel stepped out of his reach. She took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood-his blood-off her perfect, smiling lips.
“Ghhahh. .,” was all he managed.
She watched him, her features cold and calculating.
Eliot tried to grab her and demand to know what she’d done, but he couldn’t raise his arms. His legs didn’t respond, either. He crumpled to the carpet.
Only when he lay immobile and helpless, did she finally approach. “I had to,” she said with a tremulous whisper.
He never heard the rest of her words, because the darkness swallowed him.
________
Eliot’s face throbbed as if he’d gone a few rounds sparring with Robert. . leading with his nose instead of his fists.
His heart fluttered, and his pulse pounded rhythmically through his fingertips.
