All That Lives Must Die (38 page)

Fiona became very still, remembering that first day, how scared she been, but resolute to do her best.

“What did you see?” she asked.

“A right person,” he whispered, “. . . for me.”

She knew what he was talking about, because she’d been thinking the same thing: She and Mitch fit together. Two puzzle pieces, ones she’d thought were different shapes and colors, and never in a million years supposed to be put together, but when she’d turned them this way and that, suddenly they aligned, and she realized they were
supposed
to be together all this time.

Mitch leaned back against a wall, and his hand found hers.

Fiona snuggled up against him, warmed by his body, not wanting to be anyplace else in the entire universe at that moment.

They held each other and watched the stars until the sky warmed in the east.

42
. Although translocation (aka teleportation: an object moving instantaneously across a distance while not crossing the intervening space) has been attempted and pretended by mystics and stage magicians for millennia, there are no documented accounts of the phenomenon ever occurring among mortals. The infamous Dr. Faustus (Johan Georg Faust) did appear in two places at once, but it is hypothesized that he was cloned or doubled (with the aid of his Infernal sponsor, Mephistopheles) and did not translocate. The ability is also unknown among Immortals (although some have mastered the trick of
bending
space to travel across the world in astonishingly short times). True and instantaneous translocation, as yet, seems to be the sole purview of select gifted Infernal clans.
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 13, Infernal Forces
. Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.

               44               

INFILTRATION

The Night Train entered the tunnel. The chugging screams from the engine echoed undiminished. Standing on the rear platform, Eliot choked on the brimstone-laden smoke that swirled in the train’s wake.

He cupped his hand to see through the window into the last train car.

The gas lamps on the wall were turned down to flickers, but there was enough light to see no one else was inside. Perfect.

He entered the car and eased the door shut.

It smelled of rose water and cigar smoke. It was quiet, too; the only suggestion of the train’s thunderous passage were faint clacks under his feet.

Eliot fumbled for the valve on the lights and turned them up.

There were tables with green felt tops and trays of poker chips. Black velvet wallpaper covered the walls, and intricate mahogany curls framed a fresco on the ceiling: a cloud-fringed view of Heaven . . . with an exodus of angels leaving their friends behind. Many angels left behind wept or beckoned to those leaving, but the departing ones had their backs turned to them in disgusted indignation.
43

Eliot swallowed, looking for his father in the painting.

Something else caught his attention, though: in the train car ahead—the lights brightened.

Eliot turned down the lights and retreated to the back door. He slipped onto the rear platform, holding his breath.

Outside, the train continued to screech through the dark of the tunnel, but there were things in the darkness answering that screeching now.

Eliot reluctantly closed the door and crouched to hide.

The lights in the last car turned up again, and Eliot saw it was the same old man who’d helped Jezebel board. The man was bent with age. He had a black cap and uniform with gold braids on the shoulders. He wore white gloves, and on his belt was a tiny brass clockwork mechanism.

Eliot had misjudged the size of the man. He was not hunched over from age, but because his head would otherwise have bumped the ceiling.

The man cast about, mumbling. He sniffed the air, looked behind a table, then turned—only just remembering to turn down the lights as he left.

Eliot exhaled with relief (and because he was running out of air). He waited until the lights in the second and third cars also dimmed, and then he crept back inside.

That had been close.

Eliot collapsed into an upholstered chair at a poker table.

He had to find Jezebel and talk to her. Or should he keep following her and learn more before he made his move? In truth, he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He should have. But when it came to Jezebel, he was finding it harder to think and too easy to let his emotions drive him.

That’s the way it’d been with his music . . . all passion in the beginning. He reached into his pack and reassuringly touched Lady Dawn. Only now did he have even a little control. And how many people had he hurt in the process of learning that? How many times had he almost been killed?

It wasn’t a fair comparison, though. Lady Dawn, despite her namesake, wasn’t a real girl.

Then again, technically, neither was Jezebel anymore.

His eyes fell upon the poker chips on the table. They gleamed with inset rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. There were plastic-wrapped decks of cards, too. And there were dice—dozens of pairs of dice: ivory, some clear red plastic, others black iron.

He unthinkingly reached for them. He could let chance decide what he should do next. . . .

The door to the rear platform opened—slammed shut.

Eliot jumped up and turned.

The old man in uniform stood behind him, his arms crossed over his chest. “Ticket, young man?” he demanded.

Eliot backed up, almost falling over his chair. “I . . . I didn’t—”

The old man leaned over him, and a jagged smile broke his face. “Just pulling your leg, sonny.”

He offered a hand to shake, but there was no way Eliot was touching him, so he stepped back out of reach and politely nodded.

“So,” Eliot asked, “you don’t need a ticket to ride?”

“Oh, you most definitely
do.”
The man’s bushy white eyebrows arched. “But not for the trip going in. . . .” He winked. “It’s the return trip that’ll cost.”

A chill shuddered up Eliot’s spine.

The man set his thick fingers on the tiny typewriter apparatus on his belt. “Name?”

“Uh . . . Eliot Post.”

The man froze. “Not Master Eliot Zachariah Post, by any chance?”

Eliot nodded.

“A thousand pardons, sir.” The man eased to one knee and bowed so low that his bones creaked. “Allow this lowly Ticket Master to welcome you aboard
Der Nachtzug
, Limited Express to the Outer Domains of Hell, O Mighty Infernal Lord.”

Eliot wasn’t comfortable with this genuflection. “Sure. Thank you. Uh, get up, please.”

The Ticket Master obeyed. His expression was one of utter respect, and he rubbed his gloved hands together. “How may this most unworthy one be of service? A drink? A companion, perhaps?”

Eliot wasn’t about to disagree with someone mistaking him for a real Infernal Lord . . . especially someone who was big enough to flatten him with one fist. And besides, Eliot might be able to use this case of mistaken identity to his advantage.

“How about some information? Can you tell me what stop is—?” Eliot searched his memory. Louis had shown him an image of Jezebel in his ring, and her Queen Sealiah, and then he’d mentioned the name of the realm she ruled. “—the Poppy Lands?”

The Ticket Master flinched. His gaze darted to the front of the train.

“Stop after next, young Master.” He swallowed. “After the Slag Mountain Station in the Blasted Lands.”

Eliot followed his gaze up the train, seeing nothing. “Is there a problem?”

“The Protector of the Burning Orchards is also on board,” the Ticket Master whispered. His rubbing hands stopped. “Her clan and your father’s . . . I wish there to be no trouble.”

There was already trouble. Eliot was on a train to Hell. There was no guarantee of him getting back. No one knew where he was. How Jezebel reacted when she finally discovered him tailing her . . . that, at least, might be trouble he could delay.

“There won’t be any,” Eliot told him, “as long as she doesn’t find out I’m here.” He tried to sound elegantly threatening just as his father sometimes could.

The Ticket Master took an involuntary step back.

Eliot felt bad, so he added, “If you don’t mind, please.”

“It shall be as you say.” His hands smoothed over one another again. “If you require anything”—he gestured to a silver noose hanging on the wall— “pull that. I will come.”

The Ticket Master then bowed and bowed again, backing toward the door, and left.

Eliot sighed with relief . . . but then started to worry. What if the Ticket Master found out he wasn’t really an Infernal Lord? Did they let just anyone ride this train? He bet not.

Light flashed from the cars ahead, closer and closer—then sunlight streamed through the windows. This light was the color of blood and so bright that Eliot had to squint and blink away tears to see outside.

The landscape looked like a newly formed planet Earth. There were rivers of lava and exploding volcanoes. It rained fire and ash. Clinging to raftlike islands of rock were screaming people—fighting one another for space.

Air-conditioning whispered on within the rail car, blowing cool air on his face.

He reached toward the window, but had to halt because it was too hot.

The train plunged into darkness—another tunnel—and then emerged in desert where it continued to rain smoldering ash. Meteorites fell from the sky, too. In the distance, zeppelins crashed, blossoming into fire. Eliot counted one, two—then three airplanes plummeting from the black clouds, crashing and tumbling into flaming wreckage.

He stared, horrified, eyes wide, unable to move.

The Blasted Lands . . . aptly named.

The Night Train raced through this terrible place, faster than the falling jets. One tiny bit of wreckage on the track, though, and that would end the breakneck ride.

There was no debris on the tracks. Even the falling ash seemed to avoid it. It was a clean line of crushed gravel and iron rails that ran through the desolation.

A single red mountain sat among distant ashen dunes, and pink-tinged whirlwinds screamed about it.

As they got closer, Eliot saw the mountain wasn’t natural; rather, it was piles of old cars, steel girders from bridges, countless tin cans, cut-up oil tankers, and miles of unraveled wire—all corroded and melting into piles of rust.

The train slowed. Their track joined dozens of others, and then the Night Train entered a huge metal station roundhouse. They eased to a stop with a scream and a hiss.

There were dozens of trains here. Most were junk heaps, billowing black smoke and barely able to pull themselves along the track. One, however, was a sleek silver bullet that levitated over the tracks.

“Slag Mountain!” The Ticket Master cried, walking alongside the cars. “Five minutes, Lords and Ladies! Apologies, apologies—but there is an unbreakable schedule to keep. Slag Mountain! The Blasted Lands! All depart who so wish. Abandon all hope.”

Shadows and shapes left the cars ahead. Eliot sat alone in his chair, trying to look invisible.

After five minutes, there was a tug from the engine, and they moved again.

There was more desert and desolation, and fierce winds tore at the land. Hot air balloons and gliders and kites and even people tumbled in the tornadoes that passed.

The Night Train slowed as it crested a hill, and then tilted downhill and accelerated. Streams of muddy water flowed, then there were tiny twisted trees, and then meadows and thicker forests that became overgrown with ferns and hanging moss and fungus that grew in the gloom.

As before, the train tracks remained clear, cutting through otherwise impenetrable jungle.

Occasionally a shaft of light pierced the canopy . . . but it was not sunlight, rather a gray half twilight.

The Ticket Master returned, bowing as he closed the door behind him.

“Your stop is next, young Master,” he told Eliot. He hesitated, then added, “The Duchess is near the head of the train in our most luxurious quarters, naturally. If it is still your intention to depart, I suggest you wait until the train is leaving . . . to minimize any potential conflict.”

“Thanks,” Eliot said.

“If you do not mind me asking, are you here because of the war?” The Ticket Master’s gaze fell to the carpet. “Queen Sealiah and your father’s clan have always had the most delicate of . . . relations, but I never envisioned the twice-fallen Prince of Darkness daring to align himself
against
the House of Umbra.”

House of Umbra? The name made Eliot’s breath catch.
Umbra
was the darkest portion of a shadow . . . like those shadow creatures that had attacked him and Jezebel in the alley?

Eliot didn’t like the Ticket Master’s sudden interest. He twisted around to get a better look at the man’s eyes. Something glittered in them, sharp and dangerous.

The Ticket Master lowered his gaze even more.

Eliot felt an unfamiliar heat build within him.

“How easy it must be to get information along your route,” Eliot said. “And how many must ply you for such trinkets of truth. But I wonder how easy it would be with your tongue removed from your head?”

Eliot blinked, startled at the ferocity of his words. It was as if someone else had said them.

The effect, however, was immediate. The Ticket Master bowed so low, he touched the floor with his giant hands.

“I beg your forgiveness, young Master. The House of Umbra pays for any information pertaining to the Poppy Lands with whom they have sanction to wage open civil war. All know this.”

Eliot was once again in way over his head, but at least the Ticket Master had laid out the major players: Queen Sealiah of the Poppy Lands on one side, the House of Umbra and Mephistopheles on the other.

“Silence can be rewarded, as well,” Eliot said. “Consider
discretion
an investment should Queen Sealiah prevail, eh?”

Eliot marveled at how much he sounded like his father, and was worried by it, too.

“Thank you, young Master Post.” The Ticket Master rose. “So it shall be.”

The train slowed and entered a station the size of an aircraft hangar made from panes of frosted glass like a hothouse.

“Your stop, sir,” the Ticket Master said.

Eliot slipped out the back. The air was so humid, he could barely breathe. It smelled of decay and freshly turned earth.

After a moment, the train started again to move. Eliot jumped off.

As he landed, his fingers lightly brushed the dirt. As when he had felt the earth of the Blasted Lands, reaching through the Gates of Perdition, it felt alien . . . but as desolate as that place had been, this earth felt full of life to the bursting point.

Eliot spied motion beyond the frosted glass of the station house, a figure whose stride he knew well: Jezebel.

He followed her.

Outside, there were more buildings, and one that looked like a stable, but they’d all been boarded up and abandoned.

The smell of the air was like Jezebel’s perfume: vanilla and cinnamon and a hundred other exotic spices. It was like trying to inhale underwater, only instead of drowning, Eliot felt intoxicated.

A road of worn gray stone wound between hills and through the jungle. On a distant hill, fire flashed. Eliot had seen this before: cannon. The echoing thunder confirmed his suspicion. There was the retort of gunfire and the curling smoke from a hundred rifles that illuminated swords and spears and claws.

It was war. So close.

Was this what Jezebel had to go through every day to get to school?

Eliot no longer saw her.

He’d been a fool, sightseeing while she’d moved on.

He jogged down the road.

As he rounded the first curve, jungle gave way to a field of tall grass and red opium blossoms.

Part of the field, however, had been burned, the soil turned over, and heaps of salt scattered upon it. In those places were shadows—crisscrossing where they had no business being cast.