by Eric Nylund
It was deserted.
There were three escalators to the next level. One had an OUT OF ORDER sign and yellow warning tape draped across it. The tape dangled, torn.
Eliot went to it and saw the escalator was still. It was dark down there.
He took a deep breath-not quite sure he was doing anything remotely smart, but knowing he couldn’t stop now. He crept down the motionless escalator. The edges looked disturbingly like metal teeth.
He emerged onto a wide hallway. Only every fifth fluorescent light overhead was lit.
Eliot’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. A yellow stripe divided the white tiles where people were supposed to wait well away from the sunken tracks of the BART train.
As above, there was no one here on this level. No train, either.
And still no Jezebel.
Had he made a mistake and lost her? Jezebel could have spotted him and broken that tape on the escalator to throw him off her trail.
A single black dot caught his attention. It was tiny, but obvious on the white tile. It called to him, sounded like a perfect note plunked in his mind.
He glanced once more down the platform and then crept to the spot.
Eliot reached out and touched it. The spot was liquid, tarlike-half-congealed. It smelled of vanilla and cinnamon and rust.
Blood. Her blood.
She had been here.
The question was, where had she gone?
She hadn’t been so far ahead of him that a train could have come, picked her up, and left without him hearing.
He spied another drop of blood. This one was by the tracks.
His gaze continued, and he spotted a third drop on the far side of the train tracks. . right under a shadow. The shadow looked just like the dozen others on the far side of the train tracks. . only it fell directly under one of the fluorescent lights overhead.
Eliot moved to look at it from another angle.
It looked like any other shadow, translucent, and flickering with the same frequency as the lights. Only there was nothing between it and the light to cast it.
This shadow fell directly between two concrete squares, and as Eliot turned his head back and forth, he caught a glimpse of more: a darkness that stretched beyond the flat plane of the wall.
A doorway.
If that’s where Jezebel went, he’d follow. Maybe she was hurt and had crawled in there to rest or hide from more of those things that had jumped them in the alley outside Paxington. Or maybe she had gone in there like some wounded animal to die.
Eliot held his breath and listened for any rumble that might indicate a train. He heard only his heart thudding.
With extreme care, he crept past the yellow safety line. Eliot then eased over the edge onto the channel with the train tracks.
He swallowed and gingerly stepped across the electrified third rail-pressed himself against the cool concrete by the fake shadow.
If a BART train came by now, he’d get pasted.
Eliot inched to the shadow. So close, it was easy to see how it extruded deeper into the wall, a passage that sloped at a steep angle. There were stairs and handrails. He twisted closer to looked straight into it; there was a flicker of amber light at the end. . a very long way down.
He hesitated on the threshold.
Some part of him screamed that if he went down there, he wasn’t coming back. Ever.
As surely as he knew this could be a one-way trip, though, he also knew Jezebel needed him. Like every daydream he’d ever had: The hero charged in to save his lady in peril, no matter what.
More realistically. . he knew Jezebel-or more accurately, the part of her that was still Julie Marks-was the key to unraveling the Infernal plots circling about him. She still cared for him. She was still his friend. . and possibly, hopefully, more.
He pushed into the darkness.
Eliot reached and pulled his pack around. He undid the top flap and opened Lady Dawn’s case. He wanted her handy. When things got this weird, they usually got dangerous, too.
He moved down the stairs.
As he neared the bottom, Eliot smelled moisture and brimstone and mold. He saw red and gleaming gold.
There was a rumble in the distance and a train’s whistle-that wasn’t a single shrill note, but rather a collection of tortured human screams. It got louder. It cut through him and twisted his insides. Eliot wanted to clap his hands over his ears and curl into a ball.
But he’d heard this noise before. In Kino’s Borderlands. . at the Gates of Perdition.
His father’s words came back to him: “We are monarchs of the domains of Hell, the benevolent kings and queens over the countless souls who are drawn there to worship us.”
Countless souls.
Knowing what the sound might be, though, didn’t make it any less horrific, but Eliot was able to set it aside in his mind. He could be scared and keep moving forward.
He got to the foot of the steep stairs and peeked around the corner.
A room stretched as far as he could see, another train station, but not like upstairs. This place looked like it was from the late nineteenth century. Red and gold tiles covered the floor and had a million cracks, as if the place had survived the Great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906. . or maybe it hadn’t and had sunk down here. Columns of carved teak and inlaid ivory stood like a dead forest. There were stained glass windows (bricked up on the other side) and tarnished silver candelabras set out here and there, flickering with smoking candles.
The screams grew to a crescendo, and bright light flashed from within a tunnel and filled one end of the station, illuminating a crisscross of train tracks.
Billows of steam blasted forth, and a train engine appeared, chugging, wheels screeching to a long agonizing halt.
The main cylinder of the engine glowed red. Black smoke billowed from twin stacks. Three coal cars were pulled behind this, and after them were passenger cars with rich wood paneling and gilt scrollwork that curled about picture windows. Red velvet curtains framed those windows and hid the interiors.
Eliot squinted at the first passenger car and saw lettering in ornate silver cursive: Der Nachtzug, Limited.[41]
With one last massive sigh, the engine came to a full stop and the tortured voices fell silent.
Jezebel stepped out from behind one of the columns. She’d been waiting there for the train. She staggered and barely made it to the first passenger car. She hung her head and leaned against it.
An old porter emerged. He bowed before Jezebel and then set down a tiny step. He took her hand and gently helped her up and onto the train.
Jezebel had said there was only one place where she could get help for her injuries: home. Eliot hadn’t taken her literally when she said that. He thought she’d head to an apartment in the city.
. . Not actually return to Hell.
The old porter glanced about the station, looking for other passengers.
Eliot ducked back into the stairwell.
Now what?
Three options occurred to him.
Eliot could let her go. Jezebel had to know what she was doing. But hadn’t she said her clan was fighting a war? He had a feeling she was headed into even greater danger.
The second option was to talk to her, try to get her to stay. There had to be someone here who could help her.
Of course, that would involve Eliot actually speaking to her and her responding in a rational manner. That never seemed to happen. Whenever they interacted, it seemed to be charged with emotion. . and anger.
That left the last option: Go with her and help her.
That thought turned to ice inside Eliot.
Go to Hell on purpose?
The locomotive hissed. Its wheels squealed to a slow start and sparked along the tracks.
Louis had said Sealiah was Jezebel’s mistress. . and that she was Queen of the Poppy Lands of Hell. Poppy Lands. Eliot wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.
He decided not and turned back.
&
nbsp; At the top of the staircase, light and shadows flashed: A BART train had entered the normal human station.
Normal. Human. A world he was feeling more and more apart from.
Besides, hadn’t he really decided when he ventured down here? To find out more about the Infernals and their plans? Wasn’t he committed to helping Jezebel? That was the right thing to do-no matter where it took him.
Eliot ran back.
The train picked up speed, cars accelerating past his view.
He ducked his head and sprinted after the last car as it raced toward the tunnel.
His hand caught the railing-he leaped-swung himself up and onto the swaying floor.
There. He’d done it.
Now he really was a hero rushing to the aid of his lady. . the consequences be damned. Maybe, this time, literally.
43 A MATCH
Fiona and the others walked through the deserted corridors of Paxington. It was eerie. They were the only ones there. Everyone else must still be taking midterms.
She felt like she’d been through war, and couldn’t even imagine what finals would be like.
Her footsteps echoed on the flagstones. The lords and ladies, gods and angels painted on the nearby murals seemed to disapprove of her for making so much noise.
“I thought it was great,” Amanda whispered, breaking the spell of silence. “We creamed them.” She smiled, but it was short-lived.
Sarah rolled her eyes.
“She’s right,” Mitch said. “We should be celebrating, not moping around like we’ve been to a funeral.”
“Could we at least make that a wake?” Jeremy asked, perking up.
Fiona tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it.
Why not? There was cause to celebrate. They’d all gotten As (well, okay, A-s) on their midterms. They’d done it as a team, too-not giving in to the prevalent “win at any cost” attitude of Paxington.
What was dragging her down?
She glanced over her shoulder: Robert lagged behind.
He glanced at her for a fraction of a second-their eyes locked-then he looked away, shifted his backpack, and rummaged through it. . falling farther behind the group.
Only Robert never fell behind. Was this a magnanimous gesture? Acknowledgment that he knew Fiona and he couldn’t be around each other?
“Hey.” Mitch gently jostled her elbow. “I thought maybe I could use that rain check and have our coffee date now?”
Fiona blinked, not understanding.
Then she remembered that after the field trip to Ultima Thule, she and Mitch had been going for coffee-before they got seriously distracted rescuing Eliot in that “side” alley from an army of shadow creatures.
How typical was that?
And Fiona also recalled that Mitch had called it a coffee date then, too.
Was the emphasis on the coffee-as in two students going to grab something to drink and go over homework? Or was the emphasis on the date? As in a boy-and-girl type thing? (And still technically forbidden by Audrey’s Rule 106.)
“I don’t know,” Fiona whispered. “After everything that happened this morning, maybe we should lie low for a while.”
“If you never let yourself have any fun,” Mitch teased, “you’re going to end up as dried out as Miss Westin.”
He grinned. Fiona could never resist it and found herself smiling, too.
Besides, she’d never heard anyone make fun of Miss Westin. She half expected the Headmistress to appear, standing behind them all this time-glaring right through them like they didn’t exist.
But Miss Westin wasn’t there.
And Mitch’s smile could have lit a pitch-black room.
“Okay,” she said, ducking her head in a half nod. “Coffee it is.”
She was careful not to say this was a coffee date. . not yet anyway.
Jeremy angled toward them. “Aye, coffee with a wee nip o’ whiskey would hit the-”
Sarah and Amanda stepped in front of him, Sarah elbowing him in the ribs as the two of them jostled Jeremy back from Mitch and Fiona.
Sarah quickly whispered to her cousin.
Jeremy shrugged, then gave a conspiratorial nod to Mitch.
“We’re heading to the library,” Sarah said, a little too loud. “Must return a few books.”
She and Amanda pushed Jeremy. Fiona heard him muttering: “The library? Gods! Couldn’t you think up a better excuse?”
Fiona would have to thank Amanda and Sarah later. The last person she wanted tagging along was Jeremy Covington.
And Robert? She glanced back over shoulder.
Robert was gone.
She and Mitch crossed the silent campus, seeing only a few older students, who looked more harried than they did. Fiona didn’t want to think about what senior midterms were like.
Harlan Dells waited for them at the front gate as if he had never left his post. He nodded to Mitch and gave a tiny bow to Fiona.
“Congratulations,” he said as calmly as if they had just taken an ordinary paper-and-pencil test. “A-minus. Most impressive.” He added with a chuckle, “Mr. Ma will spend all week rebuilding his pet monstrosity obstacle course. I believe he is quite. . cross.”
Fiona wasn’t sure what to say. “Uh, thanks,” she tried.
Mr. Dells’s laserlike gaze flickered over her head and then returned, his expression cooling a bit.
“You two have a wonderful time.” He opened the gate for them.
Fiona turned toward the direction he’d looked. In the shade of a cedar tree along the path to Bristlecone Hall sulked the unmistakable silhouette of Robert Farmington.
Mitch saw, too. “Did you want to ask him to join us?” His tone was polite, but he managed to say it such that it was clear he was only being polite.
She couldn’t believe it. Robert following them? Was he jealous? Spying on them? Fiona thought they were getting over this.
She wandered through the gate and into the alley. “He’s not joining us,” she said, clenching her jaw.
Fiona tried to smother her mounting anger. She didn’t want to show that side of herself to Mitch.
She couldn’t stop Robert from watching her. He was quick, and all Drivers were trained to track by the League. He’d be there in the shadows while she and Mitch sat and sipped coffee at the Café Eridanus.
He was going to ruin it for them.
“It’ll be fine,” she said.
Mitch read her expression and glanced back at Robert. His smile reappeared. “We can do much better than ‘fine’ today.” He held out his hand. “Trust me.”
Fiona forgot her anger, suddenly curious but also wary. Her hand hesitated halfway toward him. “What are you going to do?”
“Give us a little space,” he replied. “It doesn’t always work-only when things are perfect. . and only if I’m with the right person.”
He stared deep into her eyes and took her hand.
Mitch’s skin was soft and warm, but there was an underlying strength, as well. He pulled her gently along, three steps down the alley and around the corner-only it should’ve taken more than three steps to get there-and they turned onto the sidewalk.
There was the sensation of extra motion, like when you step on an escalator or moving sidewalk-then a sudden halt.
She stumbled. Mitch steadied her.
Fiona blinked. They weren’t near Presidio Park as they ought to be. They were still on a sidewalk, but the road now twisted and turned, switch-backing down a steep hill among picture-perfect gardens and houses.
This was Lombard Street. .
. . which was halfway across the city.
“How’d-?”
Mitch held up her hand, still twined within his. “Magic,” he whispered. “A gift a few in my family have. . which seems to be working much better with you along. At heart, I guess, I’m nothing but a show-off.”[42]
Fiona grinned, not completely understanding, but nonetheless thrilled at what had just happened.
It was more than
just moving miles in a single step. And it was more than holding hands with Mitch (although that was nice). It was that she’d left Paxington and all the stress and worries behind. Not just physically. . but in her head, too.
Apparently, the universe had other plans: A counterbalance to her rare moments of happiness. . because a few blocks away, she heard the rumble of an all-too-familiar Harley Davidson racing toward them (a motorcycle crafted by Uncle Henry to go faster than the speed of sound).
Mitch cocked his head, also hearing. “Robert hasn’t given up.”
“In more ways than one,” she muttered to herself.
Mitch tugged on her arm. “Want to try again?”
“Can we?” Fiona replied.
Mitch gestured ahead, and they strolled together down stairs, past pots of Christmas poinsettias and ferns. His forehead creased with concentration as they crossed into shadow-
— and turned. The sun was brighter and higher overhead. The sidewalk was now paved with pink bricks, and on her right was a wide canal filled with sailboats. There were bridges and hotels and restaurants everywhere.
“We’re in Texas,” Mitch explained, exhaling as if he had just lifted a great weight. “Would you care to find someplace to sit?”
She squeezed his hand. “Let’s go farther.”
Mitch considered her a moment, his grin widened, and he squeezed her hand back. “Very well. Let’s tempt fate.”
He gripped her hand harder, as if he was afraid she’d slip free. Maybe there was some chance that this was dangerous-that if he let go, Fiona might land someplace between steps. Or maybe he just wanted to hold her.
She gripped his hand just as tight.
She wasn’t afraid. . although her blood pounded. . and it wasn’t her all-too-familiar anger, either. This was excitement and elation, and maybe a dash of infatuation.
Fiona leaned in closer to him as they turned into the shadows, stepped-
— through darkness for a moment, so cold and empty, she found it hard to breathe. Like she’d frozen solid. But then they stepped out-