Strange and Ever After

by Dennard, Susan

  Shadows crossed my vision. Just a little air, I pleaded with my body, thrusting magic against him. I fought the oil sliding through me. I pushed it back out. . . .

  But it didn’t work. Marcus continued to chant . . . and smile . . . and dig his fingers toward us. And the sword in his back began to push out of his body. The flesh mended with each passing second.

  My legs buckled, and panic seared through my brain. Was this the end? A single spell to suffocate us?

  Just as I tumbled toward the sand, I had enough time to see a dark figure rise up from behind the stone. Behind Joseph. Behind Marcus.

  She lifted her arm, and a distant crack! pierced the fog inside me.

  Blood exploded from Marcus’s forehead.

  His spell lifted.

  And I thrust back to my feet as Oliver staggered up beside me.

  Crack!

  Blood burst from Marcus’s chest, and Allison’s pistol smoked. She fired again. And again. Yet somehow, even as each bullet broke through him, Marcus stayed upright.

  He was so strong.

  But so was I.

  My hand shot up. Power lanced out. Straight at Marcus’s heart, I poured every ounce of my soul into the assault. And I stumbled closer and closer.

  Then from the boulder, lightning exploded. In agonizing slowness, Joseph gathered himself upright. Yet, though his body listed, his hand stayed steady. His electricity stayed true.

  Like a thousand spiderwebs, my magic and Joseph’s sizzled over Marcus’s body. Then Oliver’s power unleashed, and Marcus was nothing more than a beacon of blinding light.

  Yet no matter how much energy I shoved into my attack, it wasn’t enough. I could feel Marcus pushing back. Even as our souls wrapped around his, he wriggled and writhed free.

  My feet carried me, shambling through the sand, toward Joseph. I was draining too fast, and even though I sucked at the world around me, the world had nothing left to give.

  Marcus was taking his power from the sand, the wind, the stones.

  I needed the power of the crystal clamp. I needed electricity.

  I reached the stone, my left hand slung clumsily out toward the lines blazing from Joseph’s fingertips. I laced my fingers through his. . . .

  Electricity tore from me. Blistering and trembling, it sliced through my veins and gathered in my heart—then surged from my right wrist. Smoke filled the air. Flames licked up my sleeve. I could barely see, and I certainly couldn’t hear.

  But I could feel. Somehow, with the power of electricity, Joseph and I had stabbed into Marcus’s soul. I felt each of his heartbeats. I understood the scale of his power. And even his thoughts trickled around inside me.

  And that, more than anything else, terrified me.

  For Marcus was amused. Eventually our power would run out, and he simply had to wait until that moment. Then he would crush us. He had two souls to lean on. He had the Black Pullet’s soul too. And he had the very soul of the earth.

  We could not stop him, and he found it funny that we even tried.

  Horror choked through me, spiraling around the electricity. I looked at Joseph. His eyes shone blue, but there was fear within. We weren’t strong enough.

  Crack! More pistol shots, almost lost in the eternal thunder of our electricity.

  My eyes crept right. The world swam, and each fragment of a breath was torture. I met Oliver’s gaze, glowing with the pure magic of who he was.

  As I watched, the light in his eyes dimmed and dimmed. He was stopping—and I couldn’t blame him. He had already given more than he needed to. He had come back, and my soul would never forget.

  Save yourself, I thought, though he could not hear me with our bond broken. I hoped he might see the want in my eyes. Save yourself, Ollie. Please go while you still can.

  The slightest tug wound through my gut. Then the flicker of a thought nestled inside my brain. Somehow, despite our broken bond, he still managed to meet my mind with his.

  And what he thought was simple: No.

  At that moment the sword popped from Marcus’s chest and hit the sand. Then the bullet in his forehead spat out. The bullet from his heart.

  And again, the hint of Oliver’s thought flamed inside me.

  No.

  Oliver’s magic cut off. In two impossibly long strides, he came to me.

  He grabbed my wrist.

  And his vast demon soul hurtled through me. Instantly, the electricity doubled. Tripled. It grew so hot, I lost all sense of where I was or who I was. My body became a distant, fleeting thing. A vessel much too small for all this raw power gathering inside.

  Three spirits laced together as one. Joseph. Oliver. And me. Power boiled in my brain, beneath my ribs, behind my eyes. My clothes burned—my eyelashes, my hair. Everything ignited.

  And our power hit Marcus’s attack. For an endless fragment of a second, it was a balanced collision of souls.

  But then the scales tipped too far. In a heavy, clicking twist, all the electricity shifted.

  And Marcus could not stop it. His eyes widened. His mouth fell open with silent screams. His skin caught fire, melting over sinew and bones.

  Elijah’s skin. My brother’s body was crumbling before my eyes.

  Oliver felt that loss too—it sang through our shared electricity. A high-pitched shriek of grief for someone whose soul we had already lost . . . and whose body we now lost too.

  But we did not stop pushing against Marcus. Skin flayed off his skull. His yellow eyes spun and rolled . . . and then burst. They exploded outward. Blood sprayed.

  Then, bit by bit, his lungs and guts scorched and popped. The red muscle ignited . . . and then shaved away.

  Until there was nothing left but a skeleton and a pulsing, festered heart.

  Joseph’s fingers all furled in, save one, and then he thrust a final whip of electricity at Marcus.

  And his heart exploded. Black, oily blood spewed on the sand, on the bones, over us.

  And the necromancer Marcus Duval collapsed in a pile of charred bones.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  There was a long silence that seemed to fill the earth after that.

  No one moved. No one spoke.

  But then screams slithered into my ears. Into my consciousness.

  Allison. She sobbed for mercy at our feet, begging us to help her.

  “He took my life,” she screamed. “You must get it back! You must get it back!”

  I ignored her. I could not even look upon her. She turned to Joseph. To Oliver.

  But none of us had any mercy to give. She had dug her own grave, and now she could lie in it.

  I stumbled to Marcus’s blackened, ashy bones. Elijah’s bones. I brushed them gingerly aside. I would save them; bury them somewhere here in this ancient, timeless necropolis.

  But first . . .

  I found the ivory clappers. Clean and white, both hands were now open. No souls left inside.

  I swooped them up and turned to the frozen battle behind us. “Go home,” I whispered.

  It was the only phrase I could rasp out, and in a great lurch of movement, the imperial guards left. They radiated in all directions, bounding for their tombs all across Egypt.

  The queens’ guards followed.

  “Here.” Oliver’s voice was a broken, rattling thing. “Take these too.” He offered me the queens’ clappers . . . and my gaze slid up his dusty, ripped sleeve to settle on his face.

  To stare into his hazel eyes. Hazel. Not gold.

  “Oh no,” I breathed, gripping for his arm. Then his chin. “Oh my demon, what did you do?”

  “I did what needed doing.” He tried to look away—but my left hand cupped his jaw. Tears pooled in his gold-flecked eyes.

  “Oliver, Oliver.” I pulled him to me. My arms clutched his shoulders, and I held him as tightly as I could. �
��Oh my demon.”

  “I am your demon no longer, El. I am just . . .” His voice broke. He sank his face into my neck. “I am just a man now. A man with no magic. A man with a . . . a man’s soul.”

  And as he began to weep, I wept too.

  He had given up his demon soul to save us all. The electricity from the crystal clamp had blasted it away, just as it had in Paris—but a thousandfold worse. Oliver’s immortality was gone, his soul shrunk and shredded to a human size. My demon would never, ever go home. He would never touch magic again or cross the curtain or be anything but Oliver.

  No matter how many times I uttered the words—Thank you, thank you, thank you—it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

  “Eleanor.” Joseph’s croaking voice cut into my brain. His hand lay weakly on my shoulder. His second hand moved to Oliver’s. “The Black Pullet . . . returns.” His head swiveled toward the pyramid.

  I had forgotten the creature entirely. Again.

  Eyes swollen, I strained to see. . . . Black scales—as thick as velvet in the graying dawn light—slunk over the sand. Several bone ibises continued to peck at it, but it barely seemed to notice. It simply moved toward us.

  Toward me—for with the clappers, I was its master now.

  “Stop,” I whispered.

  It froze, yellow eyes shuttering. Then its breath huffed out. It spiraled in on itself and laid down.

  The ibises continued their meek attacks.

  “Sleep,” I ordered them. Then I turned my eyes to Joseph. Tears streaked through dirt and blood, and there was a hollowness in his gaze.

  The pain of the living. The guilt of the survived.

  We would carry it with us forever.

  “Come,” he murmured, shuffling toward the pyramid. Toward Jie. Toward Daniel.

  Oliver and I followed, Allison’s cries for mercy howling after us. As we trekked on unsteady feet over the dunes, I paused only once. Beside the Black Pullet.

  Its head was as long as I was tall. Yet it did not seem dangerous now. Its eyes brimmed with a sadness I understood.

  I rested my left hand on its serpentine snout. “You were just a pawn,” I whispered, my words carried off with the wind. “I am sorry you were never given a choice.”

  Then I resumed my stumbling journey to Daniel’s side. His head was still in Jie’s lap, and she still hunched beneath the obelisk.

  But she was silent now. Stiff as stone. Empty as the rest of us.

  Joseph fell to the earth beside her. I fell beside him . . . and Oliver beside me.

  And together we wept on. For all we had fought.

  For all we had given up.

  And for all we were never meant to lose.

  At the first rosy light of the wicked dawn, we burned my inventor’s body.

  I looked into his face for the last time as he lay atop pine crates—a makeshift funeral pyre. The wind dusted sand over him, and as I brushed a final kiss over his waxy lips, flies buzzed on his chest.

  Death was so coarse. So unforgiving.

  I wanted to brand his face in my memory. I wanted to remember the shape of his hands, the lines of his jaw, and the sunny color of his hair.

  But there was nothing left of Daniel in this corpse.

  After Jie doused the crates in alcohol and Oliver found an ancient urn among the dunes, Joseph spoke.

  He spoke of how he had met Daniel—in New Orleans. How he’d never seen a mind so sharp or a moral compass so true.

  “All he ever wanted was a second chance,” Joseph whispered over the wind. “A chance at redemption. I pray he knows he had it. He redeemed himself a thousand times over.” Joseph scratched at his bandages, inhaling before he went on . . . but then his brow furrowed; his hand dropped; and he stared into Daniel’s face. “You gave too much in the end, Daniel. Too much.”

  “Too much,” Jie repeated. Then she set fire to the wood and moved to Joseph’s side. As the flames licked up, they held each other. Just seeing the two of them without Daniel at their side was almost too much. . . .

  I looked at Oliver. He stared at Daniel’s body with a horrified interest. It was as if he was seeing the future ahead of him—the future of all mortal souls. And he did not like what he saw of death.

  I turned away.

  I could not watch Daniel’s face eaten up by flames. I could not smell his flesh turn to ash. I could not look upon him as just another corpse.

  I had seen too much death; I wanted to remember him alive.

  So I left my friends to bear witness.

  Yet as I summoned the Black Pullet to me and the poor serpent slithered my way, I saw Oliver turn his gaze east, to the rising sun. His brow wrinkled, his lips parted . . .

  And a hint of wonderment gleamed in his hazel eyes. As if he did like what he saw of life.

  “Come,” I mumbled to the Black Pullet, and we shambled to the obelisk.

  A slash in my hand. By blood.

  A bright granite sunbeam. By moonlit sun.

  Though it was moonlit no longer, I dragged my palm down the obelisk . . . and crossed the spirit curtain.

  I stepped wearily onto the dock. It looked as it always did. Truly timeless, truly disinterested in the world of mortals.

  And before me, a long-legged ibis and a scruffy jackal awaited.

  I took two steps toward them and flung all four clappers at their feet. Then I turned to go—ready to leave this world behind forever.

  But as I twirled around, my gaze caught on the Black Pullet. Its golden eyes pulsed with fear. Its feathers shook. I ran a soothing hand over its wings.

  And without thinking, I plucked a single golden feather.

  Then I twisted back to the gods. “When the Hell Hounds come, do not give them the Pullet. It did only as it was commanded, and you have taken enough innocent souls today.”

  Its heart must be judged like all creatures, the jackal said as the Pullet, still trembling, walked slowly down the dock and out of sight. If the heart is pure, the soul will live on for a time.

  I licked my raw lips. Daniel’s heart was pure. I hoped his soul would live on.

  “What of my brother?” I asked. “Or Clarence? Do their souls live on? Were they ever really here?”

  As before, I received no response. But both gods blinked. It was as if they were leaving that truth up to me.

  So I chose to believe it had been Elijah and Clarence. I chose to believe they had helped me on my path. And I chose to believe they could hear my final whisper of good-bye.

  Then I locked eyes with Anubis. With Thoth. And I drew back my shoulders. “You think your bright souls and endless lives make you better than us. Wiser. And perhaps you are right. Perhaps your cold detachment from our mortal world makes you stronger. But you make mistakes just as mortals do. Hathor made one—for love.

  “So I will tell you something, Annunaki.” I spat the word. “Mistakes make you strong. Love does too, and that is why I am stronger than any of you. Never forget it. I am not your pawn, and I never will be.

  “I will see the world alone. I will start Daniel’s school alone. And I will make a home without him. But I will never, ever stop loving him.”

  I curled my left fingers inward. “I can still make a fist, and breath still burns in my chest. So look at my face. Look at my mortal soul, and remember it. You did not crush me, and you will have the rest of eternity to think on it.”

  I did not wait for an acknowledgment—I did not need one.

  I pivoted around and stepped back to the spirit curtain.

  My choice. My life.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The easy chatter of happy families bubbled around me as I wandered past a statue with its nose eroded off. Almost three months since leaving Paris, and I was already back again. But this time I was simply a tourist seeing all the places Daniel had wanted t
o see.

  I had saved the Louvre for last—and the Egyptian wing of the Louvre for the very last. After spending almost eight hours in this old palace, I had seen every item there was to see, and my brain was a jumble of brushstrokes and weathered statues. Yet now that the Parisian sun was slinking down, I had reached my final destination.

  As I strode into the tiny room, there was only one other person there: a girl with unruly brown hair and a furrowed brow. She did not pause her careful inspection of a weathered statue, and I bustled right past before stopping at a chest-high glass case.

  Inside was a small, black statuette of a jackal. He was surrounded by shards of pottery and bits of broken jewelry.

  I arched an eyebrow. “They did not even give you your own case. How that must annoy your inflated sense of self-worth.”

  The girl nearby turned wide eyes on me. Clearly she was curious as to why a sunburned young woman felt the need to speak to display cases.

  Or perhaps she was merely fascinated by my mechanical prosthesis. I did not blame her—it was impressive.

  I tapped the glass with a wooden finger so she could get the full effect of Daniel’s genius. Gears whirred within the mechanical palm—almost silent, yet not quite. And as the grease spot shimmered in the sunset’s glow, a fond smile tugged at my lips. It was, I thought, the best part of my new hand.

  I cleared my throat, my eyes returning to Anubis. “Do not think that because I am speaking to you that I have forgiven you. I have not, and I never will. Yet I once saw my father at the spirit curtain—and I feel quite certain he was able to hear and feel what I said. As such, I would like to think pieces of Daniel may still exist and that he too can hear me.”

  Reaching into my dress pocket, I withdrew Daniel’s tarnished spyglass. Clack-clack-clack. It opened and I began to speak.

  We miss you, Daniel. Obviously, we do. The flight from Saqqara was . . . brutal. Grief filled every space of your airship. It sat where you sat. It lay in your bed. It held my hand . . . and it would not let us forget what we had lost.

  Not that we want to forget. You are . . . no, were. No—are. You are the only one for me.