Chapter Twenty-two
“No!” I launched myself at the cave-in. The entire tunnel was blocked, but I had to get through. I kicked rocks aside and flung at the dirt. “Please, please, please, no!”
Oliver’s arms slung around me. “Stop! You’ll bring down more of the ceiling.”
“But they’re on the other side!” I shrieked. “Daniel’s on the other side!”
“And we can’t do anything about that now!”
“We can go through!”
“No, El, we can’t.” He spun me around to face him. “Your man shot the ceiling, and he did it on purpose.”
“B-but why?” I found I was shaking and . . . and crying. “They have no light and th-there’s hundreds of Dead.”
“I don’t think the Dead were hurting them.”
“Wh-what?”
“Joseph—he kept blasting them down and was still able to shout. He didn’t sound hurt. More . . . detained. Think about it, El. Why would the demon want to hurt anyone who walked into its lair?”
“It . . . it wouldn’t.” I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. “It cannot sacrifice a dead victim.” My hands dropped. “But that means Joseph and Daniel will both be . . .” I spun back around and lunged for the rubble. “We have to get through!”
“But there’s no point.” He was yelling at me. “If we get through, then we’ll be demon-food.”
“But we can stop the Dead!”
“No, we can’t.” He shoved in front of me and gripped my chin. “There were hundreds of bodies back there. This demon must collect them from the catacombs and use them as sentries to patrol the tunnels. I can’t take down more than a few Dead at a time, El, and you . . . you don’t know how to take down any.”
“So teach me!”
He lowered his hand. “Even if I did, you wouldn’t be able to stop any more bodies than I can.”
My stomach curdled, and the tears fell harder. “B-but I can’t just leave Daniel . . . or Joseph . . . or that demon. Please, Oliver!”
“Please what? We have only one option: go back. We can get the hell out of here and—”
“No. No.” My tears stopped abruptly, cold trails on my face. “We are not leaving. Though . . . we can go back.” I swooped up the lantern and strode down the tunnel.
“And do what?” He surged beside me, his hands up. “Oh no. You mean go into the other passage?”
“Yes.”
“What if it leads nowhere?”
“I have to try.”
“Well, what if it leads to more Dead?”
I hesitated at that, and Oliver charged on. “See, El? We need to go back to the surface.”
“No,” I snapped. “Absolutely not. There must be some spell I can cast to protect us, right?”
His shoulders dropped an inch. He looked away. “There is an awareness spell. It would allow you to sense anything living—or Dead—nearby.”
I nodded curtly. More magic. More spells. It would give me strength, and that was something I needed. I set off back toward the branching tunnels and said, “Tell me what to do.”
Oliver followed just on my heels, the lantern swinging in his hand. “First you say Sentio omnia quae me circumdentur. It means ‘I feel all around me,’ and it will form a web. You sort of toss it out.” He spread his arms, and the light sprayed out with the movement. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” We were almost to the split. With each step, I drew my magic into my chest. It trickled in slowly, warm and safe. A balm to my fears, an embrace against the cold, and a light in the dark. And with each drop of soul that slid through my veins, my steps grew stronger, and the blue glow grew brighter.
“Sentio omnia quae me circumdentur.” The words trilled over my tongue, and as I threw my magic wide, casting it in all directions, I slowed to a stop at the fork in the tunnels. My magic spread and spread until finally sinking into place like a net sinking to the bottom of a pond.
“Well?” Oliver asked. “Do you sense anyone?”
“No.” Other than Oliver behind me, I sensed nothing—though I tried to sense more. Tried to push the web just a bit farther, to feel for Daniel and Joseph . . . but they were too far away, or . . .
No, they are alive, and I will find them.
With a final glance at Oliver, I set off down the other passage. How long we went or how far, I could not say. Though the winding limestone tunnel was the same as all the others, this journey wasn’t like the earlier one. I had my magic now, so I felt no irritation—only determination. And worry. Always, always I had to battle thoughts of Daniel and Joseph getting closer to death with every second that passed—if they weren’t already . . . dead. . . .
And always I had to focus my web of awareness. More than once I found my thoughts wandering, for I could not help but wonder where we were beneath Paris. We had walked so far. What part of the city was above us now?
Eventually Oliver pulled me to a stop. “The path ends ahead.”
“What?” I choked. “What do you mean ‘ends’?”
“There’s a wall.” He motioned ahead, beyond the range of the lantern’s light. “A dead end.”
I scurried ahead, frustration exploding in my chest—only to grind quickly to a halt. There was a wall. But it was cracked, like the wall by the reservoir had been.
“I can squeeze through that.” I darted forward, but Oliver latched on to my arm.
“Don’t be ridiculous! It probably leads nowhere.”
I yanked free and surged toward the wall again. “Just let me check. Please.” Yet I only made it two steps when a black, putrid wave slammed into my senses.
I cried out, dropping to my knees. The stench of grave dirt invaded my nose.
“El, what is it?”
But I couldn’t answer. My stomach heaved, and bile boiled up my throat. I vomited into the black. Acid splattered my hands.
“El, what’s wrong?”
“D-death,” I stuttered before gagging again. “Wrong.”
“Draw in the web.” His voice was barely a whisper, yet the urgency was clear. “Hurry, you’ll feel better.”
I did as he said, frantically reeling my awareness back to myself. Instantly the nausea and the smell vanished.
Clutching my arms to my stomach, I sank back until I hit the tunnel wall.
“Are you all right?’ Oliver murmured, his hand patting my arm until his fingers found mine. He squeezed. “El?”
“No, I am not all right.” My voice trembled, burning my acid-raw throat. “It was . . . it was so, so rotten. Death everywhere.”
“It’s the demon.” Oliver’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Can you sense it?”
“Not yet,” he admitted, squeezing my hand again. “But I’m sure I will soon. Your web of magic extends your range of awareness much farther than my own. Tell me: which way was it?”
I pointed behind me, toward the crack in the wall. “Just beyond there.”
Oliver’s eyebrows shot down. “Did you sense Joseph? Or Daniel?”
“I-I did not try.”
“What about the Dead?” he pressed. “Did you feel any corpses?”
“I did not try, Ollie. The black and the grave dirt, they overpowered everything.”
He took my other hand in his. “You have to try, El. If this demon is just through that hole, we need to be prepared. We need to know if it’s alone.”
I gulped and nodded. Tentatively, I sucked in my magic, but rather than fling out my awareness, I let it creep through the crack . . . then onward and up . . . until the rotten sense of wrong rolled over me. I screwed my eyes shut, forcing myself to keep fumbling, keep feeling. . . . Then I sensed two flames amid the black: Daniel and Joseph.
I yanked in the web, popping my eyes wide. “They’re there,” I breathed. “Daniel, Joseph. And I couldn’t feel any Dead.” My breath shot out, thick with relief. “Oh thank God, they’re there. Alive . . . alive.”
“And how far ahead is the demon?”
“And you are sure you want to keep going?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go. Quietly.” His hand gripped my elbow, and without another word, he helped me cram myself into the slanted crack. I had to shove and wiggle until the rock tore my clothes and slashed my skin, but I was numb from the cold and the magic. I felt no pain. After several feet of this clambering, I finally wedged through—and into a pitch-black, yet open, tunnel.
Oliver eased out behind me—but without the lantern. “I couldn’t carry it and still fit through. I’m sorry.”
“Can you see?” I whispered.
“Well enough. I will go first.” Then he clasped my hand in his and pulled me into a careful tiptoe. Our pace was barely above a crawl, and everything seemed loud. Each of our steps, our breaths, our fingertips brushing on the cave walls. And everywhere that my straining eyes landed seemed to move. Every spot in my vision sent my pulse racing.
Suddenly Oliver’s hand clenched mine in warning. I froze, holding my breath trapped. Ever so slowly, Oliver pulled me to him, and then I felt his lips at my ear. “It’s ahead. Joseph—he’s shouting. Can you hear?”
I shook my head once.
“We’ll keep going, but be prepared to fight. Have . . . have your commands for me ready.”
“What will I command you to do?”
He gave an almost inaudible laugh. “Just tell me to destroy it.” He drew away from me, and together we crept forward, the tunnel curving right . . . then left. After twenty measured steps, the faintest sounds finally began to slide into my ears. Forty steps and we rounded another bend—and now Joseph’s bellows sounded clear. Seconds later we veered sharply left . . . and halted. Light, painful even in its orange dimness, shone ahead. I squinted, trying to see what was in the light, but we were still too far away.
Then a scream—a sickening shriek of pain—tore through the tunnel. But I couldn’t tell if it was Daniel’s or Joseph’s. All I knew was that we were out of time.
I pushed Oliver to go faster. The screams masked our footsteps until the shrieking ceased. We instantly stopped . . . waiting, not breathing. A new sound broke out: a tinkling, happy sound. Someone laughing.
I glanced at Oliver, and at his nod I slunk forward. He slid along behind me, both of us hugging the walls and craning our necks.
But once I could see, I instantly wished for the darkness again. Because knowing what was in there—seeing the horror—was so, so much worse.
It was a cavern, tall, round, and as large as the ballroom, yet lit by torches that cast the scene in an orange, shadowy light.
And there, hunched over a stone table in the center of the cavern with long, jagged claws extended and her dainty mouth lapping up blood, was none other than Madame Marineaux.
And the blood was Joseph’s. It poured from the side of his head, from a gushing, jagged hole where his ear had once been.
Chapter Twenty-three
Madame Marineaux still wore her black ball gown, her coiled hair as perfect as ever. . . . Even her face—her smile—seemed as sweet as it always did. But her fingernails—they were as sharp and long as knives. And her mouth . . . fresh blood dribbled down her chin.
It took all of my self-control not to run straight to Joseph or completely the other way. She was a friend. I had trusted her, and yet . . . something twisted in my gut. Something that said, You knew this all along. You simply did not want to see it.
But I would deal with that guilt, that hurt, later. For now I had a demon to face.
I dragged my eyes away from the Madame, searching for some sign of Daniel. It wasn’t hard—he was loud despite being bound and gagged against the left-most wall. He rolled and writhed beside a narrow tunnel descending into darkness. Yet his struggles did no good; he was too tightly fettered. Tossed on the dirt nearby was his bandolier, the crystal clamp shimmering beside it.
I flicked my gaze the other way, forcing myself not to look at Joseph’s shuddering chest or Madame Marineaux’s bloody face. Forcing myself to evaluate the enormous cavern.
There was a third tunnel on the far right. Torchlight flickered into it, showing a rising floor—a well-worn, rising floor.
“Y-you,” Joseph rasped, his voice weak yet penetrating every crevice in the room, “c-can kill me, but you will not go unpunished.”
Madame Marineaux laughed, almost gleefully, and rose to her full—albeit tiny—height. “You have no idea what you say, Joseph Boyer. Your blood is very strong. Very strong, indeed. And when my master learns whom I have killed. Oh, how pleased he will be.”
At the word “killed,” Daniel’s struggles grew more frenzied, and muffled shouts seeped through his gag.
Madame Marineaux clucked at him. “Monsieur Sheridan, I do wish you would stay quiet. Your turn will come soon enough.”
“Stop,” Joseph commanded hoarsely. “W-we know what you”—a shiver wracked him—“plan. You and the Marquis . . . cannot succeed.”
“The Marquis?” She chuckled and dragged a claw almost lovingly along Joseph’s jaw. “Is that who you think is behind this? Oh, you naive little Spirit-Hunter. The Marquis was merely a tool. A source of income . . . and power for my master. He had no idea what was happening around him—or to him.”
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I flinched. But it was only Oliver. His eyes told me plain enough what he could not say: We need a plan.
And as much as I did not want to go—as much as my body screamed at me to run into the chamber and do something—I had to think this through.
Madame Marineaux was a demon, and she was strong.
So I forced myself to look away, to turn around and leave. We did not stop until there was no more light and Madame Marineaux’s wicked crowing had faded to a distant whisper.
Oliver pulled me to him, breathing in my ear, “Joseph’s hurt badly, and that demon is . . .” He trailed off.
“It’s Madame Marineaux,” I whispered.
“No, El.” I heard him gulp. “Her claws . . . I think she’s a Rakshasi.”
“Rakshasi?” That name sounded familiar, though I couldn’t place why.
Oliver moved closer, pulling my body to his. “They’re the most deadly a-and,” he tripped over his words, “and powerful demons of all time. And they’re the only ones I know of with claws like that. She has venom that works like a compulsion spell . . . venom that makes you see things that aren’t real.”
I sucked in a breath as all the pieces clicked together. So that was why I’d gone to the ball. Why I’d forgotten every moment spent with her. And with this realization, some of my memories came back. The sound of her voice as she plied me with questions about the Spirit-Hunters. The sound of my voice—flat and monotone—as I answered. And all it had taken was a drop of venom in my champagne; I had been hers to control. Except, I’d had nothing to drink tonight. . . .
“With power like this,” Oliver went on, “she must be thousands of years old. I’m a bloody baby next to her, El.” His whispers sliced into my ear, and with them came icy fear.
“So . . . so what can we do?” I asked.
“We can get the hell out of here—”
At that moment, Joseph’s ragged screams ripped through the tunnel once more. Oliver cowered into me, his yellow eyes flashing in the black.
“Please, El,” he breathed. “Please, let’s just go.”
“No. We can’t. We are out of time.” I pivoted around, pulling away from Oliver. Joseph’s screams continued.
“We need a plan!” he hissed.
“I have one. I saw Daniel’s pistols on the left wall. If I can distract Madame Marineaux long enough, then you can get the Spirit-Hunters’ equipment and free them. The pistols will need reloading, so I will keep Madame Marineaux’s attention until I see that you’re ready to fight.” Then, before Oliver could protest or point out the ten thousand holes in my plan, I ran toward Joseph, toward Daniel. . . .
Toward Rakshasi.
I did not bother to stay quiet. Did not even pause to check my surroundings. Joseph and Daniel needed me—now—and as soon as I had enough light to see the ground beneath my feet, I burst into a sprint.
When I finally skittered into the cavern, it was to find Joseph still bound to the stone table. But now Daniel was sprawled out on the floor beside him. His mouth was still gagged and his limbs still tied. Madame Marineaux, her back to me, hovered over him.
“Stop!” I said, my voice a low growl. “Let them go.”
With unnatural speed, Madame Marineaux twirled toward me, her dress billowing around her. A genuine smile spread over her lips. “You came!” She clapped with delight. “I am so glad.”
I looked past her, terrified that I’d find Daniel’s body mutilated. But he was fine, and at the sight of me, his eyes bulged and he burst into a fresh struggle. Joseph also saw me, and despite the blood oozing from his head, he also strained against his bonds. For whatever reason, it looked as if Madame Marineaux had made no more wounds on his body.
“But,” Madame Marineaux continued, “how did you get in here from that passage?”
I turned my attention back to Madame Marineaux; she bustled to me as if we were merely meeting on the dance floor. Her little steps covered surprising ground, and she stood before me in only seconds. “And,” she said, “where is your dress? Who removed it?”
“We did,” Joseph croaked. “And with that amulet off her, your spell ceased.”
So the dress was how she had compelled me tonight. She had turned it into an amulet.
Madame Marineaux rolled her eyes. “You are bothering me, Monsieur Boyer. First Monsieur Sheridan will not be quiet while I am sacrificing you, and now you will not stay silent.” A single fingernail clicked out, growing as long as a dagger. “I wish to speak to Mademoiselle Fitt in peace.” She whirled around, flying for the stone table.
“Wait!” I screamed. “Madame Mari—Rakshasi!”
She paused, her skirts swishing forward. “You know my true essence?” She looked back at me, her eyes glowing yellow. “How?”
“I . . . I made a good guess.”
Her lips curved up. “You are like Claire. So feisty. So clever.” She twisted back to me, forgetting Joseph completely. “Are you here to join me, then? To help free me from my master? He is a false master. A liar.”
Susan Dennard Page 27