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.”
She was close now. Close enough for me to see the streaks of blood around her mouth, the bits of flesh stuck in her claws.
I needed to draw her away so Oliver could sneak in. I retreated, strolling for the wall and aiming for the tunnel in the far right corner. Twenty steps to the wall, then twenty steps to the tunnel.
“A false master?” I asked, still moving as casually as I could.
“He tricked me.” Madame Marineaux’s lips puffed out in a pout—but almost immediately curled back, baring her fangs. “He killed her. His own mother. My Claire—he killed her! Then he broke Claire’s bond and trapped me in an agreement.”
My mind raced to understand what she had just shared. She was an unbound demon, yet she still had some sort of master. So how?
“What sort of agreement?” I asked, continuing to walk.
“I must do as he wishes for as long as he wishes, and perhaps one day he will let me go home. . . . Where are you going, Mademoiselle?” She frowned. “Stop walking. Now.”
I froze. The altar was forty paces away. That would have to be enough space. . . .
Oliver must have thought the same thing, for barely a breath passed before he crept into the cavern and darted for the stone table.
Madame Marineaux tensed as if hearing Oliver, but before she could turn around, I blurted, “Will he free you? Will your false master keep his promise?”
Her posture drooped. “I do not know. He is cruel. Nothing like his mother, my Claire. And he is strong—too strong for me. But you . . .” She reached out and stroked my cheek with her claw. “You and I, Mademoiselle Fitt—he could not beat the two of us. Not together.” She leaned in, inhaling deeply. “So much power. It radiates off you.”
I gulped, trying not to breathe. She stank of blood. Her breath, her claws—a metallic, keening stench.
She did not seem to notice my reaction. “Think,” she purred, “what we could do with your strength and my experience. Just imagine.” Then her fingernail pierced my jaw. Only the slightest poke, but it broke the skin . . .
And the venom overwhelmed me.
It is Christmas, and I am in my family’s drawing room. There is snow falling outside the window, and a fire billows in the hearth. Father sits beside the fireplace, the Evening Bulletin in his hand, and Elijah sits on the floor at his feet, a book upon his lap.
Elijah glances up at me and smiles. He looks not so different from when he died—older, stronger, and wider jawed. Yet his spectacles still slide down his nose, and his goofy grin is as I’ve always known it. He looks happy.
Father says something in his bass voice; it makes Elijah laugh. Then Father laughs too, and my heart swells.
A new laugh chimes in—Mama’s twitter—and I spin around just as she walks into the drawing room.
“Would you like mulled wine, Eleanor? Your friend was kind enough to bring us mulling spices.”
“My . . . my friend?” I step, confused, toward her. My dress rustles, and for the first time, I notice I’m wearing a stunning blue taffeta with black trim. I smooth the bodice, gaping. But then Mama speaks, dragging me back to the moment.
“Yes, your friend Mr. Sheridan.” She glides to me and takes my hands in hers. “He said he has an old Irish recipe for mulling, and—”
“Did you say Mr. Sheridan?” I interrupt, my chest cinching. “Is he here?”
“Yes, dear. He only just arrived. Do not look so worried.” She winks at me and pulls away—Father is calling her. “You look as beautiful as ever,” she trills.
I try to swallow but find that my throat aches. My mother has never called me beautiful before . . . and yet I feel beautiful. Feel safe and certain—
“Empress.”
I gasp and twirl back to the door. And there he is, wearing a handsome gray wool suit and with his cheeks bright pink from traipsing through the winter snow.
He grins, making his whole face relax and his grassy-colored eyes twinkle. Then he strolls to me. “I appreciate you invitin’ me to Christmas supper.” He only stops his easy amble once he’s directly in front of me. I have to tip back my head to meet his eyes.
But then a frown knits onto his brow. He reaches out to clasp my chin. “Why are you cryin’, Empress?”
“I am?” I reach up, and my gloves slide over wet cheeks. “I . . . I am. It’s just . . . I’m so happy, Daniel.”
“Then you shouldn’t cry, Empress. You should laugh.”
I laughed—a shrill, desperate sound—as the vision faded away . . . as Madame Marineaux’s face swam back into my vision.
My laugh broke off, replaced by a sob. I toppled to the hard earth. “Where is it?” I screamed, clutching at her skirts. “The vision, bring it back! Please, I want it back.”
The edges of her lips twisted up. “And you can have it, Mademoiselle Fitt. You can have it if you join me.”
“Do not believe her!” Joseph rasped, still bound to the table. “It is only a fantasy.”
“Ah, but it is not only a fantasy,” Madame Marineaux whispered. “Together we can make it real. With your power and mine, we can do anything. They”—her voice lifted, as if she wanted the Spirit-Hunters to hear—“do not appreciate you. These Spirit-Hunters think you are dark, but they simply do not understand that this is who you are. But I understand, for you have told me all your troubles.
“You are not dark,” she went on. “You are selfless, Mademoiselle Fitt. These Spirit-Hunters have no idea how hard it was for you to get here. They do not realize all you had to do to survive. All that you gave up for them. For those you love.”
I shook my head, my eyes burning with tears.
“They do not understand that your mother hates you. That your friends have all rejected you. Or that your fortune is gone. What do they”—she flicked her wrist dismissively in Joseph’s direction—“know of the dresses you had to sell to pay for your mother’s bills? Your ungrateful, cruel mother? What do they know of the friends who avoid you on the street or laugh behind your back?”
A sob shuddered through my chest. Everything she said was true. What did the Spirit-Hunters know about me? About what I had lost?
“Nor,” she continued, “can they see the fine line you walk between life and death. The Hell Hounds await you—still these guardians hunger for your blood. You must use your necromancy to stay alive, but these Spirit-Hunters cannot see that.” Her voice grew louder with each word—and my conviction, my hurt, grew too. “So tell me what the Spirit-Hunters actually know about you at all?
“I will tell you,” Madame Marineaux declared. “The Spirit-Hunters know nothing. Their lives have gotten better, while yours has spiraled into pain and hate and memories best forgotten.”
Madame Marineaux bent to me and whispered in my ear, “I feel your pain as strongly as my own, Mademoiselle. I know what it is to be denied what you deserve. To have everything you love taken from you.” She dipped her pointed chin and watched me from the tops of her eyes. “I am unbound yet unfree. How is that any different from you, who are far from home yet never able to escape it?”
“What—” My voice cracked, but I tried again. “What do you want from me?”
“Oh, it is easy.” She brushed my hair lovingly from my face. “My master—my overseer—expects me to meet him in Marseille, but you can free me before then. We can get your friend, the Chinese girl, back from him, and together we can crush him. You, Mademoiselle Fitt, could become my true master. A woman worthy of my magic and my devotion.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Don’t!” Daniel roared. “Empress, don’t!”
Madame Marineaux twirled around, and I realized with a start that Daniel and Joseph were both free now . . . that Daniel was running toward me.
But then a bolt of light flew from Madame Marineaux’s hand
and blasted Daniel in the chest. He toppled backward, flipping over like a rag doll to crash into the stone altar.
And for several heartbeats I only watched. Completely indifferent . . . until a noxious wave pummeled into me—a shock wave from Madame Marineaux’s spell that was filled with complete wrong. And like a hypnotist’s snap, it jerked my mind back to reality.
“Daniel!” I pushed off the wall, trying to skitter around Madame Marineaux. But she was faster—so much faster.
She lifted me up and slammed me against the wall. Pain cracked into my skull, and sparks raced through my vision. I reached for her, tried to scratch at her face, but she merely straightened her arms—and somehow her arms were suddenly longer than mine. Much longer, and my fingers reached nothing but air.
So I punched her elbow.
Her arm shuddered, and a wail broke from her lips. “After all I have offered and given, this is how you repay me?”
“Offered?” I croaked. “By sacrificing les Morts? By building an amulet of compulsion for your precious Claire’s brother—”
“An amulet for the Marquis?” She gave a giggle. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“His cane. I know what it is.”
Now her giggle became a howl of laughter. “How quaint! You think his cane is an amulet. But it is not; it is a far more powerful artifact than any amulet. I told you I found it in India, did I not? I have no need for silly compulsion spells. My venom compels anyone I want. Why, a drop of venom in your wine, a drop of venom on your dress—Mademoiselle, you were my puppet.” She stepped in close, and her claws poked into my skin. I held my breath—if I moved, if I breathed too heavily . . . those razors would slice me. “Perhaps you are not as clever as I once thought. As I told your friend, the Marquis had no idea what I was up to—no idea what I really am.”
Her claws dug deeper. She wanted to poison me. Wanted to overwhelm me with her visions . . .
“Then why did you need sacrifices?” It took all my strength to stay still. To fight the shudders racking inside me. “If you can compel and you had wealth, why sacrifice all those people?”
“Those were not for me. Though the blood was nice.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “My master was the one to sacrifice. There is someone who requires compelling, and a single spell will not suffice.”
Over her shoulder, I saw Oliver hauling Daniel to his feet. Satisfaction—triumph, even—washed over me. At least Oliver and the Spirit-Hunters could get out alive. Now, I was the only one who had to walk the fine line between life and death. . . .
And with that thought I recalled Madame Marineaux’s comment: Nor can they see the fine line you walk between life and death. The Hell Hounds await you.
The Hell Hounds. If there was one thing a demon—even one as powerful as a Rakshasi—could not face, it was the guardians of the spirit realm. And thanks to Marcus’s spell, I knew just how to call them here.
I creased my face into a sneer—a victorious smile I could not contain. “Why would your master,” I crowed, “want compulsion spells? I thought, Madame Marineaux, that he could simply make you—make his slave—cast a compulsion spell for him.”
She gritted her teeth, her nostrils fluttering. “He wants a spell that lasts days. Weeks, even. Mine only maintain for hours at a time.”
“Because your magic isn’t good enough? Is that it? He does not think your magic is strong—”
“Stop!” she screeched. “I see what you try to do, Mademoiselle. You wish to rile me, and that, I fear, will not do. If I cannot have you, then no one shall, and so it is time for you to die.”
“Oh?” I lifted my eyebrows as if this piece of information were utterly uninteresting. “Perhaps you ought to wait a moment, Madame. I have something you might like to see.”
Her lips pursed into a smug smile. She waited.
“Oliver, remove my hand. Take it back.”
“Oliver?” Her eyes thinned. “To whom do you speak?”
With my own wicked grin, I screamed in her face, “Sum veritas!”
Instantly she released me, rearing back. “Another demon?” She twirled around, her nostrils sniffing the air wildly.
Then she spotted the Spirit-Hunters, standing on the opposite side of the cavern with the crystal clamp and pulse pistols trained on her. I saw no sign of Oliver.
A scream ripped from Madame Marineaux’s mouth, inhuman and ear shattering. “Veni! Veni!” She bolted for the Spirit-Hunters, her skirts and feet barely skimming the ground.
Daniel fired his reloaded pistols. Madame Marineaux slowed but didn’t stop. Two more shots cracked out, and this time Madame Marineaux did halt.
But it was not because she was hurt. It was because, crawling out of the dark tunnel behind the Spirit-Hunters, was an army of corpses. The skeletons from before.
“Behind you,” I shrieked just as Daniel twisted around, his next pistols firing.
I dove forward, desperate to help, but all at once pain sliced up my arm. Phantom pain. I glanced down. My hand was gone. It was just a stump once more. Instantly, Marcus’s spell took effect.
First came the wind—so fierce and so cold. It blasted through the cavern, winking out half the torches. Then the stench of grave dirt assaulted me.
Madame Marineaux whirled toward me, disbelief—and betrayal—in her eyes. She knew what was coming. Knew there was no escape from the Hell Hounds.
Crack! Electricity lashed through the air as Joseph blasted skeletons away. He and Daniel were holding off the Dead, but only barely.
A howl tore through the cavern, and the pain in my missing hand screamed. Stars blurred across my vision. The Hell Hounds were close—so close—and all I had to do was keep Madame Marineaux here.
I staggered toward her, reaching frantically for any piece of her I could grab. But my right hand flared blue, blinding in its agony. Madame Marineaux’s eyes locked on it.
A grin swept over her face, and I knew she understood that the Hell Hounds were here for me, not her. Her grin shifted into a frown. “I am sad,” she said. “This is no way for a girl with your talent to die. Yet, you made your choice—and it was not me. Too bad, too bad. If you had only seen things my way, then they could have lived too.” She waved disinterestedly toward the Spirit-Hunters. Their backs were to the wall, and an ocean of skulls and groping fingers surrounded them. But they weren’t defeated—not yet.
“But c’est la vie, Mademoiselle. The bad choices—c’est la vie. And now I must wish you adieu.” She surged for the gaping black tunnel in the right corner. It was the only way out now that the left tunnel was swarming with Dead. Before I could even try to lunge into her path, she swept around me, soaring for the exit.
“Ollie!” I screamed. “Hold her! Sum veritas!” Then I launched after Madame Marineaux, sucking in all my power. Every ounce of soul in my body I drew into my chest, and in a wave of heat that scorched through me, I let all my magic loose.
“Stay!”
Madame Marineaux froze only feet away from the exit. I could feel her pulling, pumping her own magic into a counterspell.
“Stay, stay, stay!” I shouted, and from the other side of the room, Oliver bellowed, “Mane, stay!”
A thunderous roar filled the cavern. All the torches whipped out, leaving only the electric blue of my magic and Joseph’s crackling attacks to see by. Not that I could see—not now. The agony in my hand was too much. I toppled forward, my arms windmilling and all focus on my spell lost.
The Hell Hounds had arrived.
Time seemed to slow. I heard the Hounds’ monstrous jaws snapping behind me, coming closer each fraction of a heartbeat. I felt each throb in my hand and each tiny gust of unnatural wind.
“Bring back my hand, Oliver,” I whispered, still falling forward, still trying to regain my balance. “Sum veritas.”
A body hurled into me, screaming in Latin. I crashed down, and the squalling Hounds boomed over us. In that instant the pain in my hand ceased. It was its usual phantom limb—flesh an
d blood—once more.
Yet the Hounds did not stop their frenzied chase. They blasted straight into Madame Marineaux. Her body rose up and up, and the Hounds swirled around her in a tornado of blue flames. Her shrieks pierced the cavern, shaking my soul.
I am not ready. Not ready. The thoughts cleaved into my brain. Her thoughts—her fears. Claire! she yelled into my mind. Claire! Help me—save me! I am not ready. . . .
And then finally, a thought that nestled so deeply into my heart, I knew it was meant only for me: I was wrong about you. You will topple him. An image flashed next—the cane . . . no, only the ivory fist. Then the vision shifted to a gray Oriental fan on a low shelf in Madame Marineaux’s sitting room.
The image vanished.
Her agonized screams crescendoed, dominating every thought. I watched as she spun . . . as the Hell Hounds’ roars shook through everything.
Then her body bent backward, snapping in half like a stick, and in a final rage of howling, the Hell Hounds swirled Madame Marineaux from this world and into thin air.
Into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-four
Vibrations from the Hell Hounds shimmered in the air, and I waited for the sounds to vanish. My stomach pressed to the cold ground. Oliver’s heartbeat stuttered against my back.
One breath, two breaths—the sounds of struggle were not lessening. If anything, they were growing worse. Bones clattered and lightning blasted from the back corner. A pistol cracked and Daniel bellowed, “Empress—help!”
Oliver rolled off me. I scrambled to my feet and surged for the flashes of blue. Toward the horrors of the Dead.
No, not Dead. Hungry. For these corpses were no longer under Madame Marineaux’s control. They were free now, and rabid.
Skeletons crawled over their brethren, tatters of clothes loose on their bodies and chunks of brittle hair on their gleaming skulls. Hundreds poured from the mouth of the tunnel, crawling and climbing and scuttling for the nearest life: the Spirit-Hunters—their backs still to the wall and surrounded on all sides.
A corpse, its ragged shirt falling off its bone shoulders, twisted around and lurched at me. Without thinking, I latched onto my spiritual energy and flung. Magic flared from my fingertips and raced out, blasting into a skeletal rib cage.
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