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.”
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 bre
ath—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.”
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