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.
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 survivors.
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 t
urned 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 we are. 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 life. My choice.
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 to 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.
Joseph and Jie took a steamer back to America. In their last letter, they told me they had found the perfect location for a school. It is an old estate in North Carolina, and they have already begun calling it ‘The Institute.’
Now, before you demand to know where we acquired enough funding so quickly, I shall tell you: it was provided by a Mr. and Mrs. Lang. They say they knew you, and they are quite eager to see the Sheridan Institute come to life. Mrs. Lang, in particular, has been immensely helpful. She has aided Jie in filing three of your patents already! One for the pulse pistol, one for the goggles, and one for the crystal clamp. Jie says they have to wait to submit paperwork on my mechanical hand, as they must sketch it and I am not there.
But I will go there as soon as I finish touring Paris. And then London—and Vienna and Rome, of course. It is a good thing I pulled that feather off the Pullet. I daresay, I would have run out of money long before I ever reached Munich.
Speaking of Munich, I am very displeased with you for never mentioning how much it would hurt when Herr Doctor Quitterer sewed on the mechanical hand.
Blazes, Daniel. It was worth it in the end, but really. Blazes.
While we are on the subject of suffering—and in case you are curious—I do not know what became of Allison. Last I saw her, she was old and wrinkled. She begged for our help at Saqqara; we ignored her, and we left her.
The Wilcox family has suffered so much, and yet there can never be too much suffering for Allison. Not to satisfy me, at least. If it hadn’t been for her betrayal, I would not be standing here speaking to a statue.
Yet I have learned something, Daniel. From you.
Vengeance solves nothing. None of us was a winner in the end. Not Marcus, not me, not Joseph. And of course, it was you who paid the price for our sins. You—the only one who never sought revenge against his wrongdoers.
We will never forgive ourselves, you know. Joseph, Jie, and me. We miss you so much.
I miss you so much. And I love you.
I always will.
Tears ran down my cheeks, but I didn’t mind. They were as common as spring rain these days—and I hoped just as cleansing.
Thwump! I smacked the spyglass shut, and ever so gently I laid it atop the glass. Then I withdrew my humming mechanical hand and scowled at the Anubis statue.
“You are all he has now. All that Mama, Elijah, Father, and Clarence have, so please, look after them. It is, I daresay, the least you can do after all you have taken from me.”
The statue’s eyes flashed gold. My scowl only deepened. . . .
But then my eyes settled back on the spyglass. My face relaxed with a sad, broken smile.
I would never forget my Daniel Sheridan. My inventor. My scalawag. I would always remember the freedom in his smile and the power in his touch.
“I love you, Daniel,” I whispered. “Too.”
“Jennifer!” A woman’s voice cried behind me. “Hurry up!”
I blinked, realizing the girl with unruly curls still stood beside me, gaping.
“Must you always be so strange,” the voice went on, shouting from the next room over. “You are holding up your classmates, and no one else wants to see the Egyptian exhibits.”
I shot a glower at the fussy-looking teacher. Then I shifted my gaze to the girl’s blue eyes.
“Jennifer,” I said softly. “Since you have listened to m
y monologue with such rapt attention, I will give you a piece of unsolicited advice.”
A blush rose on the girl’s cheeks, but she did not stop me as I powered on.
“Contrary to what your teacher might suggest,” I declared, “it is perfectly all right to be strange. For ever after, you will be glad you did what you wanted instead of what everyone else expected. No doubt you wonder how someone as young as I can possibly know this, but trust me: I have seen more deadly, dark, and . . . lovely things than you can possibly imagine.”
The girl narrowed her eyes skeptically.
I shrugged one shoulder. “You may listen to me or not. It is your choice. But”—I raised one mechanical finger at her—“should you ever decide you want a more interesting curriculum than what you’re currently receiving, you might consider the Sheridan Institute in North Carolina. I’ve heard they have the best teachers in the world. Certainly they are the strangest.”
I flashed her my most rakish grin (of which I was certain Daniel would approve), and in a flurry of skirts, I strode from the exhibit and left the Louvre behind.
When I stepped into the orange glow and bustling insanity of a snowy Rue de Rivoli, there was a lightness in my step that I had not felt in months. Years, even.
People in winter clothes swarmed among carriages and horses dusted with snow, and as I pushed into the evening traffic, I couldn’t help but murmur an old favorite quote. “The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.”
“El!” The tenor voice trickled into my ear. I scanned winter-flushed faces and carriages. . . .
“Over here, silly girl.”
I spun around and found Oliver sauntering toward me. He wore a lazy smile and his top hat askew. “Finished?” He twirled a hand toward the Louvre. “Because I know of a lovely place on Montmartre, if a Bohemian meal would interest your palate.”
“I am finished here, and I am famished.” My lips lifted, a sad but freeing smile. “Has Laure arrived yet?”
He shook his head no and slipped a hand into his coat pocket—a new coat that was part of a new suit in a handsome, chalk-gray color. He withdrew a silver flask. “Care for a drink?”
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