Strange and Ever After (6 page)

Soon I could even see individual people and carts, all scurrying about like ants on the cobblestone streets of the city. Faces turned up toward us, hands over brows like visors. . . . But strangely enough, they almost immediately snapped back down.

The airship slowed and then stopped completely above an oblong wharf running into the heart of the city. If my history lessons served me right, that was the Old Port: the very first harbor upon which Marseille was founded thousands of years before.

I ran my gaze over the dirty waters of the Old Port, then east to the elegant buildings along the harbor—and then farther east and up the hill . . .

Until I gasped and had to clutch at the porthole to stay upright.

For there was the Notre-Dame de La Garde. It was impossible to miss, the enormous white basilica rising above the rooftops of Marseille. Upon its limestone outcropping and with an ornate bell tower that gleamed in the sunlight, the Notre-Dame stood higher than anything. And at its top, shining like fire, was a huge copper statue of the Virgin Mary. She stood guard over the entire city:
Notre-Dame de la Garde
, our Lady of the Guard.

I tried to swallow, but I suddenly found my throat tight as two thoughts warred for space in my brain.

It looks just like the watercolor Mama had in the parlor.
That thought flickered, an uninvited, vicious reminder that my mother would never get to see Marseille. Or anywhere.

The second thought was a better one—and I made myself latch on to it.
Marcus will be here soon
.
And I will slash open his throat.

I scanned the city streets for any sign of the train depot. For any sign of where Marcus and Jie would arrive. . . . But then we began to drop, and the port surged in closer as my ears shrieked painfully. I winced, clapping my hands over them. Even my stomach felt as if it had been left a hundred feet above.

Then, in an abrupt jolt, we stopped moving. I peered through the porthole once more and found us floating over the harbor, over the ships tied to the pier. A confused fisherman gaped up beneath our shadow. When our ladder suddenly clacked down, he scurried below his boat’s deck.

As Daniel shinnied down to the dock and set to roping us into place, I examined the shop fronts around the Old Port and the narrow, cobblestoned roads branching behind. Carts and carriages hurried away—as if their drivers all had somewhere to be.
Jobs, perhaps?
Yet even as this thought flittered through my brain, I knew it was not right.

But before I could consider the strange exodus of afternoon traffic, the airship’s engines were cut . . .

And the wind
hurtled
into us, grabbing hold of the balloon. My face hit the porthole with a crunch—then I wobbled backward. Side to side, up and down, the wind did not let us go. If it
had not been for the seething hunger in my gut, I did not think I would have the nerve to climb down that listing ladder.

But Marcus was so close.

Once Daniel, Joseph, and Oliver were off the airship, I left Allison chewing her lip in the cargo hold, and I battled the wind and the swinging ladder. When at last I dropped onto the street, I felt absolutely ill—so much so that I had to bend over, rest my hands on my knees, and stare into the murky depths of the harbor.

But looking at the water only seemed to make my stomach revolt more. It was
filthy
, and the oppressive afternoon heat sent a stench rising up that, if I stared hard enough, I imagined I could see.

Ultimately, I pressed a hand over my mouth and shuffled to Oliver nearby. He stood in the middle of the wide cobblestone boulevard—the Quai de Rive Neuve, according to a placard on the nearest building—with his hands in his pockets and looking for all the world like a tourist.

Daniel, meanwhile, was several feet away, inspecting a map of the city. His forehead was scrunched up, and he seemed to be mumbling to himself about “no direct route in this blasted city.” He wore his leather bandolier, and the four holsters held loaded pulse pistols.

Beside him was Joseph, who could not seem to keep his gaze still. North, into the city, then south . . . then east up the hill, then west into the sun. He fidgeted with his bandages, tugged at his jacket, and looked as anxious as I felt. On one arm hung
his physician’s bag, and I could only guess that there were pulse bombs, pulse pistols, and crystal clamps within.

The pulse bombs and pistols created an electromagnetic pulse that acted very much as Joseph’s electricity did: it blasted the Dead back to the spirit realm. They could be unwieldy and inefficient, but there was no denying they were effective.

As for the crystal clamps, they operated on piezoelectricity. It was brilliant really—as all of Daniel’s inventions tended to be. A copper clamp held a large chunk of quartz that, when squeezed, produced an electric current. The electricity then moved through the copper and into Joseph’s arm.

Or into
my
arm, except . . .

Joseph met my eyes, and as if reading my mind, he walked to me and unbuckled his bag. “I know the crystal clamp is hard for you to use, Eleanor.” His gaze flitted to Oliver. “But you should take one anyway. As a precaution,
non
?”

He withdrew the crooked, copper clamp with it spring-loaded handle. The uncut crystal the size of my fist glittered in the sun. For Joseph, this was an invaluable tool—a constant and immediate source of electricity. But for me . . .

“I am not comfortable with electricity,” I said, meeting his dark, serious eyes. “You keep it.”

His head shook once. “I may only use one clamp at a time.” He wiggled his right hand. “I need these fingers to expel the power I draw in. So please, take it.” He pressed it into my palm, and, with a frown, I closed my hand around it.

I could sense Oliver’s displeasure—his
hatred
for the
device—so I quickly shoved it into my pocket. I wanted my demon to know that I would not use it unless I absolutely had to—assuming, of course, I could even use it properly.

My first attempt to use the clamp had ended in too much power. I had accidentally raised a corpse. . . . And of course, my second attempt had stripped away part of Oliver’s soul.

But when Oliver stepped close to Joseph and me, it was not the clamp that seemed to be bothering him. “Something isn’t right,” he said in a hushed tone—as if he feared being overheard. “Either we have scared everyone off, or something
else
has.” He dipped his head to the
quai
.

I started—and Joseph flinched too. Whatever traffic had claimed the streets when we had landed was absent now. The stores and cobblestones held only a few weathered souls, and they were hurrying toward shaded alleys or ship decks as fast as their feet could carry them.

“Perhaps,” Joseph said as we watched a fisherman slink belowdecks, “it is merely time for an afternoon nap. The sun
is
quite intense. . . .” Yet even as he spoke, he frowned as if he knew a break could not possibly draw away the entire city.

Daniel approached. His map swooshed in the wind. He briefly met my eyes . . . then turned to Joseph. “Maybe we should just be glad everyone is gone. It makes things easier.”

I gulped and swept my gaze up to the Notre-Dame. Figures still scurried in the streets . . .
away
from the Old Port. Away from us.

But before I could speak my concerns, Allison’s voice lashed out. “Eleanor.”

I twisted around—and winced. She was wobbling off the ladder, and her face looked as green as mine must have been. Yet, unlike me, she forced her chin high and extended her parasol toward me like a rapier. A master beckoning her servant. I hurried over.

“Someone will have to collect my bags,” she declared. “I refuse to leave my things unprotected on that airship while I wait for you.” She threw me a sideways glare. “And I
suppose
I shall hire a carriage to take me to the nearest hotel. Though I see no one about. What sort of city . . .”

A wind kicked up, even rougher than before, and carried her final words away.

“What?” I shouted, moving closer.

“Where are all the carriages?” she yelled back, but the wind thundered even harder. It swept at her petticoats. She shrieked and grabbed at her skirts—only to drop her parasol. It clattered and rolled toward the edge of the dock.

I dived for it—as did she. But with her hands pressed awkwardly to her knees, she stumbled forward. . . .

The wind shoved her over completely. She hit the ground with a scream, and I snatched up the parasol.

“My gloves,” she screeched as I helped her stand. “They’re ruined!”

Another gust of wind slammed into us. She almost toppled over again—as did I.

I glanced at the sky. No clouds marred the perfect blue. Nonetheless, there was an electric charge in the air now. That feeling of a storm about to hit.

My grip tightened on the parasol’s handle. “I don’t like this weather.”

“Who cares about the weather?” Allison snapped. “These gloves cost me a fortune.”

“I’ve got it!” Daniel shouted. “The fastest route to the Notre-Dame is definitely up the hill.” I peered over my shoulder at him. He shook the map in the air. “We head due east.”

“Obviously,” Oliver groaned, pointing at the basilica. “We can all see where it is.”

“Hush.” I glowered at Oliver. “Don’t pick on—”

Suddenly, a scream ripped from Allison.

I wrenched toward her—and found her arms outstretched. She shrieked again, and her fingers clawed for me. I seized her hands . . . but she was being dragged away from me.

I held tight, and with all my might I pulled and
pulled
. . . until at last, in a sudden burst of released speed, Allison fell forward and tumbled against me.

That was when I saw what had grabbed her.

Two putrid hands rose from the water and scratched at the cobblestones. Scratched at
us
. And as I watched, my stomach rising into my chest, hundreds of other fingers splashed through the harbor’s surface—and far in the distance, a single scream tore through the city.

“
Les Morts! Les Morts!
”

The Dead had risen in Marseille.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

The corpse that had grabbed Allison clawed at the
street. I towed Allison behind me as her screams pierced the wind.

Its arms grappled closer. Then its rotten face appeared above the water. Broken teeth chomped, and fingers grated on the cobblestones.

Without thinking, I stabbed Allison’s parasol into the corpse’s empty eye socket. The metal tip squished in, clunking against bone.

I shoved, and the body toppled back into the water, its hands catching empty air as I skittered out of reach. But my heels hit something. I jerked around—it was Oliver, yanking me to safety.

“Stupid,” he snarled, his eyes locked on the water. “There are hundreds of them!” He grabbed at Allison’s arm next, and then pitched us both toward Joseph and Daniel.

“What do we do?” Allison wailed. “The Dead are everywhere!” She clutched her face and scrabbled closer to Joseph. “What do we
do
?”

“This changes our plans,” Joseph said, shouting to be heard over the splashing and crunching bones of the Dead—and the distant echoes of a shrieking city. “Our duty now lies in retrieving Jie and protecting Marseille. Marcus is second priority to that.”

“No.” The word rushed from my mouth. We had come here to
kill
Marcus. “If we have to stop all these Dead, then he wins!”

Joseph shook his head grimly. “And if we do not stop the Dead, then we leave an entire city at risk. Daniel.” He glanced at the inventor and pointed to the harbor. “Deal with those, please.”

“Gladly.” With a grim slant to his lips, Daniel unholstered two pistols and marched away from us. Corpses grabbed at the pier, but their bone fingers had not yet gained purchase. So with a steady arm, Daniel took aim at the nearest set of yellow skulls and matted hair. . . .

Pop!
One pistol fired, and the nearest heads sank beneath the waves.

I wheeled back on Joseph. “Marcus wants us to give up on him—you know he does. This is just a distraction.”

“She’s right,” Oliver inserted. “He has ambushed us instead of the other way around.”

“Be that as it may,” Joseph said, “but this is my duty. My
job.
I find Jie and protect the city first. That is what the Spirit-Hunters do.”

“What about me?” Allison cried. “What do
I
do?”

I pointed up. “You get back on the airship.” At that exact moment, the balloon shifted in the wind, and its shadow moved over us, blocking out the sun. “Climb the ladder, Allison, and then pull it inside once you’re on board.”

“But—”

“You will be safe there,” Joseph added. “No one can get to you that high.”

Her lips clapped shut, and I could see her trying to find a reason to protest—but before she could summon any words, Oliver’s hand shot up.

“Look.” He pointed to the end of the Old Port to where a large avenue hit the open
quai
.