I wet my lips, unable to look away. All I wanted to do was touch the ivory. Feel the grooved carvings, see how the ivory could form such a realistic human hand. And above all, how it could change its shape.
“Mademoiselle?”
I started and jerked my gaze to the Marquis’s face. “Pardon me? Wh-what did you ask?”
“Are zee Spirit-Hunters hurt?”
“Oh, um, no.” I blinked quickly and tried to clear my head. “I-I believe they are fine.”
“Dieu merci, Dieu merci.” LeJeunes pressed his hands together as if praying. “I was so, eh . . . so worried when I could not find zem. Do you know where zey are?”
My eyes flicked to the cane and then back to the Marquis’s worried face. “They must be somewhere in the hotel, sir, for I saw them not too long ago.”
“And zey will still be attending zee ball tonight?”
“Ball?” My eyebrows shot up. Yet again I had completely forgotten about the ball—not that it really mattered. It was hardly something I would be attending now. “I do not know, but I would assume they will still go. Although . . .”
“Oui?”
“One of the members is missing.” I bit my lip. “Jie Chen—the Chinese girl. She has been missing since yesterday.”
The Marquis nodded. “It is very bad. Monsieur Boyer asked for extra men on his patrol force. I gave zem to him gladly. Gave him zee best inspectors we have.”
“Oh.” My brow knit. Perhaps Daniel and Joseph were not as unconcerned for Jie’s safety as I had thought. “And have these inspectors found anything?”
“Non.” LeJeunes wagged his head, almost sadly. “Zey have not . . . how do you say? Have not found any clues. But zey are looking—and will continue to look until zey find Mademoiselle Chen. But listen.” He bowed toward me, peering at me from the tops of his eyes. “It is impératif zat Messieurs Boyer and Sheridan come tonight. All of zee other senators will be in attendance—over seventy men and families—and despite zee missing mademoiselle, a public appearance such as a ball is vital to zee Spirit-Hunters’ continued support. And to my own continued support for zee election.”
I found myself nodding in an almost emphatic agreement. Madame Marineaux had said the same thing, had she not?
“Très bien—I am glad you understand, Mademoiselle Fitt. You must tell zem zis, oui? Tell Messieurs Boyer and Sheridan what I have told you.”
“Perhaps you should tell them—”
“Non, non. I will let you tell zem. It is better. Zey like you. Zey listen to you.”
Not anymore, I thought. But I bobbed a polite curtsy, hoping LeJeunes would interpret it as compliance.
He did; and with a delighted grin, he tapped his nose once and said, “Merci beaucoup! Madame Marineaux is right about you. Une fille intelligente! Smart girl. Now, I must be off—I have much to do before zee ball! Much to do!” He twisted around and hobbled back toward the crowds.
But he left his cane. I knew he left it without even checking. And I also knew I ought to call out after him . . . but I wanted to see it. Wanted to . . . touch it. . . .
Holding my breath, I gently lifted it by its base and brought the ivory near. Up close, it was even more beautiful. A craftsmanship like nothing I’d ever seen—so real, I thought it might start moving at any moment.
My hand trembling, I gently reached up to stroke one of the long, jagged fingernails. But then the Marquis’s voice rang out.
“Mademoiselle!”
I tensed, confused. Angry.
And then the Marquis was beside me once more and taking the cane away from me. “Oh, merci, merci! I almost forgot it, and, oh la, zat would have been bad! Zis is my good luck charm—I need it if I am to win zee election.” He winked at me. “Until tonight, Mademoiselle. Au revoir.”
“Au revoir,” I mumbled, my chest aching as I watched him disappear back into the crowds.
“Eleanor.”
“Huh?”
“El, snap out of it.” Oliver stood before me. I stared stupidly at the demon as the world behind him shifted into focus. I was still at the foot of the stairs, yet the crowds beyond had thinned. “How long have you been standing here?” he asked, concern obvious in the squint of his eyes.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, come on. Let’s go to your room.” He took my arm gently in his, and we began a careful trek up the stairs. “What happened? You seem utterly lost.”
“I feel utterly lost too.” I chuckled nervously. “I . . . I was talking to the Marquis and then . . .” Then I saw his cane, and he took it from me.
“And then?” Oliver prompted.
“Um . . .” I cocked my head. “He was . . . was looking for the Spirit-Hunters and insisting they were not here. Did you see them?”
“No.” Oliver’s head swung once. “I think they must have slipped out in all the . . . er . . . excitement.”
“Maybe to search for Jie.” I hoped this was the reason.
“Or perhaps les Morts have struck again.”
“Number seventy-four,” I murmured. Then I froze midstride. Hadn’t the Marquis said something about seventy? “‘All of the other senators will be in attendance.’ . . .”
“What?” Oliver moved onto the step above me and gazed down. “What about senators?”
“Something the Marquis said about how over seventy men and their families will be at the . . . oh, merciful heavens.” My eyes grew huge as something else he’d said played in my mind. “‘This is my good luck charm.’”
“El, what are you whispering about?”
“ . . . I need it if I am to win the election.” I moved onto the step beside Oliver, and my words rushed out. “Oliver, what does an amulet feel like? How would I recognize one?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.”
“Would it be attractive? As in alluring—would someone want to . . . to touch it?”
“I don’t know, El.” He peered at me slantwise. “A necromancer might be attracted to the power, I suppose, but the average person—”
“The cane!” I almost screamed the word. “The Marquis’s cane is the amulet.”
“The Marquis? As in the man who is—”
“Hosting the Spirit-Hunters, yes!” I burst into a run up the stairs, shouting, “His cane—it isn’t normal, Ollie. Every time I have seen it, the handle has been in a different shape, and all I can think about is how much I want to have it. Maybe he is a demon—you said yourself that you wouldn’t be able to sense one nearby.”
Oliver’s feet pounded behind me. “Well, there’s one easy way to tell. What color are his eyes?”
I slowed. “Blue. Damn, they’re blue.” I resumed my racing stride, and we rounded the stairs, flying past the Spirit-Hunters’ lab. “But even if he is not a demon, he could still have an amulet.”
“But why would he need an amulet?”
“To control the senate, win the presidential election—power. There are seventy-four corpses and I bet seventy-four senators.”
“No,” Oliver called after me. “There are seventy-five.”
“But seventy-five minus the Marquis is seventy-four! And . . .” I trailed off, grinding to a halt. I turned horrified eyes on Oliver. “He said they’ll all be at the ball tonight. What if he intends to cast the amulet then?”
Oliver frowned. “But why would he want the Spirit-Hunters there? Surely he wouldn’t want to cast it with people around who could stop him.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “I-I don’t know, Ollie, but we cannot risk leaving the amulet with the Marquis. We have to stop him.”
“Why do we have to stop him?” Oliver demanded, but I did not respond. I had already resumed my desperate race to my room.
And all I could think of was that stopping the Marquis would lead to Jie. Something in my heart told me her disappearance was connected to les Morts; and if the Marquis was the man behind les Morts, then . . .
My lips quirked into a smile. Then I would destroy him
.
Just as I skittered to a stop before my bedroom door, Oliver jogged up behind me.
“What do you”—gasp—“intend to do, El?”
“Stop him.”
“How?”
“I’ll take the amulet.” I wanted it—I couldn’t deny that. “I will go to his house and take it.” I pushed through my doorway.
But Oliver shoved into my room and forced me to stop. “And then he’ll cast the amulet and compel you to return it. Your plan won’t work.”
“Then tell me what I can do.”
“Your only choice is to stop the necromancer who made the amulet.”
“Stop him how?” I shut my door.
“Death.” He spoke with an intensity I’d never seen. “Murder, El. And despite all your . . . your bloodlust and dark promises, I don’t think you can do that. I know you cannot.”
“Yes, I can,” I said softly.
“No. You are not Elijah, and I won’t let you become him.”
“I thought you wanted this. That you wanted death and sacrifice and blood.”
“I told you what I meant by that, El. In the lab, I told you I didn’t mean violence.” He grabbed my arms. “Listen to me. One death—even if it seems necessary—will only be the beginning. I know. I know.”
No, you do not know, I thought. But I pretended to wilt in agreement. “Then what do we do?”
“We leave it to the Spirit-Hunters, and you and I deal with Marcus.”
“Marcus . . .” The name rolled off my tongue. I looked into Oliver’s face, my back straightening. “Will you try to stop me from killing him?”
He shook his head once. “His death is different.”
“How?” I demanded.
“Because . . . his time already came. He doesn’t belong in this realm.” Oliver pulled away, his shoulders tensing. “So leave les Morts and Jie to the Spirit-Hunters. Let us go after the Old Man in the Pyramids. Let us fulfill Elijah’s final command and stop the monster wearing his body.”
Find Marcus, my heart nudged. Find the Old Man and stop Marcus . . . The Spirit-Hunters could handle the Marquis—it was their job, after all.
“All right,” I said at last. “We’ll go after Marcus and the Old Man. Though not until I make sure Joseph knows about the Marquis and his cane.”
“Fine.” Oliver’s lips eased into a smile. “Then we should start with Elijah’s letters. That’s where we’ll find a clue to this Old Man and his blasted chicken.”
“Chicken? What do you mean?”
“Pullet. Poule. It means ‘chicken.’”
“But the Black Pullet isn’t actually a chicken . . .”
“Yes, it bloody well is. But don’t make that face. It’s also a chicken that lays golden eggs and grants its master immortality.”
“Wait.” Massaging my forehead, I crossed to my bed. “Are you telling me that everyone is chasing after a chicken that lays golden eggs? It’s like something out of a child’s fairy tale. . . .” My voice trailed off as something from Elijah’s letters came to mind. Something about a fairy-tale joke.
“‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’” I whispered, easing onto the edge of my bed.
“Huh?” Oliver strode to the bed and plopped down beside me.
“Didn’t the story of Jack and the beanstalk have a chicken that laid golden eggs?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“But didn’t you tell Elijah a joke about it? When you were in Marseille—in some crypt?”
Oliver’s eyebrows drew together. “We were never in a crypt in Marseille. Not together, at least. And I certainly never told him any Jack and the beanstalk joke.”
I lurched off the bed. “So it’s a clue!” I began to pace. Four steps forward, four steps back. Exhilaration pulsed through me, laced with magic. I tossed back my head and for two long breaths simply basked in the heady warmth.
“So what do we do?” Oliver asked.
I smiled and skipped back to my bed. “We can look at Elijah’s letters and see exactly where in Marseille they lead us. But again”—I wagged a finger at Oliver—“I won’t leave this hotel until the Spirit-Hunters know about the Marquis and the amulet.”
Oliver scoffed. “And I said fine, but do you think they’ll actually listen to you?”
I crouched down and pushed aside the floor-length bedcover. “I will make them listen. I peered underneath the bed. “I will not let Jie . . .” My words died.
My carpetbag wasn’t there. Nothing was there.
And that meant all my money was gone—and all of Elijah’s letters with it.
Chapter Eighteen
I shot upright from the floor. “Did you take my carpetbag, Ollie?”
“Of course not.”
My stomach turned to lead. “Oh no.” I scrambled to my feet, lunging for the wardrobe and yanking back the door. Yet other than my undergarments and gray walking gown, there was nothing.
In a panic, I tore through the room, Oliver right beside me. Under tables and chairs, and even in the bathroom, I searched.
But my bag was gone.
I grabbed Oliver’s sleeve, on the verge of hysteria. “You are sure you didn’t take it?”
“I didn’t!” His head shook frantically. “Where was it?”
“Under the bed.”
“What?” He gripped my upper arms. “Why would you keep the letters in such a damned obvious place?”
“Because I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t think! Are you completely stupid, Eleanor?” He was shouting. “Anyone could bloody take them—including Marcus!” His fingers dug into me.
“But can’t you find them?” My voice was shrill. “Sense them with your magic?”
His grip loosened.
“The way you found the letters on the boat,” I pleaded.
Oliver swallowed and then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I-I’ll try that.” He released me.
“Do I need to command you?”
“No. I . . . I can simply feel for it—the same way I sense you. Now be quiet.” He closed his eyes, and the faintest shimmer of blue shone through his eyelids. Then they popped up and he pivoted around, aiming for my balcony.
I scrabbled after, and we both tumbled through the glass door.
And instantly stopped. For there were the letters, reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. The carpetbag was open beside it.
“Oh no, no, no.” Oliver dropped to the embers and shoved his fingers in. “No, no, no—please no.” But his hands came up with nothing but soot. Tears slid down his cheeks, and he rolled his head back, eyes closed. “This was all I had left of him, El. How could you just leave his letters out?”
“They weren’t out—”
“And they damned well weren’t hidden either.” He jumped to his feet, rounding on me. “You are an idiot.”
I skittered back into my room. “I-I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t enough! I told you that I was still under Elijah’s command. I needed those letters to find the Old Man! Those letters and this locket”—he clasped the chain, his knuckles white—“were the only things I had left from Elijah.”
“Me too!”
“But he wasn’t your—” he broke off, his eyes twitching.
“Wasn’t my what?” I demanded.
“Nothing!” he roared. “It’s bloody personal, and none of your damned affair. I cannot believe you could be so stupid as this.” He twisted away from me, and when he spoke again, his voice was low. “I need a drink. I’ll be at the bar.” He released the locket and stalked to the door.
I ran after him. “You can’t just leave! What about the Old Man in the Pyramid? The Black Pullet? Or Marcus?”
“What about Marcus?” He stopped at the door. “He’s obviously in the city, and now he has burned our only chance of finding the Old Man. You wasted away our time, and now he caught up to us.” Oliver spun back to the door.
“Don’t go.” I grabbed his hand. “Please, Oliver. There’s no reason to be so mad.”
/>
“No reason?” He flung off my hand. “You call losing our only clue to the Black Pullet no reason? You call losing my only connection to Elijah no reason?”
“We do have a clue,” I snapped. “We at least know we have to go to Marseille.”
“No, Eleanor. We think we have to go to Marseille.” He resumed his stomp to the door.
“Stop!” I shrieked. “This isn’t fair for you to be so angry. I can try to remember what Elijah said! Or I can try to set you free before the command—” I broke off. He was already to the door.
I lurched after him. “Please, please do not go. If you do, I’ll . . .”
Oliver paused, his whole body tensing. Slowly he looked back. “You’ll what, El? Command me?”
I gulped and nodded.
His eyes flashed gold. “Oh, I dare you to. I dare you to command me. Because I will fight it. I will fight it until you and I are both on the ground weeping from the pain.” He ripped open the door. “Now let me go. I want to be alone.” Then he stormed away, slamming the door behind him.
And I was left standing there, watching the empty space where he’d just been. “But I don’t,” I whispered, “I don’t want to be alone.”
My bedroom door had barely been shut for four shaking breaths when a knock sounded. My heart heaved—was Oliver returning?
The knock came again. “Mademoiselle Fitt?” a man asked—a man I didn’t know. “Est-ce que vous-êtes là? J’ai un télégramme pour vous.”
Telegram? Maybe there was word from home! I hurtled to the door and swung it wide. A startled, blue-uniformed steward gawked at the state of my gown and hair. In his hands was a silver platter atop which lay a neatly folded telegram.
I snatched it from him—“Merci, merci!”—and then I kicked the door shut, already unfolding the telegram.
In Le Havre. Will reach Paris Saturday. Have news.
Allison
My jaw went slack, and for several moments I could do nothing but reread the message again and again.
Allison Wilcox was coming to Paris. On Saturday . . . that was tomorrow!
“Have news,” I whispered, my eyes searching the scant message for some sort of sign; but there was nothing to be found.