“What happened earlier?” I puffed out my lips.
“That’s exactly what I mean. Something’s not right.” He stared down at me. “I’m gonna go grab our things and find Joseph. You”—he pointed his finger in my face—“are gonna stay right here. I don’t care who comes down here or who tries to talk to you. Tell them you’re waiting for the Spirit-Hunters. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I flipped at my curls. “I wait here.”
His jaw clenched, and his eyes ran anxiously over me. Then he lowered his hand. “I mean it, Empress. Don’t move.” Then he spun on his heel and marched off.
I watched him go until he passed the small fountain and I could no longer see him, then I smoothed my bodice, adjusted my skirts, and fingered the roses in my hair. I could hear the mazurka overhead, and I wanted to dance it. I wanted to glide over the dance floor with Daniel again—to feel the air on my shoulders and the men’s eyes on my face. . . .
With a sigh, I slouched back on the sofa—or I slouched as much as I could in my corset—and examined the elaborate floor beneath my slippers’ heels. Mosaic tiles spread out in wild designs, leading in all directions. That was when I noticed there were two hallways branching off this room. A wide hall to my right that must lead to the theater’s back exit . . . and then . . .
I twisted around to inspect the narrower hallway in the back corner. It slid off into shadows.
But then a shape materialized in the dark. Closer and closer it came into the room until I could finally see it completely.
It was a young man with dark hair and a perfect smile.
My stomach hitched, slamming against my corset. Memories came flooding back. Memories of an opera, of a handsome face, and of a night that ended in death. No—it’s not possible! It can’t be!
But it clearly could be, for I was absolutely certain that the young man smiling at me was none other than my old friend and suitor, Clarence Wilcox.
Chapter Twenty
I forced myself to stand. Forced my lungs to draw in air. Forced myself to move. “Clarence!” I shouted, and in half a breath I was tearing full speed after him.
Instantly, he lashed around and fled—away from me. Down the hallway.
I ran after him, speeding into the dim hall. I had tried to speak to Clarence Wilcox, hadn’t I? Somewhere in the farthest corner of my mind, I remembered I’d tried to call him recently . . . and that there were so many things I wanted to say to him.
So faster and faster I went, my ribs slamming into my corset with each breath until, moments later, I found myself on a winding stairwell. I bolted forward just in time to see Clarence’s dark head vanishing down it.
I dove after him. My feet beat out a racing rhythm, and I descended as fast as I could. With each step, the strains of the mazurka faded.
It was as if something compelled me to keep chasing—to keep hoping that if I followed long enough, he would stop and let me see him.
He reached the end of the stairwell and slithered into a dark archway. The instant my foot hit the final landing, I darted into the darkness too. Candles flickered every twenty feet or so, illuminating the white bricks in the walls and low, curved ceiling. No mazurka hit my ears now, only the drumming of my feet on the flagstones.
“Clarence!” I shrieked. “Wait!” But he did not wait. I tried to push my legs harder, but the dress weighed a ton and the corset flattened my lungs. If he didn’t slow, then I would never catch up.
But I could not stop trying either.
As I hurtled past white bricks and archways, the air grew heavier—damper—until soon I raced through puddles that splashed icy water up my ankles and dragged at my skirts. It slowed me, and in two desperate heartbeats Clarence had faded from my sight completely. I rushed forward but instantly stumbled to a stop as the ceiling opened up. I was in a round room with more tunnels splitting off in each direction and candlelight flickering over each archway. Yet none of the tunnels were lit—none of them held any clue as to which path Clarence had chosen.
I stepped tentatively forward. My harsh breaths echoed in my ears, and my heart slammed against my ribs. “Clarence?” I called. “Where are you?”
A cold wind licked at me from the right. I twisted around. There he was, walking backward, his handsome grin wide and his fingers hooked and beckoning for me to follow.
“Wait!” I shouted. In an instant he was gone from sight.
I lunged forward, straight into the blackness. My eyes took only moments to adjust to the ever-increasing darkness, to the ever-shimmering figure of Clarence Wilcox ahead. I was so focused that I failed to notice the changes around me. The way my footsteps rang out on the flagstones and the room opened up. The way the air smelled like long-standing water.
Or the way Clarence’s glowing form reflected beneath him like a mirror.
In a final push, I shoved all my strength into my legs. He was so close!
He stopped abruptly, spinning to face me. “If I cannot have you,” he said, his whispers snaking into my brain, “then no one shall.”
Before I could comprehend this statement, my foot flew through the air, towing me with it . . . and I plunged into a world of ice.
The air punched from my lungs, roared from my mouth. Water clawed into my throat.
Water! I was underwater!
I flung out my arms—I had to swim, had to break the surface, had to breathe! All of my air had been pushed out; my lungs had no reserves. But the dress was like a bag of stones. I strained and kicked and flailed, my chest burning, but no air kissed my skin.
And no matter how hard I fought, the crushing in my lungs didn’t lessen.
Then, in a blinding moment of terror, I realized that I didn’t know which way was up or down. Everything was black. Everything was empty.
I clapped my hand over my mouth and squeezed out the last of my air, trapping the bubbles in my hand. Yet I couldn’t feel which way they rose.
I flapped my arms and swung my legs in what I could only pray was the right direction . . . but my lungs were filled with razors, and my muscles were drained. Frozen. I could barely throw one arm in front of the other, barely keep my fingers flexed. . . .
I was going to drown.
Golden light flashed before my eyes. The curtain—it had to be the curtain to the spirit realm. But I was not ready for it. I fought the water, fought the death I had walked into.
The light flashed more brightly, a yellow stream across my vision.
Then the water shifted and fresh cold swirled over me. It shoved my lips apart, rushing into my mouth, into my chest.
Someone grabbed my wrists . . . someone pulled me up. . . .
But whoever it was was too late. My world had already twisted into nothing.
“Empress, breathe!”
A force slammed into my belly, and I doubled up, coughing. Dying. Water sprayed from my mouth.
“Breathe, dammit!”
Hands clamped over my face, a mouth pressed against mine, and breath blasted into my throat.
Like a knife was in my chest, I choked on this air that was not mine. But then it came again, searing my lungs. My body convulsed, and with a desperate wheeze, my chest heaved.
Real air slid in. But it wasn’t enough.
“The corset is too tight.” The voice sounded like Joseph’s.
“Give me your knife, then,” Daniel said. “I’ll cut her out of it.”
“You cannot—”
“She’ll die, Joseph. Give me the goddamned knife.”
Then came the sound of ripping cloth . . . then the snap of breaking stays, until suddenly my ribs could move. My lungs could expand.
I coughed. Hands pressed to my belly, pumping. Water dribbled down the sides of my face. More coughing. More water, and then . . . more air.
I gulped it in, desperate and starving. It hurt, but I sucked in more and more. I opened my eyes, blinking as the world shifted into focus. A lantern beside me on wet flagstones . . . Joseph crouched by it with a white
sack at his feet . . . and beams of light bouncing off black water.
I twisted my head and stared at Daniel—at his wet hair matted to his head and his bright, shining eyes.
“You,” I tried to say, but all that came out was a raw croak.
His arms slid around me and pulled me close. “Don’t talk, just breathe, Empress. Breathe.”
So I did. I sank into his arms and listened to his heart hammering against his ribs. For several, rasping breaths, we stayed this way, until a tremor of cold whipped through me. I realized that my dress and corset were gone; all I wore were my chemise and drawers.
I shook again, and Daniel drew back. Joseph shimmied out of his coat. They draped it over me, and then Daniel tugged me into his arms once more.
“What . . . what happened?” I managed to ask through my chattering teeth.
“You almost drowned,” Daniel murmured into my hair.
“B-but why? Wh-where are we?”
“Far beneath the Palais Garnier,” Joseph answered. “It would seem this theater connects to a series of underground tunnels. We heard your shouts and we followed. You ran into these cellars and to this reservoir. We called and called for you, Eleanor—did you not hear?”
I shook my head. Why would I have come under the theater? Why . . . why was I even at the Palais Garnier in the first place?
“You were shoutin’ ‘Clarence,’” Daniel said. He brushed sopping hair from my face. “Why?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” I screwed my eyes shut. My head felt so foggy. Why couldn’t I remember anything?
Daniel hugged me closer. “You were actin’ so strange at the ball. So I brought you downstairs, told you to wait. By the time I found Joseph and got our things, you were already gone.”
I opened my eyes and stared at Daniel’s wet shirt. At the way it clung to his chest. He had to be just as freezing as I.
“Eleanor,” Joseph said, “you truly remember nothing? Not how you came to the ball or what you did there?”
I shook my head.
“Daniel told me Madame Marineaux declared herself your chaperone,” Joseph continued. “She was in charge of your dance card—and she would not let Daniel sign it.”
I pulled back, frowning up at Daniel. “I was dancing?”
“And acting quite the flirt.” His eyes roved over my face. “It . . . it wasn’t like you at all. I thought maybe you were under a spell.”
“A spell?” I looked to Joseph.
The Creole nodded. “It is possible. A compulsion spell would—”
“A compulsion spell!” Suddenly the discoveries I had made before the ball careened into my mind.
I wrenched away from Daniel’s arms. “The Marquis! H-his cane is an amulet, and I think it has seventy-four compulsion spells inside!”
Daniel’s face scrunched up. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“There have been seventy-four of les Morts, and there are seventy-four senators, and I swear, something about his cane isn’t right.”
“Empress, you’re speaking in gibberish.”
I forced myself to take a deep breath and slow down. And step by step, I explained why I thought the cane was an amulet.
When I finished, Joseph’s lips pinched tight. “Why do you believe they are compulsion spells?”
“Because les Morts have all had their ears and eyes removed, but they also had their tongues drained of blood. Oliver was able to sense what . . .”
At the demon’s name, both Daniel and Joseph stiffened. And at their reactions, the rest of my day rushed into my brain. I’d had no intention of attending the ball. No intention of staying in Paris. And no intention of ever seeing Daniel or Joseph again.
“Oh God,” I breathed. “You both hate me.” I scuttled away from them.
Daniel’s eyes widened, and his hand lifted—ever so slightly—as if to reach for me. But then it dropped. He twisted his face away.
“You betrayed us,” Joseph said carefully. “Your magic—”
Joseph didn’t get to finish, for at that moment the passageway filled with the slap of running feet. I jerked around just as Oliver flew into the lantern light.
“El!” He launched himself at me, completely unconcerned when Daniel leaped up and grabbed him.
“Let go of him!” I tried to stand, but the room spun. All I could manage was a swaying crouch. “Stop, Daniel!”
But Oliver didn’t even notice that Daniel held him in a stranglehold. All he saw was me. “Where have you been, El? I couldn’t sense you—I couldn’t find you! I thought you were dead. I searched and searched and strained, but I couldn’t feel our bond—”
“Enough,” Daniel snarled. He wrenched upward, closing off Oliver’s air.
“Stop!” I shrieked, and this time I got to my feet, only to find Joseph leaping to his—a crystal clamp in hand. “He won’t hurt you! Please!”
Daniel looked to Joseph, who nodded once. Daniel released Oliver, and the demon toppled to me, yanking me into an embrace.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “For yelling and for leaving—I thought I had lost you. I thought you were dead. But you aren’t—you’re alive and you’re here. . . .” He pulled back, as if suddenly realizing where “here” was as well as the absence of my clothing. “What the hell happened? When I couldn’t sense you, I went to the hotel. They told me you had gone to the ball with Madame Marineaux, so I came here. But when I reached a few blocks away, suddenly I could feel you again. So I came running as fast as I could . . .” His head swiveled as he took in the dark tunnel. “But I still don’t understand what happened.”
“Joseph thinks I was under a compulsion spell.”
Oliver reared back. “The amulet? The Marquis’s?”
“The Marquis has not been here tonight,” Joseph said, his crystal clamp still held at the ready.
“That doesn’t mean his amulet could not be cast.” Oliver turned a cool eye on the Spirit-Hunter. “They are meant to be used long-distance.”
Joseph bristled. “Yet if, as you believe, the Marquis’s cane has seventy-three compulsion spells in it—”
“Seventy-three?” I interrupted. “Have there not been seventy-four Morts?”
“No,” Daniel said, his eyes never leaving Oliver.
“Then where were you all day? After . . . after . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence. They knew what I meant.
“We followed a lead on Jie,” Joseph answered. “It led us all across the city.”
“And?” I asked hopefully.
Daniel’s eyes slid to mine, thin and hard. “The trail went cold at the train station, and we were late for this damned ball.”
“What if,” Oliver said quietly to me, “you were meant to be the seventy-fourth victim?”
Daniel sneered. “Except that she almost drowned. A dead victim ain’t any good for a sacrifice.”
“Unless she wasn’t supposed to drown at all.” Oliver pointed into the darkness. “What if she was meant to go down that tunnel?”
“Tunnel?” Joseph whirled around. “I see no tunnel.”
“Well, I do.” Oliver sniffed derisively. “There’s a crack in the bricks at the end of this reservoir. Maybe it goes somewhere.”
At an almost imperceptible nod from Joseph, Daniel lifted the lantern and crept off along the flagstones. The light swung with his steps, and beams of yellow shot over the water—and illuminated a path running alongside it. Soon enough, Joseph, Oliver, and I were left in blackness and Daniel was nothing more than a beacon in the dark.
And still Joseph’s hand stayed around his crystal clamp. “Even if that tunnel goes somewhere, it does not explain how Eleanor was bespelled. Everything about her behavior and lack of memory suggests she was compelled.”
“Does it really matter how she was compelled?” Oliver demanded. “The fact is that this Marquis or demon is powerful enough to make an amulet and powerful enough to compel his victims. So what actually matters is that you’
re up against something much bloody stronger than you.” He sounded almost pleased by this.
I, however, was not. Yet before I could speak, Daniel shouted, “There’s a tunnel here.” He jumped into a jog toward us, and with each step closer, the light grew brighter, until he stood right beside me and I had to squint to see.
Daniel set the lantern on the floor. “It looks like it connects to a limestone quarry.”
Joseph frowned. “Limestone quarry?”
“Yeah. Most of Paris is riddled with underground quarries—limestone, gypsum . . . there’s the catacombs too.”
“Wi, but what good would such quarries be to a demon?”
“A lot,” Oliver muttered. “Seems obvious to me. This cellar here isn’t the only entrance into the quarries. All the tunnels connect, and there are entrances all over Paris. This demon simply has to trick his victims into any one of those limestone holes, lure them through the mines to his lair, and voilà.”
“Limestone,” I repeated softly, thinking of the burned-out palace and how the white dust had clung to my skirts. How Oliver had groused, Do you know how hard it is to get limestone off a suit?
I had seen that same dust somewhere else. . . . Then it hit: the butler at Madame Marineaux’s. “The white dust on the butler!” I turned to Joseph. “You said yourself that it was on several bodies. It’s limestone—it’s from these mines. This demon is taking his victims there.”
Joseph’s eyes thinned. “You could be right. It would be a safe place for the demon to hide, and if there are truly entrances all over the city, then these quarries would give the demon citywide access to victims. If it drew its victims in with a compulsion spell, it would never even have to leave the underground.”
“But why use compulsion spells to make more compulsion spells?” Daniel asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Non,” Joseph murmured. “Yet the rest of it does. The white dust on the victims and . . . the fact that they were all missing a loved one.” He looked at me, his head at a thoughtful angle. “You were shouting ‘Clarence’ when you ran here. What if you were chasing an apparition? Each of les Morts of which I can think were missing a loved one.”