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 its 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 . . .