Joseph’s breath caught, and he swore as he wrenched down the spyglass. “He will pay for this. He will die for this.”
Yes. I grinned, drawing in a breath to start running again—but then Joseph turned to me. “Daniel and I will make sure Marcus pays; yet if he gets through us, then you and your demon must be waiting at the Notre-Dame, Eleanor. Whatever it is Marcus seeks, you must destroy it.”
“What about the compulsion spell?” I demanded. “You cannot break it without killing Marcus—”
“I said,” Joseph roared, his eyes bulging, “that Daniel and I will make Marcus pay. There is no time to lose, Eleanor. You go to the Notre-Dame, and you go now.”
Oliver’s fingers clamped on my bicep. “Joseph is right. If these corpses are meant to distract us, then we cannot lose sight of our original course: the crypt.”
I swallowed, groping for any excuse I could conjure to face Marcus.
But I found none, because Joseph and Oliver were right.
“Fine. I will go to the Notre-Dame.” I jerked from Oliver’s grasp, and then I lurched around to stomp toward Allison. She stood, arms over her chest and skirts flipping. Her gaze never left the thrashing waters of the harbor.
“Get on the airship,” I shouted at her, “and do not lower the ladder unless you see one of us return. Do you understand?”
She trembled, and for half a breath I feared she might argue. But then she gave a strangled cry and bolted for the dangling ladder.
I waited until she had ascended all the way into the airship, pulled up the ladder, and slammed the hatch shut. Then I angled my head up and east, toward the Notre-Dame. No matter what lay ahead, I would not leave this city without destroying what Marcus sought.
And not without rescuing Jie.
“Empress!” Daniel’s voice whipped out, and I glanced over my shoulder as he jogged to me. “Take these.” He fumbled with something in his pocket . . . and then withdrew his goggles—the lenses that allowed us to see when spirits and the Dead were near.
But I didn’t need them anymore; I had my magic, and it was far more effective. So I shook my head. “Keep them, Daniel.”
His lips pressed thin—a grave mask, not an angry one—and he lowered his hand. “Stay safe.”
“You too.” Then, with nothing more than a beckoning finger in Oliver’s direction and a final, hard nod at Joseph, I set off up the hill.
It took longer than I had expected to ascend to the Notre-Dame—the hill was steep and the wind was rough. We passed beige, gray, and cream-colored buildings, but they all had their shutters closed tight and doors locked.
Which terrified me. How did the city know to flee indoors? It was as if they had expected the Dead to come.
As we pounded up a curvy road called Montée des Oblats, Oliver and I both had to lean into the wind to keep from tipping backward and tumbling down the hill. Just as we reached the first cliff of limestone jutting up from the hillside, the road twisted left . . . and a newspaper came flapping toward us.
It slapped into Oliver’s face—but not before I caught sight of the headline: “Les Spirit-Hunters amènent les Morts où ils vont.”
My feet slowed to a stop, and I yanked the newspaper off Oliver. Below the headline was a hazy photograph of Daniel’s airship on the day he had landed in Paris. “What does this say?” I shouted, thrusting the article at Oliver.
He took the shaking pages and quickly scanned them. Then his face paled with fury, and he flung the paper into the wind. “It says the Spirit-Hunters bring the Dead. It says they were feared in Paris and that the city should hide at first sight of the balloon. It claims Joseph and his team raised les Morts.”
My stomach flipped. How could such a story have reached Marseille? We had only left Paris a few hours ago. Oliver must have thought the same thing, for he said, “Telegraph travels faster than train—or airship. Marcus must have sent the story ahead.”
“But . . . why?” I clutched at my stomach . . . and then my fingers moved instinctively to my pocket. To the ivory fist.
But the fist’s trill of magic held no comfort for me right then. Not when my brain couldn’t slow. Questions scattered and twisted every which way. Because truly, why would Marcus want to get the citizens of Marseille locked inside? Unless it was to make things easier. To make this a final battle between him . . . and us.
Yet even if this was the reason, how far in advance must Marcus have planned to coordinate such a feat?
I spun around to face the Old Port—as if I might be able to catch a glimpse of the necromancer and his corpse army. But at this angle all I could see were buildings and shadowy streets.
“Come on,” I said, turning back to Oliver. He nodded once, jaw set, and we launched back up the hill.