“What about the Dead?” he pressed. “Did you feel any corpses?”
“I did not try, Ollie. The black and the grave dirt, they overpowered everything.”
He took my other hand in his. “You have to try, El. If this demon is just through that hole, we need to be prepared. We need to know if it’s alone.”
I gulped and nodded. Tentatively, I sucked in my magic, but rather than fling out my awareness, I let it creep through the crack . . . then onward and up . . . until the rotten sense of wrong rolled over me. I screwed my eyes shut, forcing myself to keep fumbling, keep feeling. . . . Then I sensed two flames amid the black: Daniel and Joseph.
I yanked in the web, popping my eyes wide. “They’re there,” I breathed. “Daniel, Joseph. And I couldn’t feel any Dead.” My breath shot out, thick with relief. “Oh thank God, they’re there. Alive . . . alive.”
“And how far ahead is the demon?”
“No . . . no more than a hundred yards.”
“And you are sure you want to keep going?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go. Quietly.” His hand gripped my elbow, and without another word, he helped me cram myself into the slanted crack. I had to shove and wiggle until the rock tore my clothes and slashed my skin, but I was numb from the cold and the magic. I felt no pain. After several feet of this clambering, I finally wedged through—and into a pitch-black, yet open, tunnel.
Oliver eased out behind me—but without the lantern. “I couldn’t carry it and still fit through. I’m sorry.”
“Can you see?” I whispered.
“Well enough. I will go first.” Then he clasped my hand in his and pulled me into a careful tiptoe.
Our pace was barely above a crawl, and everything seemed loud. Each of our steps, our breaths, our fingertips brushing on the cave walls. And everywhere that my straining eyes landed seemed to move.
Every spot in my vision sent my pulse racing.
Suddenly Oliver’s hand clenched mine in warning. I froze, holding my breath trapped. Ever so slowly, Oliver pulled me to him, and then I felt his lips at my ear. “It’s ahead. Joseph—he’s shouting.
Can you hear?”
I shook my head once.
“We’ll keep going, but be prepared to fight. Have . . . have your commands for me ready.”
“What will I command you to do?”
He gave an almost inaudible laugh. “Just tell me to destroy it.” He drew away from me, and together we crept forward, the tunnel curving right . . . then left. After twenty measured steps, the faintest sounds finally began to slide into my ears. Forty steps and we rounded another bend—and now
Joseph’s bellows sounded clear. Seconds later we veered sharply left . . . and halted. Light, painful even in its orange dimness, shone ahead. I squinted, trying to see what was in the light, but we were still too far away.
Then a scream—a sickening shriek of pain—tore through the tunnel. But I couldn’t tell if it was
Daniel’s or Joseph’s. All I knew was that we were out of time.
I pushed Oliver to go faster. The screams masked our footsteps until the shrieking ceased. We instantly stopped . . . waiting, not breathing. A new sound broke out: a tinkling, happy sound. Someone laughing.
I glanced at Oliver, and at his nod I slunk forward. He slid along behind me, both of us hugging the walls and craning our necks.
But once I could see, I instantly wished for the darkness again. Because knowing what was in there —seeing the horror—was so, so much worse.
It was a cavern, tall, round, and as large as the ballroom, yet lit by torches that cast the scene in an orange, shadowy light.
And there, hunched over a stone table in the center of the cavern with long, jagged claws extended and her dainty mouth lapping up blood, was none other than Madame Marineaux.
And the blood was Joseph’s. It poured from the side of his head, from a gushing, jagged hole where his ear had once been.
Chapter Twenty-three
Madame Marineaux still wore her black ball gown, her coiled hair as perfect as ever. . . . Even her face—her smile—seemed as sweet as it always did. But her fingernails—they were as sharp and long as knives. And her mouth . . . fresh blood dribbled down her chin.
It took all of my self-control not to run straight to Joseph or completely the other way. She was a friend. I had trusted her, and yet . . . something twisted in my gut. Something that said, You knew this all along. You simply did not want to see it.
But I would deal with that guilt, that hurt, later. For now I had a demon to face.
I dragged my eyes away from the Madame, searching for some sign of Daniel. It wasn’t hard—he was loud despite being bound and gagged against the left-most wall. He rolled and writhed beside a narrow tunnel descending into darkness. Yet his struggles did no good; he was too tightly fettered.
Tossed on the dirt nearby was his bandolier, the crystal clamp shimmering beside it.
I flicked my gaze the other way, forcing myself not to look at Joseph’s shuddering chest or