“I am not comfortable with electricity,” I said, meeting his dark, serious eyes. “You keep it.”
His head shook once. “I may only use one clamp at a time.” He wiggled his right hand. “I need these fingers to expel the power I draw in. So please, take it.” He pressed it into my palm, and, with a frown, I closed my hand around it.
I could sense Oliver’s displeasure—his hatred for the device—so I quickly shoved it into my pocket. I wanted my demon to know that I would not use it unless I absolutely had to—assuming, of course, I could even use it properly.
My first attempt to use the clamp had ended in too much power. I had accidentally raised a corpse. . . . And of course, my second attempt had stripped away part of Oliver’s soul.
But when Oliver stepped close to Joseph and me, it was not the clamp that seemed to be bothering him. “Something isn’t right,” he said in a hushed tone—as if he feared being overheard. “Either we have scared everyone off, or something else has.” He dipped his head to the quai.
I started—and Joseph flinched too. Whatever traffic had claimed the streets when we had landed was absent now. The stores and cobblestones held only a few weathered souls, and they were hurrying toward shaded alleys or ship decks as fast as their feet could carry them.
“Perhaps,” Joseph said as we watched a fisherman slink belowdecks, “it is merely time for an afternoon nap. The sun is quite intense. . . .” Yet even as he spoke, he frowned as if he knew a break could not possibly draw away the entire city.
Daniel approached. His map swooshed in the wind. He briefly met my eyes . . . then turned to Joseph. “Maybe we should just be glad everyone is gone. It makes things easier.”
I gulped and swept my gaze up to the Notre-Dame. Figures still scurried in the streets . . . away from the Old Port. Away from us.
But before I could speak my concerns, Allison’s voice lashed out. “Eleanor.”
I twisted around—and winced. She was wobbling off the ladder, and her face looked as green as mine must have been. Yet, unlike me, she forced her chin high and extended her parasol toward me like a rapier. A master beckoning her servant. I hurried over.
“Someone will have to collect my bags,” she declared. “I refuse to leave my things unprotected on that airship while I wait for you.” She threw me a sideways glare. “And I suppose I shall hire a carriage to take me to the nearest hotel. Though I see no one about. What sort of city . . .”
A wind kicked up, even rougher than before, and carried her final words away.
“What?” I shouted, moving closer.
“Where are all the carriages?” she yelled back, but the wind thundered even harder. It swept at her petticoats. She shrieked and grabbed at her skirts—only to drop her parasol. It clattered and rolled toward the edge of the dock.
I dived for it—as did she. But with her hands pressed awkwardly to her knees, she stumbled forward. . . .
The wind shoved her over completely. She hit the ground with a scream, and I snatched up the parasol.
“My gloves,” she screeched as I helped her stand. “They’re ruined!”
Another gust of wind slammed into us. She almost toppled over again—as did I.
I glanced at the sky. No clouds marred the perfect blue. Nonetheless, there was an electric charge in the air now. That feeling of a storm about to hit.
My grip tightened on the parasol’s handle. “I don’t like this weather.”
“Who cares about the weather?” Allison snapped. “These gloves cost me a fortune.”
“I’ve got it!” Daniel shouted. “The fastest route to the Notre-Dame is definitely up the hill.” I peered over my shoulder at him. He shook the map in the air. “We head due east.”
“Obviously,” Oliver groaned, pointing at the basilica. “We can all see where it is.”
“Hush.” I glowered at Oliver. “Don’t pick on—”
Suddenly, a scream ripped from Allison.
I wrenched toward her—and found her arms outstretched. She shrieked again, and her fingers clawed for me. I seized her hands . . . but she was being dragged away from me.
I held tight, and with all my might I pulled and pulled . . . until at last, in a sudden burst of released speed, Allison fell forward and tumbled against me.
That was when I saw what had grabbed her.
Two putrid hands rose from the water and scratched at the cobblestones. Scratched at us. And as I watched, my stomach rising into my chest, hundreds of other fingers splashed through the harbor’s surface—and far in the distance, a single scream tore through the city.
“Les Morts! Les Morts!”
The Dead had risen in Marseille.
CHAPTER FOUR
The corpse that had grabbed Allison clawed at the street. I towed Allison behind me as her screams pierced the wind.
Its arms grappled closer. Then its rotten face appeared above the water. Broken teeth chomped, and fingers grated on the cobblestones.