“And did we poison you?” I thrust a finger at him. “Or are you so enamored by Joseph you simply follow everything he does?”
“Do not,” Daniel snarled, “say that to me.” He advanced on me, and I shrank back. Never had I seen him look so angry. “Joseph is the most honorable person in this entire world, and the day I met him was the day my life turned around. Even if you and that demon and that . . . that ivory thing have poisoned Joseph’s thoughts, I will still follow him. To the grave.”
For a long breath, Daniel’s green eyes bored into mine. Unrelenting and absolutely terrifying. But then his breath burst out, and his shoulders sank. “I don’t want to fight. Not with you.” He turned away, and as he padded down the final level to hit the sand, he called out, “But please think about it, Empress. This is what Marcus wants. If he’s really one step ahead—and he sure has been so far—then he’s expecting us to give chase. He’ll be waitin’ for us. Again. Just consider that, Empress. Think about what it means.” Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried toward the airship.
And I watched him go, his words skating through my mind—leaping, twirling . . . and finally settling like silt on the bottom of a pond.
Because Daniel was right. If we followed Marcus, we walked directly into what he wanted.
I screwed my eyes shut and thought back to my earlier question: why did Marcus go to such great lengths?
It wasn’t simply for immortality and wealth. If all Marcus cared about was the Black Pullet, then he easily could have killed us in Marseille or just now, in the pyramid. For that matter, Allison could have sabotaged us at any point before now and claimed the ivory fist.
I popped my eyes wide, casting my gaze on the airship. It floated, unharmed and safe—ready to fly at a moment’s notice.
So what was the one thing Marcus wanted more than anything?
Swiveling my head, I peered back up the pyramid. At Joseph. He sat bowed over Jie; his face was pale with worry while Oliver continued a tired chant.
And as he always did, Joseph scratched at his bandages. They were now filthy with grit and sweat.
Your blood is very strong. That was what Madame Marineaux had said when she cut off his ear. And when my master learns whom I have killed. Oh, how pleased he will be.
I wet my lips, remembering one of the first things Marcus had done after taking Elijah’s body: he had asked me where Joseph was. He and I have unfinished business, Marcus had said, and I intend to settle it.
“Marcus wants Joseph,” I murmured. My head tipped to one side. The breeze carried strands of hair across my vision. “He wants his blood—and he has since the beginning.”
But it was not only Joseph’s blood he craved—no. It had to be something Allison wanted too. . . .
Revenge.
I had known it all along, yet until this moment I had never considered how far a person would go for vengeance.
But now I understood, because I was willing to do the same.
It was all so obvious—so stupidly apparent when I thought about it. Marcus knew we would follow him because we always did. Because, in the end, Joseph and I wanted the same thing that Marcus wanted. As such, all that Marcus had to do was imagine what he would do in our shoes and then lay the trap accordingly.
I bent forward, planting my hands on my knees and watching our balloon. Daniel scrabbled up the ladder, ready to take us south . . . exactly as Marcus expected.
I dropped my chin, staring at the pebbles on the crumbling stone. At the blood and dust on my boots.
If I were Marcus and my prey failed to walk into my next—and presumably final—trap, what would I do?
I would go after them. I would hunt them down and finally claim the one thing I had wanted all along: retribution.
As the realization solidified, I shoved off my thighs and tipped my head back to bask in the sudden surge of ideas.
The Spirit-Hunters, Oliver, and I were weak; Marcus knew that. He had beaten us time and time again, and now he had an invincible army of mummies. If he were to raise the Black Pullet, there would be no stopping him—not in our current, devastated condition.
And that meant we needed to even the odds. . . .
I dug my knuckles into my eyes, reveling in the Egyptian sun warming me so completely—and Oliver’s magic, strong and sure.
There was a way to win this war, and all I needed to do was think it through. It was like Elijah’s eight-queens puzzle from chess, but this was real. We needed a location we could defend and a way to defend it. . . .
And who defends the queen? An army.
Hunger spasmed in my belly, fierce and insistent. It was our turn to pull the strings—our turn to move the pawns on the board. We would raise an army of our own, and we would pick the place to defend.