By the time I had ascended the pyramid, hunkering behind the top step and easing out the spyglass, the obelisk’s shadow had shifted—and Marcus’s balloon was fully in sight.
Holding my breath, I raised the spyglass to my eye.
The Black Pullet was undoubtedly worse than I had ever feared. It was no chicken, nor a cockatrice—nor any monster I had ever imagined. Such black scales seemed to absorb the light. And yet its wings were brilliant, blinding gold. It slithered over the sand on four talons, its snakelike form twice as long as the balloon’s shadow.
And on either side of it, droves of imperial mummies marched in perfectly uniform lines. Each of their steps was a bounding leap.
I wrenched my gaze up and honed in on the balloon. On Marcus’s face. He had a spyglass of his own, but he was focused on the obelisk. On Joseph standing beside it. And next to Marcus, her gaze also straight ahead, was Allison.
My blood curdled. Yet . . . Allison did not look like herself. Perhaps it was merely the shadows, but her face seemed withered. Skeletal even. And her posture was hunched, her arms clasped tight.
And the fleeting panic returned. Had she been compelled?
No, my gut told me. She chose this. Long ago, she chose this path.
I ducked behind the step, crouching out of sight. Daniel and Jie would be taking up their positions beside Joseph now, and there was nothing left for me to do . . . but wait.
And as Joseph had done only minutes ago, I prayed. I prayed to anyone or anything that would listen. The Annunaki, the jackal, the spirits of the dead—I begged for them to see us through the night.
But no warm, answering presence came to me. No reply or acknowledgment that a god listened or cared. And I suppose I hadn’t expected one.
Time trickled past, painfully slow. I heard every scrape of wind over the pyramid, every murmur of Jie’s voice, every spin of a pulse pistol chamber . . .
Until a steady thumping took over. Until rattling armor dominated all.
“Eleanor,” Joseph roared. “Get ready!”
I scuttled to the edge of the step and peeked around the corner, pressing the spyglass to my eye.
Marcus’s balloon floated closer, his army marching in their constant rows . . . and the Black Pullet sliding along like a cobra.
Then, five hundred paces away, the balloon stopped moving—and the mummies all froze. A rope heaved over the side of the balloon’s basket, and in a quick move, the Black Pullet snapped the rope in its fangs. Then it towed the balloon down, bit by bit, until Marcus was close enough to jump out and tie the rope to a boulder.
My gut heaved. The Pullet was not just a creature of wealth and immortality. It was also a servant able to do its master’s bidding.
Allison scrabbled from the basket next, but her body almost caved in when she hit the sand. Then, in aching movements, she hobbled around to face us. No shadows blanketed her face. Only pure moonlight.
My body went limp. The spyglass almost tumbled from my grasp.
Allison Wilcox was an old woman. Lines seamed her face, and white streaked through her hair.
The ivory fist.
With that thought, the image of the desiccated Marquis formed in my mind. The ivory had sucked away his life.
And now it had sucked away another’s. Allison’s. And I did not think it had been her choice.
I tried to look away from her, but I couldn’t. No vengeful satisfaction moved through me. Only gaping horror.
I slid the spyglass back to Marcus. He was watching the obelisk, his eyes thinned. Suspicious. He was not a stupid man—he knew the Spirit-Hunters would not offer themselves up openly. Yet our traps were well laid, and he did not spot anything.
So with a dismissive arch of his eyebrow, he flicked his wrist toward the pyramid . . .
And half the mummies launched at us.
I shoved to my feet, pushing the spyglass deep into my pocket. Marcus’s eyes lit on me, and a slight mask of surprise settled over his features. But otherwise he let his mummies continue their charge. . . .
They reached the edge of my dogs. Their feet stamped over, and I let them come. Closer, closer . . .
“Attack,” I said.
In an explosion of sand, bones thrust upward. Skulls and spines, ribs and claws, the dogs erupted from the earth and careened headfirst into the guards. Fangs slashed into the mummies. Legs shredded, throats ripped wide. And the guards had no choice but to fight back.
Yet their spears poked through open ribs or smashed on sturdy spines. For every dog they managed to topple, two more would attack.
Marcus’s face clouded with fury. His yellow eyes met mine, and the message was clear: This will not be allowed.
I bared my teeth at him. Do your worst.
He snapped his fingers, and a second surge of mummies moved. But they streamed around the dogs—looping out and avoiding my skeletons entirely.
“Attack,” I whispered to the hounds at the edge of the battle—but they were too slow. The mummies moved with such inhuman speed and agility, they rocketed past my dogs in mere breaths.