Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(13)
The second thought was a better one—and I made myself latch on to it. Marcus will be here soon. And I will slash open his throat.
I scanned the city streets for any sign of the train depot. For any sign of where Marcus and Jie would arrive. . . . But then we began to drop, and the port surged in closer as my ears shrieked painfully. I winced, clapping my hands over them. Even my stomach felt as if it had been left a hundred feet above.
Then, in an abrupt jolt, we stopped moving. I peered through the porthole once more and found us floating over the harbor, over the ships tied to the pier. A confused fisherman gaped up beneath our shadow. When our ladder suddenly clacked down, he scurried below his boat’s deck.
As Daniel shinnied down to the dock and set to roping us into place, I examined the shop fronts around the Old Port and the narrow, cobblestoned roads branching behind. Carts and carriages hurried away—as if their drivers all had somewhere to be. Jobs, perhaps? Yet even as this thought flittered through my brain, I knew it was not right.
But before I could consider the strange exodus of afternoon traffic, the airship’s engines were cut . . .
And the wind hurtled into us, grabbing hold of the balloon. My face hit the porthole with a crunch—then I wobbled backward. Side to side, up and down, the wind did not let us go. If it had not been for the seething hunger in my gut, I did not think I would have the nerve to climb down that listing ladder.
But Marcus was so close.
Once Daniel, Joseph, and Oliver were off the airship, I left Allison chewing her lip in the cargo hold, and I battled the wind and the swinging ladder. When at last I dropped onto the street, I felt absolutely ill—so much so that I had to bend over, rest my hands on my knees, and stare into the murky depths of the harbor.
But looking at the water only seemed to make my stomach revolt more. It was filthy, and the oppressive afternoon heat sent a stench rising up that, if I stared hard enough, I imagined I could see.
Ultimately, I pressed a hand over my mouth and shuffled to Oliver nearby. He stood in the middle of the wide cobblestone boulevard—the Quai de Rive Neuve, according to a placard on the nearest building—with his hands in his pockets and looking for all the world like a tourist.
Daniel, meanwhile, was several feet away, inspecting a map of the city. His forehead was scrunched up, and he seemed to be mumbling to himself about “no direct route in this blasted city.” He wore his leather bandolier, and the four holsters held loaded pulse pistols.
Beside him was Joseph, who could not seem to keep his gaze still. North, into the city, then south . . . then east up the hill, then west into the sun. He fidgeted with his bandages, tugged at his jacket, and looked as anxious as I felt. On one arm hung his physician’s bag, and I could only guess that there were pulse bombs, pulse pistols, and crystal clamps within.
The pulse bombs and pistols created an electromagnetic pulse that acted very much as Joseph’s electricity did: it blasted the Dead back to the spirit realm. They could be unwieldy and inefficient, but there was no denying they were effective.
As for the crystal clamps, they operated on piezoelectricity. It was brilliant really—as all of Daniel’s inventions tended to be. A copper clamp held a large chunk of quartz that, when squeezed, produced an electric current. The electricity then moved through the copper and into Joseph’s arm.
Or into my arm, except . . .
Joseph met my eyes, and as if reading my mind, he walked to me and unbuckled his bag. “I know the crystal clamp is hard for you to use, Eleanor.” His gaze flitted to Oliver. “But you should take one anyway. As a precaution, non?”
He withdrew the crooked, copper clamp with it spring-loaded handle. The uncut crystal the size of my fist glittered in the sun. For Joseph, this was an invaluable tool—a constant and immediate source of electricity. But for me . . .
“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.”