Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(59)

Oliver towed me around. Each fragment of a second lasted a heartbeat—a full, painful heartbeat. And as I tumbled into his chest, each gust of dry wind was a lingering kiss.

My eyes latched on to Oliver’s . . . and I was scared. Terrified. I thought each of my ribs would snap beneath the weight of his fear. Beneath the desperation in his gaze.

He had searched and fought for months to find the Old Man . . . and now he was about to fulfill that mission.

At last he could claim some peace. He could release this need—this burning, writhing drive in his gut from Elijah’s final, unfulfilled command. . . . And he could feel normal again. He could return home to the spirit realm, and he could shed this human body with all its human feelings.

Yet no matter how bravely I, Eleanor, acted or how fearlessly I forged ahead, a single misstep would mark the end of everything Oliver had fought for.

If I failed now, I failed everyone—not just myself.

The dusty, shadowy steps blurred around me. I saw nothing but Oliver’s blazing, golden eyes; I felt only his scorching fingertips.

Then a single word thundered into the front of my brain.

Hurry. And with that thought I spotted where the jackal had gone.

Two levels above us there was an unnatural crack in the rocks that had not been there moments before.

I had no doubt this entry into the pyramid was magical. Supernatural, even. It shimmered with a hazy blue light.

Time reclaimed its hold on the world, lurching forward in a flurry of seconds, breaths, and whipping wind.

Oliver released me, his gaze pleading. His desires clear: Do not ruin this for me.

I stumbled back, my fears and his fears already melting away beneath the jackal’s command. “There,” I shouted, and then I set to scrambling up once more.

Oliver, Joseph, and Daniel followed, and in mere moments we reached a narrow gap between two stones. A black tunnel descended within—but it was not so dark that I could not see the jackal. His ears were back, his hackles risen.

Hurry.

I scrambled after him, but just as I wedged myself between the stones, Daniel called out, “Hold up! Be careful!”

Then came Joseph, clipped and wary: “You are certain about this, Eleanor?”

I ignored him—the jackal was already scampering off—and after I squeezed completely within, I found a tunnel before me. It sloped steeply down but was quickly swallowed up by darkness.

At the sound of Oliver crawling behind me, I hurried into the shadows. The ceiling, walls, and floors were made of smooth bricks, and just as the stone steps outside had become worn away and dangerous, the floor was littered with gravel and slick dust.

We had been so prepared with weapons . . . but lighting had never occurred to us.

Yet if the jackal had gone this way, then I would have to follow.

Footsteps echoed behind me, and soon we had lost the safety of the sun’s light. When I glanced back, all I saw was a dim glow around the others’ silhouettes.

Oliver stepped in front of me. “I can still see.” His hand slipped into mine—and then I grabbed Daniel’s. He gave me a reassuring squeeze before reaching back for Joseph.

But we only made it three paces before a loud groan filled the tunnel. The sound of rock grinding on rock above us—and behind. Light flashed overhead . . . then shifted to fill the tunnel beyond. I squinted at the sudden onslaught, only to find a square mirror hanging from the ceiling. It had rotated to catch the light from outside, and though it was no larger than my head, it sent a sharp beam farther down the tunnel.

“Magic,” Joseph murmured. “Those mirrors were triggered by magic.”

I gulped. He was right. A gentle layer of power was settling along my skin like the finest of dusts. “But what triggered it?” I whispered.

“Does it matter?” Oliver’s voice was edged with impatience. He pulled free from my grasp and scooted ahead. “Let us simply be grateful we can see. Now where is the jacka—”

A second groan broke out, and a series of cloth fans shaped like palm fronds dropped from the ceiling—then began to wave. How they had not decayed I could only guess at. Magic seemed the likely explanation.

No matter the cause, they kicked up a draft and brought in fresh air.

I gulped, and with the pretense of scratching my leg, I let my fingers run over an ivory tusk. I instantly felt stronger. We have light, we have air, and there is only one direction in which to go. “Keep walking,” I said, easing into a stride. “We should hurry.”

After another fifty steps we reached a second mirror . . . and a second cloth fan. As the fresh light stabbed farther down the tunnel, I glimpsed an abrupt end to the brick walls. From here on the tunnel was hewn from the bedrock.

We would soon be underground.

And I could not help but think of the tunnels beneath Paris—especially when the dust thickened and muffled our footsteps. Or when Daniel’s pistol would bounce high at every sound, his grip on my arm releasing and his body moving to protect Joseph. I knew, in those moments, that he thought of what Madame Marineaux had done—how he hadn’t kept his leader safe from her claws.

And I knew Joseph thought of Madame Marineaux too, for he scrubbed at his bandaged head.

Another fifty paces and a mirror creaked into position . . . to reveal a brick doorway ahead. Its frame was lined with hieroglyphics: eyes, falcons, cobras, and thrones. Beyond was a long, low-ceilinged room carved from the bedrock. On either side, running the length of the room, were eight pairs of blocks, each as ornately carved as the doorway. And standing atop the blocks were man-size statues. With their bronze headdresses, they looked like miniature versions of the statues guarding the Bulaq Museum—except these ones held spears. Real spears with metal tips.