Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(65)

By the time I finally climbed the last step to reach them, Daniel had wrapped Jie’s leg tightly in his shirt . . . and her eyes were open. But they were empty.

I threw a glance at Oliver. He swayed with exhaustion, his face too pale and his expression was . . .

Heartbreaking. Something about him looked broken, I wet my lips, caked in sand and sweat, to call to him. . . .

His hand lifted. He pointed east, and when I followed his finger toward the morning sun, my knees almost dissolved beneath me.

For drifting up from the other side of the pyramid was a balloon. A simple, round one—much smaller than our airship and with nothing more than a basket beneath.

And there were two figures standing within. Marcus and . . . Allison.

“No,” I whispered. My head shook, slowly . . . then faster. “No.” I staggered into a run, passing Daniel and Joseph and Jie. And still the word fell off my tongue, louder each time. “No. No. No.”

It couldn’t be. She had to be compelled—it was a spell. Allison wasn’t with Marcus willingly—she just . . .

Couldn’t be.

But the truth settled through my chest, spreading outward and inward like the blackest of oils. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I stumbled. . . . I fell. My hands hit the stone steps.

I had trusted Allison. I had thought we were allies.

God, I had been so, so wrong.

A laugh splintered up my throat. I was a blind fool. Of course Allison and I were enemies; we had been since the day she had learned that Elijah had killed Clarence—and I had known it. Deep within, I had known it all along, but I’d refused to see. I had not wanted her to be the enemy even when the facts were all there—obvious and undeniable now that I truly looked at them.

Back in Philadelphia, when Allison had demanded answers about Clarence’s death, I had thought it odd how she took the truth so stoically.

But she had already known—that was why her reaction had been so stiff. In fact, she had probably come to my house that day simply to ensure that I got on the steamer for France. . . . Marcus had dug his talons into Allison ages before I had spoken to her. Somehow, Marcus had found her, swayed her to his side, and then used her.

For not only had Allison goaded me into traveling to France—even driving me to the wharf—but then she had come to Paris to guarantee that I went on to Marseille. She had inserted herself into the group to make sure we traveled to Egypt. . . . And then finally, she had helped us reach the Old Man in the Pyramids.

Everything she had done, had said, had shared—it had all been a lie. She didn’t care about Jie’s incisions or Joseph’s bandages. She didn’t care about me. She had helped Marcus get what he wanted by manipulating us.

And Marcus must have wanted the clappers and the Old Man all along. When Madame Marineaux had not arrived in Marseille with the ivory fist as Marcus had planned, then he no longer had the power to find the Old Man—he was not marked as Pharaoh.

Instead, I had arrived in Marseille, and Marcus had let me get the information from Jacques Girard. Then he had let me do all the dirty work, step by step, to finally summon the Old Man. All Marcus had had to do was show up and collect the final prizes: knowledge of where the Black Pullet was buried and the complete, unbroken clappers with which to raise it.

Marcus had coordinated everything. Always one step ahead.

It was like salt on a wound, and a hot scream writhed up my throat. I dug my fingers into my thighs and threw my head back to stare into the sun until my eyes were raw.

I wanted to hurt Allison. I wanted to rake my fingernails down her face and into her traitorous smile. I had trusted her; she had betrayed me, and now I wanted her to die.

The desire was so strong, it pushed against my ribs and swelled in my neck. But with that rage came sobs. They shuddered through me, threatening to explode at any moment. But crying had never served me well, and crying would not catch Marcus.

So, gritting my teeth, I hauled myself to my feet. My blurry vision latched on to the balloon—and then drifted down. . . .

Sixteen figures galloped over the sand, their spears erect and helmets glinting in the rising sun. Their inhuman strides kept pace with the balloon.

Movement flashed to the north, and when I twisted my head, I found even more guards streaming over the sand. They must have come from the other pyramids, answering the call of the clappers. Marcus had himself an army—one that our magic could not stop.

My breath sawed between my teeth. He cannot win. I will not let him win.

I dragged my gaze right to Daniel’s airship, still hovering over the Sphinx. It swayed in the breeze, seemingly unharmed.

But there was blood all over the sand beneath it. And deep, dragging footprints as if someone had limped away—seeping blood with each step.

For a bleak, vicious moment, I hoped it was Allison’s blood. She cannot win. And neither can Marcus.

In a rush of desire, I finally gave in to all the hunger and want that had writhed inside me since Paris.

This magic was who I was, and when I called to it, it came. Like a door burst wide, the power inside me came. The more I inhaled and tugged at the magic, the more it pulsed through me. To me. I gathered it in my chest. More, more, more.

A wind picked up. It twined around my legs and through my hair, as if the world itself were offering me its soul. . . .

Then I realized that it was. I was taking magic from the stones and the air and the sand. I was feasting off the living world around me.