As Nathalie spoke, he soothed her with reassuring words, reminding her how brave she was, had always been. When she finished talking, he gave her shoulders an understanding squeeze. “It’s over, Nathalie. Finally.”
It was and it wasn’t. Would any of this truly be over, in her mind? She turned to the corpse. “I’m looking at her body and I still can’t believe it.”
Simone and Louis came up beside them. “I can,” said Simone. “Show them your foot, Louis.”
He winced, showing them the bottom of his shoe. A hole went right through it, exposing tender, pink flesh. “Stepped in the acid.”
“Maybe Papa can heal you,” Nathalie said. Papa. He must be worried she hadn’t met up with him yet. How much time had passed, anyway? “I should get back to him now.”
Christophe bid her farewell and joined the other policemen; Louis and Simone said they’d walk with her back to Papa.
Nathalie paused as they walked by Zoe’s body. Her left arm, broken and askew, was near Nathalie’s ankle; for a brief moment she envisioned Zoe grabbing it and pulling Nathalie to the ground.
Zoe’s brown robe was torn, exposing punctures like bee stings inside her elbow. Injection sites.
She had taken the blood of the Dark Artist and Hugo Pichon. Who else? More Insightfuls?
Agnès. Girl #5. Had her blood ever coursed through those veins? That of the other victims?
No more injections, no more experiments, no more death. Nathalie reached for one of the lesions and covered the hole with her fingers.
Instantly she was transported to another place. She was beating someone, pounding hard. People were all around her. She got a glimpse of the body she was thrashing.
Zoe Klampert.
Here. Moments ago.
Nathalie returned to the present and scrambled onto her feet. Simone looked at her, perplexed.
“I touched her and had a vision of what just happened. From the perspective of someone who helped kill her.”
It was neither the morgue.
Nor the glass.
Her magic was connected to the murders and bodies themselves.
51
The next day, Le Petit Journal published a letter from Zoe Klampert to Paris.
I write this knowing I may get caught someday, and until then I shall keep this on my person. I will add to this page the names of the Insightfuls whose lives I take.
Damien Salvage—exceptional hearing ability; consequence of overuse is temporary ringing in the ears. (Have experienced)
Hugo Pichon—ability to read the mind of the last person whose hand he touched; consequence of overuse (i.e., not “pausing” at all) is temporary inability to comprehend the written word. (Experienced moderately, quickly rectified)
[new page]
Damien was faith and art and imagination. I am reason and science and fact.
What started out as a flirtation in an opium den became a splendid partnership.
I am a woman of great means because of my father, a brilliant scholar and researcher at the University of France. My father, deaf and mute but a genius through his quill. My father, my teacher. My father, swindled out of his scientific findings by the fraud Henard, who ignored my father’s warning that the work on magic through blood was incomplete, untested. My father, who bid farewell to this earth with wolfsbane and a glass of Bordeaux.
I didn’t kill Henard. But I did pay someone—a stranger, a mercenary—to kill him. Or assassinate him. How important must a man be to have an assassin rather than a killer? I paid the man to poison him and slice him with the glass used in his transfusions. To ruin his work. The dolt I hired was supposed to take a sample but thought he heard someone and fled.
Oh, how ironic! Damien never got caught because he always knew when someone was coming. Twice he heard someone approach just prior to abducting a girl and abandoned the effort.
Few charmed like Damien. After following them from a considerable distance for a day or two, he could be whatever he needed to be to gain their trust—to get someone to walk through a door or enter a room or accept a lift in the carriage. From there he did what he had to do to carry out the deception, sometimes with my help, sometimes not. Ask for directions. Feign illness. Beg for assistance. Show his workshop to a curious girl. Night and fog were our dearest accomplices.
I should have hated Damien for being an Insightful, but I didn’t. I loved him. Profound and morose, angry and passionate—he was enchantingly damaged. He became more damaged as his magic started to slip away. A horrendous ringing in his ears, something he described as a tempest in his head, was the disadvantage of his power. As time passed it became more frequent, more prevalent, more pronounced.
He grew increasingly bitter. His magic dwindled and left behind a void nothing could fill. Food. Drink. Me. Opium. Woodworking. Nothing.
I wasn’t there when he killed the first one. We’d gotten into a row and I didn’t call on him for nearly a week. When at last I did, he told me what he’d done to the girl the day prior. “I had a moment of clarity at the opium den,” he’d said. “And I’ve found something to make me feel more supremely human than my hearing ever could.”
I never assumed he meant murder. Who with an iota of reason, even in a cloud of opium, would? (Astute investigators might recognize that quote from when I gave it to a reporter on the condition of anonymity following Damien’s death.)
His eyes were full of something—mischief, satisfaction, voracity. He was delirious with glee, proud to see her on display at the morgue.
I was angry with him. Not for killing the girl—Paris is full of meaningless lives—but for not taking her blood. He deprived me of a sample by shipping her body off so soon.
I have been studying my father’s work for years, and now I dwell in a well-hidden lab he established long ago at [address redacted]. I aim to perfect the magic so that no one suffers like Damien ever again. Regular injections, I think, rather than a single transfusion.
I need samples to conduct my studies. Damien provided the girls, I did the research on myself using the victims’ blood. We wedded his compulsion to kill with my desire to experience magic. We chose the girls we chose because of some quality they possessed, something I wanted for myself.
I was stronger one day, smarter the next. Prettier. Swifter. The nuance was gone but I was getting something, something from each of these girls, if only for a day or two. I continued to make discoveries and refinements; once confident, I tried Damien’s blood. It was so powerful the ringing in my ears had me bedridden for days. The setback reinvigorated my fervor, however, and I eventually discerned how to alter it for my own self. Near perfection.
That one girl, the strange one Damien called a “natural,” would have been the crown jewel. Instead Damien killed her friend, in a moment of recklessness, out of frustration that he couldn’t get the natural. She did endow me with a lovely singing voice, however, for a few days.
Our interests began to diverge. I was annoyed with his stupid, risky letters to the newspapers. He wanted pretty girls and I wanted Insightfuls; he wanted to choose them based on their appeal, and I reached a point where I didn’t care if the victim was a young woman or an old man—I wanted to pursue Insightfuls.
We did not agree. And so I took control.
I gave the anonymous tip about the alleged struggle between two men.
I sent the Ovid quote because living in plain sight was a thrill. I sent the fragments from Damien’s cravat to make myself credible.
I am not done experimenting; with any luck, the list on the other page will be quite lengthy by the time you read it.
I have penned this because when all is said and done, I’m a vain woman. I want everyone to know who I am and what I achieved.
52
Nathalie woke up in the darkness on the floor. Something moved beside her.
A body.
She jumped up, her feet tangled in bedsheets, and yelled.
The body sprang to life.
Nath
alie recognized the familiar outline and tried to calm down.
“What’s the matter?” asked Simone. She stood up, leaned against something, and turned on a kerosene lamp.
They were in Simone’s apartment.
“Why … why am I here?” asked Nathalie.
Simone picked up the lamp and carried it over to her. She raised the lamp toward Nathalie’s face, casting an eerie glow on her own. “You’re sweating. Nathalie, what’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”
“No, I—I didn’t. Why am I in your apartment?”
Simone swallowed. “You—you slept over.”
“Oh,” said Nathalie. She must have been in a deep slumber. Maybe she did have an upsetting dream, something that pushed her from sleep to confusion. Something wasn’t quite right. She felt awake yet not awake.
And then it struck her why she must be here, because really, she didn’t recall making plans. But here she was, in Simone’s apartment. “What time is it? We didn’t oversleep, did we?”
“For what?”
For what? They were supposed to get up in the middle of the night for the Pranzini execution.
Weren’t they?
Nathalie paused to think.
No. It didn’t make sense.
She noticed something on the dresser. “Could I have the lamp?”
Simone handed it to her. She hovered it over a newspaper dated August 31.
Klampert Killed by Mob After Pranzini Execution
Klampert? Pranzini?
It couldn’t be.
“She’s dead?” Nathalie cleared her throat. “What, uh, what day is it?”
“The very early morning hours of Friday, September second.”
The realization exploded, a Pompeii that leveled her from the inside out.
“I—I don’t remember,” she said, sitting on the floor. She bunched up her knees and hugged them.
Simone knelt down beside her and stroked her back. “What … is the last thing you remember?”
Nathalie squeezed her memory. Strangled it. Only one thing came forward. “Waking up—in the middle of the night, like this, with Stanley at my feet. From a nightmare about what happened at Notre-Dame. I kept running and running and never got out of the cathedral.”
“A dream from earlier tonight?”
“No,” Nathalie said, hugging her knees even tighter. The next word trickled out like a drop of water. Or blood. “Tuesday.”
She had no memory of the last three days.
Why?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ask a debut writer to write her acknowledgments, and the first thought that goes through her mind is, “I hope I don’t forget anyone.” The second thought is, “I should probably have chocolate and then reflect on the acknowledgments some more.” And so on.
I would like to thank my wonderful agent, Ginger Clark of Curtis Brown Ltd., for offering (I still remember the moment that email came in), for believing in this project in all its iterations, and for being such a superb advocate and attentive, steady-minded professional. As I often say to her, I’m in good hands and grateful she has my back. She’s also introduced me to the world of wombats and therefore regular doses of animal cuteness, which we all need. My thanks as well to Tess Callero for endorsing this manuscript wholeheartedly and being a cheerleader from the start.
This book wouldn’t be what it is without my fantastic editor, Melissa Frain, whose vision complemented and enhanced my own. Her extraordinary brainstorming ability is topped only by her enthusiasm for bringing out the best in me and in this story. That she took a photo of herself where the Paris morgue once stood and included it in her first post-offer email to me was just frosting on the gâteau. (Almost a year and a half later, I visited the same spot and took the same photo.) I appreciate the thoughtful commentary, kind approach, and ongoing affection for Nathalie and the reimagined Paris in which she dwells. My gratitude as well to Zohra Ashpari, who is a pleasure to work with on all those behind-the-scenes elements of book production.
I would also like to thank the Curtis Brown team working on my behalf, foreign rights agents Jonathan Lyons and Sarah Perillo and film rights agents Holly Frederick and Madeline Tavis.
Tor Teen has taken a Word doc and a dream and made it into a book. Thank you to publisher Kathleen Doherty; production editor Melanie Sanders; copy editor Amanda Hong; and everyone else on the production, marketing, and sales teams at Tor Teen and Macmillan.
Other people make me look good in other ways: Seth Lerner, for designing such a compelling cover, and the incredible duo of Scott Erb and Donna Dufault of Erb Photography for my author photo.
This novel is my third written, first sold. My writing roots therefore run deep, so a shout-out to the Absolute Write Water Cooler, the hub for writers before Twitter. In addition to the Purgatory thread regulars (you know who you are), I’d like to thank a few people I “met” there. Bruce Pollock, for taking a newbie writer under your wing back in the day and showing her what critique partners were all about. Donna Cummings, who supported the idea for this novel when it was little more than that, back in our Starbucks days. Libby Kontranowski, who was a best friend at first (virtual) sight. I appreciate your valuable feedback (especially on the romance side of things), your willingness to take the seat next to me on the writing coaster, and the fact that you also liked Golden Girls when we were ten. Rachel Mork, to whom Libby introduced me on AW; Rachel thought I was funny and wanted to connect. Flattery gets you everywhere with me, so Rachel, too, was a best friend at first sight. I’m grateful to Rachel for being in the query/submission/revision trenches with me, for keen input over more drafts and scenes than this wordsmith can count, and for supporting me in so many ways great and small.
I’d be remiss without a shout-out to my fellow Novel 19s, my fellow dreamcatchers. Here’s to our debuts. And Twitter: I appreciate everyone who interacts with me and supports me from afar, particularly Scott D., Don B., David K., and Karen F. To my Facebook family and friends, thank you for your support and enthusiasm in celebrating my authorial achievements.
Thank you to those who were my colleagues at The MacDuffie School when the offer came in (and to Jonathan B., who survived being in my office when I got the news). Special thanks to Dina L., office neighbor, listener to my publishing play-by-plays, and friend.
And now for family and friends, those who’ve been the closest witnesses to this writing life. To Jessica T., who couldn’t love this book more or be happier for me. You are a true friend and lucky charm. Thanks to Janice for the duration of this friendship (goes back to the ’40s, right?) and to Kate for rooting me on so sincerely. Thank you to John, who told me to just keep going and was with me the first time I set foot in Paris. I’m grateful to you for all our adventures.
My brother Kenny is in a multiway tie for #1 fan. Thank you for the brainstorming, for being proud, and for being such a big part of this. Thank you to David for bragging about your favorite (and only) sister and for the many laughs, in general. Thank you to Ursula, Julia, and Matthew as well for taking genuine joy in this accomplishment.
I’ve been blessed with incredible parents. Thank you to Ma and Dad for being everything a daughter needs her parents to be and for making me feel so very lucky throughout my life. I’m the person I am because of you, and I’m thankful for your support, life lessons, and unwavering confidence in me.
I’m also fortunate to have an amazing, brilliant partner. Thank you to Steve, for loving me, supporting me, being my creative collaborator, and having explanatory conversations with the cats when they get stressed about my lack of availability during revision periods. You’re an extension of my mind and heart, and I don’t know where I would be, where this book would be, or where my soul would be without you.
Thank you all, for everything. Time for more chocolate.
* * *
For nonfiction works on the cultural history of Europe in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, consider the following resources:
&n
bsp; Budapest 1900: A Historical Portrait of a City and Its Culture by John Lukacs
Scenes of Parisian Modernity: Culture and Consumption in the Nineteenth Century by H. Hazel Hahn
Spectacular Realities: Early Mass Culture in Fin-de-Siècle Paris by Vanessa R. Schwartz
France, Fin de Siècle by Eugen Weber
Mesmerized: Powers of Mind in Victorian Britain by Alison Winter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JODIE LYNN ZDROK holds two MAs in European history and an MBA. In addition to being an author, she’s a marketing professional, a freelancer, and an unapologetic Boston sports fan. She enjoys traveling, being a foodie, doing sprint triathlons, and enabling cats. Spectacle is her debut. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Spectacle Page 32