A Darkness Strange and Lovely ssad-2

by Susan Dennard

  “No?” I fidgeted with my skirt.

  “No.” Planting a hand on the closed book, he angled toward me. “I need to know how much magic you have used, Eleanor. How many spells you have learned.”

  And I knew right away that Joseph considered “spells” bad. Suddenly the conversation about demons seemed more appealing.

  “Spells?” I asked in a tight voice. “I-I don’t know what you mean. What is a spell?”

  “When magic is built on self-power,” he said, his gaze never leaving my face, “when it uses the spiritual energy inside you, we call that a spell. Because I use electricity and it comes from outside my body, I do not cast spells.”

  I bit my lip. “Have you ever cast one?”

  “Absolutely not.” His jaw tightened. “I do only white magic, Eleanor. Black magic—spells, necromancy—is too dangerous. It corrupts and festers the soul. All while feeling wonderful. An opium of magic.”

  I held my breath. Was this true? Was I rotting away each time I cast a dream ward? No, I told myself. You feel stronger than you have in months. Besides, how could Joseph even know if he’d never cast a spell?

  “What about voodoo?” I asked. “Its practitioners don’t cast spells?”

  “No. They connect to the spiritual energy of the world, of each other. It is a religion—not a means of power.” He spat out the word as if he wanted nothing to do with it.

  And it hit me: his hatred of spells and necromancy extended far more deeply than mere disapproval of power.

  “Marcus,” I breathed. “This is because of Marcus, isn’t it?”

  Joseph drew back. For several seconds he didn’t answer. Then he turned away. “Yes. Yes, it is to do with Marcus. To learn that my best friend was . . . was not what he seemed. To learn that he had spent years fooling, not only me, but our teacher—the Voodoo Queen herself. And then, despite everything I did . . .” His voice cracked. “Despite everything I did,” he repeated, his fingers curling into fists, “Marcus still died . . . and then he returned—”

  “But it isn’t your fault,” I interrupted. “You take all of Marcus’s deeds onto your own conscience, Joseph, but what he did—all his horrors are separate from you.”

  He twisted back toward me, the bags beneath his eyes pronounced. “And do you do any differently, Eleanor? Have you forgiven yourself for what Elijah did?”

  My lungs seized. Do. Not. Go there.

  Joseph’s posture deflated. “Forgive me. If anyone can relate to my story, it is you. I . . . I should not bring up such things. I merely worry about you.” His eyes locked on mine, unblinking. “About this power of yours.”

  “I told you. I am not casting spells.” My words were snipped. “My power comes naturally. I did not ask for it. It’s simply there.”

  He held my gaze. “You are certain?”

  “Yes.”

  He blinked once, slowly. “Then you will not, I hope, disagree with my request.”

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  “Would you consent to study with me?” he asked. “I can teach you to control your natural power.

  To use it properly.”

  No. The word flamed through my mind and burned in my stomach. You already use it properly. He will teach you to not use it at all.

  But, I argued with myself, he knows more than I. I should learn from him. He’s my friend.

  Finally, I managed to make my head nod, a tiny, jerky movement.

  “Good.” Joseph pulled back his shoulders. “Then let us begin with your first lesson: ignoring your powers.”

  “Ignoring?” I screeched. Ignoring my magic seemed like ignoring a growling stomach or a jaw-

  cracking yawn. Unnatural. Unhealthy.

  That was when I noticed a large, gleaming bell hanging over the window. I pointed, so obviously trying to change the subject, and asked, “What’s that?”

  I was shocked when Joseph actually followed my finger and answered. “That is our newest version of the Dead alarm.”

  I licked my lips, trying to focus on what he’d said. “No telegraph system?” In Philadelphia, Daniel had rigged a system much like the fire department’s alarms. When the somber Dead alarm had sounded, a telegraph machine in the Spirit-Hunters’ lab had jumped to life, alerting them to the when and where of the latest Dead attack.

  “A telegraph would be impractical here,” Joseph said. “The city is simply too big.” He dipped his head toward the bell. “When a new corpse is found, someone usually comes here seeking help.

  However, we quickly learned that Le Meurice has certain . . . restrictions about the types of people it allows through the door. At first, some of the lower-class victims were not admitted, so Daniel built this. Now all a person must do is tug a rope outside the hotel, and we know instantly that we are needed.”

  “It is a wonder,” I said, hoping to ease my tension with sarcasm, “that the Hotel Le Meurice even let me in their door with such tight restrictions. But I am not surprised to hear that Daniel found a solution. He would.”

  “A primitive solution, but one that works.” Joseph glanced at me, his head cocked. “You are sad that Daniel is not here?”

  “What? I’m—” Fortunately I didn’t have to continue, for just as I drew in a deep breath to protest, the Dead alarm burst into life.

  Clang, clang, clang!

  As one, Joseph and I lunged for the window. He threw open the lowest pane.

  Down on the street, dressed in a black uniform and apron, was a gray-haired woman yanking the rope.

  “Les Morts!” she shrieked. “À l’aide!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Joseph reacted instantly to the bell. “Nous venons!” he shouted to the woman. “We come!” Then he darted to a cloth-covered mound beneath the worktable. I recognized the bulky shape: the influence machine.

  It was a device that looked like a spinning wheel, but rather than wooden wheels for making thread, it had two glass wheels for making electricity. Joseph used the electricity to blast the Dead back to the spirit realm, and it was, I realized, the reason Joseph never needed self-power.

  But it was also bulky and inefficient.

  “Help me carry it,” Joseph ordered, crouching beside the device and dragging it out.

  The machine was as high as my knees and twice as long. At the sight of it, annoyance blazed through me. As corrupt as Joseph might have insisted spells were, at least they did not need an enormous, heavy machine to produce.

  I knelt and gripped the machine’s wooden base. With a grunt, we stood. Then, with Joseph moving backward and me following, we trudged as quickly as we could to the stairs and down.

  By the first landing I was already gulping in air. “You really ought to keep this in the carriage. It’s too heavy to transport every time.”

  “I proposed this,” Joseph panted, his gaze intent on the steps, “but Daniel threatened to quit if I put his precious machine in danger like that.”

  “Danger?”

  “He’s certain someone will steal it. Or break it.”

  I scoffed—or tried to, but my breathing was too labored. “You would think it was his child.”

  Joseph smiled weakly. “He invests all his heart in his creations, so in some ways I suppose it is his child.” His foot rocked onto the final step, and we picked up our pace, scooting through the foyer.

  Jie met us on the street. “I heard the bell ring from the restaurant and got a carriage ready. The woman is already inside.”

  “Mèrsi, Jie. You are fast and effective—as always.”

  A red flush ignited on her cheeks. “Come on.” She guided us to the waiting black cab, and after shoving the influence machine on the floor, we all clambered in. The carriage rattled to a start, and as we traveled down the street and past the Place de la Concorde with its enormous gold-capped obelisk and fountains, Joseph tried to speak to the distraught maid. This proved especially difficult, though.

  The woman babbled incoherently.

  “Oh non,” Joseph breathe
d, motioning to the maid. “Her employer, the lady of the house where this Dead runs loose—it is Madame Marineaux.”

  Jie and I gasped.

  “It is worse, though.” Joseph gripped his hat brim with a gloved hand. “The Madame is trapped in the same room as the corpse, so we will have to work fast. As capable a woman as Madame Marineaux is, no one lives long with one of the Hungry nearby.” Then, with a grimace, he added, “Let us pray she is still alive at all.”

  Moments later, the carriage came to an abrupt halt, and at the maid’s terrified shriek, I realized we had reached our destination. While Joseph and Jie hauled the influence machine from the carriage, I climbed out to gawk at the beige stone house. It was typically Parisian, yet it was at least three times as large as any other home on the street. No wonder she and the Marquis can afford to buy me dresses.

  Joseph and Jie moved past me, scuttling sideways for the front door.

  “And how,” I asked, scurrying after, “did the Madame get trapped in the room with the Hungry corpse?”

  “It was an accident,” Joseph said. “The servants managed to shut the butler’s corpse in the lady’s dressing room, but they did not realize the lady had locked herself in her water closet.”

  “Plus vite!” The maid cried. “Faster!” She barreled through the black front door, and we chased behind.

  The instant I crossed the threshold into the elegant front hall, a wild pounding hit my ears from the floor above.

  My eyes rested on the steep, winding staircase at the end of the room. “We’re going up there?”

  “That’s where the butler is,” Joseph said.

  I pursed my lips and stared at the stairs. They were fine for a graceful human, but they would be treacherous for a clumsy corpse. At that realization, an idea unwound in my mind.

  “What if we don’t go up,” I started, “but instead lure the butler downstairs?”

  Joseph and Jie ground to a halt, glancing at me. Their chests heaved, and the influence machine rocked between them like a ship on high seas.

  “Continue,” Joseph breathed. “What would we do next?”

  I hurried to them. “Leave the machine here. We’ll draw the butler down, where we’ll be waiting with our attack.”

  Joseph squinted slightly. “That would give us more time to prepare.” He nodded at Jie. “Set it down.” They eased the device to the floor.

  “Joseph,” I continued, “I will let the corpse out while you and Jie get the machine spinning.”

  “No.” His voice was sharp. “You and Jie prepare the machine. I will let the Hungry loose.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. “It is an order, Eleanor. Now start spinning.” And with that, he tossed his top hat to the floor and bounded for the stairs.

  Jie turned to me. “You wouldn’t get far in that dress anyway.” She dusted off her hands and dropped to her knees to spin the wheel. “Plus, you can stop a corpse like Joseph can, yeah?”

  I didn’t answer but simply exhaled slowly through my nose. Only once had I laid bodies to rest, and it had been a tedious, slow process. Not to mention, it had been three months ago, and I’d had no idea what I was doing.

  Yet, if Jie saw my hesitation, she did not comment. She simply placed her hands on the machine’s knob and began to turn.

  Surely I can do it again. I certainly wanted to.

  At that realization, the hunger flared to life—but this time it wasn’t confined to my belly. My chest ached, my fingers itched, and my mouth watered. All I could think about was magic. Using my magic to stop this corpse.

  I forced myself to inhale, to push this need aside, to focus.

  It was then that the noises from upstairs ceased.

  One breath passed. Then two, and the only sound was the whir of the glass.

  Then the calm was broken.

  “It comes!” Joseph roared. “Be ready!” Heavy, sure footsteps banged through the hallway.

  Then a new pounding came in an awkward counterbeat to Joseph’s. A split second later, Joseph hit the stairs and came flying into view. “Hurry!”

  Jie spun the wheel faster. But the momentum was too much—the handle flew from her hands.

  “No!” She caught the handle and started over.

  Joseph hit the main floor, his eyes white and bulging, and dove into a crouch beside Jie. Behind him came the hollow punch of limbs against tight walls, the snap of bones on steep, crooked stairs, and the chomping of jaws in search of prey.

  All of our eyes stayed glued to the stairs—each step was slowing the butler, but was it enough?

  A black-shoed foot toppled into view. Then the other, and I knew with a sickening certainty that the Dead would reach us before the machine could make sparks.

  Now I could see the man’s face: empty, bloody holes where his eyes had once been and crusted, brown blood all over his wrinkled skin.

  Without thinking, I acted. I threw my hands up, latching onto my spiritual energy, and drawing in a warm, buzzing well of power. Then, like cracking a whip, I flung it at the body.

  The instant my magic touched the Dead, a leash formed between us—but not a leash I could control. This corpse wasn’t bound to a necromancer. It was one of the Hungry: animated by a spark and searching frantically for any soul to consume.

  I had no idea how to blast its magic back to the spirit realm. That was Joseph’s trick, and it needed electricity. Yet I found I could affect the corpse. I could pump my will into it.

  “Stay!” My voice ripped out, high and desperate. “Stay back!”

  The Hungry hesitated, then it slogged forward as if in waist-deep mud.

  “Stay!” I yelled again.

  Sweat dripped down my face. Despite the pleasant heat licking through me, holding this corpse was exhausting me. Why wasn’t the influence machine making sparks?

  “Stay, stay, stay!” I shouted. The Hungry’s teeth clacked in spurts now, but with less time between each bite. And no matter how hard I strained, the corpse was gaining ground. Faster with each passing breath . . . until it was almost to the bottom step. Until it was only feet from reaching us. From reaching me.

  “Stay!” I shrieked. “Stay, stay!” I couldn’t maintain this much longer.

  At that moment, a pop! filled the hall. Joseph made his attack. As the machine sparked again, he thrust his left hand into the electricity. It flew into his skin, and as he tossed up his right hand, lightning blasted from his fingertips.

  Blinding blue webs of light seared my vision, and my focus scattered. Instantly, the corpse lurched into a full sprint. Off the final stair and right for me.

  I flung up my hands.

  Crack! Electricity sizzled past me, hitting the corpse like a bullet to the chest. Then again and again.

  For half a ragged heartbeat, the Hungry hovered upright, his jaw wide. Then he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  And we all stared at it for several long, shaking breaths. The air was heavy with thunder and humming with static. And when no twitch came, Jie let out a great whoop.

  “That was amazing, Eleanor! I’ve never seen anything like it!” She threw her arms around my neck. “I’d say you’re now officially a Spirit-Hunter.”

  But the instant Jie released me from her embrace, Joseph cast me a deep frown that emphasized his scars, stark and white. He was furious. Yet he did not say anything; he merely snatched his top hat off the floor, hopped over the corpse, and went upstairs.

  I felt too good—too mind numbed and incredible—to give his reaction much thought.

  Instead, I studied the butler’s corpse. In addition to the bloody gashes around his empty eye sockets, beneath his white hair were gaping holes where his ears had once been. Yet what really struck me as odd was the fine dusting of white powder that seemed to coat his entire body. Before I could consider what it might mean, though, the front door swung wide and a squeal erupted. The old maid scurried to my side, wailing, “Pauvre Claude, pauvre Claude!” Over and over, she cried.
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br />   Until Jie’s temper finally cracked. “Enough,” she snapped. “How’re we supposed to clean him up if you won’t shut pan?”

  “But ’is wife!” the maid howled. “She died two weeks ago and now ’e die too— oh, pauvre

  Claude! ”

  “You said he has no family?” I asked.

  “Nooooon!” she howled.

  “So would it be possible for us to keep the body?”

  “What?” Jie asked, staring at me. “We don’t take the bodies.”

  “Why not? If we keep it, we can inspect it. For other mutilations or something to help us investigate.” And then Oliver can look at it.

  Jie’s face bunched up. “It won’t be long before it starts to rot, yeah?”

  I raised my shoulders. “I know, but is it not possible we’re missing something? A clue?”

  “Taaaaake ’im!” the maid sobbed.

  I gripped the woman’s upper arms and tried to get her to look at me. “Calm down. We need your help. We need you to hail us an extra-large cab. And get us something to wrap the body in.”

  The woman shook her head. “I must ask Madame Marineaux about a wrap—”

  “Use a bedsheet,” a woman commanded from above. I snapped my head up just as Madame

  Marineaux rounded the staircase’s corner. Other than a slight flush to her angular face, there was no sign of her harrowing experience with les Morts.

  This impressed me enormously. What kind of woman could travel the world, face off the Dead, and command Parisian high society with ease? The sort of woman I wished to be.

  Madame Marineaux paused by the corpse to inspect him, her brows drawing together. “This is . . . well, sad does not seem sufficient.” Her gaze lifted to Jie and me. “Thank you, Mesdemoiselles. You have saved my household . . . and my life. The water closet door was almost broken.” She shivered and clasped her hands to her heart. “Did I hear properly that you wish to take this corpse?”

  She looked so disgusted by the prospect that an embarrassed flush ignited on my face. “Er, yes.

  We can study it for clues.”

  “Oh. I had not thought of this.” She stepped around the corpse, her gaze firmly placed elsewhere.