A Dawn Most Wicked

by Susan Dennard

  As my brother, Elijah, had told me, if he had necromantic powers, then whether I wanted them or not, I did too.

  I dabbed at my brow with my sleeve. Summer might have been fading into fall, and the thunderstorms with it, yet the heat seemed determined to stay. The usual breeze carried from the Delaware River was missing, and I wished—not for the first time—that I hadn’t left my parasol at home. The annoyance of holding it in my clumsy left hand was nothing compared to the sweat oozing down my back and beneath my bonnet.

  I spared a glance at the envelope, and my breath caught. In Jie’s meticulous print, it read Paris.

  Paris! I hadn’t heard from Jie in more than a month, and the Spirit-Hunters had been in Chicago then. I’d hounded the post office every day since, desperate for some message that would tell me where they were—in hopes that I could join them—but no word had come. Until today.

  Heavens, if I only could go to Paris—leave Philadelphia so far behind the past could never, ever catch up to me.

  I scampered out of a buggy’s path and onto the opposite walkway, where I found the welcome shade of a storefront. It was Mrs. Binder’s trimmings store, where Mama and I had once bought sewing supplies. With no concern for propriety, I clasped the envelope in my teeth and used my left hand to rip it open.

  And for the first time in ages, my heart actually lifted—and, blazes, it felt good.

  Eleanor,

  Of all places the Dead would bring us, I never thought it would be Paris. This city is the strangest place I have ever seen. One minute people are screaming over the Dead (or les Morts, as they call them) and then the next minute they’re sipping their champagne and laughing at the latest scandal. Daniel calls them mercurial. I call them annoying.

  I snorted. I could just imagine Jie’s scowl as she declared the Parisians all manner of undeserved foul things.

  But it’s not just the Parisians who are strange. The Dead are bizarre too. Not only are they walking corpses, but they’re recently dead. Murdered. Joseph thinks it’s some sort of sacrifice, but he can’t tell what exactly. He spends all the moments he’s not out fighting the Dead or speaking before the Sénat with his nose stuck in a book.

  Our host, the Marquis du Bazillac, is generous enough, but he’s demanding too. He seems to want Joseph and Daniel everywhere so he can show them off like prize cows. Daniel just saw me write that, and he’s telling me to scratch it out. I told him I’d scratch out his eyes if he didn’t go away.

  I barked a laugh . . . but almost instantly, my stomach clenched. I missed Jie and Joseph and Daniel so badly it hurt.

  With a tight swallow, I kept reading.

  You should see Daniel these days—you wouldn’t recognize him. He’s got this book on manners he carries with him everywhere; and not only does he always wear a suit now, but he’s got a top hat to boot! Prize cow, indeed.

  I hope you’re well, Eleanor, and I wish you were here with us. I know your mother still needs you, though. Is she doing any better? Is she still at the asylum? And how is your hand feeling? Well, that’s enough questions for one letter. Besides, Daniel wants to add something, and I’m almost out of space. Write me back and send it to the Hotel Le Meurice in Paris.

  Regards,

  Jie

  Squeezed below Jie’s letter, in Daniel’s loping, slanted scrawl, it said:

  Empress,

  Stay out of trouble. I can’t rescue you from across an ocean.

  Daniel

  My fingers tightened around the paper, and tears stung my eyes. Daniel might’ve broken my heart, but he was still one charming scalawag. A scalawag I missed . . . and wished could be—

  I shook my head. “Stop. Don’t think of him, Eleanor.”

  But it was too late. The regret trampled over me, aching in my throat. He had told me he didn’t love me months ago; and yet at every note he added to Jie’s letters, I inevitably turned into a pathetic ninny. Why was it that no matter how many times I scolded myself for caring, none of my stupid feelings would fade? Although . . .

  I glanced at the letter again. Suits and a book on manners? What did that mean?

  “Eleanor Fitt!” a girl’s voice squealed. “Is that you?”

  I stiffened. I knew that shrill voice—just as I knew the husk-ier one that followed.

  “I daresay, it has been ages since we last saw you!”

  Wincing, I stuffed the letter into my pocket and hid my bandaged wrist in the folds of my skirts. Then I turned to face Mercy and Patience Cook—or the Virtue Sisters, as I preferred to call them. Squat Mercy bustled over to me, beaming in her lavender gown, while lanky Patience, pucker-lipped and pink clad, ambled behind.

  “How are you?” Mercy asked, grabbing my arm. “We have missed you at all the parties!”

  I very much doubted this, but I merely bowed my head and said, “My mother is . . . unwell. As such, we have not been getting out much.”

  “Oh yes!” Patience said. “We had heard that.” Her nostrils fluttered as if she smelled a particularly good piece of gossip, and I knew immediately what question would come next. “Is she still at Kirkbride’s? Is she still . . . unstable?”

  My chest tightened painfully, and a thousand nasty retorts flew through my mind. Yes, my mother was at Kirkbride’s Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane because yes, her mind had cracked. Mama’s health was the only reason I hadn’t chased after the Spirit-Hunters the minute my wrist had healed enough to travel. Kirkbride’s was lovely, what with its progressive ideas on mental health and its beautifully flowered grounds; but it was also expensive.

  Yet these weren’t emotions I liked to dwell on, and damn Patience for forcing me to.

  Fortunately, Mercy clapped her hands just as I opened my mouth to sputter something utterly inappropriate. “Oh, we were just in Mrs. Binder’s, Eleanor, and we saw the most wonderful pistachio muslin! Didn’t we, Patience?” She poked her sister.

  “We did,” Patience simpered, “and it will look lovely with Mercy’s skin.” She turned a smug smirk on me. “Mother has the latest Harper’s Bazaar, you see, and it shows all the newest walking gowns for fall. We are going to have them made.”

  I grunted, unable to conjure any other response. As far as I could tell, there was absolutely nothing wrong with their current gowns. I was in the same gray walking gown I’d worn every day since June, and it was still perfectly functional.

  My eyes raked over Patience’s pink silk—I could get fifty dollars for that dress at Mr. Rickard’s. And Mercy’s lavender grenadine was easily worth seventy-five. After selling all of my own dresses to pay for Mama’s hospital bills, I’d become quite adept at estimating what a dress would fetch at Mr. Rickard’s Pawn Shop. I was also quite good at haggling for the best price.

  However, I was not particularly adept at controlling my facial expressions.

  “Eleanor,” Mercy said, alarmed, “are you ill?”

  I quickly schooled my face into a smile, but as my lips parted to reply, Patience cut in.

  “Have you seen Allison Wilcox lately?” She lifted her eyebrows. “We have called and called, yet she is always away—that, or she is avoiding our company. Perhaps you have had better luck in your own calls upon the Wilcox home?”

  Now I gaped at her and did not bother to hide my emotions. How dare she ask about Allison Wilcox when she knew perfectly well what had passed between our families.

  Mercy seemed as horrified by her sister’s question as I, for she reached for Patience’s elbow. “Hush.”

  But Patience wouldn’t be silenced. “Oh, but of course you wouldn’t have seen Allison,” she cooed. “Not after your . . . ah . . . how to phrase it delicately? Scandals with the Spirit-Hunters.”

  “Patience, stop that!” Mercy hissed.

  “But it is true, is it not?” Patience batted her eyes innocently. “The Fitt family and the Wilcox family are no longer on friendly terms? I daresay, the fact that you were seeing both Clarence and the man who murdered Clarence would not reflect well—”


  “Enough!” Mercy dug her fingers in Patience’s arm and yanked her away. She flashed me an apologetic grimace. “I’m so sorry, Eleanor. I hope your mother gets better.” Then, without another word, she hauled her sister into the busy street and disappeared from view.

  I was rendered speechless. I couldn’t even breathe. Tears I had fought every second of every day now rose in my eyes like a tidal wave.

  I stumbled back until I hit Mrs. Binder’s window. “You are better than she,” I whispered to myself, blinking the tears away. “Stronger and better.” If I could face an army of Dead, then the insults of Patience Cook should be nothing.

  But they weren’t nothing—not when they echoed with so much truth.

  So I did as I always did: I forced my mind to dwell on other things. Normal, day-to-day things.

  Spinning around, I stared into the shop’s window. My eyes lit on a frilly parasol in the display’s corner.

  And the tears came boiling back with such a vengeance, I couldn’t contain them. All I could do was keep my face hidden and let them drop.

  Daniel had given me a parasol like that one. Back when I’d thought he might love me. Back when I’d thought Clarence was just a narrow-minded suitor . . . and my brother was just a victim. Back when I was naive and stupid and thought the world a good place. The world wasn’t a good place. I knew that now, and no amount of distraction would let me forget.

  As soon as I was in control of my emotions once more, I went to the bank to deposit my latest funds from Mr. Rickard. It was a small sum on which to manage living. I had stopped paying Mary, my mother’s maid, long ago; and though I wasn’t sure why she stayed with me—pity, friendship, or (most likely) guilt—I was grateful for the company all the same. My childhood home, emptied of furniture and devoid of life, would have been too much for me to bear on my own.

  It was just as I strode between two columns and onto the marble steps leading down to the street that my right hand—no, the empty space where my hand had once been—began to tingle.

  I froze midway. I knew this feeling, the feeling of electricity. Of soul.

  I glanced down, certain I’d see a shimmer of starlight, like a little wrinkle in the world where my hand used to be. But nothing was there. Just the usual cloth bandages . . .

  Which meant some other spirit was jangling at my senses.

  Holding my breath, I whirled around to scan the crowded street. Simply because I knew I could sense the Dead didn’t mean I was used to it. And it certainly didn’t mean I enjoyed it.

  My eyes raked over traffic and across building fronts, but I saw no unusual shimmer or flash of blue. I gulped, my throat tight.

  Why wasn’t this throbbing going away? If nothing Dead was here, then . . .

  Pain stabbed through my right arm, sharp and burning. A cry broke from my lips, and I yanked my arm to my chest.

  Then light flared from my wrist, and for half a breath I could actually see my missing fingers. They shifted from static blue to solid pink and back again.

  A screaming howl filled my ears. I whipped up my head, my heart lurching into my mouth. But when I scanned the area for some rabid hound, all I saw was the usual clattering carriages and purposeful walkers. The tobacco store across the street, the saloon next door—they all looked the same. Not a dog in sight. The cab drivers trotted by, their horses ambled on, and everyone continued as if they heard nothing.

  Which meant I was the only person hearing this!

  Then the pain shrieked louder, taking control of my mind and blurring my vision. Another howl came. I gasped. Two howls, then three, all roaring over one another like a pack of wolves on the hunt. Yet I still saw nothing.

  I lurched around, certain I had to run. To warn others—and to hide. But I couldn’t think straight—the dogs were so loud, they swallowed everything. I heaved up the steps and back toward the bank’s door.

  Then my gaze locked on a pair of eyes. Yellow eyes, gleaming from the shadows behind the bank columns.

  I flinched and stumbled back as new fear erupted in my chest. The last time I’d seen yellow eyes had been on Marcus Duval. If he was here, then I was as good as dead. There was no way I could fight him—not by myself. He was a necromancer so powerful even Joseph had lost to his magic.

  Oh God, oh God—what could I do?

  The howling crescendoed. Louder and louder. A sudden wind blasted my face. Icy and damp, it clawed into my throat and froze my lungs, yet I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot, held by those yellow eyes.

  Then the bank door swung open. A customer walked out, and like a hypnotist’s snap, my mind and body were suddenly freed. I burst into action, ripping my gaze away from the shadows and darting down the steps, toward the street.

  Instantly the dogs stopped, replaced by the shouts and rattle of normal morning traffic.

  A heartbeat later, the agony in my wrist ended with no trace of pain left behind.

  But my panic didn’t go. If I was right—if that had been Marcus in those shadows—then every second I stayed was a second closer to my death.

  I kicked into a run, bounding into the street and aiming for home.

  Not once did I check for the yellow eyes. I knew they would be as gone as the wind and the howls and the pain. Yet as I rushed down the street, my mind ran through scenario after scenario, trying to explain what had happened. It must have been black magic. Those yellow eyes—identical to the ones that haunted my dreams and my memories—must belong to Marcus.

  And the only people who could help me were an ocean away in Paris.

  But I was prepared for the day I would face Marcus again. He was a nightmare wearing my brother’s skin, and I had vowed to destroy him. I wanted to fight Marcus—wanted to watch him die—but I would need the Spirit-Hunters to do that.

  So I had to leave Philadelphia. I had to lead Marcus to the Spirit-Hunters. An ocean away or not, I could not let the distance or expense stop me. Not if I wanted to stay alive.

  Eventually I managed to hail a streetcar on Market Street. By the time I reached my own tree-lined avenue, I was soaked through with sweat. I barreled down the road, finally reaching the low, wrought iron gate leading into my yard. The grass was tall and overgrown, the hedges wild. Only the white house I’d grown up in and the cherry tree out front looked the same.

  I flew down my front path and up the steps, but before I could even fumble through my pocket for a key, the door burst open.

  Mary, her chestnut hair falling from its bun, gaped at me. “Eleanor! Why’re you running like the devil’s after you?”

  “Because,” I panted, “he is. Marcus is here!” I shoved my way into the foyer and slammed the door behind. “Get my carpetbag. I’ve got to go.”

  Mary didn’t move. She just stared, her eyes bulging. She was the only person in the world other than the Spirit-Hunters and Mama who knew the full story about my brother’s necromancy and death. She knew how dangerous Marcus was—and she knew of my plan to find the Spirit-Hunters once Mama and my finances had been settled.

  “Did you hear me?” I asked. “Marcus is here.” Still she didn’t budge. I stepped forward. “Mary, what is it?”

  “You . . . you . . .”

  “What?”

  “You have a guest.”

  I stopped, my heart dropping to my stomach. “Who?”

  “Me,” said a new voice.

  I jolted, my head whipping toward the parlor door. There stood a gaunt young woman in black, and though she looked nothing like the rosy-faced girl I’d once known, I instantly recognized her.

  Allison Wilcox.

  The last time we’d seen each other had been moments before I learned her brother, Clarence, had been murdered.

  But the rumors behind his death were wrong: he had not been killed by the Spirit-Hunters. No, the truth behind Clarence’s death was far, far worse.

  For Clarence Wilcox had been murdered by my brother.

  About the Author

  SUSAN DENNARD is a writ
er turned marine biologist turned writer again. SOMETHING STRANGE AND DEADLY is her debut novel. Among the traits she shares with her heroine Eleanor are a weakness for Shakespeare quotes, a healthy appetite for baked goods, and an insatiable curiosity. Sadly, Susan does not get to wear a corset or wave a parasol on a daily basis. You can visit her online at www.susandennard.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

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  Copyright

  Copyright © 2013 by Susan Dennard

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © 2013

  ISBN: 978-0-06-226326-1

  Epub Edition © APRIL 2013 ISBN 9780062263261

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  FIRST EDITION

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