A Darkness Strangeand Lovely

by Susan Dennard

  “No more abusing power,” he ordered. “Please. You might turn me into a Rakshasi, if you’re not careful.”

  “Turn you into a what?”

  “A who. Rakshasa are demons. Very angry, very awful demons. For one, they have a fondness for making their fingernails venomous.”

  “Venomous?”

  “Nasty, isn’t it?” He shuddered. “I had the same reaction when Elijah told me about them.”

  “So you haven’t met any?”

  “No. Demons don’t exactly cavort in the spirit world, and most Rakshasa who cross into the earthly realm head straight for the Orient. For some reason, they seem to thrive there—perhaps they like the taste of rotting Asian flesh more than European? Who can say? But, oh dear”—his lips twitched up—“you’re looking a bit green, El.”

  I grimaced. “I daresay rotting flesh isn’t the ideal topic for . . .” I trailed off. A figure had just appeared on the deck, her usual dark hair falling over her shoulders and her sleeve ripped jaggedly. Laure’s eyes met mine, and relief washed over her face.

  “Invisibility,” I blurted. My happy warmth receded fast in the face of fear. “My hand—make it invisible.”

  “What?” Oliver reared back. “I can’t do that—”

  “Well, hide the blasted thing somehow.”

  “Why?”

  “My roommates have seen me without it.”

  His face paled. “I can’t do a spell like that, El—it’s impossible.”

  “But it’s magic,” I hissed. “You can do anything!”

  “It’s spiritual energy,” he hissed back, “and there are limits.” He grabbed my sleeve and tugged. “Just pull it down. You’ll have to pretend.”

  So I did precisely that, and just in time, for Laure had reached us. “Mon Dieu!” she cried. “You are all right! How did you know that was coming?”

  “How did I know what was coming?” I asked carefully. Had she seen the Hell Hounds? My eyes flicked to Oliver’s, but he merely lifted one shoulder.

  “That thing—that cyclone!” Laure wrung her hands. “Every lady is lost in a faint.”

  “Cyclone?” I pressed.

  “Oui. Made of water.”

  Ah—a waterspout. Interesting explanation.

  “Was there any damage?” Oliver inserted.

  She turned to him, and recognition flashed in her eyes. “You are the young man from the other night, non?”

  “Yes, he is,” I rushed to say. “He was on deck too when . . . when this waterspout hit.” I shifted my new hand beneath my skirts. “But was there any damage to the ship?”

  “Non. It is the strangest thing. Other than some items knocked over and the icy water on everything, it is all fine.” She dropped to a whisper. “But I did hear that the captain wants to turn around. People are in a panic. For some reason, many think they saw dogs and not a waterspout. So the captain now believes we should return to shore.”

  I sat up, alarmed. “Aren’t we too far? Surely we’re halfway to France by now.”

  “Non—not quite, and there are so many Americans. They want their own soil.” She rolled her eyes. “You should see Mrs. Brown—’er poor granddaughter must wave smelling salts beneath her nose. And the little girl is one of those swearing that the waterspout was really a pack of wild dogs.” Laure giggled, as if it were the most absurd idea in the world.

  Oliver snickered too, so I forced my own laugh. “Listen, Laure,” I said, “surely there are enough French people to keep the captain from turning around.”

  “C’est possible.” She pursed her lips. “I can speak to any passengers who are still conscious. Perhaps we can make the majority.”

  “Je peux vous aider,” Oliver said, his voice unusually silky.

  Interest flared in Laure’s eyes. “Parlez-vous français?”

  “Bien sûr. Of course.” He gave her a smile—a disarmingly handsome one.

  A pleased flush burned on her cheeks. “I would welcome your help.” Her eyes flicked briefly to me. “Eleanor?”

  “I don’t speak French,” I muttered. “Or at least not enough to help.”

  She shrugged. “Très bien. You”—she flourished her fingers at Oliver—“will be enough.”

  “I will join you momentarily.” He bowed smoothly, and as Laure sauntered off, I couldn’t help but notice the extra sway in her hips.

  The instant she was out of sight, I slid close to the demon. “Listen: you have to keep the captain from taking us back to New York.”

  “How?”

  “Magic.”

  He recoiled. “A compulsion spell? Absolutely not! You have to sacrifice a living person to do that.”

  My insides flipped sickeningly.

  “Exactly,” he said, seeing my grimace. “You have to cut out all the body parts you want to control. So to compel the captain’s tongue, I’d have to—”

  “Cut out someone else’s tongue,” I said quickly. “I get it . . . but is there not some other way? What can you do with your magic?”

  “Basic things. Mostly I just give you my power so you can cast spells. But . . .” He tapped his chin for a moment. “I suppose I could interfere with their navigation.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Do I have to cast a spell for that?”

  “No.” He jumped to his feet, his lips twisting up. “You see, I’m an incredibly persuasive demon. All it takes is a little conversation, charm . . . alcohol with the captain, and this boat will not be turning around.” He winked. “I’ll find you later, Master Eleanor.”

  Then, arms swinging, he strode off to the saloon.

  Oliver found me hours later in the dining room, shoving whatever I could find into my mouth. I felt wretched. Tired, hungry, and drowning in shame. Why had I bound myself to Oliver? What had I done? And what would the Spirit-Hunters say?

  Oliver slumped into the seat beside me, his nose wrinkled. “Elijah said you enjoyed food, but this is disgusting.”

  I gulped down some coffee and cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, Ollie. Demons may not eat, but humans do.”

  “Demons have to eat too,” he retorted. “My body might not die as easily as yours, but it still needs food—and sleep.” He set his forearms on the table. “But you, Eleanor, are not eating. You’re gorging.”

  I scowled. “I can’t help it. No matter how much I eat, I find I’m still hungry at the end.”

  “I wonder . . .” His eyes thinned. “Finish your coffee so we can start studying necromancy.”

  My heart bounced. Before I even knew what I was doing, I said, “All right.” But then I stopped, horror rushing through me. No—I didn’t want to learn more. Necromancy could only bring evil, and I would not do that.

  “Actually,” I began, but then my stomach gurgled with such agony, I couldn’t speak. Maybe I had overindulged. “Actually,” I tried again, “I don’t need to learn it, do I? You told me the other day I could learn spells or bind to you.”

  Oliver bit his lip. “Well . . . you’re forgetting the agreement.”

  Another rumble churned in my belly. I gulped. “What agreement?”

  “The one in which you promised to set me free within two months.”

  Again the excitement shivered through me, but it was rapidly quelled by my conscience. I did not want this. No. “Set you free, set you free,” I muttered, hugging my hands over my stomach. “Is that all you care about?”

  “Blessed Eternity!” he swore. “I just saved your life—”

  “Only so I would save yours!”

  “Well, you’re bound to this promise whether you like it or not.” He pounded the table. “Set me free or be Hell Hound lunch.”

  “O-or,” I said, watching his face, “I can just take you to the Spirit-Hunters in Paris. Joseph can set you free.”

  “Who can set me free?”

  I winced as a hot wave of nausea hit me. No more eating three lunches in a row. “The Spirit-Hunters—they’re the ones who will help me with Marcus. Did Elijah not tell you about them? They
were in Philadelphia when he . . .”

  Oliver scowled, his eyebrows dropping so low they shaded his eyes. “When, pray tell, would Elijah have told me? He wouldn’t let me come to Philadelphia, remember?”

  “He didn’t write?”

  “No,” Oliver spat. “He didn’t bloody write.” He turned away, his jaw muscles twitching.

  “Oh,” I murmured. Then, with a deep breath, I explained who the Spirit-Hunters were and how Joseph’s specialty was blasting spirits back to their realm.

  “The important word there is ‘blast,’” Oliver said, shifting back toward me. “He’ll probably destroy my soul like a Hell Hound.”

  “You’re just being dramatic.” Sweat beaded on my brow, and I dabbed at it. I craved water to cool me, but I knew there wasn’t any space in my stomach for it.

  “I am not being dramatic.” Oliver glared, offended and . . . and something else. Something dark. Something angry. But I couldn’t tell if it was directed at me, the Spirit-Hunters, or someone else entirely.

  The lines on his face relaxed, and he said almost flippantly, “How about this: you learn necromancy. Then you can set me free the old-fashioned . . .” He stopped speaking, and his eyebrows drew together. “Are you ill? You look a little green.”

  I swallowed. “I . . . I think I ate too much.”

  “Of course you did!”

  “Can you help me walk to my cabin?” I made to stand up, but he flicked up his hand and stopped me.

  “Not that you deserve this after intentionally stuffing your face, but I can ease your gluttonous pains if you wish.” He fingered the chain around his neck. “All you have to do is say the words.”

  “Sum veritas? How will that make my stomachache go—” I broke off and dropped my gaze to my belly. The trickle of warmth was sliding through me, glowing faintly blue.

  I gasped because, oh, I loved it. It was two long heartbeats of perfection, and then when the haze cleared, I realized my nausea had vanished.

  And fear grabbed hold of my chest. I jerked my head toward Oliver. “Wh-why’d you do that?”

  His eyes were wide, scared. “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t ask for it!” I was terrified because my body wanted more—needed more—of that magic.

  “Actually, you did.” He lunged to his feet. “Don’t be mad—but you said it. You said the command.”

  I stood. “That’s all it takes? I just say those words and the magic comes?”

  “Not normally.” He backed up several steps. “It’s just that you were thinking about relief and I was also thinking about relief, and then you said the words, so . . .” He snapped his fingers.

  I advanced on him, my mind a jumble of terror and desire. “If it’s so easy to use your magic, Oliver, then am I always at risk?”

  “Not all spells are a risk. This one was good, right? Your face is healed too.”

  “What?” I roared. Other passengers turned to stare, but I didn’t care. I frantically patted my face—it was smooth. Perfect. Unnatural.

  My breath came in gasps. I had to get out of here!

  I tried to march by Oliver, but he grabbed my elbow. “Where’re you going?”

  “Away!” I wrenched my arm free. “This . . . it’s all too easy, Oliver!”

  “But not normally. This was just circumstance.”

  “Then let’s not put ‘circumstance’ to the test anymore today.” I massaged my forehead, willing my heart to settle. “I’ll be in my room if you need me—though I’d prefer you not need me.” Then I dropped my hands and stalked away from him.

  “I really am sorry,” he called after me. But nothing in his voice sounded sorry to me. I was shaking with nervous energy—with fear.

  I couldn’t deny that magic felt good.

  Worse—and what truly scared me—was that for all my proclamations of not casting more spells, I desperately wanted more.

  We reached Le Havre five days later on a bright Tuesday morning. I still refused to learn necromancy, and Oliver still refused to meet the Spirit-Hunters—though, it was not so hard to understand why. They had been Elijah’s enemies, and they did hunt creatures such as him.

  The closer we got to France, the more a strange panic seemed to boil in my chest.

  One would think that the safety of the Spirit-Hunters would soothe my anxiety. Certainly Joseph’s solid reliability was welcome—as was Jie’s friendship.

  But Daniel? Our awkward final moments had been bad enough. Add in my constant waffling from indignant hate to pathetic longing, and I was a veritable typhoon of contradictory emotion. Half of me was desperate to see him; half of me hoped never to lay eyes on him again.

  “Shakespeare had no blasted idea what he was talking about,” I growled, leaning against the promenade deck’s rail. I had given up my pride and let Laure convince me to sneak up with the first-class passengers so we could watch our arrival in Le Havre.

  “Pardon?” she asked. “What about Shakespeare?” She pronounced the name “Shock-eh-spear.”

  “I said, he had no idea about love or anything.”

  “You’re in a fine mood,” Oliver said, coming to the rail beside me. “Something the matter?”

  “No,” I growled, swatting a bonnet ribbon from my face. Laure and Oliver exchanged mocking glances, and with a groan, I marched away from them. They’d become the best of friends ever since discovering their mutual interest in flirting. And, while I’d been grateful to have the demon occupied elsewhere, I had begun to find their tendency to gang up on me thoroughly insufferable.

  I moved to another empty spot on the handrail and focused on the approaching city. The climate was perfect, thanks to the sea—sunny, yet cool—and the view was absolutely picturesque. Le Havre was a city of white buildings that hugged the shore while great, black ships paced the harbor in front. Sunny quays with shady streets gave it the look of an old watercolor Mama had once hung in our parlor.

  Less than an hour later, I found myself handing over as much as I could spare in tip to the stewardess and disembarking onto French soil—into a world unlike anything I had ever seen. Truly, no amount of reading or daydreaming could have prepared me for the city.

  For one, Le Havre was old. I’d always fancied Philadelphia a historical city, but in comparison to Le Havre—and the rest of Europe, I supposed—Philadelphia was just a newborn babe.

  Every building looked as if it had defied the test of time for centuries. Every steep-roofed house seemed to have a story, with the colorful gables and shutters and the flowerpots draping from each window.

  As Laure, Oliver, and I stood at the end of the pier, local women in their white caps and fishermen with nets draped over their shoulders streamed around us. On the cobblestone street before us, travelers and coaches clattered by.

  And it was all so lovely, I felt compelled to wander the city slack-jawed. Fortunately, Oliver and Laure were completely unimpressed. The demon took my carpetbag on his arm, and Laure motioned to a road leading straight into the city.

  “The train station is that way,” she told us, “but the Paris train will not leave for many hours. You must join me for lunch—I know the perfect place, and I will even go so far as to pay.”

  At the word “lunch,” my stomach gave a stormy bellow. “Food would be nice,” I said. Free food even more so.

  “Très bien. Then it is decided.”

  “Are we going to walk?” Oliver asked, looking longingly at a passing cab.

  “Bien sûr. Of course.” She poked him playfully with her parasol. “You ’ave been in America too long. Over here, everyone walks. It is said to be a way of life. Now”—she popped open her parasol and hooked her arm in Oliver’s—“follow me.”

  The pair set off down the wide street, and I followed. I let them continue in front of me the entire time, thereby allowing me to keep my right hand out in the open. I even drew off my glove so I could enjoy the sheer pleasure of sunshine and breeze on my fingers.

  By the time we reached our desti
nation, sweat trickled down my spine, and I had decided the French had drastically different ideas of time and distance than Americans.

  “Only two steps away!” Laure had insisted over and over, yet it still took us at least twenty minutes to get to a tiny inn, called Le Cupidon Belle, that was set apart from the main bustle and blessedly well shaded.

  The restaurant was actually situated inside an open-air courtyard around which the inn stood. Bubbling happily amid rickety wooden tables was a fat, stucco fountain shaped liked Cupid. A little white-capped boy seated us directly under Cupid’s gaze, and then a round-faced, wide-hipped landlady took charge of serving us the day’s meal, beginning with a platter of fruit.

  When the first grape exploded in my mouth, I almost wept, enraptured by the tart sweetness of the fruit.

  Then came the bread—a simple baguette—and my eyes really did fill with tears. Such a flaky, crisp crust around the fluffiest, saltiest bread I had ever tasted. I closed my eyes and simply breathed in the scent of it.

  “Eleanor,” Oliver said, sounding alarmed, “are you all right?”

  I nodded, almost frantically. “It’s just so amazing.”

  Laure laughed happily, and when I opened my eyes, I found her cheeks pink with pleasure. “France ’as the best food in the world, non?”

  “I believe you’re right.” I moaned, ripping off another bite of baguette.

  She gave Oliver and me a pretty pout. “I will be so lonely traveling to Marseille by myself.” She then told us about an inn her family ran outside the city and a fishing boat her uncle had. As we worked our way through six courses of food—mussels and fish and apples and more bread—she forced us to promise multiple times that we would come visit.

  The remainder of our meal—cheese and wine—passed amiably, though I was sad when the last plate was cleared away and Laure wrote out her address. It was all so final.

  The walk to the train station was shorter than our journey to the inn. Before I knew it, we had reached the Le Havre depot, a long, modern building that was disappointingly identical to the stations back home. Enormous, multipaned windows stretched from floor to roof, and running beside the station were the tracks. Oliver and I quickly navigated the crowds, exchanged the rest of my money for francs, and purchased two second-class tickets to Paris. The train didn’t leave for another hour, so I used the time to mail my letters to Mama, Mary, and Allison and to telegram Jie my intended arrival time in Paris. I didn’t expect her to meet me at the station, but I also didn’t want to arrive at the Spirit-Hunters’ hotel with no warning.