Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly - Trilogy)

by Susan Dennard

Sweat and tears mixed on my face. I couldn’t stop my stomach’s revolt.

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. Elijah was a necromancer, and Clarence was dead. A walking corpse.

  Seeing Clarence like this, knowing he was—despite everything—not a bad man, I realized just how important he was to me.

  Now … now it was too late.

  “Eleanor,” Elijah said, his tone gentle. He had crouched beside me, and even in my sickness I could feel his genuine concern. Some of my brother still lived inside this man.

  “What is it?” he asked. “So many Dead and yet this one disturbs you?”

  “He was not a bad man,” I rasped, my throat scorched raw from the bile. “He meant to make amends to you! He didn’t deserve that, Elijah! No one deserves that.” I wiped at my mouth and hid my face in my hands. Please let this end. Please, God, tell me it’s not real.

  But it was real, and my brother, my Elijah, was the cause of it all. He was the necromancer, and he had killed Clarence. I risked a glance over; the headless body of Clarence was still there.

  I pushed Elijah away from me and tried to stand. “You’re a monster.”

  He blinked and shook his head. “But I saved you.”

  “How? From what?” I wobbled, almost falling again. Elijah lurched up to help, but I fought him off. “Don’t touch me!”

  His mouth bobbed open and closed, and his eyes darted side to side. “But Junior … he and those boys—they were the monsters.”

  “How?”

  “They weren’t good people.” He tugged at his hair. “Their fathers destroyed our—”

  “So?” I shrieked. “So? Does that make it all right?” I lunged at him. My fists connected with his chest. “You’re insane! How could you? How could you?”

  He wrestled me, and I was no match for his immense power. His false, evil power. He threw me aside easily.

  Then an explosion boomed through the air.

  Elijah whipped his head toward the sound, toward Agricultural Hall. “Not today,” he snarled, whirling back to me. “I’ve not come this far to be stopped by them. By you.”

  “I’m your sister,” I quavered. “Your best friend.”

  “And so I won’t hurt you.” He pointed toward Agricultural Hall. “But don’t think I’ll be so generous with those people. I don’t care about them, and I can always use more strength. There’s no limit to the power I can take from the blood of the living.”

  I believed him. “If I give you the pages, then you have to promise you’ll leave.”

  “Yes.” His tone was dismissive, his attention focused on the approaching blasts.

  I grasped at his sleeve. “All the Dead. Take them with you. Promise.”

  “Yes, yes.” He shoved his open hand out impatiently. “Give it here.”

  I reached into my pocket and slipped out the velvet bag. Was this right? Was this what I was supposed to do? I scrunched my eyes shut and tossed it to him. I heard a slap as he caught it midair. Then came a jubilant cheer.

  I opened my eyes.

  “Vde! Go!” he roared, and in one sickening movement, the Dead turned and shambled away. “Checkmate,” he said to me with a gloating grin. “Strategy never was your strength, not even when we used to play chess. You’re too impulsive and too quick to—”

  Another boom—a close one—cut him short. I craned my neck and saw smoke billowing from the outermost rows of the corpse army. The Spirit-Hunters were here.

  A growl burst from Elijah’s lips. Without another word he bounded off, directly into the center of his retreating Dead army. Clarence’s wretched corpse was the last to leave.

  I crumpled to the ground, a useless heap. It had all gone wrong. Everything was wrong.

  Another explosion rocked the earth, and I heard the flesh splatter as bodies fell. When I lifted my head, I saw that Clarence had toppled too.

  Daniel raced through the haze of smoke, dust, and flies. He staggered to a stop, his attention on Clarence. His face wore shock and revulsion, but he paused only for a moment.

  He broke into a sprint. He was going to destroy the Dead—to hurt my brother. I couldn’t let him. There was still a chance for Elijah; I could still save his soul if I tried hard enough.

  I hoisted myself to my feet, darkness clouding my vision as blood rushed in my ears. Once steady, I chased after Daniel.

  Through sparse trees, barren paths, and empty grounds, I sped. I passed many marching Dead, but they were unconcerned with me. Elijah had kept his word. When I reached the back Exhibition entrance that led into Fairmount Park, a massive clump of decaying bodies came into view. Row after row were protecting Elijah. Daniel, who was a full hundred feet closer than I was, slowed to a stop. I could see that a flame blazed in his hand. His arm wound back. Then his hand snapped forward and from it sprang the thick coils of copper that held the newly made pulse bomb. Through the air it went, faster than the marching of the Dead.

  Whether or not Daniel meant to hit Elijah, I was certain the explosion would reach him.

  “Run!” I screamed. I careened past Daniel. I was only twenty feet from the edge of Elijah’s barrier. “Run!”

  The pulse bomb clattered to the ground near me, the fuse burning. I sailed forward and grabbed it. Then in one final surge, I left the Dead and my brother. I thrust the bomb with all my might into the nearest trees.

  But I was just a few moments too late. The dynamite detonated with a black boom and a bright light.

  It hurled me back. I slapped against the ground like a broken marionette, and pain erupted all over me. A fierce sting scraped at my skin. My bones felt crushed.

  Then everything faded. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t see. The world vanished in a hazy void.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  My eyes fluttered open. A shadow formed before me and shifted into Daniel’s face. Tears fell from his eyes, leaving dirty streaks that dripped into his open mouth. His lips moved, but if he spoke, I couldn’t hear the words. I sank back into the painless nothing.

  But the pain came back, a knocking in my skull. I lifted my eyelids once more. Daniel’s face again, but close. He must be carrying me, I thought, but I couldn’t sort out why.

  His eyes locked on mine. He spoke, but still no words entered my ears. I thought perhaps I should answer him, but the task seemed impossible. I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them again, the pain was gone. My family’s doctor hovered above, his features basked in a glow of fuzzy warmth.

  My tongue felt enormous. I wanted to laugh.

  I turned my head, straining to look around. Where was I? My bedroom, perhaps, but then … why was Daniel here? Why was Mama throwing her hands up and bellowing? Why did Daniel let her scream at him so?

  And why couldn’t I hear any of it?

  The laugh bubbled up. I coughed and choked on it. Mama stopped her wild gestures, an expression of joy flooding her face. She rushed to me. Her blurry figure left trails across my vision.

  I gazed at Daniel. His face was twisted with pain, and that wrung my heart with guilt and yearning. His beautiful face. I wished I could make him feel better. I parted my lips to tell him, but the doctor poured a cloying liquid in my open mouth.

  Bitter! It was so bitter. I sputtered, swallowed, and a new wave of warmth spread over me.

  Laudanum. It must be laudanum. How nice.

  I awoke with the sunlight streaming into my bedroom. It hurt my eyes, piercing my skull, and I had to squint to see.

  That sun meant late afternoon. But what day? I blinked, and though I successfully cleared the haze from my eyes, my mind remained cloudy.

  I smacked my lips. The taste in my mouth was rotten, as if someone had stuffed cotton balls between my tongue and gums and then left them there for days.

  Despite the burning protest in my muscles, I heaved myself onto my elbows. The movement made my stomach curdle, but I forced myself to keep going. I wanted to sit fully upright.

  I brought my right hand to
my face and found bandages wrapped over my palm. When I inspected my left arm, I found it wasn’t bandaged; but the skin was scraped off—as if I’d fallen and tried to catch myself.

  No. Not fallen. Propelled.

  And then I remembered everything. A fresh set of sobs erupted from my chest. My heart was ripped in two all over again. I started to shiver uncontrollably.

  Clarence … Clarence … poor Clarence. And Elijah—oh God, Elijah. It couldn’t be. This nightmare would end. It had to end!

  Make it stop, make it stop!

  I called out, but my voice sounded faint, as if miles away. The explosion must have damaged my hearing.

  I called again and again, sobbing and desperate, but no one came.

  At last I fell back onto the bed and cried until sleep and exhaustion overtook me.

  “Eleanor.”

  Mama’s voice. I could hear Mama. I could hear.

  “Eleanor. Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” I breathed. I snapped my eyelids up. Mama was there, her face eaten by exhaustion. Heavy pockets were beneath her eyes, wrinkles lined her mouth, and her skin was papery.

  “Why are you crying?” I asked. Did she know of Elijah?

  “Because you are all right, my darling. You are all right.” She laid a cool hand on my brow. “Oh, my Eleanor, I was so frightened.”

  I moistened my lips, which were cracked and raw. “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday. You have been asleep for two days. Doctor Mitchell said you must rest to heal. He thinks you might have suffered a mild concussion.”

  “Oh.” I lolled my head to the side and tried to swallow. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Yes. Mary will be here any moment with soup.” Mama tipped her head and caught my gaze. “What happened? Why were you at the Exhibition, Eleanor?”

  I grunted. I didn’t want to think about it ever again. And I never, never wanted to talk of it. If I stayed in bed forever, I wouldn’t have to.

  “That blond man brought you home again,” Mama said. Her voice was calm, but I sensed a tightness there. She was gauging my reaction. “He said things.”

  “That’s nice.” I twisted my head as far from her as possible and stared at the wall. “Can I be left alone now?”

  “No.” Her voice turned hard, and she wrenched me by the chin back toward her. “You must eat, and you must answer me. How do you know that young man?”

  She had been mulling this question for the last two days. I could see it in her frayed desperation. Without answers or understanding, she had driven herself to hysteria.

  “I don’t know that young man,” I said.

  “You do. He called you Eleanor, he knew how you’d been hurt, and he cried—are you listening?” Mama squeezed my chin with her fingernails. “Were you seeing that man?”

  “No.” I lowered my eyelids in a slow blink. A tiny spark of anger ignited between my shoulders. “If I had, though, why would it matter? Especially now?”

  “Because Clarence Wilcox is dead.”

  “I know.” I held my breath and forced my mind into submission. I would not think of it. I would not let my thoughts go to that darkness. I must stay in this lethargic apathy. But the anger was growing, spreading from my shoulders into my neck.

  “You do not care?” she asked.

  “Of course I care.”

  “Well, you should care a little more, Eleanor. He was your best chance at marriage, and now he’s gone. If anyone should find out about you and that man”—she thrust her finger in the direction of the Exhibition—“all your chances—our chances—will be ruined.”

  I laughed. It was a bitter rasp filled with disgust. “Is that all you care about, Mama? Clarence was murdered. I was in an explosion. Still, all you can think about is marriage? Money?”

  “This is not funny.” Her nostrils flared. “We can’t afford the cost of your treatment. Doctor Mitchell was kind enough to allow us to pay later.” She glared down her nose at me. “When you are better, when your wounds have healed, you will realize exactly how dire this situation is.”

  “How dire?” I screeched. “You’re the one who wasted our money on curtains and dresses, so I want to know how dire you think it is, Mama!”

  “Dire enough that we will have to secure an engagement with someone—anyone! And soon.” Mama peered at me through half-closed eyes, her lips pursed. “And dire enough that we may need to silence that young man somehow. Your reputation is at stake here. Wounds will heal, grief will pass, but a reputation can never be recovered.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and in a stilted voice quoted Shakespeare. “Reputation is an idle and most false imposition.” I clung to the memorized words to keep my temper cool and my thoughts clear. “Oft got without merit and lost without deserving.”

  Mama ignored me. “Your father did enough damage to our family’s standing, Eleanor, when he tried to save his company. Your brother only worsened it when he ran off. Without a good reputation, you will not make a suitable match. We will be on the streets soon!”

  I opened my eyes and watched her. What an empty shell of a woman she was.

  “I was too lax with you before,” she continued, “and do not think I will make that same mistake again.” She pressed her hands to her forehead and massaged the lines. “I shudder to think why that man brought you home the first time—”

  “Because you care nothing for the truth. Listen to yourself! Listen to your absurd ideas!”

  “You are a Fitt, Eleanor. You are Miss Fitt of the Philadelphia Fitts, and I will see that you behave as your class demands.”

  “Miss Fitt? Miss Fitt? I’m a misfit, Mama—that’s what I am!” How had I never noticed my name before? I didn’t fit with my family, with my class, with the Spirit-Hunters—with anyone.

  “Calm yourself.”

  “No. I don’t want you here,” I growled. “Leave.”

  Her body tensed, and her lips thinned.

  “Leave!” I shrieked.

  At last she stood. “As you wish.”

  With Mama gone, my ire only grew. And I let it. I relished the way it burned through my body.

  A knock sounded at my door, and Mary came in with a tray.

  I sat up taller. “I need a favor.”

  She gave a wary glance toward the door and then nodded.

  “Can you tell me what’s happening?”

  “What d’you mean, Miss Fitt?” She sat on the edge of the bed and arranged the tray in my lap.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “What?”

  “Miss …” I gulped. “Miss Fitt. Just call me Eleanor. Or nothing at all. What’s happened with the Dead and the Spirit-Hunters?”

  She winced. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

  “Why?” I sipped my soup.

  “Your ma knows,” Mary whispered. “About the man—the one that brought you home. She knows he’s one of them Spirit-Hunters.”

  “How?”

  “It’s all over the papers. His face. He’s wanted for two murders.”

  I choked and fumbled for my tea. It sloshed onto my bed, and tea stains bloomed on the beige sheet. “Who did he kill?”

  “One was some old case.” She dabbed her apron at the tea stains.

  “And the second?”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Clarence Wilcox.”

  “Oh no.” I slumped back against my pillow. How the blazes had that been pinned on Daniel?

  “Tell me,” I demanded. “Tell me everything about Dan—” I broke off. I couldn’t say his name or our intimacy would be obvious. “About that man and the Spirit-Hunters.”

  Mary’s lips puckered. “Your mama won’t like that.”

  “If you tell me what the newspapers are saying, I’ll give you my Parisian hairpiece.”

  The edges of her lips curled up. “Well, last night’s Bulletin said the Spirit-Hunters are responsible for lettin’ the Dead get out of hand and destroyin’ the Exhibition. The mayor has issued warrants for their arrest.�
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  I sucked in a long, desperate breath. “And what else?”

  “It said this Sheridan fellow is dangerous. And the Wilcox family is offering a right enormous reward for his capture.”

  It was far worse than anything I could have imagined. The Spirit-Hunters were being blamed for the Dead—for the havoc Elijah had wrought. Poor, poor Joseph. He’d done nothing but the right thing, and this was how the city had repaid him. I doubted Jie or Daniel much cared, but I knew Joseph did.

  Mary wasn’t finished. “Three people were killed and twelve injured by these fast Dead. No one’s allowed in East Fairmount Park or on the Schuylkill River no more.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t know if Elijah had intentionally killed these people or if some of his army had turned Hungry and escaped to Laurel Hill. But does the source of a man’s death matter when the root is evil? I knew Elijah had to be stopped, and I knew I had to stop him.

  “Miss—er, Eleanor, are you ah’right?” Mary laid a hand on my arm. “Should I get your ma?”

  I shook my head violently and flashed my eyes open. “No. I need another favor.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “You can.”

  “I dunno. Your ma—”

  “Enough silly games.” I grasped her arm and tugged her close. “I need trousers, a shirt, and sturdy boots, and if you help me, I’ll give you my amethyst earrings.”

  She sucked in a breath, her eyes darting between my face and the hand that gripped her. “I could get fired if your ma finds out.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t. I’ll take the secret to my grave.” I tugged the maid closer. “Will you help me or not?”

  Her eyes ran over my face. “And you just want some trousers, a shirt, and boots?”

  “That will fit me, yes.”

  She licked her lips. “Ah’right then.”

  I released her and dropped back onto the bed. Sweat beaded on my lip, and I wiped my sleeve over my face.

  “I need the clothes by tonight,” I said.

  Mary squinted. “What are you plannin’, Eleanor?”

  “That’s none of your funeral,” I snapped. What a strange way to tell people to mind their own business. And oddly appropriate since tonight could very well be my funeral.