A Darkness Strange and Lovely ssad-2

by Susan Dennard

  “Can we talk to them?” I waved to the shadows. “To the spirits?”

  “No. I told you that.”

  “You said I couldn’t talk to spirits on the other side of the curtain. You never said I couldn’t reach ghosts on this side.”

  He grunted and tugged me through a shattered window into an open courtyard. “These aren’t spirits. They’re merely pieces of souls. Stuck here. They have no voice, no memories. The Hell

  Hounds don’t even bother them.”

  “Oh. That’s rather sad.”

  “Death is always sad business to the living.” He exhaled loudly. “Why else would people want the

  Black Pullet?”

  “What do you mean?”

  His mouth bobbed open with disbelief—but it quickly transformed into a smirk. “You don’t know what the Black Pullet is, do you?” He stopped walking, and the breeze swept through his curls. “All this with Elijah and yet you have no idea what he sought.”

  Bristling, I stomped my foot. A cloud of charred dust swirled up. “You’re right. I know nothing about it. I haven’t wanted to know.”

  Oliver’s expression turned grim. “Refusing to understand what Elijah became—refusing to learn about what he wanted and why . . . that won’t help you. You have to let him go, El—let go of whatever memories you have. When he died, Elijah wasn’t the boy you grew up with . . . or the man I f—” He broke off. “The man I knew. The person he became wanted the Black Pullet. Wanted immortality and endless wealth. You have to accept that.”

  No, I don’t. My memories of Elijah were all I had left of my old life. My life with a father, a brother, and . . . and a mother who still cared. I bit my lip and bowed over to wipe the dust off my skirts. “So is that what the Black Pullet does then? Give one immortality and wealth?”

  “Yep.”

  I lifted back up. “Well, no wonder Marcus would want it.”

  Oliver stiffened. “Marcus wants it?”

  “Yes. He told me after he took Elijah’s body—”

  “Blessed Eternity, El! No wonder he’s after your letters! Le Dragon Noir was the only text in the world that explained how to find the Old Man in the Pyramids. That was one of the reasons Elijah was trying to get his hands on the missing pages.”

  I winced. “Which means when Elijah sent you to Cairo, he did know that . . .”

  “That I would fail to find the Old Man? Yes.” Oliver sat back, his jaw tightening with anger.

  “Elijah wanted me out of his way. That’s something I have to accept.” He snorted, a humorless sound.

  “Of course, as you told me on the boat, all those key pages from Le Dragon Noir are now gone—

  destroyed by your wonderful Joseph. And that leaves me with an unfulfilled command and only one place in the entire universe with a clue to finding the Old Man.”

  “My letters,” I whispered.

  “Think about it, El. If you want to stop Marcus, then there’s only one solution that I can see: you have to figure out what secrets are locked in Elijah’s letters.”

  “But they’re all gibberish.”

  “Not if you know what you’re seeking.” He splayed his hands on his chest. “Remember, I was

  Elijah’s demon. I would know what to look for. Give me the letters, El. I can help.”

  “Can you? Is this why you’ve wanted the letters all this time? To . . . to chase the Black Pullet?”

  “What?” Oliver’s voice was barely above a whisper. “How can you say that? If all I wanted was to find the Black Pullet, I would have stolen those letters a long time ago. Yet I haven’t, El. I have kept your trust. I won’t deny those letters mean something to me, but it has nothing to do with the Pullet.”

  “So what does it have to do with?” Then it clicked—something else he had said clicked firmly into place. “Your command,” I breathed. “Your final command from Elijah is unfulfilled, so it still drives you. You have to find the Old Man in the Pyramid.”

  He twisted his face away.

  “Does it hurt you to resist it?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, emotion thick in his voice, “but I keep hoping that if you learn necromancy and free me, then the command will end. Or if I could just find this Old Man—before Marcus does—I can fulfill Elijah’s final order. Then this constant ache will stop. And then,” his voice turned into a snarl, “I can destroy the bastard who stole Elijah’s body.”

  But to free Oliver—or destroy Marcus—I would need to train my necromancy. I wet my lips, almost relieved that I had to train if I wanted to help my demon.

  No! I screamed at myself. You can’t practice necromancy! You promised Joseph.

  A frustrated groan slid from my throat. What was happening inside me? Why were my heart and my head in such disagreement?

  Oliver’s forehead knit with concern.

  “Go on,” I said shakily. “Let’s find a place to . . . to train.” I gestured for him to lead the way, and he pulled me through a crumbling doorway and into a grand hallway. In one corner a wide staircase curled up . . . only to stop halfway, with a pile of smashed marble beneath. Overhead, the gray clouds floated somberly by.

  I found a broken column and eased down. Oliver insisted on first dusting off his own broken column—“Do you know how hard it is to get limestone off a suit?”—before finally settling across from me.

  My stomach grumbled. “What a shock,” I said drily. “I am hungry. Again. ”

  “It’s part of the necromancy, you know.”

  “Yes, I guessed that. Whenever I do a spell, I find I’m famished afterward.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You’re only famished when the spell wears off—and you will stay famished until you cast another.”

  I tensed. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you cannot make that hunger go away unless you train.”

  “So, this”—I patted my stomach—“is a craving for more magic? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  Oliver didn’t reply, but the wariness in his eyes told me all I needed to know.

  “So I am like an opium addict?” My voice grew high-pitched and sharp. “I need more spells to feel good? To feel normal?”

  “You’re too bloody strong. I didn’t expect this to happen so quickly. You have a lot of magic to control, but it means there’s a lot of magic to control you.”

  “You knew this would happen. You should have told me! I don’t want to be addicted to necromancy, Oliver.” I jumped to my feet and staggered to the foot of the broken stairs. I wanted . . . no, I hungered to destroy Marcus—that was all—but what was the price?

  I pressed my hands to my face. Stupid Eleanor.

  Footsteps thudded behind me.

  “What if I do magic the way Joseph does?” I demanded, my hands muffling my words. “Will the hunger stop?”

  Oliver strode in front of me and pulled down my hands. Everything about his expression—from the slant of his brow to the sag of his lips—was apologetic. “I don’t know if that will stop the hunger, El.”

  “But I would be using electricity—external power instead of my own.” I searched his face for an answer. “Would that end this . . . this addiction?”

  “Perhaps,” Oliver said, his nostrils flaring. “But then you’ll be using electricity. A magnificent idea in theory but ultimately absurd.”

  I gulped. I remembered thinking something similar at Madame Marineaux’s—about how inefficient the influence machine was.

  “There are limits to what you can do with electricity,” Oliver continued, releasing my hands. “You cannot make a phantom limb, you cannot cast a dream ward, and you certainly cannot defeat Marcus.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is weak, Eleanor.” He lifted his chin imperiously. “Electricity isn’t natural. It’s . . . it is a fake power.”

  “How do you know?” I asked. “Have you ever used it?”

  “No,” he spat. “And I never will. Setting fire to my veins? It will change m
e. Kill me. And for what? A single blast of power that I can’t even control. I use real magic, El. I am made of soul, and using my power is as safe and natural as breathing. Just as your magic is.”

  “But my natural magic is addictive.” My voice came out quick. “And in the end I’m limited. I only have so much spiritual energy inside of me.”

  “But you can enhance your power, El.” He drew back his shoulders. “And you can control the cravings. Without Joseph’s method.”

  “How?” I breathed. “How?”

  “Supplement your magic.” He took a step toward me, staring straight into my eyes. Not once did he blink.

  He looked dangerous. Demonic.

  “Blood,” he whispered. “Sacrifice.”

  For half a second I considered the words. But then the weight of those words careened into me. I staggered back. “No, no, no.” I lifted my hands. “You told me you didn’t approve of sacrifices.”

  “I don’t mean human.” He sniffed. “Spiritual energy is in the blood of any living thing, El. Simply drinking the blood of an animal will—”

  “Stop!” cried a high voice from another room. “Stop!”

  Gravel skittered, and Oliver and I whirled around just as Jie hopped through a burned-out window and into our room.

  “Did I hear him right?” She stared at me, her eyes huge. “Are you talking about sacrifices? And necromancy?” She punched a finger toward Oliver. “And did he call himself a demon?”

  “J-Jie,” I stammered. Where had she come from? “I can explain.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” But when I tried to say something, I found that my mouth would only spring open and closed. I turned a desperate face to Oliver, but he looked as stunned as I felt.

  “Well?” She planted her hands on her hips. “Say something, Eleanor. Is he really a demon?”

  I nodded slowly. All the blood left her face. “Oh God,” she whispered, shaking her head and backing up. “I have to tell Joseph.” She spun on her heels, spraying pebbles, and hurried toward the nearest doorway.

  “Wait!” I darted after her. “Please—I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t tell Joseph.”

  She paused. “Why not? He’s already worried about you—and you know he is. He told you to stay away from black magic.”

  “But I have no choice!”

  “You always have a choice,” she snarled.

  “No. I don’t. I would have died had I not used my magic, had I not bound myself to Oliver.”

  She retreated two steps and gasped. “You bound to it?”

  “Him,” Oliver snapped. “I am a—”

  “Shut pan.” Jie bared her teeth at him. Then she turned to me. “I’m telling Joseph about this.”

  “No!” I lunged for her. “Please! Let me . . . let me at least explain.”

  “I don’t want to hear any explanations from you.” Her eyes roved over me, repulsed. Betrayed.

  “You know a demon is causing les Morts. What if it’s him?”

  “What?” Oliver straightened. “How ridiculous—”

  “Really?” She thrust her chin at him and then at me. “For all I know, you’re both raising the

  Dead . ”

  “Jie!” I reared back. “How can you say that?”

  “Easy. We think a demon is murdering these people, and what do you show up with? A demon.

  And on top of that, you’re learning necromancy. It’s not a hard conclusion to make—especially when the moment you came to Paris was the moment les Morts started rising again.”

  “No.” I grabbed the sides of my face. “Jie, you know me! I’m not a murderer!”

  “I knew you,” she spat. “And that Eleanor wouldn’t do necromancy. But fine.” She threw her hands up in defeat. “You wanna keep secrets from me, then keep ’em. But Joseph has to know about this.”

  “And I’ll tell him!” I blurted.

  “Why should I trust you?” she sneered. “You’ve lied to us—lied to me.”

  “No!” I shouted, anger rising over my fear. “It’s not Oliver. It can’t be Oliver. He was in America.

  With me.”

  She shook her head, her lips clamped tight. “You’re a necromancer now, Eleanor, and that makes us enemies.”

  Then, with a final jaw clench, she pivoted around and burst into a run. I immediately shoved after her. Oliver shouted for me, but I didn’t hear. I had to stop Jie. Had to make her see things my way.

  I pushed my legs faster. By the time I reached the open courtyard, I had broken into a full sprint.

  My ankles twisted on loose stones and white dust puffed onto my skirts, yet Jie stayed far ahead.

  So I ran harder. My lungs seared and my vision turned hazy, yet still I ran—out of the ruins and into the gardens after Jie’s shrinking figure. Flowers blurred in the corners of my eyes as I barreled onward, aiming for the street. For the hotel. For the almost-vanished Jie.

  By the time I reached the hotel, my body shaking, I had given up.

  Joseph was going to find out sooner or later anyway. What was the difference in defending myself to Jie than in doing it to the both of them? Let Jie tell him. For now I wanted to be alone to process everything that had happened—that was happening. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.

  So I hauled myself up to my bedroom, sat on the edge of my bed, and stared at the carpet.

  Thoughts flashed through my mind one after the other—from the letters to animal sacrifices to the

  Black Pullet. Now I knew with almost complete certainty why Marcus was seeking my letters—and why Oliver wanted them as well. Yet this knowledge did me little good. I was no closer to stopping

  Marcus than I had been before, for I had now lost the only people who could help me.

  After a few minutes of these agonizing thoughts, I realized that simply waiting for the inevitable—

  for Joseph to find me—was more than my nerves could stand. So I decided to put my brain to work.

  I had new information; I should at least try to use it. It was time to dig through my sheaf of confusing letters. I could focus on those without thinking about myself. I would push all my other problems to the back of my mind, and I would go to the library to see what I could learn about the

  Black Pullet.

  Of course, it wasn’t as easy to leave the hotel as I had anticipated. As soon as I found Elijah’s letters in my carpetbag and hurried back down the main stairs, a tugging began to tickle in my gut.

  At the final step, the hair on my neck stood straight on end. Oliver was near.

  Yet I didn’t see him anywhere, so I resumed my trek—carefully, slowly—toward the foyer. It was as I passed the gentlemen’s smoking room, gray smoke billowing through its doorways, that I realized where he was hiding. So I crept to the heavy red curtains that draped the entrance and risked a glance inside. Through the haze, I could make out bulky scarlet sofas and beyond that a gold-and-black bar.

  A bar over which hunched a gray-suited young man, no doubt nursing a gin between his long, demon fingers. For several seconds I watched him, yet not once did he turn.

  I can sense him, yet he’s not sensing me. What I couldn’t tell was whether his obliviousness was from the gin or from a lack of desire to find me. But either way, this was my chance to sneak out unnoticed and conduct my research alone. So with my letters in one hand, I gathered up my skirts in the other and twisted around to walk away.

  But I instantly stumbled back. A tall figure stood squarely in my path.

  “Excusez-moi,” he said in stilted French, “mais je ne—” The young man broke off, his eyes widening in recognition. “Empress?”

  That was when my own recognition kicked in. I choked.

  Of course I had to run into Daniel Sheridan at that precise moment. He was dressed to the nines in a wheat suit, white tie, and even whiter pair of gloves. As if that wasn’t out of character enough, there was a gleaming gold monocle lodged in his left eye and a book— the book on manners, I realized�
�in his hand.

  Despite looking unusually foppish, he also looked rather spectacular—ridiculous monocle and all.

  The wheat of his suit blended into the sandy blond of his hair so that, in the brightly lit hall, he positively glowed.

  I cowered. Had Jie talked to him? And what if Oliver decided to come over right now?

  “What are you . . . doing here?” Daniel spoke with the same strange pauses he’d used earlier in the day.

  I forced my knees into a curtsy. “Mr. Sheridan. I was just, um, taking a peek at the room.” I flourished my letters toward the smoking room. “I thought perhaps . . . Jie . . . was in there?”

  “Um, no. It is for men . . . gentlemen only.”

  “Oh! So you haven’t seen Jie in there? Or . . . at all?”

  “Not since this morning.”

  My breath shot out. Daniel didn’t know. “Well,” I said, beginning my retreat, “if you see her, please tell her I was looking for her—”

  “Wait!”

  I paused, my heel midair. “Yes?”

  “Um, how are you?”

  “What?” My foot dropped with a thud. “I am fine. And . . . you?”

  He tugged at his tie. “Fine, fine. Thank you.”

  “All right, then.” I let my gaze flit over his shoulder. Oliver was still focused on his drink—thank the merciful heavens. Now if I could somehow slide my conversation a few feet to the right . . .

  Daniel swiveled his head into my line of sight. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “No!” I squeaked. “I mean, that is to say, of course not—I don’t know anyone in Paris, do I?” I laughed shrilly. “No, I am merely soaking in every detail of this fine room. Lovely example of

  Parisian decor.”

  Oh dear, what was I blathering on about? “Well,” I rushed to add, “good day to you, Mr.

  Sheridan!” I whirled around to hurry for the street.

  But Daniel slung out a long leg and stepped in front of me. “Are you going to the post office?”

  “What?” I frowned.

  “You’re carrying a stack of letters.”

  My gaze dropped to my hand. Sure enough, Elijah’s letters were still grasped tightly in my left fingers. “Ah, right. These do look like documents worth mailing, but no . . . no, I’m not going to the post office today.” I made to scoot around him.