Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

• Название: A Darkness Strange and Lovely
• Автор: Susan Dennard
• Жанр: Любовно-фантастические романы

 Following an all-out battle with the walking Dead, the Spirit Hunters have fled Philadelphia, leaving Eleanor alone to cope with the devastating aftermath. But there’s more trouble ahead—the evil necromancer Marcus has returned, and his diabolical advances have Eleanor escaping to Paris to seek the help of Joseph, Jie, and the infuriatingly handsome Daniel once again. When she arrives, however, she finds a whole new darkness lurking in this City of Light. As harrowing events unfold, Eleanor is forced to make a deadly decision that will mean life or death for everyone.

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But no amount of fidgeting could improve my dress, so once more I mimicked Jie’s carefree stride until, soon enough, I was so lost in the gardens around me, I was able to forget about myself—and my problems.

Why, it was the most wonderful thing to see, for there were whole families in these gardens doing the things we Philadelphians usually reserved for more private areas. Children played while men read and women embroidered—and they did it all beneath the warm Parisian sun, the changing leaves, and the never-ceasing wind off the river Seine.

And the river—the first thing that struck me was: We do not have rivers like this in America . Our rivers might have been used for transport and industry, but they were still owned by Nature herself.

The Seine belonged to Paris. It was the very heart of the city, and the buildings grew up straight from its banks into the crisp blue skies overhead. I could stand in the very middle of the Pont Solférino, look left and then right, and know—deep down know—that with a single glance I was seeing everything Paris had to offer. And what Paris had to offer, first and foremost, was beauty. Just as the

Parisians carried themselves in a way no American ever could, with a sense of poise rooted directly in their bones, the river Seine carried itself with the same grace.

If I could have left the world behind right then and set up camp in a tiny attic overlooking the city —if none of my troubles existed—then I would have. Gladly.

But alas, the church bells tolling three and Jie’s thumb gesturing back to the hotel reminded me that I could not escape. Not today . . . and perhaps not ever.

By the time we’d walked back to the Spirit-Hunters’ lab, the sun just starting to set, dread began to resume its coil around my neck. I had willingly let dreams of Paris squeeze out everything else, and all because I didn’t want to face the reality of my life. Of death.

But I had to confront it now. When I finally skulked into the lab, I found Joseph bowed over books.

His hat and gloves were off, yet he looked as crisp as always. Examining his reading fare, I headed for a stool beside him.

But I instantly pulled up short, my mind filled with a single thought: No! The titles stacked before me were all focused on one topic. A History of Demonology in Eastern Religions; The Rise and Fall of

Famous Necromancers and their Demons; Amulets, Spells, and Black Magic.

“Wh-why the interest in demons?” I squeaked.

Joseph didn’t glance up. “I believe we may be dealing with such a creature for les Morts. ”

A second surge of panic flooded my brain. A demon behind the sacrifices? A demon such as

Oliver? I sputtered a cough. “Wh-why would you think a demon is behind les Morts?”

Joseph closed his book and glanced at me. “The sheer number of sacrificed victims suggests more than a single necromancer at work.”

“Could . . . could it be several necromancers then? And not a demon?” My words sounded pleading.

“It is doubtful. According to Summoning Demons for Power”—Joseph rapped the page—“most magical partnerships are made with demons. As such, I believe we are dealing with either a necromancer-demon pair or a free demon.”

“A free demon?” My forehead wrinkled up. “Does a demon not have to be bound to a person in order to stay in our realm?”

Joseph’s eyes slid to me. “You know a great deal about demons, Eleanor.”

“Not really.” I squeezed my fingers around my skirt and forced my face to stay neutral. “Only stories from books. And church.”

“Ah, but of course.” He looked away, and I could not tell if he believed me or not. “A free demon,” he went on, “can exist in this world as long as it is hidden. Masked, you could say.” Joseph ran a hand in front of his face. “The mask is created by the necromancer to hide the demon from the spirit world’s guardians. Thus, a free demon is not bound to a necromancer but in an agreement with one.

The demon can still use its magic at will—it does not require a necromancer’s command. Does this make sense?”

“I think so.” I nodded. “The necromancer agrees to hide the demon with a mask, and the demon is free to use its magic.”

“Precisely.” Joseph rubbed at his scars for several moments, watching me. Then he lowered his hand. “But listen to me, Eleanor. Only someone very foolish would ever go into an agreement with a demon. The allure of necromancy is nothing compared to that of a demon’s magic. So whomever we are up against—demon, necromancer, or both—is likely very desperate and very corrupt. Do you understand?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I knew the minute I tried to speak, my words would fail. I had been desperate, hadn’t I? But corrupt? No. No. I had had no choice but to bind to Oliver—the Hell Hounds would have destroyed me. . . . I would have died and Marcus would have gotten the letters and . . .

Joseph shifted in his seat. He was waiting for my answer.

“I still do not see,” I said as flatly as I could, “why it cannot be several necromancers together.”

Joseph frowned. Sharply. I had not answered his question; he had noticed. “Eleanor, consider that most necromancers seek control and power. They do not like to share. And”—he tapped the book again—“according to this book, there have only been a handful of paired necromancers since this type of magic first evolved.

“Marcus’s parents,” he continued, “are a perfect example of how rare such pairs can be. His father was trained in voodoo and his mother in necromancy. They wanted to control New Orleans.”

“And they worked together?”

“Non, quite the opposite.” He huffed out a weary breath. “From what I gathered from Marcus, I would say they worked against each other more than anything—and this is what usually happens with such pairs. Both mother and father were always trying to recruit their son, yet neither ever realized he had his own dark plans to take New Orleans for himself. But listen, this is not why I have called you here.”

“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 breathed, motioning to the maid. “Her employer, the lady of the house where this Dead runs loose—it is Madame Marineaux.”