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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I yanked in the web, popping my eyes wide. “They’re there,” I breathed. “Daniel, Joseph. And I couldn’t feel any Dead.” My breath shot out, thick with relief. “Oh thank God, they’re there. Alive . . . alive.”

“And how far ahead is the demon?”

“No . . . no more than a hundred yards.”

“And you are sure you want to keep going?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go. Quietly.” His hand gripped my elbow, and without another word, he helped me cram myself into the slanted crack. I had to shove and wiggle until the rock tore my clothes and slashed my skin, but I was numb from the cold and the magic. I felt no pain. After several feet of this clambering, I finally wedged through—and into a pitch-black, yet open, tunnel.

Oliver eased out behind me—but without the lantern. “I couldn’t carry it and still fit through. I’m sorry.”

“Can you see?” I whispered.

“Well enough. I will go first.” Then he clasped my hand in his and pulled me into a careful tiptoe.

Our pace was barely above a crawl, and everything seemed loud. Each of our steps, our breaths, our fingertips brushing on the cave walls. And everywhere that my straining eyes landed seemed to move.

Every spot in my vision sent my pulse racing.

Suddenly Oliver’s hand clenched mine in warning. I froze, holding my breath trapped. Ever so slowly, Oliver pulled me to him, and then I felt his lips at my ear. “It’s ahead. Joseph—he’s shouting.

Can you hear?”

I shook my head once.

“We’ll keep going, but be prepared to fight. Have . . . have your commands for me ready.”

“What will I command you to do?”

He gave an almost inaudible laugh. “Just tell me to destroy it.” He drew away from me, and together we crept forward, the tunnel curving right . . . then left. After twenty measured steps, the faintest sounds finally began to slide into my ears. Forty steps and we rounded another bend—and now

Joseph’s bellows sounded clear. Seconds later we veered sharply left . . . and halted. Light, painful even in its orange dimness, shone ahead. I squinted, trying to see what was in the light, but we were still too far away.

Then a scream—a sickening shriek of pain—tore through the tunnel. But I couldn’t tell if it was

Daniel’s or Joseph’s. All I knew was that we were out of time.

I pushed Oliver to go faster. The screams masked our footsteps until the shrieking ceased. We instantly stopped . . . waiting, not breathing. A new sound broke out: a tinkling, happy sound. Someone laughing.

I glanced at Oliver, and at his nod I slunk forward. He slid along behind me, both of us hugging the walls and craning our necks.

But once I could see, I instantly wished for the darkness again. Because knowing what was in there —seeing the horror—was so, so much worse.

It was a cavern, tall, round, and as large as the ballroom, yet lit by torches that cast the scene in an orange, shadowy light.

And there, hunched over a stone table in the center of the cavern with long, jagged claws extended and her dainty mouth lapping up blood, was none other than Madame Marineaux.

And the blood was Joseph’s. It poured from the side of his head, from a gushing, jagged hole where his ear had once been.

Chapter Twenty-three

Madame Marineaux still wore her black ball gown, her coiled hair as perfect as ever. . . . Even her face—her smile—seemed as sweet as it always did. But her fingernails—they were as sharp and long as knives. And her mouth . . . fresh blood dribbled down her chin.

It took all of my self-control not to run straight to Joseph or completely the other way. She was a friend. I had trusted her, and yet . . . something twisted in my gut. Something that said, You knew this all along. You simply did not want to see it.

But I would deal with that guilt, that hurt, later. For now I had a demon to face.

I dragged my eyes away from the Madame, searching for some sign of Daniel. It wasn’t hard—he was loud despite being bound and gagged against the left-most wall. He rolled and writhed beside a narrow tunnel descending into darkness. Yet his struggles did no good; he was too tightly fettered.

Tossed on the dirt nearby was his bandolier, the crystal clamp shimmering beside it.

I flicked my gaze the other way, forcing myself not to look at Joseph’s shuddering chest or

Madame Marineaux’s bloody face. Forcing myself to evaluate the enormous cavern.

There was a third tunnel on the far right. Torchlight flickered into it, showing a rising floor—a well-worn, rising floor.

“Y-you,” Joseph rasped, his voice weak yet penetrating every crevice in the room, “c-can kill me, but you will not go unpunished.”

Madame Marineaux laughed, almost gleefully, and rose to her full—albeit tiny—height. “You have no idea what you say, Joseph Boyer. Your blood is very strong. Very strong, indeed. And when my master learns whom I have killed. Oh, how pleased he will be.”

At the word “killed,” Daniel’s struggles grew more frenzied, and muffled shouts seeped through his gag.

Madame Marineaux clucked at him. “Monsieur Sheridan, I do wish you would stay quiet. Your turn will come soon enough.”

“Stop,” Joseph commanded hoarsely. “W-we know what you”—a shiver wracked him—“plan. You and the Marquis . . . cannot succeed.”

“The Marquis?” She chuckled and dragged a claw almost lovingly along Joseph’s jaw. “Is that who you think is behind this? Oh, you naive little Spirit-Hunter. The Marquis was merely a tool. A source of income . . . and power for my master. He had no idea what was happening around him—or to him.”

A hand landed on my shoulder, and I flinched. But it was only Oliver. His eyes told me plain enough what he could not say: We need a plan.

And as much as I did not want to go—as much as my body screamed at me to run into the chamber and do something—I had to think this through.

Madame Marineaux was a demon, and she was strong.

So I forced myself to look away, to turn around and leave. We did not stop until there was no more light and Madame Marineaux’s wicked crowing had faded to a distant whisper.

Oliver pulled me to him, breathing in my ear, “Joseph’s hurt badly, and that demon is . . .” He trailed off.

“It’s Madame Marineaux,” I whispered.

“No, El.” I heard him gulp. “Her claws . . . I think she’s a Rakshasi.”

“Rakshasi?” That name sounded familiar, though I couldn’t place why.

Oliver moved closer, pulling my body to his. “They’re the most deadly a-and,” he tripped over his words, “and powerful demons of all time. And they’re the only ones I know of with claws like that.

She has venom that works like a compulsion spell . . . venom that makes you see things that aren’t real.”

I sucked in a breath as all the pieces clicked together. So that was why I’d gone to the ball. Why

I’d forgotten every moment spent with her. And with this realization, some of my memories came back. The sound of her voice as she plied me with questions about the Spirit-Hunters. The sound of my voice—flat and monotone—as I answered. And all it had taken was a drop of venom in my champagne; I had been hers to control. Except, I’d had nothing to drink tonight. . . .

“With power like this,” Oliver went on, “she must be thousands of years old. I’m a bloody baby next to her, El.” His whispers sliced into my ear, and with them came icy fear.

“So . . . so what can we do?” I asked.

“We can get the hell out of here—”

At that moment, Joseph’s ragged screams ripped through the tunnel once more. Oliver cowered into me, his yellow eyes flashing in the black.

“Please, El,” he breathed. “Please, let’s just go.”

“No. We can’t. We are out of time.” I pivoted around, pulling away from Oliver. Joseph’s screams continued.

“We need a plan!” he hissed.

“I have one. I saw Daniel’s pistols on the left wall. If I can distract Madame Marineaux long enough, then you can get the Spirit-Hunters’ equipment and free them. The pistols will need reloading, so I will keep Madame Marineaux’s attention until I see that you’re ready to fight.” Then, before

Oliver could protest or point out the ten thousand holes in my plan, I ran toward Joseph, toward

Daniel. . . .

Toward Rakshasi.

I did not bother to stay quiet. Did not even pause to check my surroundings. Joseph and Daniel needed me— now—and as soon as I had enough light to see the ground beneath my feet, I burst into a sprint.

When I finally skittered into the cavern, it was to find Joseph still bound to the stone table. But now Daniel was sprawled out on the floor beside him. His mouth was still gagged and his limbs still tied. Madame Marineaux, her back to me, hovered over him.

“Stop!” I said, my voice a low growl. “Let them go.”

With unnatural speed, Madame Marineaux twirled toward me, her dress billowing around her. A genuine smile spread over her lips. “You came!” She clapped with delight. “I am so glad.”

I looked past her, terrified that I’d find Daniel’s body mutilated. But he was fine, and at the sight of me, his eyes bulged and he burst into a fresh struggle. Joseph also saw me, and despite the blood oozing from his head, he also strained against his bonds. For whatever reason, it looked as if Madame

Marineaux had made no more wounds on his body.

“But,” Madame Marineaux continued, “how did you get in here from that passage?”

I turned my attention back to Madame Marineaux; she bustled to me as if we were merely meeting on the dance floor. Her little steps covered surprising ground, and she stood before me in only seconds. “And,” she said, “where is your dress? Who removed it?”

“We did,” Joseph croaked. “And with that amulet off her, your spell ceased.”

So the dress was how she had compelled me tonight. She had turned it into an amulet.

Madame Marineaux rolled her eyes. “You are bothering me, Monsieur Boyer. First Monsieur

Sheridan will not be quiet while I am sacrificing you, and now you will not stay silent.” A single fingernail clicked out, growing as long as a dagger. “I wish to speak to Mademoiselle Fitt in peace.”

She whirled around, flying for the stone table.

“Wait!” I screamed. “Madame Mari—Rakshasi!”

She paused, her skirts swishing forward. “You know my true essence?” She looked back at me, her eyes glowing yellow. “How?”

“I . . . I made a good guess.”

Her lips curved up. “You are like Claire. So feisty. So clever.” She twisted back to me, forgetting

Joseph completely. “Are you here to join me, then? To help free me from my master? He is a false master. A liar.”

She was close now. Close enough for me to see the streaks of blood around her mouth, the bits of flesh stuck in her claws.

I needed to draw her away so Oliver could sneak in. I retreated, strolling for the wall and aiming for the tunnel in the far right corner. Twenty steps to the wall, then twenty steps to the tunnel.

“A false master?” I asked, still moving as casually as I could.

“He tricked me.” Madame Marineaux’s lips puffed out in a pout—but almost immediately curled back, baring her fangs. “He killed her. His own mother. My Claire—he killed her! Then he broke

Claire’s bond and trapped me in an agreement.”

My mind raced to understand what she had just shared. She was an unbound demon, yet she still had some sort of master. So how?

“What sort of agreement?” I asked, continuing to walk.

“I must do as he wishes for as long as he wishes, and perhaps one day he will let me go home. . . .

Where are you going, Mademoiselle?” She frowned. “Stop walking. Now.”

I froze. The altar was forty paces away. That would have to be enough space. . . .

Oliver must have thought the same thing, for barely a breath passed before he crept into the cavern and darted for the stone table.

Madame Marineaux tensed as if hearing Oliver, but before she could turn around, I blurted, “Will he free you? Will your false master keep his promise?”

Her posture drooped. “I do not know. He is cruel. Nothing like his mother, my Claire. And he is strong—too strong for me. But you . . .” She reached out and stroked my cheek with her claw. “You and I, Mademoiselle Fitt—he could not beat the two of us. Not together.” She leaned in, inhaling deeply. “So much power. It radiates off you.”

I gulped, trying not to breathe. She stank of blood. Her breath, her claws—a metallic, keening stench.

She did not seem to notice my reaction. “Think,” she purred, “what we could do with your strength and my experience. Just imagine. ” Then her fingernail pierced my jaw. Only the slightest poke, but it broke the skin . . .

And the venom overwhelmed me.

It is Christmas, and I am in my family’s drawing room. There is snow falling outside the window, and a fire billows in the hearth. Father sits beside the fireplace, the Evening Bulletin in his hand, and

Elijah sits on the floor at his feet, a book upon his lap.

Elijah glances up at me and smiles. He looks not so different from when he died—older, stronger, and wider jawed. Yet his spectacles still slide down his nose, and his goofy grin is as I’ve always known it. He looks happy.

Father says something in his bass voice; it makes Elijah laugh. Then Father laughs too, and my heart swells.

A new laugh chimes in—Mama’s twitter—and I spin around just as she walks into the drawing room.

“Would you like mulled wine, Eleanor? Your friend was kind enough to bring us mulling spices.”

“My . . . my friend?” I step, confused, toward her. My dress rustles, and for the first time, I notice

I’m wearing a stunning blue taffeta with black trim. I smooth the bodice, gaping. But then Mama speaks, dragging me back to the moment.

“Yes, your friend Mr. Sheridan.” She glides to me and takes my hands in hers. “He said he has an old Irish recipe for mulling, and—”