A Darkness Strange and Lovely

Chapter Fifteen

On my way back to the Hotel Le Meurice, I stopped by a post office. A telegram from Allison, a note from Mary—anything from home would have been welcome. I just wanted to know I wasn’t alone.

But I was alone. There were no messages for me.

So I trudged to the hotel and was soon clambering up the main steps. On the second floor, I slowed and glanced into the lab. The door was ajar, the white curtains drawn back, and Joseph was within, focused on a stack of papers.

As if he sensed me, his gaze flicked up. A furrow dug into his brow. He beckoned to me.

And I realized with crushing relief that Jie had not yet told him about Oliver. You should tell him, my conscience whispered. But I knew I would not. He was the only Spirit-Hunter left who did not hate me . . . and I wanted to cling to that for as long as I could. Who knew how much time I had before I was on my own—left to face Marcus by myself?

So, with a fortifying breath, I stepped to the doorway and poked my head in. “I thought you were away.”

“My business ended early. Perhaps now would be a good time to train.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It is very important that you learn to fight your magic.”

“Right.” I slunk in—but almost instantly stopped again. Four waist-high, pine crates stood in a row beneath the windows.

“Daniel’s latest inventions,” Joseph explained. “Yet you have not seen our other . . . decoration. ”

He flourished a hand to the far-right table. Atop it lay a man-shaped mound beneath a white sheet.

“The butler?” I asked.

“Wi. ”

Despite being an incredibly morbid reaction, the corpse’s presence made me smile. Madame

Marineaux must have remembered, even if I had not.

Joseph hurried to the body, waving for me to follow. I gathered up my skirts and warily approached, the faint stench of carrion drifting into my nose. He waved to the corpse’s head. “So far, the ears and eyes are the only regions I have found that are desecrated.”

“You inspected the whole body?”

“Not yet. I cleaned one of the ear wounds. I thought perhaps I would uncover a ritualistic way in which the organ had been removed—some special incision I could find referenced in my books.” He ran a gloved hand along his jaw. “But I found nothing.”

“May I?”

At Joseph’s nod, I gulped in clean air and yanked back the sheet. Up close and a day older, the butler managed to look even worse than he had before. Though his mouth was clamped shut, the waxy skin around his lips had stretched to the point of ripping—presumably from chomping so desperately.

And I was most assuredly not standing on the cleaned side. Crusted blood was all over the butler’s face, a layer of brown streaks, and his ear . . .

Placing a gloved hand over my mouth, I moved in close. Through the jagged flesh—it had not been a clean cut—was the beige gleam of the man’s skull.

It was sickening . . . and yet fascinating. To think that a person’s blood could have so much power

—

I straightened, horrified by my thoughts. This man had been murdered. I ought to be repulsed.

Disturbed.

But you aren’t, my conscience nagged.

Yes, I am, I insisted. I am .

I swallowed tightly. “Do you think he was dead when he was cut up?”

Joseph winced. “Judging by the amount of blood around the wounds, he was alive during this procedure.”

My stomach flipped—that was truly horrifying. “The poor, poor man,” I murmured, and my eyes settled on the white powder on his shoulders. I had noticed it at Madame Marineaux’s, except now there seemed to be much less of it. I motioned to it. “Do you know what this is from?”

“Non. We have seen something like it on several bodies, but it could be anything. Dust from an old building, crumbling paint—there is no way to tell. These Hungry cover so much ground and are so violent.” He exhaled loudly and replaced the sheet over the man’s destroyed face. “I wish we had more facts with which to work instead of only half clues and ignorant musings. The only thing of which I am certain is that these sacrifices must be the work of a demon.”

A demon. Sacrifices.

My stomach curdled. What if it was Oliver? I had no proof he had been in America—and a three-

week lull in les Morts? That was enough time to leave Paris and return. . . .

I towed my mind back to the lab—I would deal with that darkness later—and, glancing at Joseph, I tried to don a happy face. “So . . . shall we begin this first lesson?”

“Yes.” He scratched absently at his cheek. “To begin, you must first understand why using self-

power is so dangerous. It is no different from opium—each time you draw on your spiritual energy, your soul rots.”

“Rots?” I repeated doubtfully. He had said something similar the day before, and even knowing that the magic was addictive, I still found the idea of a festering soul to be rather . . . dramatic. I told

Joseph as much.

“But nonetheless, it is true.” He scrubbed roughly at his scars, motioning with his other hand that we should return to the main table. “It is addictive, Eleanor, and as with any addiction, one’s morals degrade.”

“So what you’re really saying,” I declared as we moved to the stools, “is that my scruples will rot —not my soul.”

Joseph’s jaw clenched. We reached the table, but neither of us sat. “Eleanor, look at what became of Marcus. Of Elijah. They lost all sense of what was right and wrong—”

“But I am not Marcus, and I am not Elijah.” The ferocity of my words surprised me, but I couldn’t seem to stop them. “Self-power is fast—natural—and it doesn’t keep me tethered to a machine. Spells have so many uses, Joseph.”

“You are right that I cannot raise a body or make a phantom limb, yet I can blast away the Dead.

That is all that I need to do.”

“But that is limiting.”

“Listen to yourself,” he hissed. “Do you not hear how the magic controls you, even now?”

“That isn’t true,” I said, teeth gritting. “I have fought and fought my magic today—just as you ordered. I have not used it once.”

He relaxed slightly. “Good. I am glad you say that. You must keep fighting. All you need is electricity.”

No, I thought. Electricity cannot stop Marcus when he comes. But I did not say this. Instead, I scanned the room for some other evidence of electricity’s limitations. My eyes landed on the butler’s corpse, and an idea hit—something I did want to do yet could not achieve, even with necromancy.

I swept my skirts to the side and took a seat. “Can I talk to a spirit with electricity?”

His eyes thinned. “Why do you ask?”

“If we could talk to les Morts, we could know who killed them. No more running aimlessly around the city. Or,” I continued, another idea forming, “there’s a soldier from Napoleon’s army that might know something useful.” I quickly explained what Daniel and I had found at the library. “So you see, Joseph? We could solve everything if we could only talk to these people. Is that possible with your method?”

“Talk to these Dead,” Joseph corrected. “You must remember that they are no longer people. Their desires and dreams are not what they were in life. Nonetheless, you do make a good point.” He bent over the table and grabbed a thick, gray book called A Treatise on Spectres and All Other

Manifestations of Spiritual Energy. “I, myself, have never heard of a way to do this—even with spells —yet that does not mean one does not exist. Perhaps we can find something in this book.” He glanced up at me, waiting.

He was offering me a truce, and though I didn’t agree with Joseph, I di d know when to stop fighting.

I nodded, and with a hesitant smile Joseph pushed his stool close to mine, sat down, and flipped back the book’s cover. But we barely made it through three pages before we were interrupted.

“Monsieur Boyer,” said the Marquis. “I have a meeting you must attend.” He limped into the lab with neither a knock nor an apology.

“Meeting?” Joseph repeated, sliding off his stool.

“Oui. I realize you have only just returned, but it is . . . how do you say? Critical. Several senators are discussing zee new measures you suggested.”

Joseph straightened. “My suggestions for working with the police?”

“Oui.” The Marquis leaned on his cane, his chest heaving as if the climb to the second-floor lab had left him entirely spent. He bobbed his head at me. “Mademoiselle, I hope you do not mind. I can call Madame Marineaux to attend you, if you wish.”

“Oh yes!” I cried, instantly excited. My last time spent with the Madame had been so happy . . . even if I couldn’t remember what exactly had passed. “I would love to see her again—that is, if she is not too busy, of course.”

“Je ne pense pas. I do not zink she will mind—not for you.” He stroked his mustache and tilted almost conspiratorially toward me. “She told me you remind her of my sister.”

Pleasure fluttered through my chest. “That is quite a compliment.”

“C’est vrai. ” He nodded. “My sister was a wonderful woman. Actually”—he turned to Joseph

—“she lived in New Orleans for a bit. Did you ever know a LeJeunes?”

A line moved down Joseph’s forehead. “No, I do not recall anyone by that name.”

“Too bad,” the Marquis said heavily. “You would have liked her.” He spread his arms, holding out his cane. “Everyone liked Claire. She had—what is the word? Présence. ”

The Marquis continued speaking, but I did not hear. My gaze was locked on his cane. It looked different than the last time I had seen it. Three of the fingers had furled in, as if the hand were about to make a fist.

“Does my cane bother you?”

I blinked, suddenly noticing that the Marquis had stopped talking. I gave him an embarrassed grin.

“Oh no . . . not at all. I merely thought it looked different.”

His mustache wiggled. “Different?”

“Were its fingers not more like this the other day?” I mimicked an open hand.

He snorted a laugh. “I do not zink so, Mademoiselle. It is ivory.” He flicked a carved fingernail. “It does not bend.”

“That’s why I was surprised. I could have sworn it had changed shape.”

“I zink you are, eh . . . imagining zings.” He gave me an indulgent smile. “Perhaps you ought to sleep.”

“Yes,” I mumbled, confused. “Perhaps I ought.”

“In zat case, I will tell Madame Marineaux not to keep you up too late.” LeJeunes shoved to his feet, his eyes shifting to Joseph. “Come, Monsieur Boyer.”

I hopped off my stool and curtsied good-bye. As the Marquis shuffled from the room, Joseph turned to me. “I am sorry, Eleanor, but I must attend this. If we could get a unit of patrolmen to help us—it might be precisely what we need to corner the demon behind les Morts.”

“I understand.”

“Perhaps you can study this book until Madame Marineaux arrives, and then we will talk about it in the morning.”

“Yes, I will.” I gave him a tight smile.

“And remember: you must keep fighting these magical urges. Please—I beseech you.”

“All right,” I said, nodding, but as he gathered his hat and coat, I couldn’t help but bite my lip.

Joseph had never cast a spell, so what did he really know?

And while I did not agree with Oliver either—sacrifices were absolutely not an option—at least with my self-power I could do more than simply banish the Dead. I was caught between doing what might be morally right (at least according to Joseph) and what might actually work.

For the problem before us was larger than les Morts or a renegade demon. The ultimate problem was a necromancer whose power had been crafted in life and honed in death. The ultimate problem was Marcus, and would Joseph’s methods stand against him?

No. They would not.

With a determined set in my jaw, I turned to the book on specters and read it—right there in the lab with a butler’s corpse to keep me company. It was filled with dull language but was at least written recently (an 1874 publication, according to the title page) and was also incredibly thorough.

Necromancy, voodoo, shamanism—any and every form of magic pertaining to spirits was mentioned within its gray covers.

I scanned the chapter headings for something about speaking to ghosts, and with surprising ease, I found information written in as dry a manner as the rest of the book.

Summoning spirits is ill-advised under any circumstances. For one, ghosts are rarely amenable to leaving the earthly realm once there. For two, the amount of magical training and power needed is extensive. Necromancers, for example, must rely on blood sacrifices to rip a temporary hole in the curtain. Voodoo requires group sessions of up to a hundred priests to open a hole. Ultimately, all methods are likely to incite the attention of the Hell Hounds (also known as barghest, black shuck, or Cˆwn Annwn, see page forty-seven for more detail).

However, mediums of the mid-1800s discovered a method that allows the curtain to remain closed and the ghost to be “called” via a séance. One must know the spirit’s name and time of death (the latter information used to adjust the strength of the “call.” A longer-dead ghost will require more power and therefore more people).

I gnawed my lip. That was it? A séance? It certainly sounded harmless enough. My own mama had hosted séances for years (with no success) in an attempt to speak to my dead father. Admittedly, she had also allowed Marcus to enter the earthly realm during one of these sessions, but I wouldn’t be so foolish.

And I had magic on my side. So let Marcus or any other spirit come. I smiled, but almost instantly my lips twisted down.

Why hadn’t Joseph and Oliver known about this method? It was so easy. . . .

A gentle buzz suddenly twirled in my gut, and I knew without looking that Oliver was near.

Two breaths later, the lab door cracked open.

“What do you want?” I snapped. My eyes never left the page.

“To talk. To . . . apologize.”

“Well, I don’t accept.”

“I messed up, El.”

“Yes, yes you did.” My teeth gnashed together, and against my will, I glanced up. Oliver stood, head hanging, in the doorway. “Why did you do that?”

“I . . . I was drunk.”

“Really? Because you seem quite sober now.”

“Drunk and jealous,” he whispered. His yellow eyes crawled up to mine. “You’re my only friend.

My family.”

“And?” I slammed the book shut and stood. “I have no family either, Oliver. Did you forget that?

Did you forget that my father is dead, my brother is dead, and my mother has renounced me? I have no money, no home, and no chance at a real life. And now— now—the only three people who are able to look beyond all that . . .” My fingers clenched into fists. “I am about to lose them too.”

Oliver hunched even further into himself. “You still have me.”

“That’s not enough!”

“It was enough for Elijah. He and I used to do everything together.”

“And I am not Elijah.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Trust me: I know. ”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he retorted, his spine unfurling, “you don’t want to learn how to free me. It means you run off with Madame Something-or-other and silly inventors when I’m right here waiting to teach you. Elijah never missed a chance to learn more. Now, do you accept my apology or not?”

“I do not accept.” I glared at him. “One minute you behave like my oldest chum—the spitting image of Elijah. Then the next minute you’re manipulating me . I don’t trust you, Oliver.”

He sniffed. “I never asked you to.”

“No, you’re right. You did not.” I got to my feet. “Yet for some reason you still seem to expect a great deal from me. Elijah might have made you his companion, Oliver, but for me you are nothing but a tool.”

Pain flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by a smug arch to his eyebrow. “I see what you’re trying to do. This has nothing to do with that Daniel fellow at all. You’re afraid of something, and you’re taking it out on me. So what is it, El?” He left the doorway and strode to me, only stopping once he was inches away. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

His eyes held mine—daring me to look away. I did not. “Are you the demon raising les Morts?”

My voice was barely a whisper. “Tell me.”

“And if I do not?” He sneered. “Will you command me? Command your tool?”

“Yes, I will.”

“So do it then.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous, though. You know I can’t do any magic without your command.”

“How do I know that?”

“Well, I suppose you do not know for certain.” He opened his arms. “But go ahead. Ask me for the truth. Just be prepared for the consequences.”

My heart lurched. “What consequences?”

“In a few hours, once Joseph knows about my existence, I really will be all you have left. So even if I am the demon behind les Morts, do you truly want to know?”

I thinned my eyes. “Now I see exactly what you’re trying to do. If I command you, you will hold it against me—hang it over my head as leverage. Elijah used to play the same childish game.” I flipped my hand out and in a mocking voice said, “‘Oh, El, you owe me. Remember that time you blamed me for stealing the cherries?’” I backed away from Oliver, turning dismissively toward the butler’s corpse. “Well, I do not truly think you’re behind les Morts. And I won’t fall for your tricks. Now come here. I want you to take a look at this corpse.”

At that word, Oliver’s footsteps sounded behind me, and together we went to the white sheet.

“This is one of les Morts?” Oliver grabbed the edge of the sheet and yanked back. “I bet I can—oh, blessed Eternity.” His hand flew to his mouth, and his face turned a putrid green.

“Does it bother you?” I set my mouth in a stern line. “You, the boy who wanted me to sacrifice an animal?”

“When I said sacrifice,” he said, his voice muffled by his fingers, “I did not mean this atrocity.”

“How am I supposed to know that? Now, inspect this corpse and tell me if you recognize the spell.”

Oliver gulped and slowly lowered his hands. “I cannot tell much by simply looking. There are thousands of spells it could be. . . .”

“But?”

“But if you command me to, I can sense for the magic.”

“Will you be angry if I command you?”

He shook his head once.

And at that movement the hunger flared in my belly, so sharp and so fierce I could not breathe.

You promised Joseph you would resist. Except this was vital information, wasn’t it? If we could learn the spell, we would be one step closer to stopping les Morts. I had to use Oliver’s magic.

I wet my lips, and before guilt could stop me, I said, “Sense for the spell on this corpse. Sum veritas. ” The magic curled over me, pleasant and warm, before sliding off me like smoke.

Oliver’s eyes flashed blue. Then he snapped them shut, and his brows drew together.

“Well?” I asked. “Can you feel it?”

“Give me a minute,” he growled. But it only took him a few seconds to begin nodding. “There’s something there . . . a faint trace of power around the ears and eyes . . . and the tongue.” His eyelids lifted, and, using the edge of the sheet, he eased open the corpse’s jaw.

We both leaned forward and peered inside. “The tongue is still there,” I said.

“Yes, but look at how slashed and swollen it is.”

“Is that not from all the chomping?”

Oliver’s head flicked once to the side. “No. It was cut. Drained of blood.”

I recoiled. “What does that mean, then? Can you recognize the spell?”

“I think I can, yes.” He straightened, and when his eyes met mine, they were winced with revulsion. “But it’s bad, El. Very bad. I . . . I think it’s a compulsion spell.”

That sounded familiar. I kneaded my wrist, trying to figure out why. Then I remembered. “You mentioned that on the boat, didn’t you? You said to control a person’s actions, you had to sacrifice body parts.” I looked down at the butler. “So this spell is meant to control someone’s ears and eyes and tongue?”

“Yes, what they see, hear, and say . . . but not just one person, El.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there have been over seventy victims.”

The full weight of his words slammed into me, and I stumbled back. “Someone has cast seventy-

two compulsion spells.”

“Except . . .”—he waved toward the corpse’s head—“there are still traces of the magic on this body, which means the spiritual energy from this corpse has not yet been used. It’s still with the body —hoarded, almost.”

I scrunched up my face. “I don’t understand. How is that possible?” I took the sheet from his hands and replaced it over the butler’s face.

“It’s possible with an amulet—an object that holds a spell. The necromancer will build the spell over time, adding more and more spiritual energy to the object. Then one day when he’s ready, he leaves the amulet where he wants it to cast, he goes far away from the danger area, and then . . .”

Oliver’s hands spread wide. “He lets the spell release.”

“Blazes.” I swayed back on my heels. “So it’s an undetonated bomb.”

“Exactly.”

“Does this mean we are up against seventy-two amulets?”

“More likely we’re up against one amulet with seventy-two spells inside.”

“So if Joseph . . . or I wanted to stop it, could we?”

“Not easily. Possibly not at all.” He circled his hands on his temples. “Whenever this necromancer —or demon—finally decides to cast the spell, he’ll gain compulsion over seventy-two people.”

I hugged my arms to my stomach, feeling ill. “Seventy-two people?”

“That or a single person for—well, I would estimate at least seventy-two days.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple, really. A compulsion spell is only in effect temporarily. The stronger the necromancer, the longer the spell. If he wanted to control a person for an extended period of time, he’d need multiple spells.” Oliver swung his head side to side, his face grim. “But that’s not even the worst of it, El. A compelled victim won’t be able to tell when they’re possessed . . . and nor will we.”

It was only moments after Oliver explained the horrors of an amulet to me that a steward came to fetch me. Madame Marineaux had arrived and so I dismissed Oliver and met the Madame in my room.

Her visit was as wonderful as I had hoped. The perfect distraction to the thoughts—and fears—

roiling through me.

I had to tell Joseph about the amulet and the compulsion spells. I also had to figure out what I would do—what Oliver and I would do—as soon as Joseph learned about the demon.

But all those worrisome thoughts faded into the background the moment Madame Marineaux arrived. We drank delicious French wine on my balcony and talked about the ball the next evening, the places I wanted to see, and . . . well, I could not remember precisely what else. The wine must have clouded my head at that point. Either way, I awoke the next morning feeling alive, alert, and ready to take on the day.

I could face Joseph. I had to face Joseph, and in the end, wouldn’t I rather the truth come from me than from Jie?

However, as I descended the main stairwell, my jaw set and my stride determined, I was accosted by outraged bellows from the floor below. My resolve instantly shattered.

“I can’t believe it!” Daniel roared. “You didn’t consult me in this at all.”

I paused on the middle landing and craned my neck around. Through the lab’s open door and curtains, I could see Daniel standing beside his crates, waving a crowbar wildly. Jie was nowhere to be seen.

Joseph sat on his stool, his back rod straight. He lifted his hands. “I do not need to consult you, Daniel. I am in charge, and there was never any question of her joining us or not. Her skills are an asset to the team.”

“Skills?” Daniel shoved the crowbar into a crate top. “What skills? Necromancy? Lying?”

I gulped. They were discussing me . . . but did they know of Oliver?

Joseph began ticking off on his fingers. “She fought an entire cemetery in Philadelphia. She helped us at Madame Marineaux’s. Yes, she has a great deal of self-control to learn, but she is undeniably powerful.”

They don’t know what Oliver is yet.

“I have never seen anyone with so much natural magic,” Joseph continued. “Once she learns my methods, she will be incredible.”

“More like disgusting,” Daniel spat. “You’re letting a necromancer into the group. Just think about that.”

Fury cramped my gut. Daniel had no right to say such things, for he had no idea what I had been through. No idea.

“She has stopped,” Joseph declared. “She fights the call of black magic—and ultimately, Daniel, it is none of your concern what magic she uses. I am in charge, and I say she is in the group. I expect

Marcus to arrive any day—any moment—and we need her power, no matter what form it is in. As such, when she arrives, I expect you to control your temper.”

A strangled cry came next, but other than that Daniel made no more sounds.

I dug my palms in my eyes and waited until the normal murmur of conversation picked up. Then, my hands shaking, I strode as steadily as I could down the remaining steps and into the lab.

“Ah, Eleanor,” Joseph said with a tired smile. He waved to a stool. “Have a seat.” The butler’s corpse still lay on the farthest table. And though the windows were all opened, it wasn’t enough to kill the body’s stench.

“Where’s Jie?” I asked.

Joseph glanced at me sidelong. “We assumed she must be with you. She left a note”—he gestured to a slip of paper on the windowsill—“that said she was going out.”

“But that was yesterday afternoon,” Daniel said gruffly.

“And she has not come back yet?” I gaped at them. “Aren’t you worried? We should look for her!”

“It’s Jie,” Daniel said. “She can take care of herself.”

“One does not simply ‘go out’ for an entire day,” I snapped. “Not Jie, at least.”

Joseph scratched his neck. “I will send out one of our new patrolmen to check for her.”

“Please,” I begged.

“Yes. I will do it the minute I leave the lab.”

My shoulders sank. I had not even realized I had held them tensed. Perhaps I was overreacting—

Jie could take care of herself, after all.

“So,” I said to Joseph, “I suppose you received the patrol force you wanted?”

Joseph bowed his head in acknowledgment. “We did. And did you learn anything about contacting spirits?”

“Actually, yes.” I swallowed. “I read about séances.”

“Séances,” Joseph murmured. “They are very hard to successfully employ, and there are certainly dangers involved. However, it is an avenue worth researching. But first . . .” He set his hands on the table. “Daniel, I would very much like to see your newest inventions.”

I, however, had no desire to see them. I stood. “Perhaps I should go—”

“Non!” Joseph’s hand shot up. “This equipment is as much yours as mine, and I believe it will help you control your powers.” He gave an encouraging nod. “Look at these items as your tools.”

“Um, all right.” I reclaimed my seat, and Joseph motioned for Daniel to continue.

“Well, this box”—Daniel nudged his boot against the middle crate—“has two new influence machines. Nothing exciting.” His voice was coated with the odd, stiff affectation once more. “This other box contains the pulse pistols.” He shoved his crowbar into the crate he’d been prying at before I entered the room. As the nails squeaked, he said, “Do you remember the pulse bombs in Philadelphia?

The dynamite propels a magnetic rod, thereby creating an electromagnetic pulse. That pulse laid the

Dead to rest.”

“Quite useful and ingenious.” Joseph’s words were overenthusiastic, as if he was trying very hard to keep Daniel pleased.

“Useful,” Daniel agreed, “but slow.” He yanked the final nail from the crate. “You had to have matches, and you had to wait for the fuse to burn. Well, no more of that.” He hefted off the lid and swept aside straw, revealing a device shaped like a revolver. Copper wire coiled around the barrels.

“These are the pulse pistols. No more wasting time. You merely pull the trigger, and the Dead go down. There are two limitations, though. First, the range isn’t as wide as the bombs.” He tapped a munitions box beside the gun. “Second, the guns only hold one shot at a time, so either you carry a few loaded pistols all the time or you hope you can reload faster than the Dead can reach you.”

That’s quite a limitation, I thought. And beneath that, another thought flashed: I don’t need that.

Daniel tossed a pistol to Joseph, who caught it deftly and held it to the light.

“Incredible. This would have made things at Madame Marineaux’s easier, I daresay.” He glanced at me, a hopeful smile on his lips.

And that smile rankled me. A great deal. Why was he pretending to be pleased with me when the truth was he considered me and my magic an abomination?

Daniel strode to the last crate, his spine straightening. “This last invention is something I’m real . . . I mean . . . something of which I’m very proud.” He spent a few minutes working the nails out.

Once the lid was off, he pushed aside the straw and dug out an ornately designed, cream-colored box.

It was much like a lady’s hatbox, all soft designs and curves. Instantly, pain swept over his face. He dropped the box roughly on the floor. It hit with a heavy thud.

“What is in there?” Joseph asked.

“Nothing.” Daniel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s . . . it’s empty.”

Joseph gave me a glance, and I tugged at my earlobe. That box was most assuredly not empty, but before I could ponder what might be inside, Daniel fished out a second, smaller box. He placed it tenderly on the table and slid off the top.

My eyes widened.

Inside, nestled on a velvet cushion, was a crystal the size of my fist. Though it was rough and uncut, it still glittered like sunlight on water.

Daniel slid his hand beneath the velvet pillow and withdrew what looked like a crooked, copper wrench. On one end was a clamp and on the other was a spring-loaded handle.

“I call this a crystal clamp,” he said. “It latches onto the crystal like so. . . .” He spread the clamps wide and set the crystal within. Then he clasped the handle. “Now, you squeeze this. That in turn squeezes the crystal and creates an electric current. As long as you’re squeezing, you have electricity.”

I gasped as comprehension hit me. “It’s like my amethyst earrings. Piezoelectricity, right?”

Daniel’s eyes flicked uncertainly to mine. “You . . . you remember that?”

Of course I remembered it. The day he had taught me that word was the day he’d carried me home in an unconscious heap. The day he had given me a new parasol. The day I had finally started to hope for more than just friendship . . .

“I am not sure I remember.” Joseph drummed his fingers on the table. “Though I do recall something about squeezing quartz and getting an electric current, non?”

“Exactly.” Daniel nodded. “When you squeeze quartz, the mechanical stress creates an electric charge. That charge moves through the copper clamp and into your arm. The copper also magnifies the charge, and of course, the bigger the crystal, the bigger the initial current. It’s not as powerful as a spark from the influence machine, but it should be enough to stop a corpse or two.”

“Kaptivan,” Joseph said, gently taking the contraption into his gloved hands. “A portable source of electricity.”

“You should try it out,” Daniel suggested.

“I cannot.” He laid the device back in its box. “If I take in the electricity, I must shoot it back out again. I learned that the hard way.” He shot me a smile, as if I might understand.

I did understand—all too well. Yet I had assumed it would be different with external power.

Instead, it would seem that no matter the source, no magic could be held indefinitely. You had to use it.

And that was simply one more limitation to electricity.

“Why don’t you try it,” Daniel said, his eyes settling on me. “I bet . . .”

He gritted his teeth as if he didn’t want to finish.

“Bet what?” I pressed. “Tell me what you were going to say, Daniel.”

“I was gonna say,” he snarled, “that you should try it out because I bet that new hand of yours can squeeze this clamp like a real professional.”

I stiffened. “Joseph said it’s dangerous.”

“Right.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Silly of me to forget.”

“You want me to hurt myself, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that, did I? Thing is, I’m just startin’ to wonder, Miss Fitt”—his words came out faster and louder—“what’s so great about that phantom hand of yours.”

“Stop.” Heat blazed up my body.

“What amazing tricks can it do? Can it stop the Dead? Or—I know—can it raise the Dead?”

I knew Daniel wanted to hurt me like I had hurt him, but this time he’d gone too far. I pushed onto my feet and marched around the table toward him.

“Show us some tricks,” he said, wiggling his fingers at me. “Show us your amazing necromancy with that shiny, new hand.”

“You jealous, spiteful ass,” I hissed. “Do you want to know what my phantom hand is good for, Daniel?”

“Please,” he said with a sneer.

“This.” I slapped him straight across the cheek, so hard that even with my glove, the blow flamed up my arm.

Then, before he or Joseph could react, I turned on my heels and stormed from the lab.