A Darkness Strange and Lovely

Chapter Ten

The next morning, Jie woke me with her usual finesse.

“Up!” She jabbed my ribs. “The sun has been high for hours, yeah?”

I cracked open an eyelid. “How do you have so much energy?”

“’Cos it’s the middle of the day!” She pushed her face in mine. “Joseph and I have already fought one Dead—”

I bolted upright, almost hitting her chin. “The Dead? Les Morts have returned?” I glanced out the window; the sun was not high. “What time is it?”

“Eight.” Jie snickered at my stricken face. “Early for you, but les Morts wait for no one.”

Jie assisted me with dressing, and as she buttoned my gown, I couldn’t help but wonder where

Oliver might be—though I supposed he had managed this long by himself. One night alone in Paris wouldn’t kill him.

Once Jie and I had pinned up my hair, we marched into the lab. A tall man with skin the color of hazelnuts stood over the middle worktable. He looked as handsome as always—no hair out of place, no wrinkle in sight.

“Joseph!” I leaped toward him.

He spun around, his face splitting with the biggest grin I’d ever seen the Creole wear. “Miss Fitt.”

He swooped into a bow.

“Now, now,” I scolded, “call me Eleanor.”

He lifted, his eyes twinkling. “It is so wonderful to see you, Eleanor. The last time I saw you, you saved my life.” His hand moved to his left cheek, where jagged white scars puckered—scars that could only be the remnants of Marcus’s attack. “I must say you look as lovely as ever.”

Heat flooded my face. “Joseph, I had no idea you could be so charming.”

He spread his hands, laughing. “It is this Paris air. La joie de vivre.” He hooked his foot around a stool and slid it out. “Sit. Talk!”

My stomach twisted hollowly. “As long as I can still eat after . . .”

Jie snorted. “Breakfast’ll still be there.”

I gave her a playful glower, but as I moved to sit, the view outside caught my eye. “Paris!” I darted to the window, my mouth falling open. “Look, it’s Paris! In the sunlight! And oh, it does look exactly like the prints.”

Joseph chuckled and joined me at the window. “We have a lovely view, non? Here”—he unlatched the window and pushed it wide—“lean out and take a look.”

I bent halfway out and gawked at all that lay before me. Directly below was a cobblestone street packed with carriages and carts and people—so many people. Smells of horse and sweat wafted up; and for a moment, like last night, I was briefly struck by how similar it was to a Philadelphia street except . . .

I strained to push myself farther out, to hear the rolling rhythm of the language. It floated over the clopping horses and rattling wheels, and that wasn’t like Philadelphia.

Nor was that breeze whipping over the city and tugging me out. Come, it seemed to say. Come see the city.

Jie stepped beside me. “Those are the gardens I told you about.” She pointed to an iron fence across the street. Beyond its bars were red-tipped maples and chestnuts swaying in that playful wind.

“If you look that way,” she went on, directing me to look left, “you can see all the flowers and hedges, yeah?”

I followed her finger until my eyes met manicured bushes and perfectly organized rows of flowers.

“Yes,” I breathed. “And what is that beyond it?”

At the far end of the garden was an enormous, hollowed-out structure. Its roof was missing and its walls charred.

“That,” Joseph said, “is the Tuileries Palace. It was destroyed in a fire several years ago.”

“And that?” I pointed right, to the other end of the gardens, where a giant, needle-like column poked up toward the sky.

“That is the Place de la Concorde,” Joseph answered. “It is an Egyptian obelisk . . .” His words faded off, so I glanced back at him—and found his eyes locked on my right hand.

I slowly drew back through the window. “You can ask about it.”

Rose patches appeared on Joseph’s cheeks. “May I see it?”

“Of course.” As I slid off my glove and extended my hand toward him, I prayed he didn’t have many questions. My reluctance to share the truth was somehow even greater this morning than it had been last night. Why muddy the clear waters? Things were going so well.

And heavens, how I had missed Joseph and Jie. Missed having friends who liked me exactly as I was . . . Besides, I told myself, you are making it easier for them too. No need to worry the Spirit-

Hunters when they had an entire city of people to protect.

“Kaptivan,” Joseph breathed. He inspected my palm like a fortune-teller at the fair. “How did you make this, Eleanor?”

I licked my lips. “I-I’m not sure how. It was bothering me . . . hurting when spirits were near, so I just, um . . . called to it. And it came.”

He squinted almost imperceptibly. “Surely it was not so simple.”

“Perhaps not, but I . . . I can’t really remember the details.”

A flicker of something passed over his face. Anger, perhaps, except that I’d never seen Joseph angry—at least not with me. “I urge you to remember the details, Eleanor. It is very important.”

“I-I’ll think about it.” I glanced off to the right and withdrew my hand. “Maybe I can remember something.”

“Hey,” Jie said, fidgeting with her hair clasp. “I’m gonna go down and order breakfast, yeah?”

Joseph nodded, and I took the opportunity to bolt to the table and waiting stool. “Jie told me you battled a corpse today.”

“Wi.” Joseph closed the window and followed me to the worktable. Sharp lines puckered his brow, and I noticed new creases around his eyes. He looked so very tired.

“This corpse was our first in quite some time,” he continued. “It was one of the Hungry, as they always seem to be. She was a baker’s wife, and the poor man . . . his son died a few weeks ago, and now he must deal with this too. Needless to say, he is devastated.”

“Jie only told me the basics about les Morts.” I pretended to focus very hard on adjusting my skirts around my stool. “What exactly is happening?”

He eased onto the stool beside me. “Before we came, there had been forty-eight walking corpses.

This was why we were called in, and within the first week of our arrival, we encountered twenty-two more. Seventy Dead in all. Then . . . nothing for the past three weeks—until this morning, that is.”

“And they’ve all been murdered?”

“Yes.” He sighed, and his shoulders sank a few inches. “We are at a loss for who might be responsible, though. Not a single corpse has appeared in the same place. From the rich to the poor, no class has been untouched—and there is no way of predicting when or where the next person will vanish. Nor when or where that person will reappear as one of the Dead—or the Hungry, rather, for they are not attached to a necromancer. Recall that a corpse not controlled by a necromancer is free and desperate only for its next meal of soul.”

My gut twisted and I fidgeted with my gloves. “Well, what if you kept track of all missing persons? Would that help you predict the next victim?”

“The police do provide us with a new list each week, but there are over two million people in

Paris. Most missing people are completely unrelated to our murders. . . .” His voice trailed off, and I realized his attention was focused back on my phantom hand. And the wrinkles in his brow were even deeper.

So before he could direct the conversation to my magic, I blurted, “Oh, Joseph, I almost forgot about Marcus!”

His eyes leaped to my face. “What about him?”

“He came to Philadelphia. That’s why I left—why I’m here. Marcus wants the pages from Le

Dragon Noir and the letters Elijah left inside.” I went on to explain how I’d seen yellow eyes, how

Mama had thought she’d seen Elijah, and how I’d been forced to flee on the next steamer bound for

France.

I however did not mention Oliver. “Then I came here,” I finished at last. “To you, for I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It was right for you to come.” Joseph massaged the scars on his cheek, his back stiff and straight.

“Do you believe that Marcus will follow you? Will he come to Paris?”

“I . . . I think so. He must know I have the letters, and . . .” I bit my lip. By omitting Oliver, I’d had to omit the Hell Hounds, and that meant I was going to have to tell a lie now. But only a little one—

one I could take back later. “I believe . . . that is to say, I’m rather certain Marcus saw me board the steamer. He knows I have left Philadelphia.”

“Good.” Joseph dropped his hand. His scars were tinged with pink from rubbing. “I hope Marcus comes. Is it possible he might have boarded with you?”

“No.” I shook my head. “If Marcus had been on the steamer, I would have known. He would have sought me out.”

“True.” His gaze shifted to the window. “Do you perhaps know when the next steamer departs?”

I frowned, trying to remember what the ticket clerk in Philadelphia had said. “The next direct boat won’t leave for another few days. As for an indirect boat, I haven’t any idea.”

“Nonetheless, he will be at least a week behind you. At best.” His lips twisted up in a slight, private smile. “But when he comes, I will destroy him. This time, Eleanor, I will be prepared.”

Chills slid down my body, and a fresh wave of desire—of hunger to face Marcus once and for all —clawed at my insides. And with it came the faintest flicker of magic, warm in my chest. I almost smiled.

But then a thought occurred to me, something I hadn’t considered yet was possible. “What if

Marcus does not follow? What if he stays in Philadelphia, Joseph?” And uses more magic and spells to reach me from afar.

“If Marcus does not follow,” Joseph answered, his voice barely audible, “then there is only one solution, Eleanor.”

“What?”

“We will go to him.”

The moment Joseph and I reached the bottom of the hotel’s main stairwell on our way to breakfast, a high-pitched squeal broke out.

I jolted, yet before I could calm my heart, we were set upon by a flock of brightly clad girls in all manner of flounce and lace.

“Monsieur Boyer! Monsieur Boyer!”

Pastels and curls swarmed around us, and with no warning, Joseph was yanked away from me. Two breaths later and I was left standing alone, mouth agape.

“Aha!” exclaimed a male voice. “Finally we have found you!”

I jerked my gaze to the foyer. The speaker was an expensively dressed gentleman. He moved down the stairs with the aid of a cane and the stooped posture of an old man—though he couldn’t have been any older than my mother. His dark mustache shone so brightly in the electric lamps that I was certain oil would drip off the long hairs and splatter on his white collar.

On his arm walked a petite, middle-aged woman. She was a full foot shorter than the man, yet if you took into account her enormous coiffure of onyx-black hair, she almost reached his crooked height.

The couple entered into the foyer, and the man bowed gingerly before me.

“I am Monsieur Frédéric LeJeunes, Marquis du Bazillac. And you, Mademoiselle, must be Eleanor

Fitt.” He took my hand and dropped a kiss on the air above it. “Enchanté. ”

“It i-is a pleasure,” I stammered, thrown off by the realization that this was the Spirit-Hunters’ generous benefactor. The exact man I had to woo if I wanted a place to stay.

“Zis is Madame Renée Marineaux,” the Marquis added, nodding to the woman.

She beamed at me, making her angular face almost pretty and her hazel eyes almost golden. It was quite a stunning effect on a woman who seemed unimposing—perhaps even plain—at first glance.

“How do you do?” she murmured.

I bobbed a polite curtsy.

“I was told,” the Marquis began, “by Mademoiselle Chen that you are taking breakfast now, non?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then you must—how do you say?— join us. It is right zis way.” He motioned happily to a set of open doors beyond the foyer, and I couldn’t help but notice how odd his cane was. And beautiful. The handle was made of ivory and carved into the shape of an open hand.

Dragging my eyes from it, I bared a polite smile. “Thank you, sir. Breakfast would be perfect—I cannot wait to try all the French delicacies.”

He barked delightedly and set off toward the restaurant. I glanced back at Joseph, but all I could see was a top hat floating above a sea of feathery bonnets. So I moved after the Marquis. I suppose those are the girls Jie mentioned. . . .

“Where are you residing?” the Marquis asked, cutting into my thoughts.

“To be honest, sir, I stayed with Miss Chen last night.” I fluttered my lashes in what I hoped was a sweet and helpless way. “I came here quite suddenly and have nowhere else to stay.”

“Then you must take a room here,” said Madame Marineaux, moving to my side. She spoke with a faint accent—though it did not sound French. “The Marquis is friends with the owner, you see, and he is taking care of these amazing Spirit-Hunters. You must allow him the privilege of hosting you as well.” She shot the Marquis a raised eyebrow. “Surely that can be arranged, Monsieur?”

“Mais oui!” The Marquis stomped his cane against the floor. “I will take care of everyzing.”

“Thank you very much.” I gave them both a grateful grin. “Merci beaucoup. ”

Moments later, we entered the restaurant. Pistachio-colored curtains lay over ceiling-high windows, and crystal chandeliers hung like icicles. A navy-uniformed waiter with a rigid posture and even stiffer mustache helped me sit as the Marquis assisted Madame Marineaux. Then, after taking a flurry of orders from the Marquis, the waiter glided off.

The Marquis set his strange cane against the table, allowing me full view of the gnarled ivory fingers, and I could not help but stare. The detail that met my eyes was amazing: the fingers were tipped with long, sharp fingernails, and the lines carved into the palm were astonishingly lifelike. But it was the fingernails that held my attention. They seemed dangerous, yet alluring. Exotic, I thought.

“Ah, you are admiring my cane?” LeJeunes tugged at his mustache, grinning. “It is magnifique, non?”

“Yes,” I said warmly. “I have never seen anything like it. Where did you get it?”

“From me,” Madame Marineaux answered, a pleased flush spotting her cheeks. “I am glad you like it. I found it on my travels. When I was in India, I visited a small village for which this symbol”—she dipped her head to the cane—“is considered good luck. And it has certainly brought the

Marquis luck.” Her gaze landed on LeJeunes with fondness.

“Oui, oui. It has.” He clapped his hands. “Such success in zee Senat elections, and I hope”—he winked in my direction—“I will have the same success in zee presidential elections. All thanks to my

Madame and my . . . what is zee word? Good luck charm.” He placed a gloved hand tenderly over

Madame Marineaux’s.

I shifted in my seat, intrigued by the Madame. “You have done much traveling?”

“Oh yes.” She smiled, her hazel eyes crinkling. “All over the world.” She angled her head to one side. “But surely that is of no interest to a young girl such as yourself.” She gave a tinkling laugh.

“Usually all the girls I meet wish to speak of parties and fashion!”

“Oh no!” I cried, shaking my head. “Your travels sound fascinating. My dream is to do just that, actually—to see the world.”

“You have made a good start!” The Marquis tapped the table, his smile spreading beyond the edges of his mustache. “You are in the City of Light. The best conversation and the finest parties are to be found here. La joie de vivre, Mademoiselle! Society and museums and lovely sights. You must see all of it while you are visiting your friends.”

At that moment our waiter strutted back into the room, pushing a trolley laden with breads, pastries, and richly scented coffee. As he laid out plate after plate, the Marquis motioned for me to serve myself. So I did, grabbing two croissants, a tart drizzled in chocolate, and a generous helping of butter.

After the Marquis had filled his own plate—it would seem he had a fondness for anything with cherries—he turned his eyes to me. “I have an idea, Mademoiselle! We are hosting a ball to celebrate all zee success our Spirit-Hunters have had.”

I froze in the middle of slathering butter on my first croissant. A ball? It seemed a dreadful time for a ball if les Morts roamed the streets.

“You must attend,” the Marquis urged. “Everyone who is anyone will go.”

Somehow, I grew even stiffer. It was bad enough that the Spirit-Hunters would have to take time off to go to the ball, but me as well? I couldn’t possibly attend such a gala when I had only one dress in my possession. Yet before I could protest, Madame Marineaux clapped excitedly. “That is a grand idea, Monsieur!” She turned to me. “You absolutely must come, Mademoiselle Fitt! It is in two nights.”

I set down my croissant and wiped my hands on my napkin. “I-I would love to, but I fear I have brought nothing suitable to wear to such an affair.”

Madame Marineaux clucked her tongue. “Do not be silly. Such a minor inconvenience. Why, I know a dressmaker with premade creations. She can tailor something for your, eh . . .” Her eyes dropped to my ample waist and then to my crammed plate. “For your needs. ”

Heat flooded my face, and I realized that the Madame had nothing more than half—only half— a pastry on her own plate.

I snatched up my buttered croissant. “I-I’m sorry, Madame, but I’m afraid the expense of a new dress would be too much for me.” I chomped almost frantically into the flaky bread.

“Expense?” LeJeunes repeated. He gulped down coffee and then wiped his mouth. “Pas de problème. I will cover zee costs, and zis weekend you will attend zee grandest gala Paris has ever seen!”

I gulped back my bread, trying not to choke. “Sir, I could not possibly impose—”

“Nonsense!” Madame Marineaux wagged her finger at me. “I will send the dressmaker over this very afternoon. You cannot say no to new dresses.”

Dresses? Plural? Yet as I sat there, flustered and outvoted, the Marquis laughed happily. “Parfait!”

A moment later, a harried Joseph rushed into the dining room. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, as if expecting girls to appear behind every table and chair. He looked even more exhausted than before.

The Marquis waved. “Monsieur Boyer, come! Sit. Eat.”

Joseph nodded quickly, and as he darted for the table, I felt an odd twisting in my stomach. I frowned—it was a familiar feeling, yet it took me a moment to realize why.

Then it clicked. I had felt this when Oliver tested our bond at the train station. The demon had to be nearby. I whipped my gaze to the door, and sure enough, a slight, gray-suited figure lounged in the hallway beyond.

I shot to my feet. “I-I must use the necessary. Pardon me.” I wobbled a curtsy, embarrassed by the three pairs of surprised eyes yet also certain I did not want Oliver seen. Moments later, I dashed into the hall and veered sharply left. I strode away from Oliver and away from the restaurant’s view.

As I knew they would, Oliver’s footsteps clicked after me. It wasn’t until we had passed through two doorways and the hallway twisted sharply left that I slowed to a stop.

“You fool!” I turned and, grabbing his coat, yanked him to me. “They might have seen you.”

“That Joseph fellow did see me.”

My breath caught. “What? Did he recognize you?”

“No.” Oliver smirked, obviously entertained by my panic. “Why would he? We’ve never met.”

“But you’re a . . .” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You’re a demon. Can he not tell?”

“Not unless I’m doing magic. I couldn’t even sense another demon if the demon wasn’t actively tossing around spiritual energy. Like the rest of the world, all your Spirit-Hunters see is an incredibly dashing young man.” He flashed his eyebrows at me. “Besides, I was under the impression that you wanted me to meet Joseph Boyer.”

“I do want you to meet him. Just . . . just not yet.”

He scratched his chin. “So you aren’t mad at me for leaving you at the train station?”

“Well, uh . . . no,” I said at last, “though I am wondering where you have been all this time.”

He spread his arms wide. “It’s Paris, El! I’ve been everywhere. Enjoying my old haunts and finding new ones. Why, I discovered a charming bar in Montmarte, and while I was there”—he dipped toward me—“I heard about les Morts. Bloody disgusting. And bloody ambiguous.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that those missing eyes and ears could be any number of sacrificial rituals.” He tapped his chest. “And I am glad it’s not me tasked with finding the person behind it.”

“But we are tasked with that.”

“Er, why ‘we’ exactly?”

I frowned at him. “Well, the Spirit-Hunters are after les Morts, so I suppose I am too.”

“But what of Marcus—”

“He’s not here, so I will deal with him when he comes.”

“—and Elijah’s letters, your necromancy, and . . . am I forgetting anything? Oh yes.” He glowered.

“Setting me free.”

I ground my teeth. “And I will get to all that when I am good and ready. For now, Marcus isn’t here and les Morts are. If I want Joseph to help me, then I must first help him.”

“But I am good and ready now, El. I thought we were friends.”

“We . . . are.” My face scrunched up, and I realized that he was my friend. He knew more about me than even the Spirit-Hunters, and I didn’t want to lose that. And yet for all that Oliver knew of me, I knew almost nothing about him. “For a friend,” I said slowly, “you keep an awful lot of secrets. About my brother.”

He gave me a cool, sidelong glance. “And I have told you, that’s my personal business.”

“But maybe your personal business would help me understand Elijah’s letters.”

“Well, you could make it easier for the both of us if you simply gave me those letters.” He bowed toward me. “I could take them, you know. But I haven’t.”

Now it was my turn to gaze at him sidelong. “Why not, if it’s so easy?”

For a moment he did not reply, and I could see in the shifting of his pupils that he was rummaging through various replies. At last his eyes narrowed and he declared, “I haven’t stolen the letters because

I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me. We can’t make this partnership work if you don’t. I want to see the letters for personal reasons, so I am . . . content to wait. At least for now.”

I swallowed, unsure how to respond. I so desperately wanted to trust him too—wanted the easy reliance I’d shared with Elijah. “What if . . . what if we make a deal?”

“Ah.” His yellow eyes flashed bright gold. “I do love deals. What do you propose?”

“You help me with les Morts, and then I’ll let you see Elijah’s letters.”

His lips curled up. “What a lovely idea, El. I daresay, with me on this case, les Morts will be solved in a matter of days—nay, hours. And then those letters will be mine.”

My eyebrows twitched down. I had the distinct impression I had fallen into some unseen trap—

that I’d offered Oliver precisely what he wanted all along. Yet, as far as I could see, whatever it was he wanted matched up with my own desires, so I merely answered with “Thank you.”

His smile widened. “See if you can’t get me one of the bodies—that would help immensely.”

“Get you a body?”

“Yes. Missing eyes and ears could be a variety of things—all of them bad. But if you get me one, I might be able to—”

“Eleanor?” Joseph’s voice rang out from the hall. “Are you here?”

My heart skittered into my throat. “Go,” I hissed at Oliver. “I’ll find you later.”

He grinned, almost rakishly. Yes, he definitely enjoyed my panic. I shot him a glare before darting back into the main hallway.

After intercepting me in the hall, Joseph informed me—tiredly—that he had to attend a meeting with the Marquis and Madame Marineaux.

“But I would like very much for you to come to the lab once I am back. There are . . . things we must discuss.” His gaze flickered to my phantom limb. “I will let you know when I have returned, non?”

Dread cinched around my neck like a noose, yet as we walked into the foyer, I forced myself to give him a chipper “Of course!”

He nodded. “Until later, then.”

He was gone only moments when a porter came to my side and informed me that he would guide me to my room. Excitedly, I followed him up four flights and into a smaller version of Jie’s room—

though mine was blessed with a balcony that overlooked the gardens and the hollowed-out palace.

I had barely finished exploring the luxury of my new home when a dressmaker arrived, sent by

Madame Marineaux. Before long, the sun was in the middle of the sky and Jie was dragging me to lunch in the dining room.

Joseph still had not returned, and Jie explained over our meal—her words laced with annoyance—

that his daily absences were more the norm than the exception.

I hastily swallowed my mouthful of roast duck. “But where does he go?”

“Parties, salons, more parties.” Jie stabbed her fork into a potato.

I swallowed and wiped my lips with a napkin. “But shouldn’t he be working?”

She shrugged. “He wants to, but les Morts haven’t been here in three weeks, yeah? The demand for our services hasn’t been very high.”

“Oh. Right.” My forehead creased, and I chewed absently on a piece of a baguette. Well, I suppose this gives me more time to come up with a good story about my hand.

Except that my afternoon of planning excuses was not particularly successful. I had become too adept at ignoring my problems . . . or perhaps it was simply the magic of Paris. Either way, as Jie took me walking through the Tuileries Gardens and down to the river Seine, I found myself far more focused on this new, grand city than on the ever-present darkness lurking in my mind.

At first I fidgeted with my new gown, smoothing at the bodice and tugging at the skirts. Though the dress was of shockingly good quality for something premade, the muddy brown color left much to be desired, and I was painfully—and surprisingly—self-conscious in front of all the Parisians. They looked so effortlessly stylish, and they carried themselves with a grace I knew I could never match.

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!”