A Darkness Strange and Lovely

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.”

Jie and I gasped.

“It is worse, though.” Joseph gripped his hat brim with a gloved hand. “The Madame is trapped in the same room as the corpse, so we will have to work fast. As capable a woman as Madame Marineaux is, no one lives long with one of the Hungry nearby.” Then, with a grimace, he added, “Let us pray she is still alive at all.”

Moments later, the carriage came to an abrupt halt, and at the maid’s terrified shriek, I realized we had reached our destination. While Joseph and Jie hauled the influence machine from the carriage, I climbed out to gawk at the beige stone house. It was typically Parisian, yet it was at least three times as large as any other home on the street. No wonder she and the Marquis can afford to buy me dresses.

Joseph and Jie moved past me, scuttling sideways for the front door.

“And how,” I asked, scurrying after, “did the Madame get trapped in the room with the Hungry corpse?”

“It was an accident,” Joseph said. “The servants managed to shut the butler’s corpse in the lady’s dressing room, but they did not realize the lady had locked herself in her water closet.”

“Plus vite!” The maid cried. “Faster!” She barreled through the black front door, and we chased behind.

The instant I crossed the threshold into the elegant front hall, a wild pounding hit my ears from the floor above.

My eyes rested on the steep, winding staircase at the end of the room. “We’re going up there?”

“That’s where the butler is,” Joseph said.

I pursed my lips and stared at the stairs. They were fine for a graceful human, but they would be treacherous for a clumsy corpse. At that realization, an idea unwound in my mind.

“What if we don’t go up,” I started, “but instead lure the butler downstairs?”

Joseph and Jie ground to a halt, glancing at me. Their chests heaved, and the influence machine rocked between them like a ship on high seas.

“Continue,” Joseph breathed. “What would we do next?”

I hurried to them. “Leave the machine here. We’ll draw the butler down, where we’ll be waiting with our attack.”

Joseph squinted slightly. “That would give us more time to prepare.” He nodded at Jie. “Set it down.” They eased the device to the floor.

“Joseph,” I continued, “I will let the corpse out while you and Jie get the machine spinning.”

“No.” His voice was sharp. “You and Jie prepare the machine. I will let the Hungry loose.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. “It is an order, Eleanor. Now start spinning.” And with that, he tossed his top hat to the floor and bounded for the stairs.

Jie turned to me. “You wouldn’t get far in that dress anyway.” She dusted off her hands and dropped to her knees to spin the wheel. “Plus, you can stop a corpse like Joseph can, yeah?”

I didn’t answer but simply exhaled slowly through my nose. Only once had I laid bodies to rest, and it had been a tedious, slow process. Not to mention, it had been three months ago, and I’d had no idea what I was doing.

Yet, if Jie saw my hesitation, she did not comment. She simply placed her hands on the machine’s knob and began to turn.

Surely I can do it again. I certainly wanted to.

At that realization, the hunger flared to life—but this time it wasn’t confined to my belly. My chest ached, my fingers itched, and my mouth watered. All I could think about was magic. Using my magic to stop this corpse.

I forced myself to inhale, to push this need aside, to focus.

It was then that the noises from upstairs ceased.

One breath passed. Then two, and the only sound was the whir of the glass.

Then the calm was broken.

“It comes!” Joseph roared. “Be ready!” Heavy, sure footsteps banged through the hallway.

Then a new pounding came in an awkward counterbeat to Joseph’s. A split second later, Joseph hit the stairs and came flying into view. “Hurry!”

Jie spun the wheel faster. But the momentum was too much—the handle flew from her hands.

“No!” She caught the handle and started over.

Joseph hit the main floor, his eyes white and bulging, and dove into a crouch beside Jie. Behind him came the hollow punch of limbs against tight walls, the snap of bones on steep, crooked stairs, and the chomping of jaws in search of prey.

All of our eyes stayed glued to the stairs—each step was slowing the butler, but was it enough?

A black-shoed foot toppled into view. Then the other, and I knew with a sickening certainty that the Dead would reach us before the machine could make sparks.

Now I could see the man’s face: empty, bloody holes where his eyes had once been and crusted, brown blood all over his wrinkled skin.

Without thinking, I acted. I threw my hands up, latching onto my spiritual energy, and drawing in a warm, buzzing well of power. Then, like cracking a whip, I flung it at the body.

The instant my magic touched the Dead, a leash formed between us—but not a leash I could control. This corpse wasn’t bound to a necromancer. It was one of the Hungry: animated by a spark and searching frantically for any soul to consume.

I had no idea how to blast its magic back to the spirit realm. That was Joseph’s trick, and it needed electricity. Yet I found I could affect the corpse. I could pump my will into it.

“Stay!” My voice ripped out, high and desperate. “Stay back!”

The Hungry hesitated, then it slogged forward as if in waist-deep mud.

“Stay!” I yelled again.

Sweat dripped down my face. Despite the pleasant heat licking through me, holding this corpse was exhausting me. Why wasn’t the influence machine making sparks?

“Stay, stay, stay!” I shouted. The Hungry’s teeth clacked in spurts now, but with less time between each bite. And no matter how hard I strained, the corpse was gaining ground. Faster with each passing breath . . . until it was almost to the bottom step. Until it was only feet from reaching us. From reaching me.

“Stay!” I shrieked. “Stay, stay!” I couldn’t maintain this much longer.

At that moment, a pop! filled the hall. Joseph made his attack. As the machine sparked again, he thrust his left hand into the electricity. It flew into his skin, and as he tossed up his right hand, lightning blasted from his fingertips.

Blinding blue webs of light seared my vision, and my focus scattered. Instantly, the corpse lurched into a full sprint. Off the final stair and right for me.

I flung up my hands.

Crack! Electricity sizzled past me, hitting the corpse like a bullet to the chest. Then again and again.

For half a ragged heartbeat, the Hungry hovered upright, his jaw wide. Then he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

And we all stared at it for several long, shaking breaths. The air was heavy with thunder and humming with static. And when no twitch came, Jie let out a great whoop.

“That was amazing, Eleanor! I’ve never seen anything like it!” She threw her arms around my neck. “I’d say you’re now officially a Spirit-Hunter.”

But the instant Jie released me from her embrace, Joseph cast me a deep frown that emphasized his scars, stark and white. He was furious. Yet he did not say anything; he merely snatched his top hat off the floor, hopped over the corpse, and went upstairs.

I felt too good—too mind numbed and incredible—to give his reaction much thought.

Instead, I studied the butler’s corpse. In addition to the bloody gashes around his empty eye sockets, beneath his white hair were gaping holes where his ears had once been. Yet what really struck me as odd was the fine dusting of white powder that seemed to coat his entire body. Before I could consider what it might mean, though, the front door swung wide and a squeal erupted. The old maid scurried to my side, wailing, “Pauvre Claude, pauvre Claude!” Over and over, she cried.

Until Jie’s temper finally cracked. “Enough,” she snapped. “How’re we supposed to clean him up if you won’t shut pan?”

“But ’is wife!” the maid howled. “She died two weeks ago and now ’e die too— oh, pauvre

Claude! ”

“You said he has no family?” I asked.

“Nooooon!” she howled.

“So would it be possible for us to keep the body?”

“What?” Jie asked, staring at me. “We don’t take the bodies.”

“Why not? If we keep it, we can inspect it. For other mutilations or something to help us investigate.” And then Oliver can look at it.

Jie’s face bunched up. “It won’t be long before it starts to rot, yeah?”

I raised my shoulders. “I know, but is it not possible we’re missing something? A clue?”

“Taaaaake ’im!” the maid sobbed.

I gripped the woman’s upper arms and tried to get her to look at me. “Calm down. We need your help. We need you to hail us an extra-large cab. And get us something to wrap the body in.”

The woman shook her head. “I must ask Madame Marineaux about a wrap—”

“Use a bedsheet,” a woman commanded from above. I snapped my head up just as Madame

Marineaux rounded the staircase’s corner. Other than a slight flush to her angular face, there was no sign of her harrowing experience with les Morts.

This impressed me enormously. What kind of woman could travel the world, face off the Dead, and command Parisian high society with ease? The sort of woman I wished to be.

Madame Marineaux paused by the corpse to inspect him, her brows drawing together. “This is . . . well, sad does not seem sufficient.” Her gaze lifted to Jie and me. “Thank you, Mesdemoiselles. You have saved my household . . . and my life. The water closet door was almost broken.” She shivered and clasped her hands to her heart. “Did I hear properly that you wish to take this corpse?”

She looked so disgusted by the prospect that an embarrassed flush ignited on my face. “Er, yes.

We can study it for clues.”

“Oh. I had not thought of this.” She stepped around the corpse, her gaze firmly placed elsewhere.

“I suppose that is a very clever idea then.”

My mortification instantly shifted into pride.

Joseph trotted down the stairs and came to Madame Marineaux’s side. “I see no other signs of les

Morts. This poor man is the only Dead in your household.”

“Thank heavens,” she murmured. “And thank you, Monsieur.”

“You are most welcome, Madame. Now I fear we must depart.” His eyes met mine, and it was clear what he was trying to tell me: you and I need to talk.

“Oh, do not go,” Madame Marineaux begged. “I owe you a million thank-yous. Please, stay for dinner. We can discuss plans for the ball this Friday.”

“Je suis désolé,” Joseph replied, “but I cannot. Now that les Morts have returned, I must not be away from the lab for too long.”

“We have to wait for the Dead.” Jie nodded to the body. “ Eleanor wants to bring it back to the lab.”

“Oh?” Joseph popped on his hat. “All right. I presume there is an excellent reason for this, so let us get it into a carriage. Hurry—”

“Or,” I blurted, “I could stay. You two go on to the hotel, and I will make sure the butler gets to the lab.”

“A grand idea!” Madame Marineaux exclaimed. “And then you can stay for dinner. I would so like to have company after my terrifying afternoon.”

Again Joseph’s nostrils flared, but I could see in the straightening of his back that he would not argue with Madame Marineaux.

Instead, he spun to me. “I expect you to find me the instant you return.”

Jie’s forehead wrinkled. “Is something the matter?”

Joseph did not answer. He simply bowed to Madame Marineaux and strode from the hall. Jie flashed me a worried look, but I gave her a smile in return. Whatever Joseph’s problem was, I found I did not much care. My blood still bubbled with the thrum of magic, and all I wanted to do was make this happy moment last as long as I could.

So I turned to Madame Marineaux and said, “I would love to stay for dinner. Merci beaucoup. ”

Madame Marineaux’s house turned out to be as elegant and entertaining as its owner. She led me through her hallway and into a private sitting room.

“I never let people come here,” she said with a wink, “but I believe you will find it enjoyable.”

She was right—the room was fascinating. It was like being in a museum: on this shelf was a collection of tribal masks, on that table was an assortment of enormous seashells, and on the windowsill was a row of exotic orchids. The floors were covered in Oriental rugs and the windows draped with thick, scarlet drapes. A fireplace burned with a small, cozy fire, and everything felt so tasteful. So lovingly tended.

It was precisely what Mama had tried to create in our own home, but our knickknacks had been fake and cheap by comparison. And, of course, all those knickknacks were now long gone.

While Madame Marineaux went to check that her servants were recovered enough to make a small dinner, I wandered the room with a slack jaw. After examining everything I laid eyes on, I ended up before a shelf on which lay two hair clasps like Jie’s.

“Admiring my souvenirs?” Madame Marineaux asked. I hadn’t even heard her enter the room.

Smiling, I turned toward her. “Oh yes. Did you give Jie one of these?”

“I did.” Madame Marineaux moved to my side, her skirts swishing. “I thought she might like something from her homeland.”

“She does.” I nodded warmly. “She likes it very much.”

“I am glad.” She motioned me to a pair of rose-colored armchairs beside the fireplace. “Let us sit.

We will have an apéritif before our meal.”

As we crossed to the seats, I noticed a collection of portraits over the fireplace. One was of her, one was of the Marquis, and one was of an auburn-haired woman whom I did not recognize . . . though something about her reminded me of Madame Marineaux.

“Who is that woman?” I asked, dropping into a chair as she eased into the other. “Your sister, perhaps?”

For a moment the Madame’s shoulders drooped, and she did not reply. But finally she said, “No.

The Marquis’s sister, actually. Her name was Claire.” She gave me a sad smile. “And she was like a sister to me—my closest friend in all the world. But . . . she died almost seven years ago.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

“Do not be. We must lose everyone we love at some point or another. C’est la vie. ” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Now tell me, what do you think of Paris? What have you seen so far?”

“Not much, but what I have visited is truly beautiful.”

“You shall have to see more then! I will steal you away as soon as you are free and show you my favorite places.”

“Oh, Madame, I would love that! But you’ve already done so much for me. Why, I haven’t even thanked you for this dress yet. It is so nice to have something new to wear.”

Her lips quirked up happily. “I fear the brown is not the prettiest of colors, but I promise”—she tilted almost conspiratorially toward me—“you will have something far more magnificent for the ball.”

“Th-thank you.” I fidgeted with my gloves. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“By telling me stories.” She clapped her hands. “I love hearing about other parts of the world. Tell me about Philadelphia—oh, or, I know, tell me how you met the Spirit-Hunters.”

“Oh, um . . .” My forehead puckered. I didn’t want to tell her how I had met the Spirit-Hunters, for that would mean telling her about their criminal status back in Philadelphia—about my own unsavory status. Instead, I opted to change the subject. “It amazes me how popular they are here.”

She nodded. “They are the city’s favorites—though how much longer that will last, I do not know.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Only that it is . . . difficult to keep the city entertained. As odd as it may sound, the less they work and the more parties they attend, the higher their favor.”

“That is odd.” I tugged at my ear. “Would the people not want them to stop les Morts?”

“Of course! But they also want to see the Spirit-Hunters out and about, living a glamorous life.

And you cannot forget that everyone loves the macabre. The newspapers benefit by having stories to tell, the Marquis benefits by protecting the city, and the Spirit-Hunters benefit by being showered with love.” She laid her hands in her lap, grinning slightly. “Do not frown like that, Mademoiselle. It is merely something to consider.”

Right then, a maid—not the hysterical woman from earlier—bustled into the parlor with a tray of champagne. The crystal flutes rattled, and the woman’s face was pinched, clearly indicating that she was not fully recovered from the afternoon’s drama.

Just as she finished pouring the sweet drink and handed one to me, Madame Marineaux exclaimed, “Non, non! Look what you have done!” She glowered at the maid. “You have dirtied her glass with your finger! Please, take my drink, Mademoiselle.” She extended her flute toward me, her face lined with annoyance. “And accept my apology for this foolish maid.”

“That’s all right.” I smiled reassuringly at the maid. “I do not mind.”

“No,” the Madame insisted. “I cannot have you drinking out of a tarnished glass. Think what people will say of me!” She pushed her glass at me once more, so I accepted it—and was instantly rewarded with one of her beautiful smiles. Then, after donning another, quick scowl, Madame

Marineaux sent her maid away and waited for me to drink.

I sipped it—the added syrup was far too sweet for my taste—but since the Madame was clearly waiting for a reaction of approval, I forced myself to tip back the whole thing.

When I was done, she picked up our earlier conversation. “So you see, Mademoiselle, as long as les Morts continue, the Spirit-Hunters will remain popular. It is quite the . . . conundrum.”

I nodded, although I suddenly found it quite difficult to focus—and I was too warm and relaxed even to mind. It would seem the alcohol had gone straight to my head.

And, hours later, when I returned to the Hotel Le Meurice, I found that not only could I not recall a single word from the evening, but I had completely forgotten to bring the butler’s corpse with me.

Or to find Joseph.

But most worrying of all, I realized none of this until the next day.

I awoke exhausted, throbbing with hunger and so befuddled, I questioned my own sanity. How can one forget an entire evening and night?

Unless it’s the necromancy.

I heaved the absurd thought aside and replaced it with visions of a hot bath and copious amounts of fresh bread. In all likelihood, I had imbibed too much champagne. I could deal with my necromancy later. Deal with the Dead and Oliver and everything else in the world later.

But of course, none of my plans came to fruition. Just as I heaved up my foot for the final step through the restaurant doorway, someone shouted my name.

“Mademoiselle Fitt! Eleanor!”

With a monumental amount of effort, I turned myself back around. And instantly beamed, for it was none other than Laure Primeau.

She bustled toward me, her face split with a grin and her dark sapphire dress cinched tightly around her waist. How she got her corset so small, I couldn’t imagine, but she certainly made it look effortless. And she certainly wore that magnificent color effortlessly as well.

“What are you doing here?” I strode toward her, my hands outstretched to clasp hers. “I thought you were bound for Marseille.”

“And I decided to take a detour. I ’ave friends in Paris whom I ’ave been meaning to see. I thought

I would come visit you on the way.” Her lips quirked up. “Especially when I heard you are companions with the famous Spirit-Hunters. C’est vrai?”

“Yes. It’s true.”

Her eyes crinkled—partly with pleasure, but mostly with mischief. “I suppose that explains how you got a new hand, non?”

I yanked my hand back, heat bursting on my face. “Yes. That’s . . . that’s it.”

“Oh, I did not intend to make you uncomfortable.” She hooked her arm in mine and gave me a wide—and very genuine—smile. “I ’ave hunger and would very much like a treat in the ’otel’s famous restaurant.”

I laughed. “You had me at the word ‘hunger.’ Come—it is my treat this time.”

We were halfway through our second round of pastries (though how the devil she fit three chocolate croissants and all that coffee inside her corset, I haven’t the faintest idea), when a flurry of noise began outside. People trickled past, one by one . . . until there were suddenly many people—all of them rushing and all of them headed for the street. A quick glance out the window showed people pushing onto the Rue de Rivoli. Traffic was almost at a halt.

But most curious of all was that every person’s face was lifted up.

Laure dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “What do you suppose it is?” She did not wait for an answer before waving over the nearest server. After a quick conversation in French, her eyebrows jumped high, and she twisted back to me. “He says it is a giant balloon over the city.”

Now my eyebrows jumped high. Then, without another word, we both bounded to our feet and scrambled for the door. “A giant balloon?” I repeated as we hurried through the crowded front hall.

“Are you sure you understood right?”

“Oui!” She began with a glare, but she didn’t finish speaking, for now we had left the hotel and had a full view of the sky.

And both our jaws were sagging.

Floating over the city, exactly as the server had described, was an enormous white balloon. It was like the war balloons from the Civil War but much, much larger. And shaped like an egg.

No wonder the whole city was outside! The balloon floated closer and closer, faster than any bird or carriage, and as I ogled with the rest of Paris, all my earlier concerns dropped away. I wanted to see this balloon up close, wanted to see what sort of machine could navigate the skies.

“Come,” Laure urged. “Everyone is going into the gardens.” I let her drag me along and we wound our way around stopped carriages, huffing horses, and wide-eyed spectators until we reached the fence surrounding the Tuileries.

“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Look! It is landing!” She tugged me toward the gardens’ entrance. We darted and wove and twisted until we were both coated in sweat, yet no one seemed to mind our unladylike comportment—not even when Laure started stabbing people with her parasol to get inside the gardens. Everyone else was poking as much as she.

At last we managed to find a small gap between bodies at the bottom of the stairs. By that point almost everyone had stopped moving, their faces upturned at the now rapidly sinking balloon. So, with our hands as visors, Laure and I turned our own faces upward with the rest of Paris.

The closer the balloon came, the more detail I could see. It was at least three times the size of a war balloon yet shaped like an ellipse. With a long gondola dangling beneath, it had the look of a boat with enormous white sails.

And never—not ever—had I seen anything like it. Not even at the Centennial Exhibition back in

Philadelphia, which supposedly contained all the world’s wonders. Clearly they had missed this one.

I couldn’t keep the grin off my lips. The words magnifique and incroyable flew around me, and not once did Laure stop her own exclamations.

Soon the balloon was low enough that the crowds were forced back, and a space was cleared at the center of the gardens. Blue-uniformed men rushed forward. I squinted and then blinked. One of those servants was the rigidly mustached waiter from the hotel.

But before I could consider what it might mean, one of the portholes in the gondola popped open.

A rope flew out. Then, one by one, each porthole burst wide and ropes came tumbling through. The servants from Le Meurice—for those were who they all were—rushed forward to snatch up the ropes.

I strained on my tiptoes, trying to glimpse how this monstrosity would be tied down, but then my attention was diverted—the gondola’s door was opening wide.

A folding ladder dropped down, and onto the first rung stepped a gleaming, black boot.

Applause rippled throughout the crowd and then finally burst forth in a thunder of clapping hands.

And it was as if someone took the clock and locked it in place.

I felt every brush of wind, every drop of sweat. I heard every whisper and shout around me. Heard

Laure’s elated laughter bubbling beneath. My heart grew and grew until I thought it might break free from my chest.

Perhaps it was the dregs of necromancy or perhaps it was the way the perfect breeze kissed my face, but in that moment, I did not think I had ever seen anything more beautiful in my life. Or inspiring. What kind of person did you have to be to tame the skies?

I held my breath, waiting for the rest of this unknown pilot to appear.

A gray-trousered leg came next, followed by a gray coattail, a sandy-blond head . . .

And then the pilot turned to face the crowd. To face me.

It was Daniel.