A Darkness Strange and Lovely

Chapter Seventeen

“Demon!” Joseph hissed. He stood over Oliver and me, a crystal clamp in his hand. Behind him stood Daniel, with a pistol—a real pistol—aimed at Oliver’s head.

“Eleanor,” Joseph said, “get away from that creature.”

“It’s fine,” I said tiredly.

“Non. He may look like a man, but he is not. He is a demon.”

Oliver wound his fingers around my arm. “She knows what I am.”

“Let her go!” Daniel barked.

When Oliver did not budge, Joseph lifted both hands. “I will blast you to the spirit realm.”

“No, you won’t.” Oliver’s fingers tightened. “I’m bound to Eleanor. Use that gadget, and you kill her too.”

“Silence!” Joseph roared. “I will not hear your lies.” He squeezed the clamp.

“Wait!” I screamed, lurching to my feet. “It’s true. Oliver is my demon.”

Joseph froze, and his face paled. “Non, non— it cannot be.”

“It . . . is.”

Daniel choked, and when I glanced at him, I saw horror rip over his face. Horror and betrayal.

Joseph stared at Oliver, his eyes as hard as stone. “What lies have you planted in her?” he growled.

“Show me your binding piece.”

“No lies.” A smugness settled on Oliver’s face. He stood and slipped out his locket. At that, Joseph’s eyes closed, and he finally lowered his hands.

Daniel, however, did not move. His pistol stayed trained on Oliver though his gaze was on me.

“Have you been bound to this thing the—” His voice cracked. “The whole time?”

“Yes. I had no choice, Daniel. Please, I—”

“It’s a monster.” Daniel’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Oliver isn’t a monster. He saved my life,” I added. “And Laure’s.”

Joseph and Daniel flinched, as if noticing the bloodied woman on the floor for the first time. Yet neither approached.

“Why?” Joseph demanded. His neck bulged. “Why would you bind to a demon?”

“You make it sound as if I set out to do it, but I did not.” I tipped up my chin. “As I have said over and over, I had no choice. Marcus sent the Hell Hounds after me.” I raised my right hand. “He had a spell on me, and the only way to survive was to bind to Oliver.”

“Why did you not tell me?” Joseph straightened to his full height, and his voice bellowed out. “I told you I thought a demon was responsible for les Morts! How, Eleanor, how could you hide a demon from me after knowing that?”

“Because Oliver is not the one raising les Morts.”

“How do you know that?” Daniel lowered the pistol, and I noticed that his hands trembled. His voice too. “And how do we know this creature isn’t the one raising the Dead?”

“Because I’m telling you it is not Oliver.”

“And you are a liar,” Joseph spat. “A liar and a necromancer. I should have seen it—you are no different than he.”

It was like a punch in the gut. He. Marcus. And for a split second my heart clenched . . . but then all regret vanished in a seething rush. After everything we had done together, after we had stood side by side against the Dead, after Joseph had seen what Marcus had done to my family, he thought I was no different? All my past loyalty had bought me nothing?

“No!” I spat. “No. I am not like Marcus. I am not the corrupt necromancer you so desperately want me to be.” My lips curled back. “Do not look at me like that—as if you do not understand what I mean. All you see, Joseph, is black or white, and I am sorry, but I do not fit into those lines.”

I drew back my shoulders. “Necromancy has not corrupted me, but Marcus has corrupted you and how you view the world. I am still Eleanor and the same girl I have always been. Only I’m stronger now. Stronger than you, Joseph, and stronger than your machines. I can use my magic—my necromancy— without turning into Marcus.”

“Is that what you think?” Joseph gave a growling laugh. “That you are somehow immune to the darkness inside you? You are not, Eleanor. You are only blind to it, and eventually it will take control.”

“And if it does take control?” I threw my arms wide. “So what? I don’t care—and you shouldn’t either. I am on your side! If this magic is the only way to stop Marcus, then so be it!”

“Is this truly what you believe, Eleanor?” Again Joseph laughed, his face twisted with disgust and his scars stretched taut. “You believe you are powerful enough to face Marcus? Do not mistake the feeling of strength for actual strength.”

“Tell yourself that,” Oliver snarled. “Tell yourself she’s weaker than you if it makes you feel less afraid. But know that it isn’t the truth. Eleanor is strong; and once she is trained, she will be as strong as a demon, as strong as Marcus, and certainly stronger than you.” He flourished a hand at the corpses littering the hall. “She raised these. All of these, and all by herself. The rats, the birds, the butler—it was all Eleanor’s magic.”

I spun to Oliver. “Why are you saying that? I didn’t do this!”

“Oh yes, you did. It might not have been on purpose, El, but I felt your magic all over it.”

“But I couldn’t have!”

“Yet you did.” He gave me a sad half smile. “It was you who raised the Dead.”

Bile rose in my throat. “But how? There is no possible way!” Then I remembered the words I’d thought before passing out: Awake, awake, awake . . . “ Oh God, oh God, no. ” My breathing came faster. I clutched my stomach. “It was me. Oh no, no, no . . . it was an accident! I was trying to hold a séance.”

“You need multiple people to hold a séance,” Joseph declared.

“So I used the crystal clamp. But it overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t reach any spirits.”

“Of course not!” he yelled. “The séance is not about power. It is about focus. Focus and discipline—neither of which you have!”

“Because you have not taught me!” I screamed. “If you want me to learn, then teach me! Do not tell me simply to resist my magic. I cannot; don’t you see?”

Daniel took a step toward me. I jolted. He had been so silent, I’d forgotten he was here.

“How,” he said in a rough voice, “can Joseph be expected to teach you? You lied to him—to me.”

His eyes ran desperately over my face. “What . . . what are you?”

A fresh wave of fury crashed into me. I scoffed. “That is a stupid question coming from you since, pray tell, what are you, Daniel? You prance around the city pretending to be a gentleman in your fancy suits and with your fancy manners. Well, you are not a gentleman. You’re a criminal, remember?” I rounded on Joseph. “And you—you have the same magic in you. It must be so wonderful simply to fight the corruption. But how, Joseph? How do you do it? I can’t solve this on my own!”

Joseph’s mouth opened, but I surged on before he could fling out any more unwarranted accusations. “Both of you are running around chasing your tails and attending parties and salons while les Morts run free. While an amulet with seventy-three compulsion spells hides somewhere, waiting to be detonated. While Jie is missing! And while Marcus could be here any blasted moment. The Spirit-

Hunters are an ineffective joke.” I pounded my chest. “But I have power, and I intend to use it.”

Before Joseph or Daniel could answer, I spun around and knelt beside the still-unconscious Laure.

“Ollie, can you lift her? She’s small.”

“I can manage,” he answered, crouching beside me. Together we hefted the woman into his arms.

“We will take her to the lobby and call for a doctor,” I said as we trudged past the Spirit-Hunters toward the stairs. But I barely made it two steps before Joseph’s voice rang out.

“Stop. I cannot let you go free.”

Oliver and I paused, but I nudged the demon to keep going. Then I pivoted around and advanced on

Joseph. “And what will you do to me? Blast me to pieces like one of the Dead?” I spun to Daniel.

“Shoot me?”

“If we have to,” Joseph answered quietly, “then yes.”

“Well, you do not have to because I am not your threat. You know me, Joseph. Daniel.” My gaze darted between them. “All I want to do is search for Jie, and after I find her I will leave Paris—leave you—for good.” I pushed out my chest, pumping all the assertion and command I could muster into my words. “I am not a threat to you—not unless you try to stop me. If you get in my way, then this”—

I motioned to the corpses—“will seem like child’s play.”

Without waiting for a reply, I marched after Oliver, and together we descended.

It was a bluff. I couldn’t fight Joseph. Oliver and I could barely carry Laure down the stairs, much less use any more magic. But it didn’t mean I wouldn’t fight Joseph if he got in my way.

The truth was, despite my exhaustion, I felt ablaze with potential. I would finally do something. I would find Jie and stop Marcus.

“Are you . . . all right?” Oliver asked between gasps for air, his cheeks bright pink.

We were passing my floor. Tufts of putrid fur and feathers littered the carpet, only broken up by brown bloodstains or by mounds of rotting corpses. And every so often, a dazed hotel guest gawping at the disaster. It was a replica of the top floor—as was every floor in the hotel.

“I am . . . fine,” I answered, panting. Laure was a small woman, but Oliver and I had no energy left. We rounded a bend in the stairs, and the dull roar of a distant crowd hit my ears. It must be all the guests—they must have gone downstairs.

“That . . . didn’t go well.” He slowed and shifted his grip beneath Laure. “With . . . the Spirit-

Hunters, I mean.”

“It went how we thought it would go.”

“And you’re not . . . sad?” Oliver pressed.

“No,” I said stoutly as we trekked past the Spirit-Hunters’ lab and the sounds from below grew louder, nearer. I wasn’t sad. Not at all.

“That’s the magic, you know.” Oliver spoke the words carefully, watching me for a reaction.

“When the power wears off, you will feel this.”

I wiped my face on my shoulder, but the movement was sloppy . . . and I realized I was shaking.

We were almost to the foyer, and the frantic cries of all the guests were now thunderous; but it wasn’t the noise that tremored through me. I was keyed up on magic.

And that meant that Oliver was right. When this passed, I would probably feel a great deal of guilt over Laure, over the Spirit-Hunters, and over all the damage I had caused. But for now I did not. All I cared about was finding Jie.

And, I thought, anticipation warming my blood anew, if the magic begins to wear off, I can always use more. . . .

Most of the hotel’s patrons had taken refuge in the restaurant. Everyone was a disaster—clothes torn, eyes wide with shock, and skin coated in bits of animal corpses. No one even noticed Laure and me, and while I dealt with her slowly rousing form, Oliver had his eye out for the Spirit-Hunters.

It was all going surprisingly well. We had called for a doctor to tend to Laure—not that she had any injuries to tend—and she seemed to have no memory of what had happened. She thought she had fainted, and she was in a happy buzz from Oliver’s magic.

But then Laure noticed the blood on her dress, and the panic set in. “Qu’est que c’est? Qu’est que c’est?” she breathed over and over again. “It is blood, non? Mais comment? How, Eleanor, how?”

I grabbed her hands and forced her to look at me. “Listen, Laure: it’s not your blood. It’s mine.”

This was perhaps a poor response, because although she stopped her frantic questions, she now looked incredibly suspicious.

“Your blood?” Her lids lowered slightly. “But you are not even hurt.”

“I’m not?” I glanced down, and for the first time I realized the state I was in. My sleeves and skirts were ripped to shreds; my hair hung in thick, crusted clumps before my face; and my arms were covered in jellied animal blood. Yet the skin beneath was as smooth and perfect as Laure’s.

Oliver had not only healed the young woman.

So I wound up telling her the truth. “It was magic, Laure. We . . . we were both attacked by the

Dead, and I healed us.”

Her brow furrowed. “Magic. You healed me with magic?”

I nodded wearily. “I am afraid there’s much more to it.” I glanced at the restaurant’s entrance.

Oliver was motioning to me—the doctor had arrived. I turned back to Laure. “But I cannot tell you everything now. And your doctor is here.”

She pushed to her feet, the picture of vitality. “I do not need one. I shall call a cab and return to my friend’s house. However”—she leaned close, her eyes boring into mine—“I expect to hear the whole story tomorrow, Eleanor. I will call on you. We have plans for breakfast, non? So tomorrow morning before I leave for Marseille, I will return.”

“Fair enough,” I murmured.

After walking with her to get a carriage, I returned to the crowded foyer to search for Oliver.

Sometime in the last hour of hell, I had decided I would turn to the demon for help finding Jie. I had been willing to give him my letters—had decided I could rely on him—until he’d ruined my moment with Daniel and my temper had clouded everything. No, perhaps I would never trust the demon completely, but he at least deserved my respect. He had saved my life and Laure’s. . . .

Besides, he was all I had left now.

“Mademoiselle Fitt!”

I paused, searching for who had called me. “Mademoiselle Fitt!” The Marquis’s dark hair and oily mustache appeared nearby, and he pushed through the throngs to finally pop out directly in front of me. “Mon Dieu, are you hurt?” His eyes ran over my destroyed gown.

“I’m not hurt.” I tried to smile, but I found I was too distracted by all the panicked people closing in. What if the Spirit-Hunters were here? What if I missed Oliver?

As if sensing my distress, the Marquis took my elbow and guided me through the people to the relative calm of the stairs.

“I heard les Morts were here,” he said, breathing heavily and leaning on his cane. “I came immediately! C’est horrible—très, très horrible!”

I nodded, unsure what he wanted from me, and turned my gaze back to the crowds.

“I cannot find zee Spirit-Hunters,” the Marquis went on. “I went to zee lab, but it is empty. Are zey hurt?”

“Uh . . .” I glanced at him just as he set his cane against the wall.

And suddenly I found I could do nothing but stare at it. The handle had changed shape again—I was sure of it. Now all five craggy fingers were curled inward into a fist . . . a fist that would fit perfectly into my hand. . . .

I wet my lips, unable to look away. All I wanted to do was touch the ivory. Feel the grooved carvings, see how the ivory could form such a realistic human hand. And above all, how it could change its shape.

“Mademoiselle?”

I started and jerked my gaze to the Marquis’s face. “Pardon me? Wh-what did you ask?”

“Are zee Spirit-Hunters hurt?”

“Oh, um, no.” I blinked quickly and tried to clear my head. “I-I believe they are fine.”

“Dieu merci, Dieu merci.” LeJeunes pressed his hands together as if praying. “I was so, eh . . . so worried when I could not find zem. Do you know where zey are?”

My eyes flicked to the cane and then back to the Marquis’s worried face. “They must be somewhere in the hotel, sir, for I saw them not too long ago.”

“And zey will still be attending zee ball tonight?”

“Ball?” My eyebrows shot up. Yet again I had completely forgotten about the ball—not that it really mattered. It was hardly something I would be attending now. “I do not know, but I would assume they will still go. Although . . .”

“Oui?”

“One of the members is missing.” I bit my lip. “Jie Chen—the Chinese girl. She has been missing since yesterday.”

The Marquis nodded. “It is very bad. Monsieur Boyer asked for extra men on his patrol force. I gave zem to him gladly. Gave him zee best inspectors we have.”

“Oh.” My brow knit. Perhaps Daniel and Joseph were not as unconcerned for Jie’s safety as I had thought. “And have these inspectors found anything?”

“Non.” LeJeunes wagged his head, almost sadly. “Zey have not . . . how do you say? Have not found any clues. But zey are looking—and will continue to look until zey find Mademoiselle Chen.

But listen.” He bowed toward me, peering at me from the tops of his eyes. “It is impératif zat

Messieurs Boyer and Sheridan come tonight. All of zee other senators will be in attendance—over seventy men and families—and despite zee missing mademoiselle, a public appearance such as a ball is vital to zee Spirit-Hunters’ continued support. And to my own continued support for zee election.”

I found myself nodding in an almost emphatic agreement. Madame Marineaux had said the same thing, had she not?

“Très bien—I am glad you understand, Mademoiselle Fitt. You must tell zem zis, oui? Tell

Messieurs Boyer and Sheridan what I have told you.”

“Perhaps you should tell them—”

“Non, non. I will let you tell zem. It is better. Zey like you. Zey listen to you.”

Not anymore, I thought. But I bobbed a polite curtsy, hoping LeJeunes would interpret it as compliance.

He did; and with a delighted grin, he tapped his nose once and said, “Merci beaucoup! Madame

Marineaux is right about you. Une fille intelligente! Smart girl. Now, I must be off—I have much to do before zee ball! Much to do!” He twisted around and hobbled back toward the crowds.

But he left his cane. I knew he left it without even checking. And I also knew I ought to call out after him . . . but I wanted to see it. Wanted to . . . touch it. . . .

Holding my breath, I gently lifted it by its base and brought the ivory near. Up close, it was even more beautiful. A craftsmanship like nothing I’d ever seen—so real, I thought it might start moving at any moment.

My hand trembling, I gently reached up to stroke one of the long, jagged fingernails. But then the

Marquis’s voice rang out.

“Mademoiselle!”

I tensed, confused. Angry.

And then the Marquis was beside me once more and taking the cane away from me. “Oh, merci, merci! I almost forgot it, and, oh la, zat would have been bad! Zis is my good luck charm—I need it if

I am to win zee election.” He winked at me. “Until tonight, Mademoiselle. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir,” I mumbled, my chest aching as I watched him disappear back into the crowds.

“Eleanor.”

“Huh?”

“El, snap out of it.” Oliver stood before me. I stared stupidly at the demon as the world behind him shifted into focus. I was still at the foot of the stairs, yet the crowds beyond had thinned. “How long have you been standing here?” he asked, concern obvious in the squint of his eyes.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Well, come on. Let’s go to your room.” He took my arm gently in his, and we began a careful trek up the stairs. “What happened? You seem utterly lost.”

“I feel utterly lost too.” I chuckled nervously. “I . . . I was talking to the Marquis and then . . .”

Then I saw his cane, and he took it from me.

“And then?” Oliver prompted.

“Um . . .” I cocked my head. “He was . . . was looking for the Spirit-Hunters and insisting they were not here. Did you see them?”

“No.” Oliver’s head swung once. “I think they must have slipped out in all the . . . er . . . excitement.”

“Maybe to search for Jie.” I hoped this was the reason.

“Or perhaps les Morts have struck again.”

“Number seventy-four,” I murmured. Then I froze midstride. Hadn’t the Marquis said something about seventy? “‘All of the other senators will be in attendance.’ . . .”

“What?” Oliver moved onto the step above me and gazed down. “What about senators?”

“Something the Marquis said about how over seventy men and their families will be at the . . . oh, merciful heavens.” My eyes grew huge as something else he’d said played in my mind. “‘This is my good luck charm.’”

“El, what are you whispering about?”

“ . . . I need it if I am to win the election.” I moved onto the step beside Oliver, and my words rushed out. “Oliver, what does an amulet feel like? How would I recognize one?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.”

“Would it be attractive? As in alluring—would someone want to . . . to touch it?”

“I don’t know, El.” He peered at me slantwise. “A necromancer might be attracted to the power, I suppose, but the average person—”

“The cane!” I almost screamed the word. “The Marquis’s cane is the amulet.”

“The Marquis? As in the man who is—”

“Hosting the Spirit-Hunters, yes!” I burst into a run up the stairs, shouting, “His cane—it isn’t normal, Ollie. Every time I have seen it, the handle has been in a different shape, and all I can think about is how much I want to have it. Maybe he is a demon—you said yourself that you wouldn’t be able to sense one nearby.”

Oliver’s feet pounded behind me. “Well, there’s one easy way to tell. What color are his eyes?”

I slowed. “Blue. Damn, they’re blue.” I resumed my racing stride, and we rounded the stairs, flying past the Spirit-Hunters’ lab. “But even if he is not a demon, he could still have an amulet.”

“But why would he need an amulet?”

“To control the senate, win the presidential election—power. There are seventy-four corpses and I bet seventy-four senators.”

“No,” Oliver called after me. “There are seventy- five.”

“But seventy-five minus the Marquis is seventy-four! And . . .” I trailed off, grinding to a halt. I turned horrified eyes on Oliver. “He said they’ll all be at the ball tonight. What if he intends to cast the amulet then?”

Oliver frowned. “But why would he want the Spirit-Hunters there? Surely he wouldn’t want to cast it with people around who could stop him.”

Now it was my turn to frown. “I-I don’t know, Ollie, but we cannot risk leaving the amulet with the Marquis. We have to stop him.”

“Why do we have to stop him?” Oliver demanded, but I did not respond. I had already resumed my desperate race to my room.

And all I could think of was that stopping the Marquis would lead to Jie. Something in my heart told me her disappearance was connected to les Morts; and if the Marquis was the man behind les

Morts, then . . .

My lips quirked into a smile. Then I would destroy him.

Just as I skittered to a stop before my bedroom door, Oliver jogged up behind me.

“What do you”— gasp—“intend to do, El?”

“Stop him.”

“How?”

“I’ll take the amulet.” I wanted it—I couldn’t deny that. “I will go to his house and take it.” I pushed through my doorway.

But Oliver shoved into my room and forced me to stop. “And then he’ll cast the amulet and compel you to return it. Your plan won’t work.”

“Then tell me what I can do.”

“Your only choice is to stop the necromancer who made the amulet.”

“Stop him how?” I shut my door.

“Death.” He spoke with an intensity I’d never seen. “Murder, El. And despite all your . . . your bloodlust and dark promises, I don’t think you can do that. I know you cannot.”

“Yes, I can,” I said softly.

“No. You are not Elijah, and I won’t let you become him.”

“I thought you wanted this. That you wanted death and sacrifice and blood.”

“I told you what I meant by that, El. In the lab, I told you I didn’t mean violence.” He grabbed my arms. “Listen to me. One death—even if it seems necessary—will only be the beginning. I know. I know.”

No, you do not know, I thought. But I pretended to wilt in agreement. “Then what do we do?”

“We leave it to the Spirit-Hunters, and you and I deal with Marcus.”

“Marcus . . .” The name rolled off my tongue. I looked into Oliver’s face, my back straightening.

“Will you try to stop me from killing him?”

He shook his head once. “His death is different.”

“How?” I demanded.

“Because . . . his time already came. He doesn’t belong in this realm.” Oliver pulled away, his shoulders tensing. “So leave les Morts and Jie to the Spirit-Hunters. Let us go after the Old Man in the

Pyramids. Let us fulfill Elijah’s final command and stop the monster wearing his body.”

Find Marcus, my heart nudged. Find the Old Man and stop Marcus . . . The Spirit-Hunters could handle the Marquis—it was their job, after all.

“All right,” I said at last. “We’ll go after Marcus and the Old Man. Though not until I make sure

Joseph knows about the Marquis and his cane.”

“Fine.” Oliver’s lips eased into a smile. “Then we should start with Elijah’s letters. That’s where we’ll find a clue to this Old Man and his blasted chicken.”

“Chicken? What do you mean?”

“Pullet. Poule. It means ‘chicken.’”

“But the Black Pullet isn’t actually a chicken . . .”

“Yes, it bloody well is. But don’t make that face. It’s also a chicken that lays golden eggs and grants its master immortality.”

“Wait.” Massaging my forehead, I crossed to my bed. “Are you telling me that everyone is chasing after a chicken that lays golden eggs? It’s like something out of a child’s fairy tale. . . .” My voice trailed off as something from Elijah’s letters came to mind. Something about a fairy-tale joke.

“‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’” I whispered, easing onto the edge of my bed.

“Huh?” Oliver strode to the bed and plopped down beside me.

“Didn’t the story of Jack and the beanstalk have a chicken that laid golden eggs?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“But didn’t you tell Elijah a joke about it? When you were in Marseille—in some crypt?”

Oliver’s eyebrows drew together. “We were never in a crypt in Marseille. Not together, at least.

And I certainly never told him any Jack and the beanstalk joke.”

I lurched off the bed. “So it’s a clue!” I began to pace. Four steps forward, four steps back.

Exhilaration pulsed through me, laced with magic. I tossed back my head and for two long breaths simply basked in the heady warmth.

“So what do we do?” Oliver asked.

I smiled and skipped back to my bed. “We can look at Elijah’s letters and see exactly where in

Marseille they lead us. But again”—I wagged a finger at Oliver—“I won’t leave this hotel until the

Spirit-Hunters know about the Marquis and the amulet.”

Oliver scoffed. “And I said fine, but do you think they’ll actually listen to you?”

I crouched down and pushed aside the floor-length bedcover. “I will make them listen. I peered underneath the bed. “I will not let Jie . . .” My words died.

My carpetbag wasn’t there. Nothing was there.

And that meant all my money was gone—and all of Elijah’s letters with it.