A Darkness Strange and Lovely

Chapter Eight

The first thing I did with my new hand was pinch Oliver.

“Hey!” He scooted away from me on the bench.

“Is it real?” I leaned toward him to pinch again, but he wriggled away.

“Of course it’s real! Well, mostly.”

“What do you mean ‘mostly’?” I held it to the light, flexing and straightening the fingers. My body blazed with a warmth ten times more powerful than after the dream ward was cast. The closest

I’d ever come to a feeling like this was when the doctors had fed me laudanum after amputating my hand. But this was a much, much better feeling. Instead of a happy lethargy, I felt ablaze with energy. I could do anything.

Oliver returned to his seat, eying me cautiously. “It’s a phantom limb—it’s only here because of my magic.”

“A phantom limb,” I repeated, shaking my head. “And will it stay forever?”

“About that . . .” He fixed his eyes on his feet. “It’s bound to me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the hand only exists as long as I exist.”

“So if I set you free, I lose the hand.”

“If?” Oliver wagged his finger at me. “When, you mean. You just made a binding agreement.”

“What happens if I don’t follow through?”

He bit his lip. “There is, um . . . a time limit. If you don’t set me free within the next two months, then your new hand will vanish. And, if Marcus’s spell is still in effect, then the Hell Hounds will come after you just like they did five minutes ago.”

“So I’m really no better off than before!” I cried. “All I did was sign over my life to you!”

“And I signed over mine!” He threw his hands up. “You ought to be thanking me, El! You’ve got absolute control over my magic now—anything you want done, I have to do.”

I deflated slightly. “Why two months?”

“The longer the time frame, the longer the incantation. We were in a bit of a rush, you know.”

“And now . . .” I stared at my fingers, torn between staggering relief and pulsing terror. “Now you’re my demon? Like a djinn?”

“Precisely. And you’re my master.”

“Will you call me Master Eleanor?”

“No.” He looked horrified. “I never called your brother Master Elijah.”

“What if I command you to?”

“Then I have to.” He groaned. “But is that really the sort of command you want to give?”

I shrugged. “Well, I have nothing else to ask for . . .”

“Then it’s a damned good thing I haven’t taught you the words of command yet.”

I fixed my eyes on him, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Of course, I will tell you.” He crossed his legs and lowered his voice, leaning close. “Sum veritas. You said it when you bound to me. It means ‘I am the truth.’”

I drummed my new fingers on my thigh, savoring the feeling. “So all I do is give you a command and add those words at the end?”

He nodded.

“All right. Go to the edge of the boat”—I pointed at the railing around the deck—“and wait for me.

Sum veritas. ”

A warm wave rolled over my body, and for a split second Oliver’s eyes shone blue.

He blinked, and then a scowl cut into his forehead. “Truly, El? That’s your command?” He slid off the seat, muttering, “Abuse of power.”

I shoved up and hurried after him. “Can you not resist?”

He slowed and clenched his teeth. “It . . . hurts. Don’t you feel it?”

I frowned and focused on my body. Sure enough, there was a strange sense growing in my belly—

as if my breakfast wasn’t sitting quite right.

“All right,” I said, “I cancel the command. You can go wherever you want. Sum veritas. ” Again the pleasant tingle coursed through me, and Oliver exhaled sharply. We padded back to the bench and sat.

“No more abusing power,” he ordered. “Please. You might turn me into a Rakshasi, if you’re not careful.”

“Turn you into a what?”

“A who. Rakshasa are demons. Very angry, very awful demons. For one, they have a fondness for making their fingernails venomous.”

“Venomous?”

“Nasty, isn’t it?” He shuddered. “I had the same reaction when Elijah told me about them.”

“So you haven’t met any?”

“No. Demons don’t exactly cavort in the spirit world, and most Rakshasa who cross into the earthly realm head straight for the Orient. For some reason, they seem to thrive there—perhaps they like the taste of rotting Asian flesh more than European? Who can say? But, oh dear”—his lips twitched up—“you’re looking a bit green, El.”

I grimaced. “I daresay rotting flesh isn’t the ideal topic for . . .” I trailed off. A figure had just appeared on the deck, her usual dark hair falling over her shoulders and her sleeve ripped jaggedly.

Laure’s eyes met mine, and relief washed over her face.

“Invisibility,” I blurted. My happy warmth receded fast in the face of fear. “My hand—make it invisible.”

“What?” Oliver reared back. “I can’t do that—”

“Well, hide the blasted thing somehow.”

“Why?”

“My roommates have seen me without it.”

His face paled. “I can’t do a spell like that, El—it’s impossible.”

“But it’s magic,” I hissed. “You can do anything!”

“It’s spiritual energy,” he hissed back, “and there are limits.” He grabbed my sleeve and tugged.

“Just pull it down. You’ll have to pretend.”

So I did precisely that, and just in time, for Laure had reached us. “Mon Dieu!” she cried. “You are all right! How did you know that was coming?”

“How did I know what was coming?” I asked carefully. Had she seen the Hell Hounds? My eyes flicked to Oliver’s, but he merely lifted one shoulder.

“That thing—that cyclone!” Laure wrung her hands. “Every lady is lost in a faint.”

“Cyclone?” I pressed.

“Oui. Made of water.”

Ah—a waterspout. Interesting explanation.

“Was there any damage?” Oliver inserted.

She turned to him, and recognition flashed in her eyes. “You are the young man from the other night, non?”

“Yes, he is,” I rushed to say. “He was on deck too when . . . when this waterspout hit.” I shifted my new hand beneath my skirts. “But was there any damage to the ship?”

“Non. It is the strangest thing. Other than some items knocked over and the icy water on everything, it is all fine.” She dropped to a whisper. “But I did hear that the captain wants to turn around. People are in a panic. For some reason, many think they saw dogs and not a waterspout. So the captain now believes we should return to shore.”

I sat up, alarmed. “Aren’t we too far? Surely we’re halfway to France by now.”

“Non—not quite, and there are so many Americans. They want their own soil.” She rolled her eyes.

“You should see Mrs. Brown—’er poor granddaughter must wave smelling salts beneath her nose.

And the little girl is one of those swearing that the waterspout was really a pack of wild dogs.” Laure giggled, as if it were the most absurd idea in the world.

Oliver snickered too, so I forced my own laugh. “Listen, Laure,” I said, “surely there are enough

French people to keep the captain from turning around.”

“C’est possible.” She pursed her lips. “I can speak to any passengers who are still conscious.

Perhaps we can make the majority.”

“Je peux vous aider,” Oliver said, his voice unusually silky.

Interest flared in Laure’s eyes. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Bien sûr. Of course.” He gave her a smile—a disarmingly handsome one.

A pleased flush burned on her cheeks. “I would welcome your help.” Her eyes flicked briefly to me. “Eleanor?”

“I don’t speak French,” I muttered. “Or at least not enough to help.”

She shrugged. “Très bien. You”—she flourished her fingers at Oliver—“will be enough.”

“I will join you momentarily.” He bowed smoothly, and as Laure sauntered off, I couldn’t help but notice the extra sway in her hips.

The instant she was out of sight, I slid close to the demon. “Listen: you have to keep the captain from taking us back to New York.”

“How?”

“Magic.”

He recoiled. “A compulsion spell? Absolutely not! You have to sacrifice a living person to do that.”

My insides flipped sickeningly.

“Exactly,” he said, seeing my grimace. “You have to cut out all the body parts you want to control.

So to compel the captain’s tongue, I’d have to—”

“Cut out someone else’s tongue,” I said quickly. “I get it . . . but is there not some other way?

What can you do with your magic?”

“Basic things. Mostly I just give you my power so you can cast spells. But . . .” He tapped his chin for a moment. “I suppose I could interfere with their navigation.”

My eyebrows rose. “Do I have to cast a spell for that?”

“No.” He jumped to his feet, his lips twisting up. “You see, I’m an incredibly persuasive demon.

All it takes is a little conversation, charm . . . alcohol with the captain, and this boat will not be turning around.” He winked. “I’ll find you later, Master Eleanor.”

Then, arms swinging, he strode off to the saloon.

Oliver found me hours later in the dining room, shoving whatever I could find into my mouth. I felt wretched. Tired, hungry, and drowning in shame. Why had I bound myself to Oliver? What had I done? And what would the Spirit-Hunters say?

Oliver slumped into the seat beside me, his nose wrinkled. “Elijah said you enjoyed food, but this is disgusting.”

I gulped down some coffee and cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, Ollie. Demons may not eat, but humans do.”

“Demons have to eat too,” he retorted. “My body might not die as easily as yours, but it still needs food—and sleep.” He set his forearms on the table. “But you, Eleanor, are not eating. You’re gorging.”

I scowled. “I can’t help it. No matter how much I eat, I find I’m still hungry at the end.”

“I wonder . . .” His eyes thinned. “Finish your coffee so we can start studying necromancy.”

My heart bounced. Before I even knew what I was doing, I said, “All right.” But then I stopped, horror rushing through me. No—I didn’t want to learn more. Necromancy could only bring evil, and I would not do that.

“Actually,” I began, but then my stomach gurgled with such agony, I couldn’t speak. Maybe I had overindulged. “Actually,” I tried again, “I don’t need to learn it, do I? You told me the other day I could learn spells or bind to you.”

Oliver bit his lip. “Well . . . you’re forgetting the agreement.”

Another rumble churned in my belly. I gulped. “What agreement?”

“The one in which you promised to set me free within two months.”

Again the excitement shivered through me, but it was rapidly quelled by my conscience. I did not want this. No. “Set you free, set you free,” I muttered, hugging my hands over my stomach. “Is that all you care about?”

“Blessed Eternity!” he swore. “I just saved your life—”

“Only so I would save yours!”

“Well, you’re bound to this promise whether you like it or not.” He pounded the table. “Set me free or be Hell Hound lunch.”

“O-or,” I said, watching his face, “I can just take you to the Spirit-Hunters in Paris. Joseph can set you free.”

“Who can set me free?”

I winced as a hot wave of nausea hit me. No more eating three lunches in a row. “The Spirit-

Hunters—they’re the ones who will help me with Marcus. Did Elijah not tell you about them? They were in Philadelphia when he . . .”

Oliver scowled, his eyebrows dropping so low they shaded his eyes. “When, pray tell, would Elijah have told me? He wouldn’t let me come to Philadelphia, remember?”

“He didn’t write?”

“No,” Oliver spat. “He didn’t bloody write.” He turned away, his jaw muscles twitching.

“Oh,” I murmured. Then, with a deep breath, I explained who the Spirit-Hunters were and how

Joseph’s specialty was blasting spirits back to their realm.

“The important word there is ‘blast,’” Oliver said, shifting back toward me. “He’ll probably destroy my soul like a Hell Hound.”

“You’re just being dramatic.” Sweat beaded on my brow, and I dabbed at it. I craved water to cool me, but I knew there wasn’t any space in my stomach for it.

“I am not being dramatic.” Oliver glared, offended and . . . and something else. Something dark.

Something angry. But I couldn’t tell if it was directed at me, the Spirit-Hunters, or someone else entirely.

The lines on his face relaxed, and he said almost flippantly, “How about this: you learn necromancy. Then you can set me free the old-fashioned . . .” He stopped speaking, and his eyebrows drew together. “Are you ill? You look a little green.”

I swallowed. “I . . . I think I ate too much.”

“Of course you did!”

“Can you help me walk to my cabin?” I made to stand up, but he flicked up his hand and stopped me.

“Not that you deserve this after intentionally stuffing your face, but I can ease your gluttonous pains if you wish.” He fingered the chain around his neck. “All you have to do is say the words.”

“Sum veritas? How will that make my stomachache go—” I broke off and dropped my gaze to my belly. The trickle of warmth was sliding through me, glowing faintly blue.

I gasped because, oh, I loved it. It was two long heartbeats of perfection, and then when the haze cleared, I realized my nausea had vanished.

And fear grabbed hold of my chest. I jerked my head toward Oliver. “Wh-why’d you do that?”

His eyes were wide, scared. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask for it!” I was terrified because my body wanted more— needed more—of that magic.

“Actually, you did.” He lunged to his feet. “Don’t be mad—but you said it. You said the command.”

I stood. “That’s all it takes? I just say those words and the magic comes?”

“Not normally.” He backed up several steps. “It’s just that you were thinking about relief and I was also thinking about relief, and then you said the words, so . . .” He snapped his fingers.

I advanced on him, my mind a jumble of terror and desire. “If it’s so easy to use your magic, Oliver, then am I always at risk?”

“Not all spells are a risk. This one was good, right? Your face is healed too.”

“What?” I roared. Other passengers turned to stare, but I didn’t care. I frantically patted my face—

it was smooth. Perfect. Unnatural.

My breath came in gasps. I had to get out of here!

I tried to march by Oliver, but he grabbed my elbow. “Where’re you going?”

“Away!” I wrenched my arm free. “This . . . it’s all too easy, Oliver!”

“But not normally. This was just circumstance.”

“Then let’s not put ‘circumstance’ to the test anymore today.” I massaged my forehead, willing my heart to settle. “I’ll be in my room if you need me—though I’d prefer you not need me.” Then I dropped my hands and stalked away from him.

“I really am sorry,” he called after me. But nothing in his voice sounded sorry to me. I was shaking with nervous energy—with fear.

I couldn’t deny that magic felt good.

Worse—and what truly scared me—was that for all my proclamations of not casting more spells, I desperately wanted more.

We reached Le Havre five days later on a bright Tuesday morning. I still refused to learn necromancy, and Oliver still refused to meet the Spirit-Hunters—though, it was not so hard to understand why. They had been Elijah’s enemies, and they did hunt creatures such as him.

The closer we got to France, the more a strange panic seemed to boil in my chest.

One would think that the safety of the Spirit-Hunters would soothe my anxiety. Certainly Joseph’s solid reliability was welcome—as was Jie’s friendship.

But Daniel? Our awkward final moments had been bad enough. Add in my constant waffling from indignant hate to pathetic longing, and I was a veritable typhoon of contradictory emotion. Half of me was desperate to see him; half of me hoped never to lay eyes on him again.

“Shakespeare had no blasted idea what he was talking about,” I growled, leaning against the promenade deck’s rail. I had given up my pride and let Laure convince me to sneak up with the first-

class passengers so we could watch our arrival in Le Havre.

“Pardon?” she asked. “What about Shakespeare?” She pronounced the name “Shock-eh-spear.”

“I said, he had no idea about love or anything.”

“You’re in a fine mood,” Oliver said, coming to the rail beside me. “Something the matter?”

“No,” I growled, swatting a bonnet ribbon from my face. Laure and Oliver exchanged mocking glances, and with a groan, I marched away from them. They’d become the best of friends ever since discovering their mutual interest in flirting. And, while I’d been grateful to have the demon occupied elsewhere, I had begun to find their tendency to gang up on me thoroughly insufferable.

I moved to another empty spot on the handrail and focused on the approaching city. The climate was perfect, thanks to the sea—sunny, yet cool—and the view was absolutely picturesque. Le Havre was a city of white buildings that hugged the shore while great, black ships paced the harbor in front.

Sunny quays with shady streets gave it the look of an old watercolor Mama had once hung in our parlor.

Less than an hour later, I found myself handing over as much as I could spare in tip to the stewardess and disembarking onto French soil—into a world unlike anything I had ever seen. Truly, no amount of reading or daydreaming could have prepared me for the city.

For one, Le Havre was old. I’d always fancied Philadelphia a historical city, but in comparison to

Le Havre—and the rest of Europe, I supposed—Philadelphia was just a newborn babe.

Every building looked as if it had defied the test of time for centuries. Every steep-roofed house seemed to have a story, with the colorful gables and shutters and the flowerpots draping from each window.

As Laure, Oliver, and I stood at the end of the pier, local women in their white caps and fishermen with nets draped over their shoulders streamed around us. On the cobblestone street before us, travelers and coaches clattered by.

And it was all so lovely, I felt compelled to wander the city slack-jawed. Fortunately, Oliver and

Laure were completely unimpressed. The demon took my carpetbag on his arm, and Laure motioned to a road leading straight into the city.

“The train station is that way,” she told us, “but the Paris train will not leave for many hours. You must join me for lunch—I know the perfect place, and I will even go so far as to pay.”

At the word “lunch,” my stomach gave a stormy bellow. “Food would be nice,” I said. Free food even more so.

“Très bien. Then it is decided.”

“Are we going to walk?” Oliver asked, looking longingly at a passing cab.

“Bien sûr. Of course.” She poked him playfully with her parasol. “You ’ave been in America too long. Over here, everyone walks. It is said to be a way of life. Now”—she popped open her parasol and hooked her arm in Oliver’s—“follow me.”

The pair set off down the wide street, and I followed. I let them continue in front of me the entire time, thereby allowing me to keep my right hand out in the open. I even drew off my glove so I could enjoy the sheer pleasure of sunshine and breeze on my fingers.

By the time we reached our destination, sweat trickled down my spine, and I had decided the

French had drastically different ideas of time and distance than Americans.

“Only two steps away!” Laure had insisted over and over, yet it still took us at least twenty minutes to get to a tiny inn, called Le Cupidon Belle, that was set apart from the main bustle and blessedly well shaded.

The restaurant was actually situated inside an open-air courtyard around which the inn stood.

Bubbling happily amid rickety wooden tables was a fat, stucco fountain shaped liked Cupid. A little white-capped boy seated us directly under Cupid’s gaze, and then a round-faced, wide-hipped landlady took charge of serving us the day’s meal, beginning with a platter of fruit.

When the first grape exploded in my mouth, I almost wept, enraptured by the tart sweetness of the fruit.

Then came the bread—a simple baguette—and my eyes really did fill with tears. Such a flaky, crisp crust around the fluffiest, saltiest bread I had ever tasted. I closed my eyes and simply breathed in the scent of it.

“Eleanor,” Oliver said, sounding alarmed, “are you all right?”

I nodded, almost frantically. “It’s just so amazing.”

Laure laughed happily, and when I opened my eyes, I found her cheeks pink with pleasure. “France

’as the best food in the world, non?”

“I believe you’re right.” I moaned, ripping off another bite of baguette.

She gave Oliver and me a pretty pout. “I will be so lonely traveling to Marseille by myself.” She then told us about an inn her family ran outside the city and a fishing boat her uncle had. As we worked our way through six courses of food—mussels and fish and apples and more bread—she forced us to promise multiple times that we would come visit.

The remainder of our meal—cheese and wine—passed amiably, though I was sad when the last plate was cleared away and Laure wrote out her address. It was all so final.

The walk to the train station was shorter than our journey to the inn. Before I knew it, we had reached the Le Havre depot, a long, modern building that was disappointingly identical to the stations back home. Enormous, multipaned windows stretched from floor to roof, and running beside the station were the tracks. Oliver and I quickly navigated the crowds, exchanged the rest of my money for francs, and purchased two second-class tickets to Paris. The train didn’t leave for another hour, so

I used the time to mail my letters to Mama, Mary, and Allison and to telegram Jie my intended arrival time in Paris. I didn’t expect her to meet me at the station, but I also didn’t want to arrive at the Spirit-

Hunters’ hotel with no warning.

When Oliver vanished for a time, I took the opportunity to relax and digest on a shady depot bench. Oddly enough, hunger still writhed in my stomach. I knew I was full, yet somehow I wasn’t.

So I decided to distract myself. I closed my eyes and focused on my heartbeat. Its rhythmic thump was pleasant, like the gentle rock of the ship. I inhaled, filling my lungs until they pressed against my ribs. My chest buzzed with air—

No! I snapped my eyelids open. That wasn’t only air. I had drawn in spiritual energy! I dropped my head, and sure enough, I could see a dull glow in my chest where I’d accidentally gathered my magic into a well. For several moments it just sat there, pulsing.

I jumped up. I had to find some private place to chant the only spell I knew: the dream ward.

I darted toward the nearest porter, folding my arms over my shining chest. “Excuse me,” I squeaked, “wh-where is a water closet?”

But he shook his head. “Je ne parle pas l’anglais. ”

“Toilet?” I squeaked, grasping for some other word. “Les toilettes?”

He grimaced and pointed across the room to a white door. I scurried over and pushed inside, grateful to find the beige-tile room empty. After locking the door behind me, I looked down at my chest and flinched. It was very, very bright, but worse, it was starting to burn like a breath held too long.

When I tried to inhale more, the pain only grew—as if someone had my heart clamped between two bricks.

I squeezed my skirts in my fingers and rasped, “Hac nocte non somniabo. ” A tiny, familiar trickle buzzed through me, but it wasn’t enough—not even close.

I tried inhaling again, but my chest was so full, I could barely wedge in more air. The well of power in my chest hadn’t shrunk enough.

“Hac nocte non somniabo,” I repeated. Nothing happened. I tried again, panic rising in my throat.

But still nothing happened.

I frantically scanned the room for something—anything—to inspire me, but my vision was turning spotty. I couldn’t breathe!

I slumped onto the ground as the room spun around me. Oliver, help! Someone, please, help!

Elijah . . .

And with that thought, power burst from my hands. Blue light was everywhere. It seared into my eyes and into my brain. I squinted, watching as the dingy bathroom transformed into . . .

It can’t be.

I gulped in a ragged breath and dug the heels of my hands to my eyes. I couldn’t be seeing right—

except when I lowered my hands, the velvet sparkle was still there.

I was staring at the curtain between realms, and I could just make out the dock on the other side.

Someone was on it—someone walking toward me.

“Elijah?” I threw out my hands, reaching for the starry world. “Elijah, is that you?” But I knew it was. I had just called him, hadn’t I? Now all I had to do was cross, and then we could talk.

“Eleanor! Are you in there?” Oliver banged at the bathroom door. I blinked rapidly as the world around me dissolved back into the water closet.

“Please let me in!” His voice sounded panicked. “I can feel something isn’t right.”

I lurched to the door, but my body was like pudding. I fumbled over and over with the lock.

Finally, I managed to get the door open, only to find Oliver with his arms up, ready to pummel it.

He froze. “Blessed Eternity,” he swore. “What have you done?” He slid an arm behind me. “Come on—everyone’s staring.”

I glanced into his young face. He was wearing a new brown top hat. “That is a lovely hat. Wherever did you get it?”

His forehead wrinkled. “You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not.” I rolled my eyes skyward . . . though I was feeling oddly fuzzy. And good—very good. “I can’t be drunk. I haven’t been drinking.”

“Off magic, I mean.” He glared at me accusingly. “What did you do?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I found the curtain, Ollie! And the dock.”

His eyes grew huge. “Oh no. Oh no. Come on.” He tugged me toward the nearest window and patch of sunlight.

“Stand here,” he muttered, “and maybe no one will notice how much you’re shining. Foolish girl!”

“I’m shining?” I asked, glancing at my body. My sleeves seemed to twinkle, and my skin was as luminous as starlight. “Why?”

“It’s an effect from whatever spell you just cast. What spell was that, by the way?”

“None. It was all an accident. I was simply breathing, and somehow I made a well of power.

Then . . .” I waved vaguely in the air.

“Then,” he said, “you realized you can’t collect your body’s power like that without expelling it.

Foolish, foolish girl!”

“Stop saying that. You should have warned me.” I sighed and rubbed at my eyes. “Can we sit?”

“No—not until this spell wears off. And I would have warned you had I known you’d be stupid enough to try necromancy by yourself. Next time you decide to do it without me, don’t. ”

“And I told you, I wasn’t trying. It simply happened.”

“Meaning you’re a lit fuse, El. Don’t you see? You’re too bloody powerful. Now that you’ve started learning necromancy, your body is using its magic on its own.” He gave a low moan. “You’re sure you saw the curtain?”

“And the dock—and Elijah was standing on it. I called for help from you and Elijah.” I grinned, utterly pleased with myself. “You both came.”

“Or else Marcus has some other finding spell on you. He could’ve been trying to lure you over.

You were this close”—he held his thumb and pointer finger to his eye—“to walking over and right into the Hell Hounds’ maws.”

“Oh.” I frowned.

“You need training or that lit fuse is going to go too far. An explosion of foolish girl.”

I sniffed. “Or foolish man. Don’t leave me to go buy new top hats.” I set a hand on my hip. “If you have enough money to buy that, then why did I buy our train tickets?”

He turned away, his cheeks reddening. “Because I don’t have the money.”

“You stole it! Just like your boat ticket and all that alcohol.”

“Shhh!” He leaned close, his eyes scanning everyone around. “Yes, I might have borrowed it, but I was attracting too much attention without something covering my head. We’re in France now. If you think the rules of society mattered in Philadelphia, they are nothing compared to what awaits us in

Paris.”

“Oh, pshaw. The Spirit-Hunters aren’t concerned with society, so I don’t see why we should be.”

Oliver rolled his eyes as if I was the most naive creature in the universe. “All thoughts on the morality of stealing hats aside, we have to work extra hard at keeping ourselves anonymous. You have a team of Hell Hounds and a powerful necromancer after you. The last thing we need are stories about us in the Galignani’s Messenger.”

“The what?”

“It’s a newspaper for English-speaking visitors in France. It details what everyone is doing, thereby fulfilling the gossip needs of society—and you can be certain that a glowing girl with a handsome lad such as myself is the sort of story people talk about.”

“You’re changing the subject.” I puffed out my lips. “If I really am a lit fuse, then I suppose you’ll have to teach me necromancy.”

“Are you joking?” He folded his arms over his chest. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do for the last week?”

“Well, I was scared. I am scared. It is scary, don’t you think?”

He grimaced. “Remind me never to drink with you. You babble like an idiot.”

“Humbug.” I snorted. “But I do want to learn it now. It feels so good! And I don’t want to cast any more accidental spells. Plus . . . oh! Just imagine what I could do to Marcus with necromancy. Boom! ”

I wiggled my fingers like an explosion. “Fight fire with fire, you know.”

“Or you could simply talk him to death. I feel on the verge of suicide myself—”

“I’m serious, Ollie. Teach me necromancy. I order you to.”

“Fantastic.” His mouth quirked up, the faintest sheen of triumph in his eyes. “But in about ten minutes when this stupor wears off, do not forget what you said. Now come on.” He held out his hand.

“The train is here, and you have a team of Spirit-Hunters to find.”