A Darkness Strange and Lovely

Chapter Nine

The view outside the train was exactly as Henry James described it in Madame de Mauves: trees of cool green, meadows rolling onto the horizon, and a gray light that made the sky look silver.

I pressed my face against the window while Oliver maintained his usual slouch in the seat across from me. I groaned inwardly. Why had I ordered Oliver to teach me necromancy? And why, now that the magic had worn off, was I not regretting that decision more?

What was wrong with me?

Despite my frustration with my scruples (or lack of them) and despite the fact that my legs were going numb sitting on the hard seat, before I knew it I had dozed off against the polished wood wall. I was soon traipsing through As You Like It ’s Forest of Arden with Orlando shouting his love to me and posting love poems on all the aspens.

Although, when I awoke five hours later, it occurred to me that the grassy green of Orlando’s eyes and the wool of his gray flat cap were entirely too similar to a certain Spirit-Hunter’s I wanted to forget.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Oliver asked. “You look awfully pale.”

I gulped and sat up straighter. “I just . . . dreamed of someone. Someone I’d rather not think of.”

“That inventor fellow?”

I gaped at him. “H-how did you . . .”

He chortled. “Let’s merely say that when you told me about the Spirit-Hunters, your careful avoidance of discussing him, combined with the lovesick look on your face—”

“I am not lovesick!”

“Of course not,” he said flatly. “Does he know how you feel?”

“I refuse to discuss this with you.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “It’s good you could nap. You wore yourself out with that spell.”

“And blazes, am I hungry now.” I folded my arms over my stomach. “I cannot wait to feast on croissants.”

He grinned. “They are the best pastry in the world, aren’t they? Did you know they were brought to

France by Marie Antoinette? They’re actually an Austrian creation.”

“Really?”

He lifted a flat-palmed hand. “I swear. I met her ghost. She was not pleased with death. She kept moaning, ‘ Pas chance pour l’amour. ’ No chance for love.”

“Is that true? Is there no love on that side?”

“Of course it’s not true. You saw Elijah. His love for you hasn’t faded or else he wouldn’t have come into your dream and saved you from the Hell Hounds.”

I frowned and turned my gaze out the window. Russet and gold-tipped trees were sprinkled over foliage still clinging to summer-green. As we roared by, it all blurred together like some Impressionist painting.

If Elijah had come to my rescue out of love, then what did that mean about Clarence Wilcox? Why had he saved me?

“However,” Oliver continued, “there is a much higher chance for broken hearts in the spirit realm.

More often than not, lovers get separated.” He spoke as if he’d experienced that separation firsthand.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Ollie, have you ever loved?”

He nodded slowly. “I loved your brother, and . . .” A shy smile spread over his lips. “I find I am starting to love you.”

I shifted in my seat, surprised by his honesty. “You do not mean . . . that is to say, you do not love me romantically.”

He barked a laugh. “Egads, no! Not for you—no, no.” Then his face sagged, and he turned away to stare out the window.

I desperately wanted to ask “For whom then?” but the way his lips compressed . . . he looked so utterly sad that I could not bring myself to do it.

Plus, at that moment, he withdrew a silver flask from his coat pocket and drank back something that smelled like whiskey.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded.

He smacked his lips. “I saw it in your roommate’s luggage and decided it was the perfect size for my hand.”

“You stole from Laure? But she’s your friend!”

He frowned. “Not Laure. That old goat-faced lady—”

“Mrs. Brown?” I squealed. “No! No! She carries a flask?”

“Carried,” he corrected.

I sniffed. “You’re awful. And you really must stop stealing.”

He opened his hands in a noncommittal way, and then after taking another long swig, he slumped down in his seat. “You know,” he drawled, “I actually know quite a lot about love from my many years of watching the universe—”

I groaned. “Oh, the wise demon doth speak. Hark so that we all may learn!”

He laughed, straightening slightly. “I’m serious. I’ve seen a lot of souls pass through my home, and I’ve seen a lot of loves still hanging on. Those long-lasting ones”—he tapped his heart—“are the ones filled with tenderness and smiles.”

“Oliver, the demon poet,” I said drily.

He rolled his eyes. “One last piece of advice, El: if this Spirit-Hunter does not love you back, then good riddance. Real love isn’t about drama or heartbreak. Real love just is.”

I ran my tongue over my teeth and stared silently outside. Oliver was right—I knew he was right.

With a sigh, I turned back toward him. “You remind me of Elijah, you know. The way you talk to me.

The things you say. You’re just like he was before . . . before . . .” I shook my head, unable to say the words.

A heartbroken smile dragged at Oliver’s lips and eyes. “I’m not surprised. When a necromancer calls for a demon, the one that answers is the one most similar to the necromancer.” His fingers went to the locket. “Elijah was a good man before revenge took over his mind.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat was pinched too tight. “He sacrificed himself at the end—jumped in front of one of the Hungry to save me.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” He bent forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “He cared about you more than anyone else in this universe. Even more than me— hard to imagine, I know.” The edges of his mouth twisted up.

“Tell me about him,” I urged. “Tell me what you used to do together.”

“Other than chess and riddles?” Oliver’s face shifted into a frown. “There was a great deal of eating . . . and sleeping. Oh, and studying. Can’t forget all the bloody libraries he used to drag me to.”

“What about . . . what about necromancy? I know you said you were more his friend than his tool, but surely he used your magic some. What spells did he have you do?”

Oliver’s frown deepened. “I’d rather not talk of it.”

“Please?”

“No.” He sat up. “Please, El. It’s too . . . too fresh.”

“Oh.” I hugged my arms over my stomach. “Then perhaps later?”

“Or perhaps never.”

“But why?”

He clutched at his heart and turned away. “Because it’s personal, that’s why. Can’t you be satisfied with knowing that he cared about you?”

“No.” I slid to the edge of my seat. “I can’t be satisfied with that. I need to know more—”

“Well, you won’t learn more from me.” He gestured almost tiredly to the window. “We’re coming into Paris, if you care to see.”

That ended my protests immediately, and I pressed myself as close to the window as I could get. In the distance, cast in pink, was a crowded city with layers that rose up like a cake and crawled with movement. It was like watching the dancers in a ballet, and I felt a sudden, deep urge to write bad poetry.

But the closer we got, the more the charm started to vanish. And the more complex the labyrinth of streets and buildings around us became, the more the filth and soot stood out.

“It’s so . . . so dirty,” I said at last.

“Ha!” Oliver barked. “Isn’t every city?”

“Philadelphia certainly is, but . . . I had this idea of Paris being . . . well . . . perfect.” I gnawed my lip. “Where are all the electric streetlamps? Or the bridges and gardens? The ones you see in the prints?”

“Oh, you’ll see them—just wait until we reach the center of the city. It’s always dirtiest on the edges.”

Soon enough we were zooming through the Paris of which I’d dreamed. All around were the quintessential beige buildings with their iron-fenced windows and dark, shingled rooftops. Chimneys poked up in organized rows, silhouetted by the evening sun.

But what impressed me most was the number of electric lamps that rose up, elegant and iron, to illuminate the streets. City of Light, indeed! It was like a fairy world twinkling at sunset, and I could honestly say I had never seen or imagined anything like it.

“Tell me what everything is,” I ordered, my face smashed against the window.

Oliver scooted beside me and pointed. “There’s a house, there’s a house . . . that looks like a boulangerie, and over there’s another house.”

I glared at him. “I mean the famous places. The Arc de Triomphe or the Louvre or Notre Dame or

—”

“All the places that aren’t beside the train tracks.” He snorted. “Patience, El. You will see them in good time. But look.” He pointed to the hill with its jagged rooftops and crooked, ever-rising angles.

“That hill is Montmartre, the home of the bohemians: the artists and Gypsies who don’t want to live in the city.” He grinned as if remembering fond times. Then he pointed again, this time to where the train was aimed. “And that, up ahead, is our train depot.” He turned toward me, opening his hands wide. “Et voilà Paris, Mademoiselle. ”

The interior of Gare Saint Lazare was disappointingly foul—especially after the glamour of the city’s streets. We pulled into the triangular-roofed station built of exposed metal and wood and were soon filing off the train—only to be greeted by row after row of locomotives. With so much smoke billowing from each, it was a wonder the high skylights of the depot weren’t any blacker.

Oliver, my carpetbag in his hand, strode toward red archways marked SORTIE. I scurried after, and in moments we reached a set of steps heading down to tall-windowed exits.

“Where do you want to go?” Oliver yelled to be heard over the noise of the trains and people. An old couple swerved around us, glaring at our sudden stop, and a gust of perfume ran up my nose.

I coughed into gloved hands. “So many people!”

“Welcome to Paris, El.” Oliver smiled. “Do you want to find the Spirit-Hunters’ hotel now?”

“Only if you agree to meet them.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You must see them at some point,” I insisted, though secretly I was relieved. I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the Spirit-Hunters with my new necromancy, much less with a demon in tow. Joseph had made it plain enough how he felt about necromancy, so until I could find a way to prove I wasn’t doing anything wicked, it seemed best to simply pretend it had never happened. Why darken my easy friendship with the Spirit-Hunters with something over which I had no control?

Oliver closed his eyes, his head cocking to one side. When he opened them again, they flashed blue.

I started. “Wh-what was that? I thought you couldn’t do magic without my command.”

“I can’t.” He shook his head. “I was merely testing our bond. In case . . . well, in case we get separated. You can find our bond too. You simply . . . feel for it.”

I mimicked the movement he had made, closing my eyes and angling my head. Sure enough, now that I searched, I could sense the slightest thread winding its way around my heart.

I opened my eyes. “I feel it, but what do you mean by ‘get separated’?”

He flashed his eyebrows. “Your friend is here.”

“Eleanor!” shrieked a high voice.

My heart swelled, and I spun toward the sound. There was Jie, bounding over a bench, skidding around a pile of luggage, and then throwing her arms around me. “You’re here!”

“I am!” My voice came out as a squeal; and after squeezing me so hard I choked, Jie pushed me back for inspection.

“You look tired—it doesn’t suit you.” She poked me in the belly. “Though you’re lace-free, yeah?

I’m proud.”

I scanned her right back, from bald forehead to booted toes. “Well, you haven’t changed a bit—

though I daresay, these are fine clothes.” I fingered the tan wool of her suit jacket.

“You think this is nice? Wait’ll you see Joseph and Daniel. You won’t even recognize ’em. They are”—she twirled one hand in the air—“à la mode. Our host buys them so many hats and gloves and ties.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s ridiculous. He tried to get me to start dressing like the Parisian ladies, but then I threatened to punch his face in. We finally compromised on a few new suits instead.” She tugged at her lapels, teeth bared in a smile.

I scrunched up my forehead. “The boys sound foppish.”

“Don’t tell them that, yeah? Daniel will bite your head off, and Joseph will just frown until you feel like a rotten lowlife for speaking your mind.”

I laughed tightly. “And here I thought joining you all meant I needn’t worry about clothes or society anymore!”

“You don’t with me, Eleanor.” She pointed to my carpetbag. “This all you brought?”

“Uh . . .” I twirled around. Where was Oliver? Get separated—ha.

I turned back to Jie and beamed. “Yes, that’s mine. Now tell me everything!”

“You first!” She swooped my bag up over her shoulder, and we joined in the flow of people leaving the station.

“I’d rather wait,” I said, choosing my words carefully. It was all going so well, and I wanted to cling to that a bit longer. Later—I could always talk about Oliver, Marcus, and the Hell Hounds later.

“I’m tired,” I continued. “It’s been a long day. You tell me about Paris first.”

“Fair enough.” She smiled. “But let’s get a cab, yeah?”

Several seconds later, I took my first steps into Paris, and my heart grew so big, I had to shuffle to a stop and simply soak it all in.

In some ways Paris was as familiar to me as Philadelphia—the carriages rattling on the cobblestones, the people hurrying home, the smell of horses and mud and city—and yet in most ways it was so, so different.

The same beige-faced buildings and gray roofs I’d seen when entering the city now peered down at me from every direction, and I couldn’t help but imagine all the people behind each tall window and down each winding street.

And with the sun setting beyond the rooftops, the streetlights seemed to glow even more brightly, casting all those lives and smiles and heartbreaks in an unearthly warmth.

I grinned until my cheeks ached. I had done it! I’d left Philadelphia far behind, and my troubles were long lost in the dust. Or . . . they were at least somewhat behind me.

Oh, don’t think of all that, I ordered myself. I was in Paris and with my dearest friend. I ought to give myself at least a few hours to revel in it.

Jie let me gape for several minutes, but then her usual impatience kicked in, and she hauled me down to the busy street. After waving over a hansom cab, she rattled off the hotel name and a few

French words. The driver helped us inside the coach.

“Learning the language?” I asked, impressed, as we settled onto the bench seat beside each other.

Jie twirled the end of her braid. “I don’t like relying on Joseph to talk to everyone, and I hate not knowing what people say about me.” She sighed and stared out the window as we clattered to a start.

“But we’ve only been here a month. I haven’t learned much.”

Some of my excitement melted, and for a moment I pressed my hands to my lips and watched her.

She was the same girl from the summer—fierce, quick to smile, and unafraid—but there was a new dullness in her eye.

“You don’t like it here,” I stated.

“Is it that obvious?” Her eyes slid to mine. “It’s not the city’s fault, or even the Parisians’. Truth is, I’ve just been lonely.”

“Me too.” I sighed and hooked her arm in mine. “But now we’re together.”

She chuckled. “And I’m glad for it, yeah?” Suddenly her breath caught, and she wrenched free.

“Eleanor, you have two hands! How?”

“Uh, w-well,” I stammered. It was all fine to avoid mentioning Oliver, but this would certainly need an explanation. Stupid Eleanor! Why hadn’t I prepared an answer for this?

“I used . . . magic,” I finally said.

“How?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “I simply figured it out, I suppose.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Simply . . . figured it out?”

I nodded, relieved when she didn’t question me further and only said, “Joseph did say you had power.”

Taking my new hand in her own, she slipped off the glove. She spread out my fingers and held them to the light. “It’s just like your old hand!”

“It is my old hand.” I pulled it back, embarrassed. “I . . . I managed to call it through the curtain and bind it here.” That was mostly the truth.

She whistled. “That sounds like dangerous stuff. You should’ve waited for Joseph.”

I only grunted in response, and Jie seemed to notice my discomfort. She dropped my hand. “You don’t wanna talk now—sorry. You should look at the city, yeah?”

“Right. I’m in Paris.” I forced a smile, sliding to the window. But the streetlamps glared off the glass, making it hard to see much beyond the cobblestone streets.

“Or,” Jie said with a laugh, “maybe you should look at the city tomorrow. In the daylight.”

I turned back toward her. “So where is your hotel? And, um . . .” I scratched at my ear. “Do you think I could stay with you?”

“ Of course you can stay with me.” Her eyes lit up. “Besides, I’m sure the instant Monsieur

LeJeunes knows you’re here, he’ll offer you a suite.”

I exhaled heavily. “Thanks, Jie. Is this monsieur the host you mentioned in your letter?”

“Oui.” She batted her lashes. “He’s the Marquis du Bazillac, and he’s in the Senat—though he’s running for the presidency. He was the one to write to us in Chicago. Of course, he thought we were three men. Imagine his surprise when he realized I was a woman.” She grinned wickedly.

“And he doesn’t care about the Centennial Exhibition? About the fact that you’re wanted fugitives?”

“Naw. He knows it’s not true, and he’s trying to win the people’s hearts by saving them from les

Morts. Though he has had to work extra hard to keep the gossip . . .” She trailed off, searching for the right word. “To keep it clean. I think that’s why he makes us do so many events. Parties, balls, Senat meetings. But I can’t complain.” She opened her arms. “We live like royalty, yeah? Our hotel is fit for

Empress Tz’u-Hsi herself. And we’re right across the street from these amazing gardens called the

Tuileries. You’ll definitely want to see those tomorrow.” A bright-toothed smile suddenly split her face. “Oh boy, I bet the Marquis will buy you new gowns and jewelry. Why, look at what his friend gave me.” She whipped the end of her braid up to my face. It was held by a jade lotus hair clasp. “It’s

Chinese, yeah?”

“Oh my.” I took it gently in my hands and stroked the delicate petals. “It’s beautiful, Jie.”

She grinned happily and flipped her braid behind her head. “Just wait—you’ll probably get something beautiful too. And I know the Marquis will want to take you to all the teas and dinners he makes Joseph and Daniel attend.” Her smile fell. “In fact, Joseph is off at some salon tonight, so you won’t see him until tomorrow. The man is so exhausted from all the visits he has to make, but he’d much rather have the city’s love at the price of sleep than go through what we did in Philadelphia.”

My brows drew together. “So when do you get any work done?”

“It’s . . . slow.” She flicked a piece of dust off her pants. “Everything about our job is a mystery.

But listen, I want to hear more about you. What sights do you want to see tomorrow?”

As if on cue, my stomach grumbled angrily. I grinned. “First, I would really like to eat.”

She laughed and rubbed her hands together. “Then let’s get you a baguette!”

The Hotel Le Meurice was so grand, I was terrified to step inside. Like a moth in the butterfly garden, I absolutely did not belong. But if Jie could swagger into the gleaming marble foyer with its white columns and gold chandeliers and not mind the stares, then so could I.

Jie gave a nod to the navy-uniformed man behind the front desk; and before I had a chance even to see what was beyond the main entrance, she whisked me left, beneath an enormous crystal chandelier and on to a grand stone stairwell.

“This marquis,” I said, ogling the pink marble walls, “he’s rich, I presume?”

Jie laughed. “Very. He probably sleeps on a mound of gold.”

Two flights up, we stepped into a hall that ran off in either direction. Teal rugs muffled our footsteps, and lamps every few feet gave a steady stream of electric light.

“I am in awe,” I declared. “All of Paris is so elegant, and this is downright opulent!”

“You haven’t even seen the best part yet.” Jie pointed directly across from us to a white door built into a wall of glass-paneled windows. White curtains blocked whatever was on the other side. “That’s the lab. Now you’ll really be impressed.” She slipped out a key, and moments later, the door swung back.

I gasped, rooted to my spot in the doorway. “Impressed” was an understatement. The same teal carpet as the hall’s was underfoot, while mauve armchairs lined the room’s edge. Simple mahogany bookshelves covered the walls, and in the middle of the room were three wide worktables—all lit by dangling chandeliers.

“Wow,” I breathed.

“It’s supposed to be a parlor for the three suites in the corner.” She motioned to the back, where a tiny hall connected to three doors. “But the Marquis paid for us to make a lab.”

“Do you all sleep on mounds of gold?”

She snickered. “Just satin, I’m afraid.” She slid her hands into her pockets and ambled in.

I stepped carefully after her. “And you think the Marquis will pay for me as well?”

“Yeah. I’m sure of it.” She guided me around the paper-strewn tables and toward the corner hall.

“The Marquis has more money than he knows what to do with. He’s paying for Daniel to visit

Germany.”

My heart skittered. “Daniel . . . isn’t here?”

“No. He’s studying with the German army to learn about weapons and flying machines—pretty much anything that might be useful to us.”

“Oh.” Disappointment slashed through me, so sharp, it actually hurt. I bit the inside of my mouth.

“And for how long,” I asked, trying to keep my face passive, “is Daniel away?”

Jie shrugged. “The Marquis offered to send him for a whole month, and Daniel jumped at the chance. . . but I think he decided to stay only two weeks in the end.” She shuffled into the hall, which was really nothing more than a narrow room with a door on each wall. “So that means he should return in a few days.”

My heart stumbled again, but I stoutly avoided thinking about my feelings. The last thing I needed to worry about was a young man—even if he had left me somewhat heartbroken.

I cleared my throat. “So which room is yours, Jie?”

She motioned to the door on the right, and then with a flick of her wrist, she spun the knob and pushed inside.

I moved to follow but instantly stopped again. My jaw went slack. The hardwood floor was covered in an elaborate violet carpet that matched the chaise longue and two armchairs. A huge, plush bed in sky blue stood beneath a draping blue curtain that contrasted perfectly with the maroon-and-

gold window curtains. A writing desk, two bedside stands, and even a full-length mirror stood guard against cream walls.

“Wow,” I said. “Your situation has really changed. To think you were living and working in a closet only a few months ago—to think that Philadelphia still believes you’re to blame for all those deaths and walking corpses.”

She opened her palms. “Like I said, I think that’s why the Marquis makes Joseph go out so much —to counteract the bad gossip. And to help his own presidential campaign. Either way, we’re the only people who can help Paris, and unlike the stupid Centennial Exhibition, no one here expects us to pretend the problem isn’t exactly what is. These sacrificed Dead are walking, yeah? And it’s our job to find who’s behind it all.”

I frowned. “Tell me more about the Dead. What’s happening exactly?”

“We call them les Morts, remember?” She crossed to the bed and flung herself on her stomach.

“The basics are that these Dead show up randomly . . . but they’re the Hungry Dead. Rabid and fast.”

“Is it a necromancer?”

She propped herself on her elbows. “We don’t know. See, all les Morts have one thing in common: they were murdered first . . . and their ears and eyes were cut off.”

I shrank back, my stomach coiling. “That’s what you meant by ‘sacrificed’?”

“Yeah, and it’s not nice. They keep showing up reanimated. Or they were. We haven’t seen any in almost three weeks. But listen, Joseph can explain it better. He has some theories, and he can tell you about ’em once he’s back from”—she twirled one hand in the air—“living the tiring but very glamorous life.”

“You sound as if you don’t like the glamorous life.” I pointed at the nearest window. “But a view of Paris? Free clothes and trips to Germany? What is there to dislike?”

“A lot.” She rolled her eyes. “You should see how the women fall over Joseph and Daniel; it’s . . .”

She clamped her mouth shut.

“It’s what?”

“Nothin’.” She rolled onto her back and watched me through half-lowered lids.

“What is that look for?” I demanded.

“This is my I-know-how-you-feel-about-Daniel face.”

“Excuse me?” I hitched up my skirts and stalked to the bed. “How do I feel about him?”

She tipped her head to the side. “You two are like . . . I dunno, like something that’s completely in love but won’t admit it.”

“What? That’s utterly absurd.” I dropped onto the chaise at the foot of the bed.

She crossed her arms. “You seem awful defensive.”

“Honestly.” I moaned. “Why does everyone seem to think this about me? I am not in love with

Daniel Sheridan.”

“Who else thinks it?”

“Oh, um—” I paused, not wanting to mention Oliver. “My maid.” I glanced to the right. “But I’m not. In love, I mean.”

She swung her legs around and leaned back onto the pillows. “Isn’t there some line about protesting the truth too much?”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” I sighed dejectedly. “It’s from Hamlet, and you’re probably right. But listen, I thought . . . well, I thought there was something between us. But when I asked him how he felt, he told me very plainly that he was not in love with me.”

Jie winced.

“Surprise.” I wiggled my fingers halfheartedly in the air. “Now can you please drop these silly notions.”

“But have you considered that maybe it’s a complicated situation because of—”

“Enough,” I cut in. “Please. I do not want to discuss Daniel a moment longer. Please finish what you were saying before. About all the women.”

She nodded slowly and clasped her hands behind her head. “Well . . . the ladies are in love with

Joseph and Daniel, and it’s sickening.” She watched me, clearly waiting for my reaction.

“Don’t worry, Jie.” I gave a tight laugh. “The women can have them both. I have other things to worry about. Les Morts. Marcus.”

“Marcus?” She sat up. “You mentioned him in your telegram, but I didn’t understand.”

“Um . . .” I gulped, searching my brain for any topic that wasn’t Marcus. I only needed a few minutes to get a solid story in order. A story that carefully avoided any mention of Oliver. I cleared my throat. “Can we possibly order dinner first?”

“Right!” She scooted off the bed. “I promised you a baguette. I’ll get you some food, and then you can tell me what’s going on. And then”—she waved to my enormous yawn—“I’d say it’s time for bed.”

I patted my mouth until the yawn passed. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”

She grinned, her eyes crinkling. “I’m glad you’re here, Eleanor.”

I grinned back. “And I’m glad to be here.”