Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“Your . . . your face,” he said. “And your dress.”

“What do you mean?” I lowered my gaze. My nightgown was ripped to shreds. “Oh God.” I wrapped my arms around myself.

Then I realized who knelt beside me, and my eyes jerked back to his face. “Get away from me—I warned you!” I tried to scuttle back.

His jaw fell. “But I just saved your life!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Hell Hounds, El. Didn’t you see them?”

My throat clenched shut. I stopped crawling. The Hell Hounds. The dogs from my dream. “H-how do you know about them?”

“Because my entire existence depends on it.” A gust of wind thrashed over us, sending his chestnut curls into his eyes. He had to shout to be heard. “My life hangs on making sure the Hell Hounds never find me!”

And in a flash it all made sense. “The Hell Hounds”—my vocal cords strained over the ocean wind

—“they’re the guardians of the spirit world?”

“Obviously!” He swiped his hair from his eyes. “But why are they after you?”

“After me? What do you mean? It was just a dream.” I struggled to my feet, my head spinning and the wind fighting me. Oliver reached out to help, but I bared my teeth. “Stay back.”

He retreated, his hands up. “I’m back! I’m back! But, El, that was not just a dream.” He pointed to my face. “Just look at yourself.”

I reached up and touched my cheek. “Ow!” I whipped back my hand. It was covered in blood.

For half a breath I stared blankly. Then I darted away from him, fear churning in my gut, and tottered to the nearest wall. My bare feet slapped on the smooth wood, and the wind whipped my gown in all directions.

I found a porthole, and in the yellow lamplight, I could clearly make out my reflection.

Lacerations lined my chin and nose. I leaned into the glass, and a new terror jolted through me, for there, embedded in my flesh at jagged angles, were giant splinters of dark, gray wood.

I glanced down at the deck and stomped my foot to be sure.

But no—there was no way this damage had been done by the deck.

And that could only mean one thing: my dream had not been a dream at all. It had been real.

Chapter Seven

As if my narrow escape from death was not enough agony for one night, things soon became even more complicated. After ogling myself in the porthole for a solid minute, the relative calm of the windy promenade deck was shattered by a childlike squeal.

My heart stumbled, and I spun around to find a terrified-looking Lizzie chasing toward me—her grandmother and a groggy Laure in tow.

“What happened?” Lizzie shrieked. “You’re hurt!”

Mrs. Brown gasped. “Oh, Miss Fitt, we must call a doctor!”

“Qui êtes-vous?” Laure’s eyes were locked on Oliver. “Who are you?”

“The poor man who found me,” I blurted before he could say anything stupid.

“But what happened?” Lizzie demanded. “I saw you get up and walk outta the room, but when I called, you didn’t answer.”

“Sleepwalking,” I said, my eyes darting from face to face. “I . . . I have a sleepwalking problem.”

“And now you’re injured!” Mrs. Brown cried. She hurried to my side and inspected my face.

“Dear, your face is destroyed.”

“It’s not that bad,” I mumbled, dabbing at my face. But I instantly grimaced. The bleeding might have lessened, yet the cuts still stung.

“Oh, it is that bad,” Laure insisted. With a groggy yawn, she stepped to my other side. “But Mrs.

Brown is right—you must see the ship’s doctor.”

“I can take you,” Lizzie offered. She held up her finger, around which was a small bandage. “I already visited him today. He’s on the bottom level.”

“Thank you,” I said, attempting a smile, “but this gentleman here can guide me.” I waved to

Oliver, who looked anything but willing to escort me to a doctor. “You’re in your nightgown, Lizzie, and should go back to the cabin.”

“C’est vrai,” Laure chimed. “I vote we let the jeune homme take her.”

“But how inappropriate,” Mrs. Brown proclaimed. “Her nightgown is in tatters, for heaven’s sake.”

“But he’s already seen me this way.” I tried—with little success—to keep impatience off my words. “Please, I appreciate you coming to my rescue, but I can get to the doctor just fine now.”

Laure gave a jaw-cracking yawn. “That is good enough for me, though perhaps you should lock the cabin door when you return.”

“Yes, I certainly will.” I waved good-bye to her—and Lizzie and Mrs. Brown—before turning to

Oliver. “I’m going to find the doctor.” He stepped toward me, but I flicked up my hand. “You are not coming with me.”

“But they said I must escort you.”

“And I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”

“The Hell Hounds are after you, El! You almost died. Don’t you realize what just happened? You crossed into the spirit realm. You can’t keep walking around by yourself—it might happen again!”

I didn’t answer, but simply pivoted and strode for the saloon door. As I knew he would, Oliver followed. And for some unfathomable reason, I let him . . . and I was even a bit glad to have him.

Was I so lonely that even the company of a demon was welcome? No, you merely want answers, and he’s the only creature alive who can give them to you. Yet even as these thoughts slid through my mind, part of me knew they weren’t true. Oliver was just so much like Elijah. . . .

I glanced back at him. “Why,” I shouted over the gusting wind and my smacking feet, “would these Hell Hounds be after me?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he yelled back. He lengthened his stride yet was smart enough to hang behind a few feet. “I thought the Hell Hounds were after me, actually. When they showed up at the wharf in Philadelphia, I thought it meant my binding spell was failing. That Elijah was dead, and the

Hell Hounds were out to get me.”

“Should the binding spell end with Elijah’s death?” We reached the saloon door. I motioned for him to open the heavy thing, and he hopped in front and heaved it wide.

“I thought it would,” Oliver said, “but . . . I don’t think it did. I certainly can’t do any magic, and

I’m . . .” He paused, and I had the distinct impression he was debating how much to tell me. At last he finished, “I think I must still be bound.”

And I knew in an instant he had opted to hide something from me. My distrust for him ramped up a notch.

As I strode past him and through the open doorway, he said, “You were in the spirit realm, you know. Right on the edge.”

“So it wasn’t a dream?” The door slammed behind us with a bang.

“No. It was real,” Oliver said, speaking at a normal volume.

I wiped at my face, trying to ignore how that made me feel. “Let’s say . . . well, let’s say I believe you. How did I get there? And why?”

“I don’t know, El.”

“Can you at least tell me what the dock was, then? Or the golden light at the end?”

“That whole area is the border between worlds. The dock is like a no-man’s-land, and that golden light was the curtain to the earthly realm.”

“That’s all very complicated.” I resumed walking. The saloon carpets were soft and welcome beneath my feet.

“It’s not complicated,” he retorted, following after me. “Ghosts that won’t settle collect at the border. They wait for their chance, for the Hell Hounds to look away, and then they run for that golden curtain.”

“But I saw Elijah there.” I glanced back at Oliver. “Does that mean he wants to come here?”

Oliver scratched his head. “You’re certain it was him?”

“Yes. And I saw an old friend of mine—one of Elijah’s victims, actually.”

He grimaced. “It sounds like their spirits were there to help you—on purpose— which makes me think that somehow they knew you were in danger. Like maybe they were watching out for you.”

“So that was really Elijah?”

Oliver nodded. “His spirit, yes.”

My throat closed tight. Elijah and Clarence—two people I’d have given anything to speak to again.

It would seem Oliver was thinking the same thing, for he said, “Did Elijah, um . . . well, did he say anything?”

“Like what?” I stepped onto the main stairs, paused, and gripped the left handrail until my knuckles were white.

“Like maybe a message,” Oliver explained. “For me.”

“No.” I resumed my descent, adding gruffly, “There wasn’t exactly time.”

“Right.” He shambled after me. “Of course not. Silly of me to have hoped.” He stared at the steps, his pace steady. Then his head snapped up. “Never mind. We have more important things to dwell on.

Like seeing the doctor. And figuring out why the Hell Hounds are after you—oh, and figuring out how they keep finding you.”

“We?” I paused on the next landing. “I don’t trust you.”

“No.” He tapped his chin, and his lips curved up in an almost arrogant smile. “But even if you don’t, I’m the only person who can help you right now. You told me you knew about necromancy, but obviously that was a lie. The first lesson in necromancy has to do with the Hell Hounds: Don’t mess with them. They’ll blast your soul straight into the final afterlife. No second chances. No questions asked. There’s a reason I never let down my guard, and those dogs are it. If they manage to sense me here—to recognize I’m in the wrong realm—I’ll be gone in an instant.”

“So . . .” I bit my lip, my grip still tight on the handrail. “If you hadn’t woken me just now . . .”

“No more Eleanor Fitt.”

I sucked in. There was a lot I didn’t know—and now I owed my life to a demon because of it.

Fantastic.

Oliver cleared his throat. “It was total luck, actually. Like I said, I never drop my guard. When I sensed the Hounds were here and not after me, I thought . . . well, I assumed the worst. I saw you on the dock in Philadelphia, you know—saw how you reacted when the Hounds came. And so I ran to see if you could sense them this time. To make sure you were all right. Luckily I was able to distract you —by waking you up—and that sent the Hounds away.”

“Distract me,” I repeated slowly. “It seems that every time my thoughts are elsewhere, the Hounds disappear.” I lifted my wrist. “And so does the pain in my hand.”

His eyes grew wide. “Your hand? It hurts when the Hounds come?”

“Yes, and it even starts flickering—like the ghost of my hand is somehow here.”

“Because it is!” He sprang onto the next landing and spun to face me. “Oh hell, it’s clever—don’t you see?”