Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“Where are you residing?” the Marquis asked, cutting into my thoughts.

“To be honest, sir, I stayed with Miss Chen last night.” I fluttered my lashes in what I hoped was a sweet and helpless way. “I came here quite suddenly and have nowhere else to stay.”

“Then you must take a room here,” said Madame Marineaux, moving to my side. She spoke with a faint accent—though it did not sound French. “The Marquis is friends with the owner, you see, and he is taking care of these amazing Spirit-Hunters. You must allow him the privilege of hosting you as well.” She shot the Marquis a raised eyebrow. “Surely that can be arranged, Monsieur?”

“Mais oui!” The Marquis stomped his cane against the floor. “I will take care of everyzing.”

“Thank you very much.” I gave them both a grateful grin. “Merci beaucoup. ”

Moments later, we entered the restaurant. Pistachio-colored curtains lay over ceiling-high windows, and crystal chandeliers hung like icicles. A navy-uniformed waiter with a rigid posture and even stiffer mustache helped me sit as the Marquis assisted Madame Marineaux. Then, after taking a flurry of orders from the Marquis, the waiter glided off.

The Marquis set his strange cane against the table, allowing me full view of the gnarled ivory fingers, and I could not help but stare. The detail that met my eyes was amazing: the fingers were tipped with long, sharp fingernails, and the lines carved into the palm were astonishingly lifelike. But it was the fingernails that held my attention. They seemed dangerous, yet alluring. Exotic, I thought.

“Ah, you are admiring my cane?” LeJeunes tugged at his mustache, grinning. “It is magnifique, non?”

“Yes,” I said warmly. “I have never seen anything like it. Where did you get it?”

“From me,” Madame Marineaux answered, a pleased flush spotting her cheeks. “I am glad you like it. I found it on my travels. When I was in India, I visited a small village for which this symbol”—she dipped her head to the cane—“is considered good luck. And it has certainly brought the

Marquis luck.” Her gaze landed on LeJeunes with fondness.

“Oui, oui. It has.” He clapped his hands. “Such success in zee Senat elections, and I hope”—he winked in my direction—“I will have the same success in zee presidential elections. All thanks to my

Madame and my . . . what is zee word? Good luck charm.” He placed a gloved hand tenderly over

Madame Marineaux’s.

I shifted in my seat, intrigued by the Madame. “You have done much traveling?”

“Oh yes.” She smiled, her hazel eyes crinkling. “All over the world.” She angled her head to one side. “But surely that is of no interest to a young girl such as yourself.” She gave a tinkling laugh.

“Usually all the girls I meet wish to speak of parties and fashion!”

“Oh no!” I cried, shaking my head. “Your travels sound fascinating. My dream is to do just that, actually—to see the world.”

“You have made a good start!” The Marquis tapped the table, his smile spreading beyond the edges of his mustache. “You are in the City of Light. The best conversation and the finest parties are to be found here. La joie de vivre, Mademoiselle! Society and museums and lovely sights. You must see all of it while you are visiting your friends.”

At that moment our waiter strutted back into the room, pushing a trolley laden with breads, pastries, and richly scented coffee. As he laid out plate after plate, the Marquis motioned for me to serve myself. So I did, grabbing two croissants, a tart drizzled in chocolate, and a generous helping of butter.

After the Marquis had filled his own plate—it would seem he had a fondness for anything with cherries—he turned his eyes to me. “I have an idea, Mademoiselle! We are hosting a ball to celebrate all zee success our Spirit-Hunters have had.”

I froze in the middle of slathering butter on my first croissant. A ball? It seemed a dreadful time for a ball if les Morts roamed the streets.

“You must attend,” the Marquis urged. “Everyone who is anyone will go.”

Somehow, I grew even stiffer. It was bad enough that the Spirit-Hunters would have to take time off to go to the ball, but me as well? I couldn’t possibly attend such a gala when I had only one dress in my possession. Yet before I could protest, Madame Marineaux clapped excitedly. “That is a grand idea, Monsieur!” She turned to me. “You absolutely must come, Mademoiselle Fitt! It is in two nights.”

I set down my croissant and wiped my hands on my napkin. “I-I would love to, but I fear I have brought nothing suitable to wear to such an affair.”

Madame Marineaux clucked her tongue. “Do not be silly. Such a minor inconvenience. Why, I know a dressmaker with premade creations. She can tailor something for your, eh . . .” Her eyes dropped to my ample waist and then to my crammed plate. “For your needs. ”

Heat flooded my face, and I realized that the Madame had nothing more than half—only half— a pastry on her own plate.

I snatched up my buttered croissant. “I-I’m sorry, Madame, but I’m afraid the expense of a new dress would be too much for me.” I chomped almost frantically into the flaky bread.

“Expense?” LeJeunes repeated. He gulped down coffee and then wiped his mouth. “Pas de problème. I will cover zee costs, and zis weekend you will attend zee grandest gala Paris has ever seen!”

I gulped back my bread, trying not to choke. “Sir, I could not possibly impose—”

“Nonsense!” Madame Marineaux wagged her finger at me. “I will send the dressmaker over this very afternoon. You cannot say no to new dresses.”

Dresses? Plural? Yet as I sat there, flustered and outvoted, the Marquis laughed happily. “Parfait!”

A moment later, a harried Joseph rushed into the dining room. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, as if expecting girls to appear behind every table and chair. He looked even more exhausted than before.

The Marquis waved. “Monsieur Boyer, come! Sit. Eat.”

Joseph nodded quickly, and as he darted for the table, I felt an odd twisting in my stomach. I frowned—it was a familiar feeling, yet it took me a moment to realize why.

Then it clicked. I had felt this when Oliver tested our bond at the train station. The demon had to be nearby. I whipped my gaze to the door, and sure enough, a slight, gray-suited figure lounged in the hallway beyond.

I shot to my feet. “I-I must use the necessary. Pardon me.” I wobbled a curtsy, embarrassed by the three pairs of surprised eyes yet also certain I did not want Oliver seen. Moments later, I dashed into the hall and veered sharply left. I strode away from Oliver and away from the restaurant’s view.

As I knew they would, Oliver’s footsteps clicked after me. It wasn’t until we had passed through two doorways and the hallway twisted sharply left that I slowed to a stop.

“You fool!” I turned and, grabbing his coat, yanked him to me. “They might have seen you.”

“That Joseph fellow did see me.”

My breath caught. “What? Did he recognize you?”

“No.” Oliver smirked, obviously entertained by my panic. “Why would he? We’ve never met.”

“But you’re a . . .” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You’re a demon. Can he not tell?”

“Not unless I’m doing magic. I couldn’t even sense another demon if the demon wasn’t actively tossing around spiritual energy. Like the rest of the world, all your Spirit-Hunters see is an incredibly dashing young man.” He flashed his eyebrows at me. “Besides, I was under the impression that you wanted me to meet Joseph Boyer.”

“I do want you to meet him. Just . . . just not yet.”

He scratched his chin. “So you aren’t mad at me for leaving you at the train station?”

“Well, uh . . . no,” I said at last, “though I am wondering where you have been all this time.”

He spread his arms wide. “It’s Paris, El! I’ve been everywhere. Enjoying my old haunts and finding new ones. Why, I discovered a charming bar in Montmarte, and while I was there”—he dipped toward me—“I heard about les Morts. Bloody disgusting. And bloody ambiguous.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that those missing eyes and ears could be any number of sacrificial rituals.” He tapped his chest. “And I am glad it’s not me tasked with finding the person behind it.”

“But we are tasked with that.”

“Er, why ‘we’ exactly?”

I frowned at him. “Well, the Spirit-Hunters are after les Morts, so I suppose I am too.”

“But what of Marcus—”

“He’s not here, so I will deal with him when he comes.”

“—and Elijah’s letters, your necromancy, and . . . am I forgetting anything? Oh yes.” He glowered.

“Setting me free.”

I ground my teeth. “And I will get to all that when I am good and ready. For now, Marcus isn’t here and les Morts are. If I want Joseph to help me, then I must first help him.”

“But I am good and ready now, El. I thought we were friends.”

“We . . . are.” My face scrunched up, and I realized that he was my friend. He knew more about me than even the Spirit-Hunters, and I didn’t want to lose that. And yet for all that Oliver knew of me, I knew almost nothing about him. “For a friend,” I said slowly, “you keep an awful lot of secrets. About my brother.”

He gave me a cool, sidelong glance. “And I have told you, that’s my personal business.”

“But maybe your personal business would help me understand Elijah’s letters.”

“Well, you could make it easier for the both of us if you simply gave me those letters.” He bowed toward me. “I could take them, you know. But I haven’t.”

Now it was my turn to gaze at him sidelong. “Why not, if it’s so easy?”

For a moment he did not reply, and I could see in the shifting of his pupils that he was rummaging through various replies. At last his eyes narrowed and he declared, “I haven’t stolen the letters because

I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me. We can’t make this partnership work if you don’t. I want to see the letters for personal reasons, so I am . . . content to wait. At least for now.”

I swallowed, unsure how to respond. I so desperately wanted to trust him too—wanted the easy reliance I’d shared with Elijah. “What if . . . what if we make a deal?”

“Ah.” His yellow eyes flashed bright gold. “I do love deals. What do you propose?”

“You help me with les Morts, and then I’ll let you see Elijah’s letters.”