Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

Daniel, and I was simply Eleanor.

I laid out all my letters, and soon enough, Daniel came marching back with a stack of books teetering in his arms. He eased them onto the desk. “We’ll start with these. The librarian’s going to bring us anything else he finds.”

Snagging the top book— Étude des Grimoires— I flipped to the index. Instantly, a giggle broke through my lips. “It’s here!” I tapped the page. “Le Dragon Noir. ”

“And here’s La poule noire.” Daniel leaned over my shoulder and planted a finger on the opposite page. “The Black Pullet. Not a bad start, Empress.”

All I could manage was a nod. He was so close—so close that I could see the stubble he had missed shaving. Could see each muscle in his jaw.

But it was the smell of him that almost undid me. Metal and salt and everything he had always smelled of came rushing into my nose, and with it came the memories. Swirling. Intense.

My back to the lamppost. His hands cradling my face. His lips pressed fiercely to mine.

A low moan escaped my mouth.

Daniel flinched, his face jerking toward me.

I clamped a hand over my mouth. Oh God. Please say I did not make that noise aloud.

His brow knit with concern. “Are you all right?”

I nodded frantically, my eyes nearly popping from my skull. “Hungry,” I said behind my hand.

“Sorry.”

“Well, we can eat after we finish this.” Grinning, he hooked his heel around the chair next to mine, drew it out, and plopped down.

I bowed over my book and avoided meeting his gaze. For several moments I could feel him watching me. It made me hot—miserably, boiling hot—and just when I thought I would explode with sweat and flushed cheeks, he turned away.

I drew in a long, shaky breath, and when I finally had the courage to glance at Daniel, it was to find him fully focused on my letters.

“Your brother,” he drawled, “makes about as much sense to me as French politics.”

“It makes no sense to me either.”

“Who’s this Ollie fellow, d’you suppose?”

“Uh . . .” I bit the inside of my mouth. What could I say?

“Or Monsieur Girard in the last one?” Daniel went on, oblivious to my sudden panic. “Or this random hackney driver?”

I sank back in my chair. “I-I don’t know. Perhaps we should focus on the books first.” I grabbed up the letters and shoved them aside with far more force than necessary. But again, Daniel didn’t seem to notice. He simply shrugged, and in a matter of minutes we had sunk into a rhythm. Daniel scanned indexes, I marked pages, and the librarian—a soft-spoken Frenchman—continued to bring us book after book.

Minutes slid into hours, and after examining forty-seven different books and determining that only thirteen were useful, we came to the final text in our stack: Napoléon et la campagne d’Égypte.

Daniel flipped to the index. “I don’t know what Napoleon would have to do with grimoires, but we might as well . . .” He trailed off.

“What?” I asked.

“It is here. One page about Le Dragon Noir. Page fifty-seven.” He thumbed through until he found the right page, and then we both read the passage.

“Here.” I tapped the middle paragraph and haltingly tried to translate. “‘Many Egyptians . . . thought Napoleon had a necromancer . . .’”

“‘But,’” Daniel said, following along, “‘there was never’—I don’t know what that word is.”

“Me neither, but look here.” My eye caught on a paragraph further down on the page—on a French phrase I knew well. “‘The soldier,’” I continued translating, “‘who was famous for . . . for discovering

Le Dragon Noir was a known necromancer.’” I straightened. “Does that mean the grimoire was found in Egypt?”

“Sure sounds like it. And look: the soldier’s name is Jacques Girard.”

“Monsieur Girard!” I snatched the letters off the table and found the last one, sent from Egypt. But my shoulders drooped as I read aloud, “‘Monsieur Girard was not home today. I fear I wrote the wrong address. If I cannot find him, then I will have no choice but to find the pages.’”

“Huh,” Daniel said. “It could mean something or it could just be someone with the same last name.”

I groaned.

Daniel shot me a concerned look. “Don’t get frustrated, Empress. Why don’t we head back to the hotel now? I’ll have the librarian send the books to the lab.”

I nodded, too tired to worry about Jie—or Joseph—waiting for me at Le Meurice. While Daniel dealt with the books, I wearily gathered up my letters and considered this latest information. Elijah wrote that he needed pages. Those had to be the missing pages from Le Dragon Noir. The ones that had been displayed at the Centennial Exhibition—and the whole reason Elijah had even come back to

Philadelphia all those months ago.

There was some other connection here, though. Something I was missing.

But at least I could be certain of one thing: whatever was hiding in these letters, I was going to find it. Even if it meant consulting Oliver on it. Yes, it was time to share the messages with my demon.

Daniel and I left the library, moving as slowly as when we had come, but now it was different—

now I wanted the moments to drag by. Soon enough we would reach the hotel. Reach Jie and

Joseph . . . and reach the truth.

But not yet. For now I could still wrap myself in this. In Daniel.

As we ambled past the chestnut-lined square, I suddenly realized something. “Daniel!” I yanked him to a stop. “We did none of your research! I’m so sorry—I took over all of your time.”

He smiled shyly. “I didn’t actually have any research to do, Empress. I just wanted to . . . Here, come with me.” He pulled me into the square and over the grass to the fountain’s edge. As the water poured out from the bronze women’s vases, he slowed to a stop and angled himself toward me. “Will you be at the ball tomorrow night?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged one shoulder, gulping furiously. When he didn’t say anything for several moments, I said, “Is that all you wan—”

“I need to apologize,” he blurted.

My eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have been so rude this morning. In front of the hotel.” His eyes flicked down.

“Although you were the one to lose your temper.”

“Lose my temper? I only lost it after you . . .” I let my words fade. His lips were twitching up. “Oh, I see. You’re teasing me.”

He reached out and popped my chin with his thumb.

I gave a mock gasp. “How dare you, sir! Touch me again, and I shall call the foxes.”

“Foxes? As in the police?” He fought off a laugh—and failed. “I never pegged you for such criminal language, Empress.”

I rolled my eyes. “And I’m not as highfalutin as you might think.”

“Listen to you! ‘Highfalutin.’” He whistled through his teeth. “Next thing I know, you’ll be swearing and spitting.”

“Only because I learned it from you.” I gave him a superior smile. “And if anyone here is highfalutin, it’s you, Daniel Sheridan.” I grabbed hold of his monocle and tugged it to my eye—but of course it was laced around his neck, and I wound up tugging him to me too.

My heart stopped. His face was only inches from mine. I could feel his breath, gently brushing my cheeks. I could see every line in his jaw and every shade in his lips—and oh, his lips. They were so close.

“Eleanor.” His voice was faint and rough. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Yes?” I dragged my eyes from his lips and met his gaze.

It almost undid me. I could see the longing in them—see the desire in the way his pupils widened and shrank in time to his breathing.

“That night in the hospital, when you asked me if I—”

“Eleanor!” a voice roared.

As one, our heads whipped toward the sound. Stalking toward Daniel and me, his cheeks bright and his eyes glossy, was none other than Oliver. “Eleanor!”

Acid churned into my throat. Daniel jerked away from me.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Oliver shouted, almost upon us. His features were masked with fury.

Daniel pushed in front of me. “Who the hell are you?”

Oliver ignored him, staring at me over Daniel’s shoulder. “I’ve been waiting around for you for hours, El! Then I come here, and what do I find?”

Daniel whirled around to me. “Do you know this man?”

“I-I . . .”

“Of course she knows me,” Oliver spat. “I’m her—”

“Hush,” I hissed. Panic beat wildly in my chest. “You’re drunk!”

Daniel recoiled. “So you do know him. Is he your beau?”

Oliver opened his mouth, but I shot him a fierce glare. “Don’t, Ollie.”

“Ollie?” Daniel repeated, somehow standing up even taller. “From the letters?”

“Yes,” Oliver said at the same instant I cried, “No!”

“You were her brother’s friend,” Daniel said, his eyes on Oliver. “And I . . . I’ve seen you somewhere before. . . . At the hotel—that’s it, isn’t it? You’ve been in the hotel.” He turned to me, his eyes creased with pain. “He is your beau. How else can you explain this?”

“Please,” I begged. “It isn’t like that at all.”

“God, I’ve been an idiot. ” He retreated two steps, his head shaking. “A new hand, a new man. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“Yes, you do!”

“No, Miss Fitt.” He wrenched his top hat low over his face. “You’re not . . . you’re not who I thought you were.”

There was so much venom in his voice—venom I didn’t deserve—that all I could do was stare. He was the one who had changed. Not me. Why couldn’t he—or Jie—see that?

But I never had a chance to tell him. Before I could speak, he pivoted sharply and strode off—

away from the square, away from Oliver, and away from me.

I immediately rounded on the demon. “How could you do this to me? You stupid drunk!”

“El, I—”

“Don’t,” I shouted. “Do not speak to me. Do not come near me. Don’t even look at me.” I stomped away, but I only made it several steps before looking back. “Is this what you wanted all along? For me to have no one but you?”

“No. Of course not.” His eye shone, but with emotion or gin, I couldn’t say. “I was waiting for you, El. Waiting for you to . . . to come . . . and I followed our bond here, so—”

“I do not care,” I said softly. “Two of my friends are gone, and it’s all because of you.”

And with fury and shame pounding in my ears, I twisted around and left.