Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“That’s why I was surprised. I could have sworn it had changed shape.”

“I zink you are, eh . . . imagining zings.” He gave me an indulgent smile. “Perhaps you ought to sleep.”

“Yes,” I mumbled, confused. “Perhaps I ought.”

“In zat case, I will tell Madame Marineaux not to keep you up too late.” LeJeunes shoved to his feet, his eyes shifting to Joseph. “Come, Monsieur Boyer.”

I hopped off my stool and curtsied good-bye. As the Marquis shuffled from the room, Joseph turned to me. “I am sorry, Eleanor, but I must attend this. If we could get a unit of patrolmen to help us—it might be precisely what we need to corner the demon behind les Morts.”

“I understand.”

“Perhaps you can study this book until Madame Marineaux arrives, and then we will talk about it in the morning.”

“Yes, I will.” I gave him a tight smile.

“And remember: you must keep fighting these magical urges. Please—I beseech you.”

“All right,” I said, nodding, but as he gathered his hat and coat, I couldn’t help but bite my lip.

Joseph had never cast a spell, so what did he really know?

And while I did not agree with Oliver either—sacrifices were absolutely not an option—at least with my self-power I could do more than simply banish the Dead. I was caught between doing what might be morally right (at least according to Joseph) and what might actually work.

For the problem before us was larger than les Morts or a renegade demon. The ultimate problem was a necromancer whose power had been crafted in life and honed in death. The ultimate problem was Marcus, and would Joseph’s methods stand against him?

No. They would not.

With a determined set in my jaw, I turned to the book on specters and read it—right there in the lab with a butler’s corpse to keep me company. It was filled with dull language but was at least written recently (an 1874 publication, according to the title page) and was also incredibly thorough.

Necromancy, voodoo, shamanism—any and every form of magic pertaining to spirits was mentioned within its gray covers.

I scanned the chapter headings for something about speaking to ghosts, and with surprising ease, I found information written in as dry a manner as the rest of the book.

Summoning spirits is ill-advised under any circumstances. For one, ghosts are rarely amenable to leaving the earthly realm once there. For two, the amount of magical training and power needed is extensive. Necromancers, for example, must rely on blood sacrifices to rip a temporary hole in the curtain. Voodoo requires group sessions of up to a hundred priests to open a hole. Ultimately, all methods are likely to incite the attention of the Hell Hounds (also known as barghest, black shuck, or Cˆwn Annwn, see page forty-seven for more detail).

However, mediums of the mid-1800s discovered a method that allows the curtain to remain closed and the ghost to be “called” via a séance. One must know the spirit’s name and time of death (the latter information used to adjust the strength of the “call.” A longer-dead ghost will require more power and therefore more people).

I gnawed my lip. That was it? A séance? It certainly sounded harmless enough. My own mama had hosted séances for years (with no success) in an attempt to speak to my dead father. Admittedly, she had also allowed Marcus to enter the earthly realm during one of these sessions, but I wouldn’t be so foolish.

And I had magic on my side. So let Marcus or any other spirit come. I smiled, but almost instantly my lips twisted down.

Why hadn’t Joseph and Oliver known about this method? It was so easy. . . .

A gentle buzz suddenly twirled in my gut, and I knew without looking that Oliver was near.

Two breaths later, the lab door cracked open.

“What do you want?” I snapped. My eyes never left the page.

“To talk. To . . . apologize.”

“Well, I don’t accept.”

“I messed up, El.”

“Yes, yes you did.” My teeth gnashed together, and against my will, I glanced up. Oliver stood, head hanging, in the doorway. “Why did you do that?”

“I . . . I was drunk.”

“Really? Because you seem quite sober now.”

“Drunk and jealous,” he whispered. His yellow eyes crawled up to mine. “You’re my only friend.

My family.”

“And?” I slammed the book shut and stood. “I have no family either, Oliver. Did you forget that?

Did you forget that my father is dead, my brother is dead, and my mother has renounced me? I have no money, no home, and no chance at a real life. And now— now—the only three people who are able to look beyond all that . . .” My fingers clenched into fists. “I am about to lose them too.”

Oliver hunched even further into himself. “You still have me.”

“That’s not enough!”

“It was enough for Elijah. He and I used to do everything together.”

“And I am not Elijah.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Trust me: I know. ”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he retorted, his spine unfurling, “you don’t want to learn how to free me. It means you run off with Madame Something-or-other and silly inventors when I’m right here waiting to teach you. Elijah never missed a chance to learn more. Now, do you accept my apology or not?”

“I do not accept.” I glared at him. “One minute you behave like my oldest chum—the spitting image of Elijah. Then the next minute you’re manipulating me . I don’t trust you, Oliver.”

He sniffed. “I never asked you to.”

“No, you’re right. You did not.” I got to my feet. “Yet for some reason you still seem to expect a great deal from me. Elijah might have made you his companion, Oliver, but for me you are nothing but a tool.”

Pain flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by a smug arch to his eyebrow. “I see what you’re trying to do. This has nothing to do with that Daniel fellow at all. You’re afraid of something, and you’re taking it out on me. So what is it, El?” He left the doorway and strode to me, only stopping once he was inches away. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

His eyes held mine—daring me to look away. I did not. “Are you the demon raising les Morts?”

My voice was barely a whisper. “Tell me.”

“And if I do not?” He sneered. “Will you command me? Command your tool?”

“Yes, I will.”

“So do it then.” He rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous, though. You know I can’t do any magic without your command.”

“How do I know that?”

“Well, I suppose you do not know for certain.” He opened his arms. “But go ahead. Ask me for the truth. Just be prepared for the consequences.”

My heart lurched. “What consequences?”

“In a few hours, once Joseph knows about my existence, I really will be all you have left. So even if I am the demon behind les Morts, do you truly want to know?”

I thinned my eyes. “Now I see exactly what you’re trying to do. If I command you, you will hold it against me—hang it over my head as leverage. Elijah used to play the same childish game.” I flipped my hand out and in a mocking voice said, “‘Oh, El, you owe me. Remember that time you blamed me for stealing the cherries?’” I backed away from Oliver, turning dismissively toward the butler’s corpse. “Well, I do not truly think you’re behind les Morts. And I won’t fall for your tricks. Now come here. I want you to take a look at this corpse.”

At that word, Oliver’s footsteps sounded behind me, and together we went to the white sheet.

“This is one of les Morts?” Oliver grabbed the edge of the sheet and yanked back. “I bet I can—oh, blessed Eternity.” His hand flew to his mouth, and his face turned a putrid green.

“Does it bother you?” I set my mouth in a stern line. “You, the boy who wanted me to sacrifice an animal?”

“When I said sacrifice,” he said, his voice muffled by his fingers, “I did not mean this atrocity.”

“How am I supposed to know that? Now, inspect this corpse and tell me if you recognize the spell.”

Oliver gulped and slowly lowered his hands. “I cannot tell much by simply looking. There are thousands of spells it could be. . . .”

“But?”

“But if you command me to, I can sense for the magic.”

“Will you be angry if I command you?”

He shook his head once.

And at that movement the hunger flared in my belly, so sharp and so fierce I could not breathe.

You promised Joseph you would resist. Except this was vital information, wasn’t it? If we could learn the spell, we would be one step closer to stopping les Morts. I had to use Oliver’s magic.

I wet my lips, and before guilt could stop me, I said, “Sense for the spell on this corpse. Sum veritas. ” The magic curled over me, pleasant and warm, before sliding off me like smoke.

Oliver’s eyes flashed blue. Then he snapped them shut, and his brows drew together.

“Well?” I asked. “Can you feel it?”

“Give me a minute,” he growled. But it only took him a few seconds to begin nodding. “There’s something there . . . a faint trace of power around the ears and eyes . . . and the tongue.” His eyelids lifted, and, using the edge of the sheet, he eased open the corpse’s jaw.

We both leaned forward and peered inside. “The tongue is still there,” I said.

“Yes, but look at how slashed and swollen it is.”

“Is that not from all the chomping?”

Oliver’s head flicked once to the side. “No. It was cut. Drained of blood.”

I recoiled. “What does that mean, then? Can you recognize the spell?”

“I think I can, yes.” He straightened, and when his eyes met mine, they were winced with revulsion. “But it’s bad, El. Very bad. I . . . I think it’s a compulsion spell.”

That sounded familiar. I kneaded my wrist, trying to figure out why. Then I remembered. “You mentioned that on the boat, didn’t you? You said to control a person’s actions, you had to sacrifice body parts.” I looked down at the butler. “So this spell is meant to control someone’s ears and eyes and tongue?”

“Yes, what they see, hear, and say . . . but not just one person, El.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there have been over seventy victims.”

The full weight of his words slammed into me, and I stumbled back. “Someone has cast seventy-

two compulsion spells.”