Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“Exactly.” Daniel nodded. “When you squeeze quartz, the mechanical stress creates an electric charge. That charge moves through the copper clamp and into your arm. The copper also magnifies the charge, and of course, the bigger the crystal, the bigger the initial current. It’s not as powerful as a spark from the influence machine, but it should be enough to stop a corpse or two.”

“Kaptivan,” Joseph said, gently taking the contraption into his gloved hands. “A portable source of electricity.”

“You should try it out,” Daniel suggested.

“I cannot.” He laid the device back in its box. “If I take in the electricity, I must shoot it back out again. I learned that the hard way.” He shot me a smile, as if I might understand.

I did understand—all too well. Yet I had assumed it would be different with external power.

Instead, it would seem that no matter the source, no magic could be held indefinitely. You had to use it.

And that was simply one more limitation to electricity.

“Why don’t you try it,” Daniel said, his eyes settling on me. “I bet . . .”

He gritted his teeth as if he didn’t want to finish.

“Bet what?” I pressed. “Tell me what you were going to say, Daniel.”

“I was gonna say,” he snarled, “that you should try it out because I bet that new hand of yours can squeeze this clamp like a real professional.”

I stiffened. “Joseph said it’s dangerous.”

“Right.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Silly of me to forget.”

“You want me to hurt myself, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that, did I? Thing is, I’m just startin’ to wonder, Miss Fitt”—his words came out faster and louder—“what’s so great about that phantom hand of yours.”

“Stop.” Heat blazed up my body.

“What amazing tricks can it do? Can it stop the Dead? Or—I know—can it raise the Dead?”

I knew Daniel wanted to hurt me like I had hurt him, but this time he’d gone too far. I pushed onto my feet and marched around the table toward him.

“Show us some tricks,” he said, wiggling his fingers at me. “Show us your amazing necromancy with that shiny, new hand.”

“You jealous, spiteful ass,” I hissed. “Do you want to know what my phantom hand is good for, Daniel?”

“Please,” he said with a sneer.

“This.” I slapped him straight across the cheek, so hard that even with my glove, the blow flamed up my arm.

Then, before he or Joseph could react, I turned on my heels and stormed from the lab.

Chapter Sixteen

I had just reached my room, ready to pound my pillow into a pulp, when the Dead alarm rang. I rushed to my window. A scruffy boy was yanking the bell rope and hollering, “Les Morts! Les Morts! ”

“Number seventy-three,” I murmured, but I didn’t go down to the lab.

Nor did anyone come up for me.

Minutes later, just as I moved away from the window, two top hats hurried into a carriage, and I couldn’t help but note that they did not carry an influence machine. I supposed Joseph trusted Daniel’s newer, more portable inventions.

I also couldn’t help but notice Jie’s absence. They might not have been worried about her, but I was.

Yes, I knew Jie could take care of herself. I had seen her barrel through a line of corpses with nothing more than a casual flying kick. Yet why would she leave? And do it all of a sudden with nothing more than a vague note? It was not like her.

So I went to the hotel’s front desk and asked if anyone had seen her. They had not. I asked in the restaurant, the men’s smoking lounge, and even in the shops nearby. But no one had seen a bald

Chinese girl dressed like a boy. Not since yesterday.

As I strode back into Le Meurice’s marble foyer, wishing I had read the note she’d left for Joseph, a voice trilled, “Eleanor!”

I whirled around to find a violet-clad Laure hurrying toward me, her lips at their usual mischievous slant.

“C’est vrai?” She whipped a newspaper from her purse. “Is it true? The Galignani’s Messenger says you and that balloon pilot ’ad a fight.” She glanced down at the tiny print. “Ah, mais oui, the pilot and a second man fought over you in the Square Louvois. The second man was Oliver, non?”

I stared stupidly. “How did that get in the newspaper?”

“Everything is in the newspapers in Paris. Except for me.” She winked. “Though you can ’elp me change that. I want to meet the Spirit-Hunters.”

“You want to meet them?” My brow wrinkled. “I’m afraid none of them are here now—”

“Then introduce me later. Or— je sais! Show me their lab.”

“Really?” I squeaked. “You want to see it?”

“Bien sûr! These Spirit-Hunters are famous! I can imagine my parents’ faces when I return to

Marseille and tell them who I ’ave seen.”

“The lab is probably locked—”

For a moment her face fell. But then she flashed a grin. “Ah well. Then I will merely take a peek at the door of their famous lab, and that will be enough.”

“Well, all right,” I said grudgingly, waving to the stairwell. “I suppose there’s no harm.”

Less than a minute later, we were standing on the second floor and staring at the Spirit-Hunters’ lab door.

Laure marched to it. “Let us try it, oui?”

“I’m certain it’s lock—” I broke off, for Laure had pushed the handle, and it was most assuredly not locked.

She shot me a grin. “Do you think I could ’ave a peek?”

I gulped. I knew Joseph—or Daniel—would disapprove . . . but if we looked inside, I could also quickly search for the note from Jie. “Yes. Hurry.” I strode toward Laure. “We’ll go in, but only for a moment.”

“Parfait.” She eased back the door, and we crept inside, closing it softly behind us. “It smells,” she whispered.

“Because there is a corpse over there,” I murmured, pointing.

She made a gagging sound and instantly pinched her nose. “A corpse?”

“Yes.” I grinned at her. “The Spirit-Hunters do hunt the Dead, after all.” Laure only cringed in response, so, leaving her to stare around the room, I darted toward the windowsill where Jie’s note still lay. I snatched it up and held it to the light.

Gone out. Be back later.

—Jie

For several moments the only sound was Laure’s feet padding over the carpet as she inspected anything and everything. I read the note again. And again and again, my heart picking up speed each time. This was not Jie’s handwriting. It was similar; but after exchanging letters with her for months, I knew her wobbly style. This lettering was too smooth. Too assured.

So what did that mean?

I shot a glance at Laure. She was reading the titles of Joseph’s books and mouthing them to herself, her eyebrows arched high.

My gaze returned to the note. Had Jie been taken? And by whom? For what purpose? In the end it didn’t actually matter—what mattered was that Jie’s absence was bad.

I needed the Spirit-Hunters to return. I needed to tell Joseph to send out all of his new patrol force.

I needed to find Jie.

I could ask Oliver to look, I thought. Except that I was not ready to. I so desperately wanted to trust the demon . . . but I couldn’t. Not after his display yesterday. If only I could talk to Elijah . . . ask him about Oliver and the letters—

My thoughts were interrupted by a choke.

I whirled around—only to find Laure standing beside the butler, her face green. “It smells so strongly.”

I grimaced. “That’s because you’re right beside the body. Come stand here. Next to the window.”

She clasped a gloved hand to her mouth and rushed to my side. As she worked on opening the window, I turned away and tried to refocus my thoughts.

The words of Joseph’s book came to mind. The words about a séance. A longer-dead ghost will require more power and therefore more people.

I straightened. I couldn’t hold a séance by myself, but I could mimic one, could I not? I could pretend to have more people by using a crystal clamp to enhance my power.

Triumph rushed over me—but then a crash sounded. I jerked toward Laure. On the floor was

Daniel’s ornate cream box—upside down and with the lid popped off.

“Excusez-moi!” Laure wrung her hands. “Je suis désolé, Eleanor! I am so sorry!”

“It’s fine,” I muttered, shoving Jie’s note into my pocket and kneeling. Please don’t be broken.

Laure crouched beside me. “When I opened the window, I did not see the hatbox.”

“I don’t think it is a hatbox.” I yanked the lid off the floor.

“Then what is it?” She slid the box over, revealing what had spilled onto the floor . . . and she gasped.

My heart sank like a stone. It was a mechanical hand. Bronze gears shone in the place of knuckles, and polished wood flesh gleamed in the afternoon sun. At the wrist there were a series of tendon-like wires: the muscles to operate this creation.

I gulped, and with shaking fingers, I reached out to stroke it. The detail was immense and meticulous, from the small, carved fingernails to the soft curve of the palm.

Tears burned, welling in my eyes. Daniel had told me there were ways to make mechanical hands, and when I had asked if he was offering, he had answered, I can always try.

He had not only tried, but he had succeeded. No wonder he had been so upset by my phantom limb.

“Are you . . . are you all right?” Laure’s voice was gentle.

“No.” I wiped at my eyes. “Daniel made this . . . and it was meant for me.” I picked up the hand and laid it gently back in the box. Then I placed the lid on top.

“Was meant for you?” Laure pushed herself up and helped me rise. “Why not is meant for you?”

“Because I have this,” I answered bitterly, lifting my right hand. “I have this cursed, magical abomination.”

She shook her head and returned the box to the windowsill. “I cannot pretend to ’ave any idea of what you speak. But”—she gazed at me, sympathy dragging at her eyebrows—“I do know a broken heart when I see it.”

All I could do was bite my lip and nod.

“Il t’aime. ” She offered me her handkerchief. “He loves you.”