Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

The final rat stopped. It tumbled over, stiff and dead once more.

And the hall was silent. Too silent.

“Laure!” I hurled bloated corpses off me. “Laure!” Then Oliver was there, trying to help me rise.

“The butler’s victim,” I shrieked. “It’s Laure!”

Oliver’s eyes bulged. He spun around and darted to the collapsed butler. I crawled over, and we shoved the rotten body aside to show an unmoving woman beneath.

Her neck was destroyed—half of it torn out and still in the butler’s teeth. Tattered flesh clung to the edges of a gaping hole.

“Laure!” I wrenched her to me. Blood spurted onto her dress, onto my hands, warm and sticky and red. She was dying.

My eyes flew to Oliver’s. “Help her!”

“How?” His voice was frantic.

“Heal her!” A river of blood slid down the side of her neck, blossoming onto her violet gown. Her eyelids fluttered slightly, but her chest barely moved.

“It’s a death wound,” Oliver said, his voice shaky. “It will take all my magic and yours to heal—”

“Do it!”

“Then lay her down.”

I placed her gently back on the carpet. Her head lolled to one side, stretching the hole and oozing more fresh blood. Oliver gripped my hand in his and laid his other over Laure’s heart. His yellow eyes held mine. “Command me, El.”

“Heal Laure. Sum veritas. ”

His eyes lit up. First a flash of blue—pulsing, pulsing—and then an azure flame. So bright, so blinding, I had to squint.

My heartbeat synchronized with the pulsing flames, and time seemed to hold its breath. I was aware of everything around me. Of how Oliver’s eyes shone brighter. Of the fetid stench of the corpses, heavy and gagging. Of the smell of blood, higher-pitched and piercing. Of the animals—rat after rat, sparrow after pigeon. Of how congealed blood and writhing maggots were ground into the teal carpet.

Oliver latched onto my soul and he pulled. Each drop of magic slid from me, draining and draining, shriveling my insides.

I wanted to scream at him, “There is nothing left! Stop, stop!” But no words would form.

And still Oliver shone brighter. Blue light pulsed in his skull like a jack-o’-lantern, beautiful and terrifying.

Then his whole body tensed up. His hand crushed mine, and suddenly the light burst into his chest.

A well of power, glowing through his ribs.

He cried out, and a spark cracked from his outstretched hand. A beam of power shot into Laure’s chest, spreading out like a spiderweb over her body.

Oliver’s voice ripped out again, an agonized sound. His head rolled back. His chest burned brighter and seared my eyes.

All at once, Laure’s body stiffened like a board. Oliver screamed, and Laure screamed too. Then liquid heat rolled over me, bathing us in a perfect warmth.

The light shrank in on itself, smaller and smaller, until it finally winked out completely.

For a moment all was still. My eyes were too blinded to see, my body too stupefied to move. But I saw a shadowy form teetering back. Oliver. I lunged over and caught him. He sank into my arms, a tiny smile on his face.

I looked at Laure. Her neck was as smooth and unblemished as a baby’s, and her chest moved at a normal, steady pace. Her eyes were still closed, but she was alive, and she would be fine.

The moment was so strange and calm. The awful smells and blood everywhere seemed separate, as if I were viewing it all from afar. My heartbeat in my ears was nothing more than a distant drum, my ragged breaths a far-off breeze.

But the fragile calm was soon shattered. Footsteps hammered up the stairs and into the corpse-

laden hall.

“Demon!” Joseph shouted. “Demon!”

Chapter Seventeen

“Demon!” Joseph hissed. He stood over Oliver and me, a crystal clamp in his hand. Behind him stood Daniel, with a pistol—a real pistol—aimed at Oliver’s head.

“Eleanor,” Joseph said, “get away from that creature.”

“It’s fine,” I said tiredly.

“Non. He may look like a man, but he is not. He is a demon.”

Oliver wound his fingers around my arm. “She knows what I am.”

“Let her go!” Daniel barked.

When Oliver did not budge, Joseph lifted both hands. “I will blast you to the spirit realm.”

“No, you won’t.” Oliver’s fingers tightened. “I’m bound to Eleanor. Use that gadget, and you kill her too.”

“Silence!” Joseph roared. “I will not hear your lies.” He squeezed the clamp.

“Wait!” I screamed, lurching to my feet. “It’s true. Oliver is my demon.”

Joseph froze, and his face paled. “Non, non— it cannot be.”

“It . . . is.”

Daniel choked, and when I glanced at him, I saw horror rip over his face. Horror and betrayal.

Joseph stared at Oliver, his eyes as hard as stone. “What lies have you planted in her?” he growled.

“Show me your binding piece.”

“No lies.” A smugness settled on Oliver’s face. He stood and slipped out his locket. At that, Joseph’s eyes closed, and he finally lowered his hands.

Daniel, however, did not move. His pistol stayed trained on Oliver though his gaze was on me.

“Have you been bound to this thing the—” His voice cracked. “The whole time?”

“Yes. I had no choice, Daniel. Please, I—”

“It’s a monster.” Daniel’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Oliver isn’t a monster. He saved my life,” I added. “And Laure’s.”

Joseph and Daniel flinched, as if noticing the bloodied woman on the floor for the first time. Yet neither approached.

“Why?” Joseph demanded. His neck bulged. “Why would you bind to a demon?”

“You make it sound as if I set out to do it, but I did not.” I tipped up my chin. “As I have said over and over, I had no choice. Marcus sent the Hell Hounds after me.” I raised my right hand. “He had a spell on me, and the only way to survive was to bind to Oliver.”

“Why did you not tell me?” Joseph straightened to his full height, and his voice bellowed out. “I told you I thought a demon was responsible for les Morts! How, Eleanor, how could you hide a demon from me after knowing that?”

“Because Oliver is not the one raising les Morts.”

“How do you know that?” Daniel lowered the pistol, and I noticed that his hands trembled. His voice too. “And how do we know this creature isn’t the one raising the Dead?”

“Because I’m telling you it is not Oliver.”

“And you are a liar,” Joseph spat. “A liar and a necromancer. I should have seen it—you are no different than he.”

It was like a punch in the gut. He. Marcus. And for a split second my heart clenched . . . but then all regret vanished in a seething rush. After everything we had done together, after we had stood side by side against the Dead, after Joseph had seen what Marcus had done to my family, he thought I was no different? All my past loyalty had bought me nothing?

“No!” I spat. “No. I am not like Marcus. I am not the corrupt necromancer you so desperately want me to be.” My lips curled back. “Do not look at me like that—as if you do not understand what I mean. All you see, Joseph, is black or white, and I am sorry, but I do not fit into those lines.”

I drew back my shoulders. “Necromancy has not corrupted me, but Marcus has corrupted you and how you view the world. I am still Eleanor and the same girl I have always been. Only I’m stronger now. Stronger than you, Joseph, and stronger than your machines. I can use my magic—my necromancy— without turning into Marcus.”

“Is that what you think?” Joseph gave a growling laugh. “That you are somehow immune to the darkness inside you? You are not, Eleanor. You are only blind to it, and eventually it will take control.”

“And if it does take control?” I threw my arms wide. “So what? I don’t care—and you shouldn’t either. I am on your side! If this magic is the only way to stop Marcus, then so be it!”

“Is this truly what you believe, Eleanor?” Again Joseph laughed, his face twisted with disgust and his scars stretched taut. “You believe you are powerful enough to face Marcus? Do not mistake the feeling of strength for actual strength.”

“Tell yourself that,” Oliver snarled. “Tell yourself she’s weaker than you if it makes you feel less afraid. But know that it isn’t the truth. Eleanor is strong; and once she is trained, she will be as strong as a demon, as strong as Marcus, and certainly stronger than you.” He flourished a hand at the corpses littering the hall. “She raised these. All of these, and all by herself. The rats, the birds, the butler—it was all Eleanor’s magic.”

I spun to Oliver. “Why are you saying that? I didn’t do this!”

“Oh yes, you did. It might not have been on purpose, El, but I felt your magic all over it.”

“But I couldn’t have!”

“Yet you did.” He gave me a sad half smile. “It was you who raised the Dead.”

Bile rose in my throat. “But how? There is no possible way!” Then I remembered the words I’d thought before passing out: Awake, awake, awake . . . “ Oh God, oh God, no. ” My breathing came faster. I clutched my stomach. “It was me. Oh no, no, no . . . it was an accident! I was trying to hold a séance.”

“You need multiple people to hold a séance,” Joseph declared.

“So I used the crystal clamp. But it overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t reach any spirits.”

“Of course not!” he yelled. “The séance is not about power. It is about focus. Focus and discipline—neither of which you have!”

“Because you have not taught me!” I screamed. “If you want me to learn, then teach me! Do not tell me simply to resist my magic. I cannot; don’t you see?”

Daniel took a step toward me. I jolted. He had been so silent, I’d forgotten he was here.

“How,” he said in a rough voice, “can Joseph be expected to teach you? You lied to him—to me.”

His eyes ran desperately over my face. “What . . . what are you?”

A fresh wave of fury crashed into me. I scoffed. “That is a stupid question coming from you since, pray tell, what are you, Daniel? You prance around the city pretending to be a gentleman in your fancy suits and with your fancy manners. Well, you are not a gentleman. You’re a criminal, remember?” I rounded on Joseph. “And you—you have the same magic in you. It must be so wonderful simply to fight the corruption. But how, Joseph? How do you do it? I can’t solve this on my own!”