Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

Why didn’t Joseph attack?

My heart galloped faster, pumping the hot oil through me and ballooning into my head. Black closed in on the edges of my vision. I was going to die, going to explode—

Blue light snaked from Joseph’s fingers. Thunder boomed.

Like a wind through grass, the Dead gusted backward. Flattened and lifeless for as far as I could see—all the way into the black tunnel and beyond.

But again the blue lightning struck out. This time it sizzled into the tunnel, a thousand veins of electricity flowing down, down.

Blue power laced through the air and boiled through my body. Then screams filled the air— my screams! Oliver’s screams, Joseph’s screams! Our heads rolled back, our throats burned raw with the inhuman shrieks. . . .

Until, all at once, it stopped. The hot crawling beneath my skin, our screams, the electricity . . . and the Dead. Everything stopped.

And as one, Joseph, Oliver, and I tumbled to the ground.

We stayed in the cellar a long time—too exhausted to do anything else. But eventually Daniel hauled us up and forced us to leave the devastation behind. Rising from the cellar, we came into an empty hallway. I instantly recognized it: Madame Marineaux’s house. Somehow, all that winding through the mines had taken us beneath the river Seine and directly into her basement. Obviously she had chosen this house for precisely that reason.

Joseph hung on to Daniel, his dark face drained white and his ear losing blood in bright red spurts, while Oliver stalked ahead of me, refusing to meet my eyes. Refusing even to acknowledge my existence.

“There’s a sitting room,” I rasped, turning to Daniel. “It has a fireplace. Joseph can rest there until we find a cab.”

Daniel’s eyes flickered over the hallway. “Shouldn’t there be servants?”

“The house is empty,” Oliver growled.

I did not ask how he knew—he did have exceptional hearing. Instead, I simply nodded and beckoned for Daniel and Joseph to follow. We shuffled to the back of the house until I found a familiar door. It was open, and embers burned in the hearth.

But the instant I stepped in, I drew up short. For there was an old man sprawled on the floor between the armchairs and the fireplace.

A squeak broke through my lips. I recognized the man’s elegant clothes—and I recognized the cane lying inches from his open hand. But his chest did not move, so though I knew it was the

Marquis, nothing about him looked as it ought. His skin sagged with age, and his formerly black hair was brittle and white.

Daniel spotted the Marquis next. He shot me a wide-eyed glance before easing Joseph into my arms and darting forward. He crouched beside the body, but it only took him a moment to check for a pulse. He shook his head once.

“Is it LeJeunes?” Joseph asked tiredly. I helped him shuffle toward the closest armchair, and as

Daniel eased the Creole to a seat, I bent down to examine the cane.

The handle was missing, the ivory fist gone, and though something tickled at the back of my mind —something that said it should have been around here somewhere—I could not find the full memory.

Daniel’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Do you think Madame Marineaux killed the Marquis?”

“I don’t know.” I rose, my gaze flicking back to the man’s ancient face. “He looks as if he aged a hundred years since yesterday.”

“Because he has,” Oliver said from the doorway. He stalked toward me, still avoiding my eyes.

“The man’s body was drained of soul. Look at how desiccated the skin is. How fragile the bones.”

Joseph cleared his throat. “How is that possible? I have never heard of such a thing.”

“I’ve only heard of it once,” Oliver admitted, leaning over the Marquis’s corpse. “Your brother”—

he pointed at me without actually looking my way—“mentioned it in passing. He said it was one of the darkest magics there is. Darker even than necromancy.”

I grimaced, my stomach suddenly churning. “Can you sense who did it? Like with the butler’s body?”

He straightened. “No. There is no soul left. Not a drop of spiritual energy, and without that, I cannot tell you anything.”

“What magic is darker than necromancy?” Joseph asked—or tried to ask, but his voice was barely audible. He wilted back in the armchair.

“We can worry about it later.” Daniel knelt beside Joseph’s chair. “You’re losin’ blood too fast.”

“We should clean the wound,” I added. “Before it festers. There must be alcohol in the—” I broke off as Oliver thrust his flask into Daniel’s hand.

“Vodka. It’ll sting like hell, but it’ll clean.” Then he strode to the window, ripped down one of the scarlet curtains in a single move, and threw it over the Marquis’s body.

I gaped at him, surprised.

Oliver scowled. “It’s disgusting. Scares me—not that you care.”

“What do you mean I do not care?”

But he didn’t respond. He had already pivoted toward the door and marched off.

“Where are you going?” I called, hurrying after.

“To find a cab.”

“Are you upset with me?” I knew the answer. I had felt his fury in the wine cellar, yet I had hoped it might have dulled some. “Please, Ollie. Wait. I do care. I’m sorry for what happened in the basement.”

He skittered to a halt, his body tensing. “Not sorry enough, El. Do you have any idea what you did to me? Blasting me with that electricity?”

“It was the only way!” I reached his side, clasping at his sleeve. “We needed all of our magic—”

“That wasn’t magic,” he spat. “It was filthy. Unnatural—”

“And strong!” I clutched my hands to my chest. “You saw how many Dead Joseph stopped. We can’t do that with our spells.”

“No, perhaps not, but at least my spells won’t kill me.”

I flinched. “Kill you? What do you mean?”

“I told you electricity would kill me slowly—”

“I thought you were being dramatic.”

He gave a scathing laugh. “Being dramatic? Thank you, El. Thank you very much for seeing me as nothing more than a jester.” He pushed up his chin. “Electricity kills demons. It blasts away their soul like the Hell Hounds, but instead of all at once, it’s bit by bit. I hope you got a good look at what happened to that Marquis, because that is exactly what you did to me. You”—he jabbed his finger into my shoulder, pushing me back a step—“just withered away part of my soul. Part of my very being.

And for what?”

“T-to stop the Dead—”

“I didn’t want to stop those Dead in the first place. We had time to get away—to leave.”

“But then the Dead would have overrun Paris!”

“So?” he snapped. “That was not my problem, Eleanor. It was your problem, and then you made it mine.” He leaned into me, his face scored with rage and pain. “You gave me no choice. You betrayed my trust.”

“I-I’m sorry.” I cowered back. “I truly am, Ollie. Please . . . what can I do to make it up to you?”

“Free me. Free me and get the hell away from me.”

“I-I do not know how—”

“Because you’re not training!” His roar blasted over me, and I shrank back farther. “You’re running around Paris with everyone but me! You seem more upset about that damned Marquis’s death than you do about hurting me. I really am nothing more than your tool!”

“I’ll start studying—I promise.”

“You’re bloody right you will, but don’t think it will be enough for me to forgive you.”

“Empress?” Daniel stepped into the hall, his hands in fists. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“Nothing,” Oliver snapped. And without another word, he went through the front doorway and stormed into the night.

Daniel looked at me, clearly expecting an explanation.

But I couldn’t speak. Guilt and shame coiled inside me. Only the blackest magic in the world could drain a person’s soul, yet I had done exactly the same thing with electricity. I had killed a part of

Oliver.

For several minutes, all I could do was stare silently at Daniel—and somehow he understood that staring was all I was capable of, for he did not speak. He simply waited for me to return to the moment.

And as time ticked past and the world slowly cleared before me, I began to see Daniel. To see how his lanky body slouched with his weight on one foot. How his face was streaked with dirt and sweat.

How his hair was dusted white and poking up in all directions. How his chest moved beneath his shirt —a shirt that used to be white but was now mottled gray. . . .

And above all, how beautiful he was—not just on the outside but on the inside as well. He knew me; he understood.

My mouth went dry. I took a step toward him. “Thank you.”

His brow creased. “For what?”

“For . . .” Two more steps, and I was in front of him. “For still caring, despite everything.”

“Caring? I didn’t do anything. I heard shouting from the other room and—”

“I mean, thank you for caring enough to save my life tonight. Twice.”

His eyes ran over my face. “You saved my life, Empress. And Joseph’s. I reckon that makes us even.”

“Even,” I murmured, not particularly aware of what I was saying. My eyes were stuck on Daniel’s throat. On the faint flutter of his pulse. It was . . . fascinating. It meant he was alive. We were both alive.

Without thinking, I rolled onto my tiptoes and brushed my lips over that patch of skin, over his heartbeat.

He stiffened. I lurched back.

Heat flushed through me. “I-I am so sorry,” I tried to say, but my voice barely squeezed through my pinched throat.

And Daniel simply gaped at me, slack-jawed and frozen.

“I sh-shouldn’t have done that.” I skittered back several more steps, humiliation boiling inside me.

“Please—forgive me.”

Still he did not move, did not speak.

I retreated farther, wishing the front door were open so I could flee as far and as fast as my legs would go. Oh, why wasn’t Daniel saying something— anything? And why was he staring at me like that?

I turned to go, my hand outstretched for the doorknob.

“Wait,” he breathed.

I paused, glancing back.

And in three long steps he reached me. Then, his hands trembling, he cupped the sides of my face, and I swear his chest was so still, he could not have been breathing.

I know I wasn’t.

He ran his thumbs along my cheeks, down my jaw, over my lips. And his eyes seemed to scour every inch of me. Then, ever so slowly, Daniel Sheridan lowered his head and grazed his lips over mine.

And I felt as if my heart might explode.