A Darkness Strange and Lovely

He grins, making his whole face relax and his grassy-colored eyes twinkle. Then he strolls to me.

“I appreciate you invitin’ me to Christmas supper.” He only stops his easy amble once he’s directly in front of me. I have to tip back my head to meet his eyes.

But then a frown knits onto his brow. He reaches out to clasp my chin. “Why are you cryin’, Empress?”

“I am?” I reach up, and my gloves slide over wet cheeks. “I . . . I am. It’s just . . . I’m so happy, Daniel.”

“Then you shouldn’t cry, Empress. You should laugh.”

I laughed—a shrill, desperate sound—as the vision faded away . . . as Madame Marineaux’s face swam back into my vision.

My laugh broke off, replaced by a sob. I toppled to the hard earth. “Where is it?” I screamed, clutching at her skirts. “The vision, bring it back! Please, I want it back.”

The edges of her lips twisted up. “And you can have it, Mademoiselle Fitt. You can have it if you join me.”

“Do not believe her!” Joseph rasped, still bound to the table. “It is only a fantasy.”

“Ah, but it is not only a fantasy,” Madame Marineaux whispered. “Together we can make it real.

With your power and mine, we can do anything. They”—her voice lifted, as if she wanted the Spirit-

Hunters to hear—“do not appreciate you. These Spirit-Hunters think you are dark, but they simply do not understand that this is who you are. But I understand, for you have told me all your troubles.

“You are not dark,” she went on. “You are selfless, Mademoiselle Fitt . These Spirit-Hunters have no idea how hard it was for you to get here. They do not realize all you had to do to survive. All that you gave up for them. For those you love.”

I shook my head, my eyes burning with tears.

“They do not understand that your mother hates you. That your friends have all rejected you. Or that your fortune is gone. What do they”—she flicked her wrist dismissively in Joseph’s direction

—“know of the dresses you had to sell to pay for your mother’s bills? Your ungrateful, cruel mother?

What do they know of the friends who avoid you on the street or laugh behind your back?”

A sob shuddered through my chest. Everything she said was true . What did the Spirit-Hunters know about me? About what I had lost?

“Nor,” she continued, “can they see the fine line you walk between life and death. The Hell

Hounds await you—still these guardians hunger for your blood. You must use your necromancy to stay alive, but these Spirit-Hunters cannot see that.” Her voice grew louder with each word—and my conviction, my hurt, grew too. “So tell me what the Spirit-Hunters actually know about you at all?

“I will tell you,” Madame Marineaux declared. “The Spirit-Hunters know nothing. Their lives have gotten better, while yours has spiraled into pain and hate and memories best forgotten.”

Madame Marineaux bent to me and whispered in my ear, “I feel your pain as strongly as my own, Mademoiselle. I know what it is to be denied what you deserve. To have everything you love taken from you.” She dipped her pointed chin and watched me from the tops of her eyes. “I am unbound yet unfree. How is that any different from you, who are far from home yet never able to escape it?”

“What—” My voice cracked, but I tried again. “What do you want from me?”

“Oh, it is easy.” She brushed my hair lovingly from my face. “My master—my overseer—expects me to meet him in Marseille, but you can free me before then. We can get your friend, the Chinese girl, back from him, and together we can crush him. You, Mademoiselle Fitt, could become my true master. A woman worthy of my magic and my devotion.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Don’t!” Daniel roared. “Empress, don’t!”

Madame Marineaux twirled around, and I realized with a start that Daniel and Joseph were both free now . . . that Daniel was running toward me.

But then a bolt of light flew from Madame Marineaux’s hand and blasted Daniel in the chest. He toppled backward, flipping over like a rag doll to crash into the stone altar.

And for several heartbeats I only watched. Completely indifferent . . . until a noxious wave pummeled into me—a shock wave from Madame Marineaux’s spell that was filled with complete wrong. And like a hypnotist’s snap, it jerked my mind back to reality.

“Daniel!” I pushed off the wall, trying to skitter around Madame Marineaux. But she was faster—

so much faster.

She lifted me up and slammed me against the wall. Pain cracked into my skull, and sparks raced through my vision. I reached for her, tried to scratch at her face, but she merely straightened her arms —and somehow her arms were suddenly longer than mine. Much longer, and my fingers reached nothing but air.

So I punched her elbow.

Her arm shuddered, and a wail broke from her lips. “After all I have offered and given, this is how you repay me?”

“Offered?” I croaked. “By sacrificing les Morts? By building an amulet of compulsion for your precious Claire’s brother—”

“An amulet for the Marquis?” She gave a giggle. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“His cane. I know what it is.”

Now her giggle became a howl of laughter. “How quaint! You think his cane is an amulet. But it is not; it is a far more powerful artifact than any amulet. I told you I found it in India, did I not? I have no need for silly compulsion spells. My venom compels anyone I want. Why, a drop of venom in your wine, a drop of venom on your dress— Mademoiselle, you were my puppet.” She stepped in close, and her claws poked into my skin. I held my breath—if I moved, if I breathed too heavily . . . those razors would slice me. “Perhaps you are not as clever as I once thought. As I told your friend, the Marquis had no idea what I was up to—no idea what I really am.”

Her claws dug deeper. She wanted to poison me. Wanted to overwhelm me with her visions . . .

“Then why did you need sacrifices?” It took all my strength to stay still. To fight the shudders racking inside me. “If you can compel and you had wealth, why sacrifice all those people?”

“Those were not for me. Though the blood was nice.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “My master was the one to sacrifice. There is someone who requires compelling, and a single spell will not suffice.”

Over her shoulder, I saw Oliver hauling Daniel to his feet. Satisfaction—triumph, even—washed over me. At least Oliver and the Spirit-Hunters could get out alive. Now, I was the only one who had to walk the fine line between life and death. . . .

And with that thought I recalled Madame Marineaux’s comment: Nor can they see the fine line you walk between life and death. The Hell Hounds await you.

The Hell Hounds. If there was one thing a demon—even one as powerful as a Rakshasi—could not face, it was the guardians of the spirit realm. And thanks to Marcus’s spell, I knew just how to call them here.

I creased my face into a sneer—a victorious smile I could not contain. “Why would your master,”

I crowed, “want compulsion spells? I thought, Madame Marineaux, that he could simply make you—

make his slave—cast a compulsion spell for him.”

She gritted her teeth, her nostrils fluttering. “He wants a spell that lasts days. Weeks, even. Mine only maintain for hours at a time.”

“Because your magic isn’t good enough? Is that it? He does not think your magic is strong—”

“Stop!” she screeched. “I see what you try to do, Mademoiselle. You wish to rile