A Dawn Most Wicked

from finding her—a pale spot in the shadows.

I turned around, took two steps toward her. My body was acting without me—moving of its own accord.

Stop! I screamed at myself. My feet ground to a halt.

But then I realized I could make out her eyes, gleaming in the moonlight, and before I knew it, I’d taken two more steps.

Now I could see her lips and the twitch of a smile.

Incredible. Fierce.

In that moment I had her attention, and she had my heart. I had never thought I would give it away again.

So I swooped off my cap, dropped to one knee, and bowed my head—declaring fealty to the one I wanted but could never have.

Her laugh tickled my ear, and at that sound heat boiled through my chest. Then ice. Then heat again. My mouth was dry. My heart started hammering . . . and I couldn’t keep from grinning. Her laugh was such a happy sound. It spoke of futures where pain might fade and a life might take its place.

I wanted Eleanor to be happy. Like Cassidy had done with Lang, I wanted her to find someone to take care of her. Someone with money and good intentions.

I stood and my eyes found hers. Then I waved, a strange feeling rising through me. A notion that maybe it would be me.

I flopped my cap back on and spun around. At the very least it was a nice dream for all the wicked dawns ahead. A warm fantasy I could hold tight. Me and Eleanor: a team.

But as I jogged to the street, my mood surprised me by lifting higher and higher with each step. By the time I joined Joseph and Jie beneath the streetlamp, my heart was practically beating out the top of my skull.

Because I had this deep certainty that I would see Eleanor again. That our story wasn’t over yet. That one day I might be the man she needed . . .

Sure, I had my work cut out for me, but I had come this far, hadn’t I? I just had to face this next future unflinching . . . unafraid.

Excerpt from A Darkness Strange and Lovely

After denying his love for Eleanor, Daniel is reunited with his fiery Empress months later in Paris—as well as a whole new slew of evil darkness. To see how it all plays out, check out this excerpt from Susan Dennard’s A Darkness Strange and Lovely.

CHAPTER ONE

When Jie’s letter came in the mail, I was so elated I forgot I had no hand.

“Oh, thank heavens!” I cried, reaching for the battered envelope in the postman’s grasp. “I’ve been waiting for this for over a . . .” I trailed off. My eyes locked on the postman’s horrified face—and his eyes locked on my wrist.

Yet it was not the poor quality of my gray gown’s lace sleeve that prompted his expression but rather the bandaged stump poking out from beneath.

I yanked back my wrist, and the postman’s face erupted in red. “P-pardon me, Miss.” He thrust the letter at me.

“Of course,” I squeaked, snatching the letter with my left hand. Then I bolted from the post office into the Philadelphia morning.

Holding the hard-earned letter like a visor against the sun, I strode into the bustling Chestnut Avenue traffic. The road’s cobbles were layered in a sticky, dried mud from yesterday’s rain. It clung to my boot heels as I crossed into the rattling carriages, clopping horses, and distracted pedestrians.

As I passed by shop after shop with their giant signs overshadowing the offices wedged between, I cursed myself for my stupidity. Almost three months with no hand, and one would think I would remember. The empty wrist ached all the time—itching in the night as if my fingers were still attached, reminding me constantly of how much more than a hand I’d lost. If not for that wretched injury, maybe I could put all the summer’s horrors behind me. Maybe I could push through each day instead of barely keeping my head above the darkness.

It always hovered there, threatening to drown me in memories of Elijah . . . and Clarence . . . and Mama. . . .

But it was not to be. Just as my hand would never return, this grief would never leave. Life—and death—did not work that way.

Though sometimes, if I squinted hard enough, I fancied I could see a blue sparkle of spiritual energy, as if the ghost of my hand wanted me back as much as I wanted it. What with all the flickers and flashes of spirits I’d started seeing in the past few months, it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that I was actually seeing the ghostly remnants of my hand.

As my brother, Elijah, had told me, if he had necromantic powers, then whether I wanted them or not, I did too.

I dabbed at my brow with my sleeve. Summer might have been fading into fall, and the thunderstorms with it, yet the heat seemed determined to stay. The usual breeze carried from the Delaware River was missing, and I wished—not for the first time—that I hadn’t left my parasol at home. The annoyance of holding it in my clumsy left hand was nothing compared to the sweat oozing down my back and beneath my bonnet.

I spared a glance at the envelope, and my breath caught. In Jie’s meticulous print, it read Paris.

Paris! I hadn’t heard from Jie in more than a month, and the Spirit-Hunters had been in Chicago then. I’d hounded the post office every day since, desperate for some message that would tell me where they were—in hopes that I could join them—but no word had come. Until today.

Heavens, if I only could go to Paris—leave Philadelphia so far behind the past could never, ever catch up to me.

I scampered out of a buggy’s path and onto the opposite walkway, where I found the welcome shade of a storefront. It was Mrs. Binder’s trimmings store, where Mama and I had once bought sewing supplies. With no concern for propriety, I clasped the envelope in my teeth and used my left hand to rip it open.

And for the first time in ages, my heart actually lifted—and, blazes, it felt good.

Eleanor,

Of all places the Dead would bring us, I never thought it would be Paris. This city is the strangest place I have ever seen. One minute people are screaming over the Dead (or les Morts, as they call them) and then the next minute they’re sipping their champagne and laughing at the latest scandal. Daniel calls them mercurial. I call them annoying.

I snorted. I could just imagine Jie’s scowl as she declared the Parisians all manner of undeserved foul things.

But it’s not just the Parisians who are strange. The Dead are bizarre too. Not only are they walking corpses, but they’re recently dead. Murdered. Joseph thinks it’s some sort of sacrifice, but he can’t tell what exactly. He spends all the moments he’s not out fighting the Dead or speaking before the Senat with his nose