A Darkness Strange and Lovely

suppose this gives me more time to come up with a good story about my hand.

Except that my afternoon of planning excuses was not particularly successful. I had become too adept at ignoring my problems . . . or perhaps it was simply the magic of Paris. Either way, as Jie took me walking through the Tuileries Gardens and down to the river Seine, I found myself far more focused on this new, grand city than on the ever-present darkness lurking in my mind.

At first I fidgeted with my new gown, smoothing at the bodice and tugging at the skirts. Though the dress was of shockingly good quality for something premade, the muddy brown color left much to be desired, and I was painfully—and surprisingly—self-conscious in front of all the Parisians. They looked so effortlessly stylish, and they carried themselves with a grace I knew I could never match.

But no amount of fidgeting could improve my dress, so once more I mimicked Jie’s carefree stride until, soon enough, I was so lost in the gardens around me, I was able to forget about myself—and my problems.

Why, it was the most wonderful thing to see, for there were whole families in these gardens doing the things we Philadelphians usually reserved for more private areas. Children played while men read and women embroidered—and they did it all beneath the warm Parisian sun, the changing leaves, and the never-ceasing wind off the river Seine.

And the river—the first thing that struck me was: We do not have rivers like this in America . Our rivers might have been used for transport and industry, but they were still owned by Nature herself.

The Seine belonged to Paris. It was the very heart of the city, and the buildings grew up straight from its banks into the crisp blue skies overhead. I could stand in the very middle of the Pont Solferino, look left and then right, and know—deep down know—that with a single glance I was seeing everything Paris had to offer. And what Paris had to offer, first and foremost, was beauty. Just as the

Parisians carried themselves in a way no American ever could, with a sense of poise rooted directly in their bones, the river Seine carried itself with the same grace.

If I could have left the world behind right then and set up camp in a tiny attic overlooking the city —if none of my troubles existed—then I would have. Gladly.

But alas, the church bells tolling three and Jie’s thumb gesturing back to the hotel reminded me that I could not escape. Not today . . . and perhaps not ever.

By the time we’d walked back to the Spirit-Hunters’ lab, the sun just starting to set, dread began to resume its coil around my neck. I had willingly let dreams of Paris squeeze out everything else, and all because I didn’t want to face the reality of my life. Of death.

But I had to confront it now. When I finally skulked into the lab, I found Joseph bowed over books.

His hat and gloves were off, yet he looked as crisp as always. Examining his reading fare, I headed for a stool beside him.

But I instantly pulled up short, my mind filled with a single thought: No! The titles stacked before me were all focused on one topic. A History of Demonology in Eastern Religions; The Rise and Fall of

Famous Necromancers and their Demons; Amulets, Spells, and Black Magic.

“Wh-why the interest in demons?” I squeaked.

Joseph didn’t glance up. “I believe we may be dealing with such a creature for les Morts. ”

A second surge of panic flooded my brain. A demon behind the sacrifices? A demon such as

Oliver? I sputtered a cough. “Wh-why would you think a demon is behind les Morts?”

Joseph closed his book and glanced at me. “The sheer number of sacrificed victims suggests more than a single necromancer at work.”

“Could . . . could it be several necromancers then? And not a demon?” My words sounded pleading.

“It is doubtful. According to Summoning Demons for Power”—Joseph rapped the page—“most magical partnerships are made with demons. As such, I believe we are dealing with either a necromancer-demon pair or a free demon.”

“A free demon?” My forehead wrinkled up. “Does a demon not have to be bound to a person in order to stay in our realm?”

Joseph’s eyes slid to me. “You know a great deal about demons, Eleanor.”

“Not really.” I squeezed my fingers around my skirt and forced my face to stay neutral. “Only stories from books. And church.”

“Ah, but of course.” He looked away, and I could not tell if he believed me or not. “A free demon,” he went on, “can exist in this world as long as it is hidden. Masked, you could say.” Joseph ran a hand in front of his face. “The mask is created by the necromancer to hide the demon from the spirit world’s guardians. Thus, a free demon is not bound to a necromancer but in an agreement with one.

The demon can still use its magic at will—it does not require a necromancer’s command. Does this make sense?”

“I think so.” I nodded. “The necromancer agrees to hide the demon with a mask, and the demon is free to use its magic.”

“Precisely.” Joseph rubbed at his scars for several moments, watching me. Then he lowered his hand. “But listen to me, Eleanor. Only someone very foolish would ever go into an agreement with a demon. The allure of necromancy is nothing compared to that of a demon’s magic. So whomever we are up against—demon, necromancer, or both—is likely very desperate and very corrupt. Do you understand?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I knew the minute I tried to speak, my words would fail. I had been desperate, hadn’t I? But corrupt? No. No. I had had no choice but to bind to Oliver—the Hell Hounds would have destroyed me. . . . I would have died and Marcus would have gotten the letters and . . .

Joseph shifted in his seat. He was waiting for my answer.

“I still do not see,” I said as flatly as I could, “why it cannot be several necromancers together.”

Joseph frowned. Sharply. I had not answered his question; he had noticed. “Eleanor, consider that most necromancers seek control and power. They do not like to share. And”—he tapped the book again—“according to this book, there have only been a handful of paired necromancers since this type of magic first evolved.

“Marcus’s parents,” he continued, “are a perfect example of how rare such pairs can be. His father was trained in voodoo and his mother in necromancy. They wanted to control New Orleans.”

“And they worked together?”

“Non, quite the opposite.” He huffed out a weary breath. “From what I gathered from Marcus, I would say they worked against each other more than anything—and this is what usually happens with such pairs. Both mother and father were always trying to recruit their son, yet neither ever realized he had his own dark plans to take New Orleans for himself. But listen, this is not why I have called you here.”

“No?” I fidgeted with my skirt.

“No.” Planting a hand on the closed book, he angled toward me. “I need to know how much magic you have used, Eleanor. How many spells you have learned.”

And I knew right away that Joseph considered “spells” bad. Suddenly the conversation about demons seemed more appealing.

“Spells?” I asked in a tight voice. “I-I don’t know what you mean. What is a spell?”

“When magic is built on self-power,” he said, his gaze never leaving my face, “when it uses the spiritual energy inside you, we call that a spell. Because I use electricity and it comes from outside my body, I do not cast spells.”

I bit my lip. “Have you ever cast one?”

“Absolutely not.” His jaw tightened. “I do only white magic, Eleanor. Black magic —spells, necromancy—is too dangerous. It corrupts and festers the soul. All while feeling wonderful. An opium of magic.”

I held my breath. Was this true? Was I rotting away each time I cast a dream