A Darkness Strange and Lovely

On my way back to the Hotel Le Meurice, I stopped by a post office. A telegram from Allison, a note from Mary—anything from home would have been welcome. I just wanted to know I wasn’t alone.

But I was alone. There were no messages for me.

So I trudged to the hotel and was soon clambering up the main steps. On the second floor, I slowed and glanced into the lab. The door was ajar, the white curtains drawn back, and Joseph was within, focused on a stack of papers.

As if he sensed me, his gaze flicked up. A furrow dug into his brow. He beckoned to me.

And I realized with crushing relief that Jie had not yet told him about Oliver. You should tell him, my conscience whispered. But I knew I would not. He was the only Spirit-Hunter left who did not hate me . . . and I wanted to cling to that for as long as I could. Who knew how much time I had before I was on my own—left to face Marcus by myself?

So, with a fortifying breath, I stepped to the doorway and poked my head in. “I thought you were away.”

“My business ended early. Perhaps now would be a good time to train.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It is very important that you learn to fight your magic.”

“Right.” I slunk in—but almost instantly stopped again. Four waist-high, pine crates stood in a row beneath the windows.

“Daniel’s latest inventions,” Joseph explained. “Yet you have not seen our other . . . decoration. ”

He flourished a hand to the far-right table. Atop it lay a man-shaped mound beneath a white sheet.

“The butler?” I asked.

“Wi. ”

Despite being an incredibly morbid reaction, the corpse’s presence made me smile. Madame

Marineaux must have remembered, even if I had not.

Joseph hurried to the body, waving for me to follow. I gathered up my skirts and warily approached, the faint stench of carrion drifting into my nose. He waved to the corpse’s head. “So far, the ears and eyes are the only regions I have found that are desecrated.”

“You inspected the whole body?”

“Not yet. I cleaned one of the ear wounds. I thought perhaps I would uncover a ritualistic way in which the organ had been removed—some special incision I could find referenced in my books.” He ran a gloved hand along his jaw. “But I found nothing.”

“May I?”

At Joseph’s nod, I gulped in clean air and yanked back the sheet. Up close and a day older, the butler managed to look even worse than he had before. Though his mouth was clamped shut, the waxy skin around his lips had stretched to the point of ripping—presumably from chomping so desperately.

And I was most assuredly not standing on the cleaned side. Crusted blood was all over the butler’s face, a layer of brown streaks, and his ear . . .

Placing a gloved hand over my mouth, I moved in close. Through the jagged flesh—it had not been a clean cut—was the beige gleam of the man’s skull.

It was sickening . . . and yet fascinating. To think that a person’s blood could have so much power

—

I straightened, horrified by my thoughts. This man had been murdered. I ought to be repulsed.

Disturbed.

But you aren’t, my conscience nagged.

Yes, I am, I insisted. I am .

I swallowed tightly. “Do you think he was dead when he was cut up?”

Joseph winced. “Judging by the amount of blood around the wounds, he was alive during this procedure.”

My stomach flipped—that was truly horrifying. “The poor, poor man,” I murmured, and my eyes settled on the white powder on his shoulders. I had noticed it at Madame Marineaux’s, except now there seemed to be much less of it. I motioned to it. “Do you know what this is from?”

“Non. We have seen something like it on several bodies, but it could be anything. Dust from an old building, crumbling paint—there is no way to tell. These Hungry cover so much ground and are so violent.” He exhaled loudly and replaced the sheet over the man’s destroyed face. “I wish we had more facts with which to work instead of only half clues and ignorant musings. The only thing of which I am certain is that these sacrifices must be the work of a demon.”

A demon. Sacrifices.

My stomach curdled. What if it was Oliver? I had no proof he had been in America—and a three-

week lull in les Morts? That was enough time to leave Paris and return. . . .

I towed my mind back to the lab—I would deal with that darkness later—and, glancing at Joseph, I tried to don a happy face. “So . . . shall we begin this first lesson?”

“Yes.” He scratched absently at his cheek. “To begin, you must first understand why using self-

power is so dangerous. It is no different from opium—each time you draw on your spiritual energy, your soul rots.”

“Rots?” I repeated doubtfully. He had said something similar the day before, and even knowing that the magic was addictive, I still found the idea of a festering soul to be rather . . . dramatic. I told

Joseph as much.

“But nonetheless, it is true.” He scrubbed roughly at his scars, motioning with his other hand that we should return to the main table. “It is addictive, Eleanor, and as with any addiction, one’s morals degrade.”

“So what you’re really saying,” I declared as we moved to the stools, “is that my scruples will rot —not my soul.”

Joseph’s jaw clenched. We reached the table, but neither of us sat. “Eleanor, look at what became of Marcus. Of Elijah. They lost all sense of what was right and wrong—”

“But I am not Marcus, and I am not Elijah.” The ferocity of my words surprised me, but I couldn’t seem to stop them. “Self-power is fast—natural—and it doesn’t keep me tethered to a machine. Spells have so many uses, Joseph.”

“You are right that I cannot raise a body or make a phantom limb, yet I can blast away the Dead.

That is all that I need to do.”

“But that is limiting.”

“Listen to yourself,” he hissed. “Do you not hear how the magic controls you, even now?”

“That isn’t true,” I said, teeth gritting. “I have fought and fought my magic today —just as you ordered. I have not used it once.”

He relaxed slightly. “Good. I am glad you say that. You must keep fighting. All you need is electricity.”

No, I thought. Electricity cannot stop Marcus when he comes. But I did not say this. Instead, I scanned the room for some other evidence of electricity’s limitations. My eyes landed on the butler’s corpse, and an idea hit—something I did want to do yet could not achieve, even with necromancy.

I swept my skirts to the side and took a seat. “Can I talk to a spirit with electricity?”

His eyes thinned. “Why do you ask?”

“If we could talk to les Morts, we could know who killed them. No more running aimlessly around the city. Or,” I continued, another idea forming, “there’s a soldier from Napoleon’s army that might know something useful.” I quickly explained what Daniel and I had found at the library. “So you see, Joseph? We could solve everything if we could only talk to these people. Is that possible with your method?”

“Talk to these Dead,” Joseph corrected. “You must remember that they are no