A Darkness Strange and Lovely

longer people. Their desires and dreams are not what they were in life. Nonetheless, you do make a good point.” He bent over the table and grabbed a thick, gray book called A Treatise on Spectres and All Other

Manifestations of Spiritual Energy. “I, myself, have never heard of a way to do this—even with spells —yet that does not mean one does not exist. Perhaps we can find something in this book.” He glanced up at me, waiting.

He was offering me a truce, and though I didn’t agree with Joseph, I di d know when to stop fighting.

I nodded, and with a hesitant smile Joseph pushed his stool close to mine, sat down, and flipped back the book’s cover. But we barely made it through three pages before we were interrupted.

“Monsieur Boyer,” said the Marquis. “I have a meeting you must attend.” He limped into the lab with neither a knock nor an apology.

“Meeting?” Joseph repeated, sliding off his stool.

“Oui. I realize you have only just returned, but it is . . . how do you say? Critical. Several senators are discussing zee new measures you suggested.”

Joseph straightened. “My suggestions for working with the police?”

“Oui.” The Marquis leaned on his cane, his chest heaving as if the climb to the second-floor lab had left him entirely spent. He bobbed his head at me. “Mademoiselle, I hope you do not mind. I can call Madame Marineaux to attend you, if you wish.”

“Oh yes!” I cried, instantly excited. My last time spent with the Madame had been so happy . . . even if I couldn’t remember what exactly had passed. “I would love to see her again—that is, if she is not too busy, of course.”

“Je ne pense pas. I do not zink she will mind—not for you.” He stroked his mustache and tilted almost conspiratorially toward me. “She told me you remind her of my sister.”

Pleasure fluttered through my chest. “That is quite a compliment.”

“C’est vrai. ” He nodded. “My sister was a wonderful woman. Actually”—he turned to Joseph

—“she lived in New Orleans for a bit. Did you ever know a LeJeunes?”

A line moved down Joseph’s forehead. “No, I do not recall anyone by that name.”

“Too bad,” the Marquis said heavily. “You would have liked her.” He spread his arms, holding out his cane. “Everyone liked Claire. She had—what is the word? Presence. ”

The Marquis continued speaking, but I did not hear. My gaze was locked on his cane. It looked different than the last time I had seen it. Three of the fingers had furled in, as if the hand were about to make a fist.

“Does my cane bother you?”

I blinked, suddenly noticing that the Marquis had stopped talking. I gave him an embarrassed grin.

“Oh no . . . not at all. I merely thought it looked different.”

His mustache wiggled. “Different?”

“Were its fingers not more like this the other day?” I mimicked an open hand.

He snorted a laugh. “I do not zink so, Mademoiselle. It is ivory.” He flicked a carved fingernail. “It does not bend.”

“That’s why I was surprised. I could have sworn it had changed shape.”

“I zink you are, eh . . . imagining zings.” He gave me an indulgent smile. “Perhaps you ought to sleep.”

“Yes,” I mumbled, confused. “Perhaps I ought.”

“In zat case, I will tell Madame Marineaux not to keep you up too late.” LeJeunes shoved to his feet, his eyes shifting to Joseph. “Come, Monsieur Boyer.”

I hopped off my stool and curtsied good-bye. As the Marquis shuffled from the room, Joseph turned to me. “I am sorry, Eleanor, but I must attend this. If we could get a unit of patrolmen to help us—it might be precisely what we need to corner the demon behind les Morts.”

“I understand.”

“Perhaps you can study this book until Madame Marineaux arrives, and then we will talk about it in the morning.”

“Yes, I will.” I gave him a tight smile.

“And remember: you must keep fighting these magical urges. Please—I beseech you.”

“All right,” I said, nodding, but as he gathered his hat and coat, I couldn’t help but bite my lip.

Joseph had never cast a spell, so what did he really know?

And while I did not agree with Oliver either—sacrifices were absolutely not an option—at least with my self-power I could do more than simply banish the Dead. I was caught between doing what might be morally right (at least according to Joseph) and what might actually work.

For the problem before us was larger than les Morts or a renegade demon. The ultimate problem was a necromancer whose power had been crafted in life and honed in death. The ultimate problem was Marcus, and would Joseph’s methods stand against him?

No. They would not.

With a determined set in my jaw, I turned to the book on specters and read it—right there in the lab with a butler’s corpse to keep me company. It was filled with dull language but was at least written recently (an 1874 publication, according to the title page) and was also incredibly thorough.

Necromancy, voodoo, shamanism—any and every form of magic pertaining to spirits was mentioned within its gray covers.

I scanned the chapter headings for something about speaking to ghosts, and with surprising ease, I found information written in as dry a manner as the rest of the book.

Summoning spirits is ill-advised under any circumstances. For one, ghosts are rarely amenable to leaving the earthly realm once there. For two, the amount of magical training and power needed is extensive. Necromancers, for example, must rely on blood sacrifices to rip a temporary hole in the curtain. Voodoo requires group sessions of up to a hundred priests to open a hole. Ultimately, all methods are likely to incite the attention of the Hell Hounds (also known as barghest, black shuck, or C?wn Annwn, see page forty-seven for more detail).

However, mediums of the mid-1800s discovered a method that allows the curtain to remain closed and the ghost to be “called” via a seance. One must know the spirit’s name and time of death (the latter information used to adjust the strength of the “call.” A longer-dead ghost will require more power and therefore more people).

I gnawed my lip. That was it? A seance? It certainly sounded harmless enough. My own mama had hosted seances for years (with no success) in an attempt to speak to my dead father. Admittedly, she had also allowed Marcus to enter the earthly realm during one of these sessions, but I wouldn’t be so foolish.

And I had magic on my side. So let Marcus or any other spirit come. I smiled, but almost instantly my lips twisted down.

Why hadn’t Joseph and Oliver known about this method? It was so easy. . . .

A gentle buzz suddenly twirled in my gut, and I knew without looking that Oliver was near.

Two breaths later, the lab door cracked open.

“What do you want?” I snapped. My eyes never left the page.

“To talk. To . . . apologize.”

“Well, I don’t accept.”

“I messed up, El.”

“Yes, yes you did.” My teeth gnashed together, and against my will, I glanced up. Oliver stood, head hanging, in the doorway. “Why did you do that?”

“I . . . I was drunk.”

“Really? Because you seem quite sober now.”