I snatched up my buttered croissant. “I-I’m sorry, Madame, but I’m afraid the expense of a new dress would be too much for me.” I chomped almost frantically into the flaky bread.
“Expense?” LeJeunes repeated. He gulped down coffee and then wiped his mouth. “Pas de problème. I will cover zee costs, and zis weekend you will attend zee grandest gala Paris has ever seen!”
I gulped back my bread, trying not to choke. “Sir, I could not possibly impose—”
“Nonsense!” Madame Marineaux wagged her finger at me. “I will send the dressmaker over this very afternoon. You cannot say no to new dresses.”
Dresses? Plural? Yet as I sat there, flustered and outvoted, the Marquis laughed happily. “Parfait!”
A moment later, a harried Joseph rushed into the dining room. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, as if expecting girls to appear behind every table and chair. He looked even more exhausted than before.
The Marquis waved. “Monsieur Boyer, come! Sit. Eat.”
Joseph nodded quickly, and as he darted for the table, I felt an odd twisting in my stomach. I frowned—it was a familiar feeling, yet it took me a moment to realize why.
Then it clicked. I had felt this when Oliver tested our bond at the train station. The demon had to be nearby. I whipped my gaze to the door, and sure enough, a slight, gray-suited figure lounged in the hallway beyond.
I shot to my feet. “I-I must use the necessary. Pardon me.” I wobbled a curtsy, embarrassed by the three pairs of surprised eyes yet also certain I did not want Oliver seen. Moments later, I dashed into the hall and veered sharply left. I strode away from Oliver and away from the restaurant’s view.
As I knew they would, Oliver’s footsteps clicked after me. It wasn’t until we had passed through two doorways and the hallway twisted sharply left that I slowed to a stop.
“You fool!” I turned and, grabbing his coat, yanked him to me. “They might have seen you.”
“That Joseph fellow did see me.”
My breath caught. “What? Did he recognize you?”
“No.” Oliver smirked, obviously entertained by my panic. “Why would he? We’ve never met.”
“But you’re a . . .” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You’re a demon. Can he not tell?”
“Not unless I’m doing magic. I couldn’t even sense another demon if the demon wasn’t actively tossing around spiritual energy. Like the rest of the world, all your Spirit-Hunters see is an incredibly dashing young man.” He flashed his eyebrows at me. “Besides, I was under the impression that you wanted me to meet Joseph Boyer.”
“I do want you to meet him. Just . . . just not yet.”
He scratched his chin. “So you aren’t mad at me for leaving you at the train station?”
“Well, uh . . . no,” I said at last, “though I am wondering where you have been all this time.”
He spread his arms wide. “It’s Paris, El! I’ve been everywhere. Enjoying my old haunts and finding new ones. Why, I discovered a charming bar in Montmarte, and while I was there”—he dipped toward me—“I heard about les Morts. Bloody disgusting. And bloody ambiguous.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that those missing eyes and ears could be any number of sacrificial rituals.” He tapped his chest. “And I am glad it’s not me tasked with finding the person behind it.”
“But we are tasked with that.”
“Er, why ‘we’ exactly?”
I frowned at him. “Well, the Spirit-Hunters are after les Morts, so I suppose I am too.”
“But what of Marcus—”
“He’s not here, so I will deal with him when he comes.”
“—and Elijah’s letters, your necromancy, and . . . am I forgetting anything? Oh yes.” He glowered. “Setting me free.”
I ground my teeth. “And I will get to all that when I am good and ready. For now, Marcus isn’t here and les Morts are. If I want Joseph to help me, then I must first help him.”
“But I am good and ready now, El. I thought we were friends.”
“We . . . are.” My face scrunched up, and I realized that he was my friend. He knew more about me than even the Spirit-Hunters, and I didn’t want to lose that. And yet for all that Oliver knew of me, I knew almost nothing about him. “For a friend,” I said slowly, “you keep an awful lot of secrets. About my brother.”
He gave me a cool, sidelong glance. “And I have told you, that’s my personal business.”
“But maybe your personal business would help me understand Elijah’s letters.”
“Well, you could make it easier for the both of us if you simply gave me those letters.” He bowed toward me. “I could take them, you know. But I haven’t.”
Now it was my turn to gaze at him sidelong. “Why not, if it’s so easy?”
For a moment he did not reply, and I could see in the shifting of his pupils that he was rummaging through various replies. At last his eyes narrowed and he declared, “I haven’t stolen the letters because I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me. We can’t make this partnership work if you don’t. I want to see the letters for personal reasons, so I am . . . content to wait. At least for now.”
I swallowed, unsure how to respond. I so desperately wanted to trust him too—wanted the easy reliance I’d shared with Elijah. “What if . . . what if we make a deal?”
“Ah.” His yellow eyes flashed bright gold. “I do love deals. What do you propose?”
“You help me with les Morts, and then I’ll let you see Elijah’s letters.”
His lips curled up. “What a lovely idea, El. I daresay, with me on this case, les Morts will be solved in a matter of days—nay, hours. And then those letters will be mine.”
My eyebrows twitched down. I had the distinct impression I had fallen into some unseen trap—that I’d offered Oliver precisely what he wanted all along. Yet, as far as I could see, whatever it was he wanted matched up with my own desires, so I merely answered with “Thank you.”
His smile widened. “See if you can’t get me one of the bodies—that would help immensely.”
“Get you a body?”
“Yes. Missing eyes and ears could be a variety of things—all of them bad. But if you get me one, I might be able to—”
“Eleanor?” Joseph’s voice rang out from the hall. “Are you here?”
My heart skittered into my throat. “Go,” I hissed at Oliver. “I’ll find you later.”
He grinned, almost rakishly. Yes, he definitely enjoyed my panic. I shot him a glare before darting back into the main hallway.
After intercepting me in the hall, Joseph informed me—tiredly—that he had to attend a meeting with the Marquis and Madame Marineaux.
“But I would like very much for you to come to the lab once I am back. There are . . . things we must discuss.” His gaze flickered to my phantom limb. “I will let you know when I have returned, non?”
Dread cinched around my neck like a noose, yet as we walked into the foyer, I forced myself to give him a chipper “Of course!”
He nodded. “Until later, then.”
He was gone only moments when a porter came to my side and informed me that he would guide me to my room. Excitedly, I followed him up four flights and into a smaller version of Jie’s room—though mine was blessed with a balcony that overlooked the gardens and the hollowed-out palace.
I had barely finished exploring the luxury of my new home when a dressmaker arrived, sent by Madame Marineaux. Before long, the sun was in the middle of the sky and Jie was dragging me to lunch in the dining room.
Joseph still had not returned, and Jie explained over our meal—her words laced with annoyance—that his daily absences were more the norm than the exception.
I hastily swallowed my mouthful of roast duck. “But where does he go?”
“Parties, salons, more parties.” Jie stabbed her fork into a potato.
I swallowed and wiped my lips with a napkin. “But shouldn’t he be work
ing?”
She shrugged. “He wants to, but les Morts haven’t been here in three weeks, yeah? The demand for our services hasn’t been very high.”
“Oh. Right.” My forehead creased, and I chewed absently on a piece of a baguette. Well, I 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 Solférino, 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 ward? No, I told myself. You feel stronger than you have in months. Besides, how could Joseph eve
n know if he’d never cast a spell?
“What about voodoo?” I asked. “Its practitioners don’t cast spells?”
“No. They connect to the spiritual energy of the world, of each other. It is a religion—not a means of power.” He spat out the word as if he wanted nothing to do with it.
And it hit me: his hatred of spells and necromancy extended far more deeply than mere disapproval of power.
“Marcus,” I breathed. “This is because of Marcus, isn’t it?”
Joseph drew back. For several seconds he didn’t answer. Then he turned away. “Yes. Yes, it is to do with Marcus. To learn that my best friend was . . . was not what he seemed. To learn that he had spent years fooling, not only me, but our teacher—the Voodoo Queen herself. And then, despite everything I did . . .” His voice cracked. “Despite everything I did,” he repeated, his fingers curling into fists, “Marcus still died . . . and then he returned—”
“But it isn’t your fault,” I interrupted. “You take all of Marcus’s deeds onto your own conscience, Joseph, but what he did—all his horrors are separate from you.”
He twisted back toward me, the bags beneath his eyes pronounced. “And do you do any differently, Eleanor? Have you forgiven yourself for what Elijah did?”
My lungs seized. Do. Not. Go there.
Joseph’s posture deflated. “Forgive me. If anyone can relate to my story, it is you. I . . . I should not bring up such things. I merely worry about you.” His eyes locked on mine, unblinking. “About this power of yours.”
“I told you. I am not casting spells.” My words were snipped. “My power comes naturally. I did not ask for it. It’s simply there.”
He held my gaze. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
He blinked once, slowly. “Then you will not, I hope, disagree with my request.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“Would you consent to study with me?” he asked. “I can teach you to control your natural power. To use it properly.”
No. The word flamed through my mind and burned in my stomach. You already use it properly. He will teach you to not use it at all.