“Even,” I murmured, not particularly aware of what I was saying. My eyes were stuck on Daniel’s throat. On the faint flutter of his pulse. It was . . . fascinating. It meant he was alive. We were both alive.
Without thinking, I rolled onto my tiptoes and brushed my lips over that patch of skin, over his heartbeat.
He stiffened. I lurched back.
Heat flushed through me. “I-I am so sorry,” I tried to say, but my voice barely squeezed through my pinched throat.
And Daniel simply gaped at me, slack-jawed and frozen.
“I sh-shouldn’t have done that.” I skittered back several more steps, humiliation boiling inside me. “Please—forgive me.”
Still he did not move, did not speak.
I retreated farther, wishing the front door were open so I could flee as far and as fast as my legs would go. Oh, why wasn’t Daniel saying something—anything? And why was he staring at me like that?
I turned to go, my hand outstretched for the doorknob.
“Wait,” he breathed.
I paused, glancing back.
And in three long steps he reached me. Then, his hands trembling, he cupped the sides of my face, and I swear his chest was so still, he could not have been breathing.
I know I wasn’t.
He ran his thumbs along my cheeks, down my jaw, over my lips. And his eyes seemed to scour every inch of me. Then, ever so slowly, Daniel Sheridan lowered his head and grazed his lips over mine.
And I felt as if my heart might explode.
Yet despite that—despite the fragile perfection of his touch—it wasn’t enough for me. It could never be enough. He smelled of sweat and blood and gunpowder. Of caves and torchlight and everything we had been through.
I loved him, and I would not let him walk away—not this time. So before he could draw back or change his mind, I pushed forward and kissed him again. Hard.
A low groan broke from his mouth, and now I knew my heart exploded. My brain, my skin, my lips—everything burned with feverish need.
His hands dropped to my waist, pulling my whole body to his. And now he kissed me, determined at first and then almost desperate. No matter how many times we pressed our lips together, it was not enough.
Then came the nip of teeth, a flick of tongue, and my knees turned to jelly. I almost fell backward.
But he would never let me fall. He crushed me to him, his body hot through his clothes—hot through my clothes. Then he guided me backward and pressed me to the door.
And all I could think—all I could feel—was that I needed more. More of him, more of Daniel.
His stubble scratched my face raw. I did not care. I was too lost in the feel of his lips, of his tongue . . . of any feeling that proved we were alive.
His lips left mine, but before I could beg him to stay, his mouth was tracing along my neck, biting and possessive, and now it was my turn to groan. I could barely breathe, my heart hammered too hard against my lungs, and I certainly could not see straight.
But the moment couldn’t last forever. Always, the real world had to interfere.
A weak voice called out. “Daniel? Eleanor?”
Daniel and I paused. Our hearts drummed and our breathing rasped—so loudly, I almost thought I had imagined that voice.
But the voice called again. “Daniel?” It was Joseph, and at that realization, Daniel and I staggered apart.
“Is all well?” Joseph called.
“Yes,” Daniel croaked, scrubbing a hand over his face. He blinked quickly, as if trying to grab a hold of who he was, where we were, and what had just happened. . . . He looked as completely lost as I felt.
“We’re . . . we’re coming,” he said, his head swinging toward the sitting room.
“Just a moment,” I chimed, forcing my legs to walk, to step away from Daniel. I knew that now was not the time for love, but that did not change how much my body wanted it to be the time. Did not change how much my pulse pounded in my stomach, painful and confused . . . and unfulfilled.
“Wait.” Daniel reached for me.
“No.” I slipped away from him, and a bitter laugh broke through my lips. It never seemed to be the time for Daniel and me.
I glanced back at him. “Joseph needs us, remember? He’s hurt. Badly.” Without another look, I marched away from the door, away from Daniel, and away from everything we had just shared.
Chapter Twenty-five
While Daniel tended Joseph’s wound, I wandered through Madame Marineaux’s sitting room, skirting the Marquis’s curtain-covered body. The memory from before tickled at my brain. It had to do with the cane. With something I was supposed to do . . .
Then my eyes landed on it. The low shelf from Madame Marineaux’s vision—and the Oriental fan on it. There was something glowing behind the flowered folds.
My breath hitched, and I dropped to the floor, sliding the fan aside to reveal the ivory fist. Now uncovered, the clenched fingers glowed as brightly as a magical well in my chest—and the artifact was mine. I could finally have it. Clearly Madame Marineaux wanted me to take it, for she had shown me where it was.
Ever so gently, I grasped it with both of my hands and held it up.
“What have you found?” Joseph rasped.
I flinched, my fingers closing around the ivory as fast as possible. “N-nothing,” I stammered, stuffing it into my pocket. I stood. “It’s just . . .” My gaze lit on a different shelf—a shelf with hair clasps—and something Madame Marineaux had said flittered through my mind.
We can get your friend, the Chinese girl, back from him.
“Daniel,” I said slowly, “when you followed that lead on Jie—to the train station—why did you think the trail had gone cold?”
“Because people saw a Chinese boy there with a young man. They both boarded a train.” He walked to me—though I couldn’t help but notice he stopped three feet away. The air between us practically shimmered.
I gulped, and he rammed his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think,” he said gruffly, “that Jie would willingly get on the train if she’d been kidnapped.”
“No, but she would if she was compelled.” I held the hair clasp out to him. “Madame Marineaux said she could put her venom on anything—compel anyone to do as she wished.”
Daniel pulled back from the clasp—or perhaps he was pulling back from my hand. He nodded. “Yeah, I reckon it’s possible she was under a spell, but then where was Jie going? And who was she with?”
“Marcus.” Joseph’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet the name seemed to roar through the room. “Jie was . . . with Marcus.”
The clasp fell from my fingers. I whipped my gaze to Joseph. “Wh-why would you say that?”
His finger lifted wearily, and he pointed at the portraits above the fireplace. “That is Marcus’s mother.”
“Claire?” I gaped at him, horror rising in my chest. “Claire LeJeunes—”
“Claire Duval,” Joseph corrected. “And, trust me: I know what she looks like.”
I gripped the sides of my face. “I should have realized! Madame Marineaux showed me this portrait—she told me over and over how much I reminded her of Claire.”
“You could not have known,” Joseph murmured. He took a quick swig from Oliver’s flask and, wincing, said, “If anyone should have realized, it is I. The Marquis told me his sister lived in New Orleans, yet the connection eluded me. I had no idea she was French aristocracy.”
“But . . .” Daniel wet his lips. “Didn’t Madame Marineaux say that Marcus killed his mother?”
“Yes.” My hand eased into my pocket, my fingers sliding around the ivory. Just touching it made me feel better. Stronger. I stood taller. “The Madame also said that Marcus tricked her into a binding agreement. And she also said Marcus was going to Marseille.”
“And if Jie was with Marcus at the train station,” Joseph said, “then she is also bound for Marseille.”
“But what’s there?” Daniel asked.
&nbs
p; “The answer to the Black Pullet.” I closed my eyes, my fingers clenching the ivory even more tightly. “Marcus found my letters from Elijah, and he must have solved the riddles within. He must have seen something in them that I did not.” In a flat voice, I told them what happened with the burned letters and the Jack-and-the-beanstalk riddle. “There’s a crypt in Notre-Dame de la Garde, and something important must be in there. That’s why Marcus is going to Marseille, and it means . . .”
Joseph sat taller. “It means we must also go to Marseille.”
“Unless it’s a trap.” Daniel tugged at his hair, a grimace on his face. “Why keep Jie alive unless it’s to lure us down there?”
“Perhaps you are right.” Joseph’s fingers went absentmindedly to his wound.
Daniel snatched Joseph’s wrist. “Don’t.”
Joseph blinked. His hand lowered, and he quickly tossed back another swig from the flask. Then he drew back his shoulders. “But, trap or not, I will not leave Jie in that monster’s hands. We go to Marseille.”
“I . . .” I bit my lip. “I want to save Jie too, but if Marcus left yesterday, then he’s a whole day ahead of us. He also knows what was in Elijah’s letters. He knows where to go. He’ll be ready and waiting long before we can even get train tickets.”
“No,” Daniel said. He stepped to Joseph’s side. “You forget: I have an airship. It’s faster than any train. We can be in Marseille in a few hours. Then we could trap him.”
Desire blossomed in my chest. Desire and something darker—something violent. I was ready to go after Marcus. No more waiting, no more looking for clues or answers. I was ready to face him now and to make him pay.
Make him pay for wearing Elijah’s corpse. For hurting Joseph. For taking Jie and killing, killing, killing so many innocent people. For killing his own mother and entrapping Madame Marineaux . . .
And for all the hell I had had to endure over the last three months. It was time for Marcus to pay.
As Daniel placed a hand behind Joseph and helped the Creole stand, I asked, “How long does your balloon take to prepare?” My words lashed out, overeager and hungry. I swallowed and forced myself to add, “To prepare it for flying, I mean.”
Daniel’s eyes flicked to mine, but he instantly looked away. “It can be ready to go in an hour.”
“Then let us go.” Joseph motioned to the door. “Hopefully your de—” He broke off. “Hopefully Oliver has found a cab by now, for there is no time to waste.” He and Daniel shuffled past me toward the door.
I took two steps after them. “Joseph?”
He glanced back at me, his eyes dark and inscrutable. “Wi?”
“When you said ‘Let us go,’ did you mean . . . all of us?”
His lips twitched up ever so slightly, and he nodded once. “Yes, Eleanor. I meant all of us.”
I could not help it. I grinned.
Several hours later, with the sun almost risen and the sky a stunning blue, I found myself at the gates of the Tuileries Gardens. Daniel’s balloon drifted overhead, packed and waiting. Oliver was already on board, sulking . . . furious. Daniel was still in the lab, grabbing his final things, and the last I had seen of Joseph, he had been beneath the hotel doctor’s none-too-gentle hands. I’d had just enough time to get cleaned up and don a fresh suit (awkwardly borrowed from Daniel) before the airship had arrived, ready to be loaded with the Spirit-Hunters’ equipment. I left letters for Allison and Laure, explaining everything and begging for their forgiveness. Whatever news Allison had would simply have to wait. If she had made it this far from Philadelphia, she could make it a bit longer.
The same went for Laure. I felt rotten for abandoning her. After the horrors of yesterday, she deserved better, but I could not—would not—risk Jie’s life waiting for both girls to arrive. Perhaps I would see them in Marseille.
And now it was time for me to go.
My feet padded lightly on the steps into the garden. A breeze licked through the chestnuts and sent the balloon floating toward me. It strained against its leashes, a creaking melody to the rustling leaves and curious voices of passers-by. Even at this early an hour, a crowd had gathered to watch the airship.
To think that none of these people knew what had happened in the night while they slept. What had happened beneath their homes. What we had saved them from or how much it had cost us.
To think that, for them, it was just other day.
It annoyed me. Angered me, even. Philadelphia had been the same as Paris—so much work and so many tears, and all for what? So people could simply get on with their lives.
“And so,” I whispered to myself, pausing on the final step, “the wheel is come full circle.” But Shakespeare quotes held no comfort for me today, no matter how true they were. I had too many unanswered questions.
For one, where was the compulsion spell—the one built from les Morts? It had sounded as if Marcus was using the seventy-three sacrifices to build a long-lasting spell, so did he take it with him when he left Paris? Madame Marineaux had said nothing about the amulet’s final destination or final purpose.
For two, what had happened to the Marquis? Had Marcus been the one to kill him? I would have to press Oliver for more information on this black magic that was even darker than necromancy—as soon as the demon was willing to speak to me again.
And the ivory fist—what was it? My fingers slid into my pocket, where it rested. It was not an amulet, yet Madame Marineaux had claimed it was special, powerful. And for whatever reason, she had wanted me to have it. Oddly enough, its fingers had started to loosen—only slightly, but enough for me to notice that the fist was unfurling. . . .
With a yawn, I withdrew my hand and rubbed at my stinging eyes. I would find answers to my questions soon enough.
Then, my hair whipping in my face, I sent my gaze flying out over the small crowd of airship-viewers. Over their top hats and feathered bonnets. Over the flowers and maple trees. Over the burned-out palace and the Rue de Rivoli, with its neat, beige buildings and endless gray rooftops.
I sent my gaze out over Paris.
And I let the faintest smile pull at my lips. Seeing this perfect, perfect morning was exactly what I needed. The reminder to dig deeper until . . . until . . .
Until I found it, hiding within my heart and wrapped beneath layers of anger and grief. It was wound up so tightly in hollow regret that I would never have found it if I had not searched.
But there it was: a tiny flame—only the faintest glimmer, really, yet a flame nonetheless. A hope in the darkness.
“Eleanor?”
I turned and met Daniel’s face, peering at me from the top of the steps. He was clean-shaven, freshly dressed. The wind pulled at his damp hair, and he looked as sharp as ever . . . yet sad. Worried.
But he did not need to be. I knew what I was doing.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I reached into my pocket and slid my fingers around the ivory fist. Then I grinned. “Yes, Daniel. I am ready.”
Acknowledgments
This book almost killed me, and the only reason I survived it is because of my best friend, soul sister, frequent sounding board, and fellow author: Sarah J. Maas. You held the megaphone to my ear and shouted at me to keep going. I kept going, and the book wasn’t the death of me.
Huge thanks to Biljana Likic for all her help with the book’s Latin phrasing. If not for you, my characters would be speaking in gibberish, and I am so grateful for all you’ve done.
To my Hero Squad, Erin Bowman and Amie Kaufman—thank you, thank you for listening when I needed it and for reading the book when I needed that.
To my critique partner, Katharine Brauer: your honey badger feedback turned this manuscript from pure drivel into an actual story. I love you for that.
A giant thanks to Meredith Primeau, Erica O’Rourke, and Amity Thompson for being beta readers when I needed criticism and cheerleaders when I needed support.
Endless love and thanks to Sara Kendall and J
oanna Volpe for going above and beyond the call of duty over and over again. There is literally not enough space in these acknowledgments to convey just how much I appreciate everything you do.
Karen Chaplin, you (and the wonderful Alyssa Miele) helped me transform this book from a giant tome of “talking heads” into a story that made sense. Circumstance might have brought my book to your desk, but I truly believe it’s where Eleanor and the gang were meant to be.
To the entire Harper team working tirelessly (or I assume tirelessly, but in all likelihood you’re terribly exhausted at this point) behind the scenes to design my dazzling covers, set up events, and keep things running smoothly: a million thanks and a million cookies too.
Finally, to my dear husband, Sébastien, and my family—Mom, Dad, David, and Jennifer—you all believed in me long before I believed in myself. I love you.
About the Author
SUSAN DENNARD is a writer turned marine biologist turned writer again. A DARKNESS STRANGE AND LOVELY is the sequel to her debut novel, SOMETHING STRANGE AND DEADLY. Among the traits she shares with her heroine Eleanor are a weakness for Shakespeare quotes, a healthy appetite for baked goods, and an insatiable curiosity. Sadly, Susan does not get to wear a corset or wave a parasol on a daily basis. You can visit her online at www.susandennard.com.
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Also by Susan Dennard
Something Strange and Deadly
A Dawn Most Wicked: A Something Strange and Deadly Novella
(available as an ebook only)
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Credits
Cover background pattern © Getty Images
Cover photograph of girl © 2013 by Monica Stevenson
Cover design by Cara E. Petrus
Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.