Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely
“Enough!” Mercy dug her fingers in Patience’s arm and yanked her away. She flashed me an apologetic grimace. “I’m so sorry, Eleanor. I hope your mother gets better.” Then, without another word, she hauled her sister into the busy street and disappeared from view.
I was rendered speechless. I couldn’t even breathe. Tears I had fought every second of every day now rose in my eyes like a tidal wave.
I stumbled back until I hit Mrs. Binder’s window. “You are better than she,” I whispered to myself, blinking the tears away. “Stronger and better.” If I could face an army of Dead, then the insults of Patience Cook should be nothing.
But they weren’t nothing—not when they echoed with so much truth.
So I did as I always did: I forced my mind to dwell on other things. Normal, day-to-day things.
Spinning around, I stared into the shop’s window. My eyes lit on a frilly parasol in the display’s corner.
And the tears came boiling back with such a vengeance, I couldn’t contain them. All I could do was keep my face hidden and let them drop.
Daniel had given me a parasol like that one. Back when I’d thought he might love me. Back when
I’d thought Clarence was just a narrow-minded suitor . . . and my brother was just a victim. Back when
I was naive and stupid and thought the world a good place. The world wasn’t a good place. I knew that now, and no amount of distraction would let me forget.
As soon as I was in control of my emotions once more, I went to the bank to deposit my latest funds from Mr. Rickard. It was a small sum on which to manage living. I had stopped paying Mary, my mother’s maid, long ago; and though I wasn’t sure why she stayed with me—pity, friendship, or (most likely) guilt—I was grateful for the company all the same. My childhood home, emptied of furniture and devoid of life, would have been too much for me to bear on my own.
It was just as I strode between two columns and onto the marble steps leading down to the street that my right hand—no, the empty space where my hand had once been—began to tingle.
I froze midway. I knew this feeling, the feeling of electricity. Of soul .
I glanced down, certain I’d see a shimmer of starlight, like a little wrinkle in the world where my hand used to be. But nothing was there. Just the usual cloth bandages . . .
Which meant some other spirit was jangling at my senses.
Holding my breath, I whirled around to scan the crowded street. Simply because I knew I could sense the Dead didn’t mean I was used to it. And it certainly didn’t mean I enjoyed it.
My eyes raked over traffic and across building fronts, but I saw no unusual shimmer or flash of blue. I gulped, my throat tight.
Why wasn’t this throbbing going away? If nothing Dead was here, then . . .
Pain stabbed through my right arm, sharp and burning. A cry broke from my lips, and I yanked my arm to my chest.
Then light flared from my wrist, and for half a breath I could actually see my missing fingers.
They shifted from static blue to solid pink and back again.
A screaming howl filled my ears. I whipped up my head, my heart lurching into my mouth. But when I scanned the area for some rabid hound, all I saw was the usual clattering carriages and purposeful walkers. The tobacco store across the street, the saloon next door—they all looked the same. Not a dog in sight. The cab drivers trotted by, their horses ambled on, and everyone continued as if they heard nothing.
Which meant I was the only person hearing this!
Then the pain shrieked louder, taking control of my mind and blurring my vision. Another howl came. I gasped. Two howls, then three, all roaring over one another like a pack of wolves on the hunt.
Yet I still saw nothing.
I lurched around, certain I had to run. To warn others—and to hide. But I couldn’t think straight—
the dogs were so loud, they swallowed everything. I heaved up the steps and back toward the bank’s door.
Then my gaze locked on a pair of eyes. Yellow eyes, gleaming from the shadows behind the bank columns.
I flinched and stumbled back as new fear erupted in my chest. The last time I’d seen yellow eyes had been on Marcus Duval. If he was here, then I was as good as dead. There was no way I could fight him—not by myself. He was a necromancer so powerful even Joseph had lost to his magic.
Oh God, oh God—what could I do?
The howling crescendoed. Louder and louder. A sudden wind blasted my face. Icy and damp, it clawed into my throat and froze my lungs, yet I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot, held by those yellow eyes.
Then the bank door swung open. A customer walked out, and like a hypnotist’s snap, my mind and body were suddenly freed. I burst into action, ripping my gaze away from the shadows and darting down the steps, toward the street.
Instantly the dogs stopped, replaced by the shouts and rattle of normal morning traffic.
A heartbeat later, the agony in my wrist ended with no trace of pain left behind.
But my panic didn’t go. If I was right—if that had been Marcus in those shadows—then every second I stayed was a second closer to my death.
I kicked into a run, bounding into the street and aiming for home.
Not once did I check for the yellow eyes. I knew they would be as gone as the wind and the howls and the pain. Yet as I rushed down the street, my mind ran through scenario after scenario, trying to explain what had happened. It must have been black magic. Those yellow eyes—identical to the ones that haunted my dreams and my memories— must belong to Marcus.
And the only people who could help me were an ocean away in Paris.
But I was prepared for the day I would face Marcus again. He was a nightmare wearing my brother’s skin, and I had vowed to destroy him. I wanted to fight Marcus—wanted to watch him die—
but I would need the Spirit-Hunters to do that.
So I had to leave Philadelphia. I had to lead Marcus to the Spirit-Hunters. An ocean away or not, I could not let the distance or expense stop me. Not if I wanted to stay alive.
Eventually I managed to hail a streetcar on Market Street. By the time I reached my own tree-lined avenue, I was soaked through with sweat. I barreled down the road, finally reaching the low, wrought iron gate leading into my yard. The grass was tall and overgrown, the hedges wild. Only the white house I’d grown up in and the cherry tree out front looked the same.
I flew down my front path and up the steps, but before I could even fumble through my pocket for a key, the door burst open.
Mary, her chestnut hair falling from its bun, gaped at me. “Eleanor! Why’re you running like the devil’s after you?”
“Because,” I panted, “he is. Marcus is here!” I shoved my way into the foyer and slammed the door behind. “Get my carpetbag. I’ve got to go.”
Mary didn’t move. She just stared, her eyes bulging. She was the only person in the world other than the Spirit-Hunters and Mama who knew the full story about my brother’s necromancy and death.
She knew how dangerous Marcus was—and she knew of my plan to find the Spirit-Hunters once
Mama and my finances had been settled.
“Did you hear me?” I asked. “Marcus is here.” Still she didn’t budge. I stepped forward. “Mary, what is it?”
“You . . . you . . .”
“What?”
“You have a guest.”
I stopped, my heart dropping to my stomach. “Who?”
“Me,” said a new voice.
I jolted, my head whipping toward the parlor door. There stood a gaunt young woman in black, and though she looked nothing like the rosy-faced girl I’d once known, I instantly recognized her.
Allison Wilcox.
The last time we’d seen each other had been moments before I learned her brother, Clarence, had been murdered.
But the rumors behind his death were wrong: he had not been killed by the Spirit-Hunters. No, the truth behind Clarence’s death was far, far worse.
For Clarence Wilcox had been murdered by my brother.
Chapter Two
After Clarence had died and I had stopped my brother and his army of Dead, after the Spirit-
Hunters had fled town—hated and blamed for crimes that were not theirs—I had called every day at the Wilcox home, trying to gain an audience with Allison. But I was denied each time, and after a month I had finally given up.
And now, weeks later, I found all my earlier desperation to speak with her—to set things straight —was gone. Now, of all times, was not the moment for my rehearsed explanations and apologies.
I gulped and met her dark-eyed gaze. Eyes like the ones her handsome brother, Clarence, had been blessed with.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
Her jaw twitched. “No greeting? No refreshments?”
“I don’t have anything like that to offer you.”
She sniffed. “Nor do you have anywhere for your guests to sit.” She waved to the parlor, where there was nothing left but flowered wallpaper and blank hardwood floors.
I tugged at my earlobe. Even though sofas and snacks were the last things I cared about, heat burned up my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’ve had to sell everything.”
“Even your hand, I see.” She didn’t smile. “How ever do you hold your parasol?”
“I very rarely do.”
Her eyebrows rose, and annoyance rushed through me. I’d had quite enough verbal assault for one day, and if Allison was here only to hurt me, then so be it. I was not going to risk my life a moment longer.
I turned to Mary. “Get my bag. Now.”
Mary nodded and curtsied to Allison before scampering upstairs.
“Nothing to offer,” Allison said sharply, “and you ignore me.”
I spun back to her. “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving town at this very moment.”
“Leaving?” She blinked, and some of her frost melted. “Why? To where?”
“France, and I have no time to waste.” I strode past her and into the empty parlor. A quick scan through the window showed no one on the streets. Yet.
Allison stomped into the room. I turned to find her cheeks bright with fury. “How dare you ignore me, Eleanor! I’m here to see you.”
“Really?” I pursed my lips. “I’ve come to your house dozens of times, and you’ve always turned me away. So why are you truly here, Allison?”
For several moments we watched each other in silence. Mary’s footsteps pounded overhead as she raced to add my final measly belongings to a carpetbag.
But at last Allison spoke. “My mother,” she said slowly, “forbade me from seeing you. In fact, if she knew I was here right now, she’d kill me.” Then, like a bursting dam, words poured from her mouth. “But I need answers, Eleanor. I can’t wait anymore! Mother wants me to marry a rich man, you see, but I can’t. Night and day, I’m forced into company with nasty old bachelors and nastier old widowers.”
