A Darkness Strange and Lovely (28 page)

I twisted around. “Daniel!” I met his eyes, wide and scared.

And still faraway on the other side of the cave-in.

I knew without even seeing it that the Dead had reached him.

“Shoot them!” I screamed. “Shoot!”

But he didn’t. He aimed his pistol directly at the ceiling, and in a final roar he screamed,
“Run!”
and pulled the trigger.

Chapter Twenty-two

“No!” I launched myself at the cave-in. The entire
tunnel was blocked, but I had to get through. I kicked rocks aside and flung at the dirt. “Please, please,
please
,
no
!”

Oliver’s arms slung around me. “Stop! You’ll bring down more of the ceiling.”

“But they’re on the other side!” I shrieked. “Daniel’s
on
the other side!”

“And we can’t do anything about that now!”

“We can go through!”

“No, El, we can’t.” He spun me around to face him. “Your man shot the ceiling, and he did it on
purpose
.”

“B-but why?” I found I was shaking and . . . and
crying
. “They have no light and th-there’s hundreds of Dead.”

“I don’t think the Dead were hurting them.”

“Wh-what?”

“Joseph—he kept blasting them down and was still able to shout. He didn’t sound
hurt
. More . . . detained. Think about it, El. Why would the demon want to hurt anyone who walked into its lair?”

“It . . . it wouldn’t.” I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. “It cannot sacrifice a dead victim.” My hands dropped. “But that means Joseph and Daniel will both be . . .” I spun back around and lunged for the rubble. “We
have
to get through!”

“But there’s no
point.
” He was yelling at me. “If we get through, then
we’ll
be demon-food.”

“But we can stop the Dead!”

“No, we can’t.” He shoved in front of me and gripped my chin. “There were
hundreds
of bodies back there. This demon must collect them from the catacombs and use them as sentries to patrol the tunnels. I can’t take down more than a few Dead at a time, El, and you . . . you don’t know how to take down
any
.”

“So teach me!”

He lowered his hand. “Even if I did, you wouldn’t be able to stop any more bodies than I can.”

My stomach curdled, and the tears fell harder. “B-but I can’t just leave Daniel . . . or Joseph . . . or that
demon
. Please, Oliver!”

“Please what? We have only one option: go back. We can get the hell out of here and—”

“No.
No
.” My tears stopped abruptly, cold trails on my face. “We are not leaving. Though . . . we
can
go back.” I swooped up the lantern and strode down the tunnel.

“And do what?” He surged beside me, his hands up. “Oh no. You mean go into the other passage?”

“Yes.”

“What if it leads nowhere?”

“I have to try.”

“Well, what if it leads to more Dead?”

I hesitated at that, and Oliver charged on. “See, El? We need to go back to the surface.”

“No,” I snapped. “Absolutely not. There must be some spell I can cast to protect us, right?”

His shoulders dropped an inch. He looked away. “There
is
an awareness spell. It would allow you to sense anything living—or Dead—nearby.”

I nodded curtly. More magic. More spells. It would give me strength, and that was something I needed. I set off back toward the branching tunnels and said, “Tell me what to do.”

Oliver followed just on my heels, the lantern swinging in his hand. “First you say
Sentio omnia quae me circumdentur
. It means ‘I feel all around me,’ and it will form a web. You sort of toss it out.” He spread his arms, and the light sprayed out with the movement. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” We were almost to the split. With each step, I drew my magic into my chest. It trickled in slowly, warm and safe. A balm to my fears, an embrace against the cold, and a light in the dark. And with each drop of soul that slid through my veins, my steps grew stronger, and the blue glow grew brighter.

“
Sentio omnia quae me circumdentur
.” The words trilled over my tongue, and as I threw my magic wide, casting it in all directions, I slowed to a stop at the fork in the tunnels. My magic spread and spread until finally sinking into place like a net sinking to the bottom of a pond.

“Well?” Oliver asked. “Do you sense anyone?”

“No.” Other than Oliver behind me, I sensed nothing—though I tried to sense more. Tried to push the web just a bit farther, to feel for Daniel and Joseph . . . but they were too far away, or . . .

No, they are alive, and I will find them.

With a final glance at Oliver, I set off down the other passage. How long we went or how far, I could not say. Though the winding limestone tunnel was the same as all the others, this journey wasn’t like the earlier one. I had my magic now, so I felt no irritation—only determination. And worry. Always,
always
I had to battle thoughts of Daniel and Joseph getting closer to death with every second that passed—if they weren’t already . . . dead. . . .

And always I had to focus my web of awareness. More than once I found my thoughts wandering, for I could not help but wonder where we were beneath Paris. We had walked so far. What part of the city was above us now?

Eventually Oliver pulled me to a stop. “The path ends ahead.”

“What?” I choked. “What do you mean ‘ends’?”

“There’s a wall.” He motioned ahead, beyond the range of the lantern’s light. “A dead end.”

I scurried ahead, frustration exploding in my chest—only to grind quickly to a halt. There
was
a wall. But it was cracked, like the wall by the reservoir had been.

“I can squeeze through that.” I darted forward, but Oliver latched on to my arm.

“Don’t be ridiculous! It probably leads
nowhere
.”

I yanked free and surged toward the wall again. “Just let me check. Please.” Yet I only made it two steps when a black, putrid wave slammed into my senses.

I cried out, dropping to my knees. The stench of grave dirt invaded my nose.

“El, what is it?”

But I couldn’t answer. My stomach heaved, and bile boiled up my throat. I vomited into the black. Acid splattered my hands.

“El, what’s wrong?”

“D-death,” I stuttered before gagging again.
“Wrong.”

“Draw in the web.” His voice was barely a whisper, yet the urgency was clear. “Hurry, you’ll feel better.”

I did as he said, frantically reeling my awareness back to myself. Instantly the nausea and the smell vanished.

Clutching my arms to my stomach, I sank back until I hit the tunnel wall.

“Are you all right?’ Oliver murmured, his hand patting my arm until his fingers found mine. He squeezed. “El?”

“No, I am not all right.” My voice trembled, burning my acid-raw throat. “It was . . . it was so, so rotten. Death everywhere.”

“It’s the demon.” Oliver’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Can you sense it?”

“Not yet,” he admitted, squeezing my hand again. “But I’m sure I will soon. Your web of magic extends your range of awareness much farther than my own. Tell me: which way was it?”

I pointed behind me, toward the crack in the wall. “Just beyond there.”

Oliver’s eyebrows shot down. “Did you sense Joseph? Or Daniel?”

“I-I did not try.”

“What about the Dead?” he pressed. “Did you feel any corpses?”

“I did not
try
, Ollie. The black and the grave dirt, they overpowered everything.”

He took my other hand in his. “You have to try, El. If this demon is just through that hole, we need to be prepared. We need to know if it’s alone.”

I gulped and nodded. Tentatively, I sucked in my magic, but rather than fling out my awareness, I let it creep through the crack . . . then onward and up . . . until the rotten sense of wrong rolled over me. I screwed my eyes shut, forcing myself to keep fumbling, keep feeling. . . . Then I sensed two flames amid the black: Daniel and Joseph.

I yanked in the web, popping my eyes wide. “They’re there,” I breathed. “Daniel, Joseph. And I couldn’t feel any Dead.” My breath shot out, thick with relief. “Oh thank God, they’re there. Alive . . .
alive
.”

“And how far ahead is the demon?”

“No . . . no more than a hundred yards.”

“And you are sure you want to keep going?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go. Quietly.” His hand gripped my elbow, and without another word, he helped me cram myself into the slanted crack. I had to shove and wiggle until the rock tore my clothes and slashed my skin, but I was numb from the cold and the magic. I felt no pain. After several feet of this clambering, I finally wedged through—and into a pitch-black, yet open, tunnel.

Oliver eased out behind me—but without the lantern. “I couldn’t carry it and still fit through. I’m sorry.”

“Can you see?” I whispered.

“Well enough. I will go first.” Then he clasped my hand in his and pulled me into a careful tiptoe. Our pace was barely above a crawl, and everything seemed loud. Each of our steps, our breaths, our fingertips brushing on the cave walls. And everywhere that my straining eyes landed seemed to move. Every spot in my vision sent my pulse racing.

Suddenly Oliver’s hand clenched mine in warning. I froze, holding my breath trapped. Ever so slowly, Oliver pulled me to him, and then I felt his lips at my ear. “It’s ahead. Joseph—he’s shouting. Can you hear?”

I shook my head once.

“We’ll keep going, but be prepared to fight. Have . . . have your commands for me ready.”

“What will I command you to do?”

He gave an almost inaudible laugh. “Just tell me to destroy it.” He drew away from me, and together we crept forward, the tunnel curving right . . . then left. After twenty measured steps, the faintest sounds finally began to slide into my ears. Forty steps and we rounded another bend—and now Joseph’s bellows sounded clear. Seconds later we veered sharply left . . . and halted. Light, painful even in its orange dimness, shone ahead. I squinted, trying to see what was
in
the light, but we were still too far away.

Then a scream—a sickening shriek of pain—tore through the tunnel. But I couldn’t tell if it was Daniel’s or Joseph’s. All I knew was that we were out of time.

I pushed Oliver to go faster. The screams masked our footsteps until the shrieking ceased. We instantly stopped . . . waiting, not breathing. A new sound broke out: a tinkling, happy sound. Someone laughing.

I glanced at Oliver, and at his nod I slunk forward. He slid along behind me, both of us hugging the walls and craning our necks.

But once I
could
see, I instantly wished for the darkness again. Because knowing what was in there—seeing the horror—was so,
so
much worse.

It was a cavern, tall, round, and as large as the ballroom, yet lit by torches that cast the scene in an orange, shadowy light.

And there, hunched over a stone table in the center of the cavern with long, jagged claws extended and her dainty mouth lapping up blood, was none other than Madame Marineaux.

And the blood was Joseph’s. It poured from the side of his head, from a gushing, jagged hole where his ear had once been.

Chapter Twenty-three

Madame Marineaux still wore her black ball gown
, her coiled hair as perfect as ever. . . . Even her face—her smile—seemed as sweet as it always did. But her fingernails—they were as sharp and long as knives. And her mouth . . . fresh blood dribbled down her chin.

It took all of my self-control not to run straight to Joseph or completely the other way. She was a friend. I had trusted her, and yet . . . something twisted in my gut. Something that said,
You knew this all along. You simply did not want to see it.

But I would deal with that guilt, that hurt, later. For now I had a demon to face.

I dragged my eyes away from the Madame, searching for some sign of Daniel. It wasn’t hard—he was loud despite being bound and gagged against the left-most wall. He rolled and writhed beside a narrow tunnel descending into darkness. Yet his struggles did no good; he was too tightly fettered. Tossed on the dirt nearby was his bandolier, the crystal clamp shimmering beside it.

I flicked my gaze the other way, forcing myself not to look at Joseph’s shuddering chest or Madame Marineaux’s bloody face. Forcing myself to evaluate the enormous cavern.

There was a third tunnel on the far right. Torchlight flickered into it, showing a rising floor—a well-worn, rising floor.

“Y-you,” Joseph rasped, his voice weak yet penetrating every crevice in the room, “c-can kill me, but you will not go unpunished.”

Madame Marineaux laughed, almost gleefully, and rose to her full—albeit tiny—height. “You have no idea what you say, Joseph Boyer. Your blood is very strong. Very strong, indeed. And when my master learns whom I have
killed
. Oh, how pleased he will be.”

At the word “killed,” Daniel’s struggles grew more frenzied, and muffled shouts seeped through his gag.

Madame Marineaux clucked at him. “Monsieur Sheridan, I do wish you would stay quiet. Your turn will come soon enough.”

“Stop,” Joseph commanded hoarsely. “W-we know what you”—a shiver wracked him—“plan. You and the Marquis . . . cannot succeed.”

“The Marquis?” She chuckled and dragged a claw almost lovingly along Joseph’s jaw. “Is that who you think is behind this? Oh, you naive little Spirit-Hunter. The Marquis was merely a tool. A source of income . . . and
power
for my master. He had no idea what was happening around him—or to him.”

A hand landed on my shoulder, and I flinched. But it was only Oliver. His eyes told me plain enough what he could not say:
We need a plan.

And as much as I did not want to go—as much as my body screamed at me to run into the chamber and
do
something—I had to think this through.

Madame Marineaux was a demon, and she was strong.

So I forced myself to look away, to turn around and leave. We did not stop until there was no more light and Madame Marineaux’s wicked crowing had faded to a distant whisper.

Oliver pulled me to him, breathing in my ear, “Joseph’s hurt badly, and that
demon
is . . .” He trailed off.

“It’s Madame Marineaux,” I whispered.

“No, El.” I heard him gulp. “Her claws . . . I think she’s a Rakshasi.”

“Rakshasi?” That name sounded familiar, though I couldn’t place why.

Oliver moved closer, pulling my body to his. “They’re the most deadly a-and,” he tripped over his words, “and
powerful
demons of all time. And they’re the only ones I know of with claws like that. She has venom that works like a compulsion spell . . . venom that makes you see things that aren’t real.”

I sucked in a breath as all the pieces clicked together. So
that
was why I’d gone to the ball. Why I’d forgotten every moment spent with her. And with this realization, some of my memories came
back.
The sound of her voice as she plied me with questions about the Spirit-Hunters. The sound of
my voice
—flat and monotone—as I answered. And all it had taken was a drop of venom in my champagne; I had been hers to control. Except, I’d had nothing to drink tonight. . . .

“With power like this,” Oliver went on, “she must be thousands of years old. I’m a bloody
baby
next to her, El.” His whispers sliced into my ear, and with them came icy fear.

“So . . . so what can we do?” I asked.

“We can get the hell out of here—”

At that moment, Joseph’s ragged screams ripped through the tunnel once more. Oliver cowered into me, his yellow eyes flashing in the black.

“Please, El,” he breathed. “Please, let’s just
go
.”

“No. We can’t. We are out of time.” I pivoted around, pulling away from Oliver. Joseph’s screams continued.

“We need a plan!” he hissed.

“I have one. I saw Daniel’s pistols on the left wall. If I can distract Madame Marineaux long enough, then you can get the Spirit-Hunters’ equipment and free them. The pistols will need reloading, so I will keep Madame Marineaux’s attention until I see that you’re ready to fight.” Then, before Oliver could protest or point out the ten thousand holes in my plan, I ran toward Joseph, toward Daniel. . . .

Toward Rakshasi.

I did not bother to stay quiet. Did not even pause to check my surroundings. Joseph and Daniel needed me—
now
—and as soon as I had enough light to see the ground beneath my feet, I burst into a sprint.

When I finally skittered into the cavern, it was to find Joseph still bound to the stone table. But now Daniel was sprawled out on the floor beside him. His mouth was still gagged and his limbs still tied. Madame Marineaux, her back to me, hovered over him.

“Stop!” I said, my voice a low growl. “Let them go.”

With unnatural speed, Madame Marineaux twirled toward me, her dress billowing around her. A genuine smile spread over her lips. “You came!” She clapped with delight. “I am so glad.”

I looked past her, terrified that I’d find Daniel’s body mutilated. But he was fine, and at the sight of me, his eyes bulged and he burst into a fresh struggle. Joseph also saw me, and despite the blood oozing from his head, he also strained against his bonds. For whatever reason, it looked as if Madame Marineaux had made no more wounds on his body.

“But,” Madame Marineaux continued, “how did you get in here from
that
passage?”

I turned my attention back to Madame Marineaux; she bustled to me as if we were merely meeting on the dance floor. Her little steps covered surprising ground, and she stood before me in only seconds. “And,” she said, “where is your dress? Who removed it?”

“We did,” Joseph croaked. “And with that amulet off her, your spell ceased.”

So the dress was how she had compelled me tonight. She had turned it into an amulet.

Madame Marineaux rolled her eyes. “You are bothering me, Monsieur Boyer. First Monsieur Sheridan will not be quiet while I am sacrificing you, and now
you
will not stay silent.” A single fingernail clicked out, growing as long as a dagger. “I wish to speak to Mademoiselle Fitt in
peace
.” She whirled around, flying for the stone table.

“Wait!” I screamed. “Madame Mari—Rakshasi!”

She paused, her skirts swishing forward. “You know my true essence?” She looked back at me, her eyes glowing yellow. “How?”

“I . . . I made a good guess.”

Her lips curved up. “You
are
like Claire. So feisty. So clever.” She twisted back to me, forgetting Joseph completely. “Are you here to join me, then? To help free me from my master? He is a false master. A
liar
.”

She was close now. Close enough for me to see the streaks of blood around her mouth, the bits of flesh stuck in her claws.

I needed to draw her away so Oliver could sneak in. I retreated, strolling for the wall and aiming for the tunnel in the far right corner.
Twenty steps to the wall, then twenty steps to the tunnel.

“A false master?” I asked, still moving as casually as I could.

“He
tricked
me.” Madame Marineaux’s lips puffed out in a pout—but almost immediately curled back, baring her fangs. “He killed her. His own mother. My Claire—he
killed
her! Then he broke Claire’s bond and trapped me in an agreement.”

My mind raced to understand what she had just shared. She was an unbound demon, yet she still had some sort of master. So how?

“What sort of agreement?” I asked, continuing to walk.

“I must do as he wishes for as long as he wishes, and perhaps one day he will let me go home. . . . Where are you going,
Mademoiselle
?” She frowned. “Stop walking.
Now
.”

I froze. The altar was forty paces away. That would have to be enough space. . . .

Oliver must have thought the same thing, for barely a breath passed before he crept into the cavern and darted for the stone table.

Madame Marineaux tensed as if hearing Oliver, but before she could turn around, I blurted, “Will he free you? Will your false master keep his promise?”

Her posture drooped. “I do not know. He is
cruel
. Nothing like his mother, my Claire. And he is strong—too strong for me. But you . . .” She reached out and stroked my cheek with her claw. “You and I, Mademoiselle Fitt—he could not beat the two of us. Not together.” She leaned in, inhaling deeply. “So much power. It radiates off you.”

I gulped, trying not to breathe. She
stank
of blood. Her breath, her claws—a metallic, keening stench.

She did not seem to notice my reaction. “Think,” she purred, “what we could do with your strength and my experience. Just
imagine.
” Then her fingernail pierced my jaw. Only the slightest poke, but it broke the skin . . .

And the venom overwhelmed me.

It is Christmas, and I am in my family’s drawing room. There is snow falling outside the window, and a fire billows in the hearth. Father sits beside the fireplace, the
Evening Bulletin
in his hand, and Elijah sits on the floor at his feet, a book upon his lap.

Elijah glances up at me and smiles. He looks not so different from when he died—older, stronger, and wider jawed. Yet his spectacles still slide down his nose, and his goofy grin is as I’ve always known it. He looks happy.

Father says something in his bass voice; it makes Elijah laugh. Then Father laughs too, and my heart swells.

A new laugh chimes in—Mama’s twitter—and I spin around just as she walks into the drawing room.

“Would you like mulled wine, Eleanor? Your friend was kind enough to bring us mulling spices.”

“My . . . my friend?” I step, confused, toward her. My dress rustles, and for the first time, I notice I’m wearing a stunning blue taffeta with black trim. I smooth the bodice, gaping. But then Mama speaks, dragging me back to the moment.

“Yes, your friend Mr. Sheridan.” She glides to me and takes my hands in hers. “He said he has an old Irish recipe for mulling, and—”

“Did you say Mr. Sheridan?” I interrupt, my chest cinching. “Is he here?”

“Yes, dear. He only just arrived. Do not look so worried.” She winks at me and pulls away—Father is calling her. “You look as beautiful as ever,” she trills.

I try to swallow but find that my throat aches. My mother has never called me beautiful before . . . and yet I feel beautiful. Feel safe and certain—

“Empress.”

I gasp and twirl back to the door. And there he is, wearing a handsome gray wool suit and with his cheeks bright pink from traipsing through the winter snow.

He grins, making his whole face relax and his grassy-colored eyes twinkle. Then he strolls to me. “I appreciate you invitin’ me to Christmas supper.” He only stops his easy amble once he’s directly in front of me. I have to tip back my head to meet his eyes.

But then a frown knits onto his brow. He reaches out to clasp my chin. “Why are you cryin’, Empress?”

“I am?” I reach up, and my gloves slide over wet cheeks. “I . . . I am. It’s just . . . I’m so happy, Daniel.”

“Then you shouldn’t cry, Empress. You should laugh.”

I laughed—a shrill, desperate sound—as the vision faded away . . . as Madame Marineaux’s face swam back into my vision.

My laugh broke off, replaced by a sob. I toppled to the hard earth. “Where is it?” I screamed, clutching at her skirts. “The vision, bring it back! Please, I want it back.”

The edges of her lips twisted up. “And you can have it, Mademoiselle Fitt. You can
have
it if you join me.”

“Do not believe her!” Joseph rasped, still bound to the table. “It is only a fantasy.”

“Ah, but it is
not
only a fantasy,” Madame Marineaux whispered. “Together we can make it real. With your power and mine, we can do anything. They”—her voice lifted, as if she wanted the Spirit-Hunters to hear—“do not appreciate you. These Spirit-Hunters think you are dark, but they simply do not understand that this is who you are. But I understand, for you have told me all your troubles.

“You are not dark,” she went on. “You are
selfless
, Mademoiselle Fitt
.
These Spirit-Hunters have no idea how hard it was for you to get here. They do not realize all you had to do to survive. All that you gave up for them. For those you love.”

I shook my head, my eyes burning with tears.

“They do not understand that your mother hates you. That your friends have all rejected you. Or that your fortune is gone. What do
they
”—she flicked her wrist dismissively in Joseph’s direction—“know of the dresses you had to sell to pay for your mother’s bills? Your ungrateful,
cruel
mother? What do they know of the friends who avoid you on the street or laugh behind your back?”

A sob shuddered through my chest. Everything she said was true
.
What
did
the Spirit-Hunters know about me? About what I had
lost
?