Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“Because it is!” He sprang onto the next landing and spun to face me. “Oh hell, it’s clever—don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see at all.”

“Your hand—or the spirit of your hand—is trying to cross the curtain. The Hell Hounds are doing what they do best: stopping it.”

“But why would my hand try to cross?” I clutched my wrist to my chest and strode past him onto the next flight of stairs. “Does it have its own spirit?”

Oliver joined me. “Sort of. Remember what I said about phase changes? Well, the spirit form—

the, ah, water form—of your hand still exists. Only your ice form—your earthly body—is missing a hand. You must have cast a spell that’s calling your soul hand here. Then, because it’s not hidden from the Hounds, they attack every time it tries to cross.”

“Except that I haven’t cast a spell.”

“So someone else is calling your hand then. Someone who wants you dead, I’d say. But your hand isn’t magically bound to you, so it’s not hidden from the guardians.”

My eyes widened. “Marcus! He must be the one calling my hand!”

“You mean the necromancer wearing Elijah’s . . .” Oliver’s face tightened. “Him?”

“Yes. He’s the only person I can think of who could cast a spell like that. He wants something from me—” I broke off. I didn’t want Oliver to know Marcus wanted the letters as well. Not before I knew what exactly was in those letters that made them so valuable.

Beside me, Oliver shivered. “This Marcus must know quite a few tricks to cast such an advanced spell. If he is really the one behind this, he must know a lot about you as well—if he knows your hand is missing, I mean.”

I gulped. Mama must have told him.

“There’s no way you’ll be able to escape him,” Oliver went on. “Not without learning some necromancy.”

“No,” I spat. “I’m not doing that.” We rounded another landing and moved onto the final flight.

“You have no choice, El. Not with the Hell Hounds on your trail. You have to learn how to hide your hand—just as I am hidden from their senses.”

“I am not learning necromancy.” My voice came out a growl. “It’s too awful. Look at what Marcus has done. And Elijah!”

Oliver winced. “You’re right.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “But then that leaves you with only one other option.”

“What?”

“Bind yourself to me.”

I stopped midstride. “What did you just say?”

“Bind yourself to me.” He paused and glanced at me. “Then you have access to all my power—”

“No.”

“And then you can set me free.”

“No!” I shrieked, pushing past him onto the lowest level. “Set you free? Bind to you? Absolutely not.” I scanned the hall—it split in two directions.

“I was afraid you might say that,” Oliver called after me. Yet nothing about his tone sounded afraid. If anything he seemed smug—as if my refusal was precisely what he wanted to hear.

“But bound to me or not,” he continued, now following me once more, “you’ve got to protect yourself, El.”

“Why do you think I’m going to Paris, Oliver?” I whirled around to face him. “There are people there who can help me.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have enough time. It’s only a matter of days—hours, even—before

Marcus’s spell is too strong for you and distraction won’t be enough. Then you’ll be dead, and I’ll be trapped in the earthly world for all eternity.”

“Trapped?”

His eyes met mine. “My master may be dead, but as you can see, I’m still bound to his blood. Only someone with that same blood— you—can set me free. But”—he shrugged casually—“I can’t make you do it. I’m just a man as long as this locket stays chained to my neck.” With a huffed sigh, he pointed left. “I’m pretty sure the doctor is that way. Now, can you at least consider my offer? Then maybe, if you’re still alive in the morning, you’ll have come to your senses.” He nodded his head to the stairs. “I’m two levels up, right by the stairwell. Room three-oh-four— if you decide you need me.”

He gave me one last melodramatic sigh before ambling off.

I didn’t sleep the rest of that night. How could I? For one, the doctor—a nice old sailor with muttonchops and an easy smile—had rubbed a stinky white salve all over my face, thereby forcing me to stay locked in one position in my bed lest I disrupt said salve.

For two, Lizzie came every hour to poke me and make sure I was all right. And though I appreciated this gesture, I also wanted her to stop.

And three, terror of the Hell Hounds blazed through me. I’d been so close to death. To complete and final oblivion . . . Would it happen again if I fell asleep?

So I lay in bed, and I ran through my dream over and over again. Though the fact that Clarence and

Elijah were watching out for me was partly comforting, it was mostly disconcerting. If only I had known they were real at the time, maybe I could have found a way, a spare second, to ask Elijah about his letters. About Oliver. For no matter what the demon said, I didn’t trust him. Why would he want to bind to me? Was it true that I was the only person who could free him? And what would a “free demon” even mean?

I stared up at the bottom of Laure’s bunk, and an idea formed in my mind. What if I could go back to the spirit realm—knowingly and intentionally go there? What if I could talk to Elijah? The thought of seeing him again . . . of seeing Clarence—my heart squeezed so hard, I couldn’t see straight.

I would have to ask Oliver how, though. He was the only one who might be able to tell me how to cross the curtain intentionally.

Of course, waiting until the morning turned out to be especially difficult. By the time the sun rose, a gray pink at our porthole, I was barely able to keep my eyelids up. I felt gritty and heavy with exhaustion, but I forced myself to wait for the sun to crest before dressing and marching down to

Oliver’s floor.

It didn’t take many knocks before a blustery man threw the cabin door wide. He wore a long nightshirt and only seemed capable of keeping one eye open. “Who’re you?”

“Um . . . I’m looking for—”

“Me.” Oliver bounced in front of the man. He wore the same gray suit as before, but it was wrinkled and untucked—as if he’d slept in it. “What is it, El?”

“I want to talk. Somewhere very public but where we can’t be overheard.”

He ran a tongue over his teeth. “How about the saloon?”

I nodded. “Lead the way.”

Two flights of stairs later, he led me into the second-class saloon, which was—as Laure had declared—much like the first-class saloon. There was rich upholstery and an elegant grand piano, yet the ornamentation was calmer. Less nauseating, and more importantly, no one gave me or my gown a second glance.

“There.” I pointed to a nook in the back corner with two green chairs, and we strode over. With a grateful sigh, I swept my petticoats aside and eased to a seat. Rolling back my head, I let my eyes flutter shut. Though I hardly liked sitting with Oliver, I was too tired to maintain any of the fury I’d carried the night before.

But Oliver seemed to misunderstand my relaxation. “Does the rocking bother you?”

“Why do you ask?” I opened my eyes.

“Elijah didn’t like it either.” He dropped onto the seat across from me and gazed out a porthole.

“He got his sea legs eventually.”

“When did you travel on a boat?”

“From England to France and then again when we went to Egypt.” He sighed through his teeth. “I offered him relief, but he was funny about using my magic. He never used it unless he had to. I was more a companion to him than a tool. We were . . . friends.” He turned to me, his brow knit. “Though for a friend, you’d think he’d have let me win at chess every now and then. I swear, the man was ruthless.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “He was, wasn’t he? We used to play every day, and not once did he go easy on me—even when I didn’t know the rules yet!”

“That sounds like him. He was the same with riddles. He’d always pose those tricky little mind games—”

“Like the eight-queens riddle?”

“Exactly!” Oliver slapped his knee. “How do I fit eight queens on a chess board? I haven’t the bloody faintest.”

I grinned. “I never figured it out either.”

“Well, perhaps if we both set our minds to it”—he tapped his forehead—“we could finally solve it.” He bent toward me, a smile spreading over his lips. “Now, I assume you’ve brought me up here to make some deal?”

“Yes, though not the one you’re imagining, so wipe that look off your face.” I tugged at my earlobe. “I saw Elijah last night. I crossed into the spirit world, and he was there. ”

“I know.”

“So, I want to know if I can go to the spirit dock on purpose. Can I cross over and talk to him and

—” I stopped speaking. Oliver was shaking his head emphatically.

“No. For one, the Hell Hounds would be on you in a second. For two, that’s very advanced necromancy. You’d need years and years of training.”

“Oh.” I gulped. “Even . . . even with your magic? Could you send me over?”

He blanched, and his pupils swallowed up the gold of his eyes. “No. No.”

“What is it?”

“Your brother . . . he wanted the same thing, but I can’t. I wish I could—maybe none of this would have happened if it were possible. But if I try to cross, the Hell Hounds will destroy me.”

I deflated back into the seat. “What about voodoo? Can other magics cross into the spirit realm?”

He wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t know, El. I’ve only learned what Elijah learned.”

“So only necromancy.”

“Yes—” He broke off as two little boys came barreling past in a rousing game of tag. Once they were out of earshot, Oliver continued, “I believe you could call Elijah if you had his body, since a soul and its body have a special connection, but . . .”

“There is no body.” Disappointment swooped through me. “Damn Marcus.” I looked away.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said softly. “If there was a way I could talk to your brother, I swear to you, I would.”

I sniffed. He sounded just like Elijah, and I didn’t like how it made me feel.

At that moment a yawn cracked through my jaw.

“You know,” Oliver drawled, “one of the easiest spells to learn in necromancy is a dream ward.

Because necromancers are so vulnerable in their sleep, blocking dreams is one of the first spells they ever learn.” He shot a pointed finger up and recited: “A spell can’t hit its target if the target’s concentration is elsewhere.” He curled his finger back down and dropped his hand. “Spirit world, earthly world—it doesn’t matter. If you’re distracted, the spell can’t hit.”