Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

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?