Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

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.”