Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“Sit ’ere!” She had to shout to be heard over the wind. “It is the best view, and you can watch the sunset. I will ’ave a server bring you something to eat.” She deposited me on a bench facing the western sky. “And if you think you will lose your stomach”—she patted her bodice—“do not do it in our room, oui ?”

“Yes.” I gave her a tight smile. “Thank you.”

She swatted my words aside. “See you in the cabin later.” Then she whirled around and strode off.

With a sigh, I slumped back on the bench. I did feel better now.

We were still within sight of the coast, but it was too distant for me to discern much beyond marshland.

A squat waiter soon arrived with sea biscuits and an orange. He declared them the “best foods for a sea-ailed stomach” and then left me to munch on my meal.

I rather liked the biscuits. They were crisp and salty and did much to put my stomach right. I stayed there on the promenade deck until long after the sun had faded. Until swaying electric lights blocked out any starlight, and when I eventually found myself shivering, I decided it was time for bed.

But of course, just as my luck would have it, I heaved back the saloon door to find the room completely full. Worse, at least fifty pairs of eyes immediately turned to me.

With a gulp, I slipped my stump into the folds of my skirt and walked inside with as much poise as

I could muster.

But the wind grabbed hold of the door and slammed it shut with a loud bang! , shooting me forward like a drunken rocket.

All at once, hundreds of pairs of eyes shot to me. All the women in their beautiful pastel gowns—

gowns such as those I’d once worn and loved myself—and the men in their black suits, so crisp and handsome, watched me. To think this life had almost been mine . . . to think I’d been reduced to picking pockets to get on board . . .

Someone nearby giggled. Then came a chortle, a whisper. In less time than it took for me to gather up my breath and resume my steps, the room erupted with twittering.

My face ignited. Sweat popped out on my brow. With my gaze cast to the floor, I strode through as fast as I could. It wasn’t until my stateroom was in sight that I slowed to a normal pace and sucked in air. I paused at my door and chided myself for being so daunted by a bunch of silly people. After facing an army of Dead, one would think a saloon full of rich folk would be as easy as pie.

Jie would have found it all hilarious—nothing scared her.

Joseph would have given me a knowing smile, his back straight and his demeanor a thousand times more elegant than any of those people.

And Daniel . . .

I leaned against the door, my legs suddenly too wobbly to stand.

I always tried so hard to not think of Daniel. To avoid remembering how his lips twisted up mischievously when he laughed. How he glowered when I got too close to his inventions. How he doffed his gray flat cap or flicked my chin with his thumb.

Or how he’d tasted when we’d kissed . . .

I huffed a breath and fumbled for my room key. You are strong and independent, I told myself as I unlocked the door. Capable and clever. No males needed.

I turned my cabin door handle and pushed in. You are powerful and—

My thoughts broke off. I screamed. Crouched beside my bunk was a slight young man with chestnut hair and a charcoal suit. He turned his head toward me. “Eleanor—you’re here! It’s about time.”

My breath froze in my lungs, but not because he knew my name. I couldn’t breathe because staring out from his handsome, round face was a pair of gleaming yellow eyes.

I screamed again, but this time I scrambled back to run. Marcus—it had to be he!

But Mama saw him in Elijah’s body . The thought flashed but was instantly swallowed up by another. Yellow eyes! Run!

“Eleanor, wait!” the young man shouted.

I sprinted down the hall toward the middle of the ship, but then the boat swayed, throwing off my balance. I tangled in my petticoats and slammed into the wall.

Footsteps pounded behind, so with a shove I lurched on, charging my legs to go faster. The main stairwell was just ahead. Those steps would lead me to the first-class saloon—to people and safety.

But stairs would be too hard to climb.

“Wait!” the young man shouted again.

I reached the mermaid balustrade, and, without thinking, I grabbed her tail and slung myself around, behind the stairs. I flew into the next hall. Far ahead was a bright doorway. The dining room?

Somewhere that had people, at least.

I surged on, and the hammering feet rounded the stairwell behind me.

“Please, El!” he shouted. “Wait!”

El? That was my brother’s name for me.

I faltered. My skirts flew around my legs. Then the boat listed sharply right. I toppled forward.

Instinctively, I threw my hands out to catch myself, but I had only one hand to stop my fall.

Agony ripped through my stump as a shriek boiled up my throat and out my mouth.

Tears sprang to my eyes, but I made myself draw in my legs—I had to keep going . I was too slow, though. Too winded and hurt. The footsteps were upon me.

“El, are you all right?” The young man’s cheeks were flushed scarlet.

“Stay away!” I scuttled against the wall.

His hands flew up. “I won’t hurt you. I swear, El.” He lifted a foot as if to approach.

“Get back!” I screeched.

He froze, his gaze snapping toward the door ahead and then back to me. Clearly he thought as I did: surely all this noise would draw someone into the hall.

I tried to blink back the tears blurring my vision. Pain screamed in my wrist, but it was from the fall—not from spiritual energy. There were no dogs howling or winds roaring.

Still, the young man had yellow eyes. That told me I was in danger.

I drew in a shaky breath, ready to scream.

“No, please!” he blurted. “Just talk to me.”

“Get away from me,” I growled. “I vowed to kill you—or did you forget that?”

He recoiled. “Kill me?” He shook his head. “I don’t mean you any harm.”

“Go to hell, Marcus.” I spat the name.

“Marcus?” The young man’s forehead wrinkled. “My name isn’t Marcus. I’m Oliver.”

“Whoever you are, I will kill you . ” I slid my legs slowly sideways, hoping to stand and make a run for it. “Now get out of my way.”

“I swear!” he cried. “Didn’t you read about me in Elijah’s letters?”

I tensed and sucked in a breath, my fear and fury skipping a beat. There was an Oliver in those letters.

“You recognize me,” he said. “Oliver. My name must be in them. Your brother and I were together all the time—”

“You mean when you stole his body and started living in it?” I shook my head and bounded to my feet, my blood boiling back into a rage. “I promised I would send you to the hottest flames of hell for that.”

He skittered to the other side of the hall. “Look. I’ll stay right here. Just talk to me. Please .”

“I have nothing to say to you.” I slunk right. The agony in my wrist had pulled back to a distant throb, and the unbidden tears had dropped away. “Don’t you dare come near me, Marcus.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” the young man cried. “I’m Oliver .”

“And you just happen to have the same yellow eyes?”

He frowned. “Yellow eyes? Is Marcus a . . . a demon? As in a creature of spirit bound to this world by a necromancer?” His hand lifted to his collar, and he slipped out a long golden chain.

My heart stopped when I saw it. So did my careful trek. I knew that round locket hanging from the chain’s end. “Where did you get that?”

His golden eyes never leaving my face, the young man dangled the chain toward me. “You know it, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Any words I wanted to say were trapped in my throat. I had bought that necklace for Elijah just before he went abroad. Inside was a picture of the thirteen-year-old me.

The young man let the chain and locket drop. “My name is Oliver, and I’m Elijah’s demon.”

“Demon,” I whispered, the word filling every space in my mind. “Elijah’s demon .” For several long seconds, I simply stared. Then my heart and body jolted into action. I staggered back into a run.

Oliver did not follow me.

I reached the doorway at the end of the hall, and it did lead to the dining room. Only a handful of guests remained, sitting at a table that spanned the middle of the room. Judging by their sloppy posture, they were thoroughly drunk.

Demon , demon , demon. The word pounded in my mind with each step.

A black-uniformed waiter glided to a stop in front of me. “May I help you?”

Demon , demon , demon . . .

“ Mademoiselle , may I help you?”

I gaped at him, tongue-tied. I couldn’t say “Help! A necromancer who claims he’s a demon is following me.” Especially because Oliver—or Marcus, if his yellow eyes meant what I thought they might mean—was nowhere to be seen.

I finally stammered, “F-food?” and the waiter nodded, guiding me to a table against the wall. I dropped onto a red-upholstered chair and ordered a plate of buttered toast.

Then, trying to slow my breathing, I massaged my wrist and watched the door.

“A demon,” I whispered. Would that make sense in the context of Elijah’s letters? I couldn’t remember. The only thing I knew about demons was that they were supposedly bad, and it was probably in my best interest to avoid them.

Laughter erupted from the group of drinkers, and while I watched with mild interest and disgust, they all lifted their glasses in a wild French cheer.

I glanced back at the entrance and started.

Oliver had ambled in, his jaw set and his hands in his pockets.

I sat, rod straight, as he sauntered almost casually to the table of drinkers and bellowed, “Vive la

France!”

As they all roared their approval, he swiped a bottle off their table and then strolled toward me.

“Stop,” I ordered once he was ten paces away. “Not an inch closer.”

He nodded. “All right. I’m stopping. I am not coming a single inch closer.” He strode to a table nearby and dragged a chair to the precise spot I’d told him to stop. Then he plunked down, yanked his stolen bottle to his chest, and turned his yellow eyes on me. “I intend to drink all of this gin.”

My eyes narrowed. “All right.”

He frowned. “Well, you could at least protest a little. I thought you didn’t like it when Elijah drank. He said you got all worked up when he sipped your father’s whiskey.”

Somehow my spine straightened even more. I had done that, but the only person who would know was Elijah. “For one,” I said carefully, “I was more worried about Elijah getting caught than getting drunk. For two, I don’t care in the slightest about you .” I dipped my head toward the bottle. “Drink up.”

His lips twitched down. “You’re just as bossy as he is.”

“As he was ,” I snapped. “Elijah’s dead.”

His face paled. “Dead?” He clapped a hand over his mouth and turned away.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s dead , and Marcus stole his body.”

“Blessed Eternity.” The young man grabbed at his hair. “No wonder I can’t find him. If he’s dead and his body has been possessed . . .” He popped off the bottle’s top and gulped back a long swig.