Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely

“We were in Luxor. He sent me to Giza to find the Old Man in the Pyramids.”

“The who?” I snapped.

“The only person in the universe who knows how to raise a . . . a terrible creature. The Black

Pullet.”

The Black Pullet. That sounded familiar. Then I remembered some of Elijah’s final words: I’ll go back to Egypt. I’ll resurrect the Black Pullet, and we’ll live in wealth for the rest of our days, and everything will be all right.

“And did you find the Old Man?” My voice was a low snarl. “Was this mission that kept you from saving Elijah at least a successful one?”

Oliver’s head shook once. “I couldn’t find a bloody thing, and by the time I got to New York to meet Elijah, he had already left for Philadelphia. He was probably already dead.”

I hugged my arms to my chest. It was a lot to take in, and the hot rage in my chest was spreading to my throat.

Here was some person—some monster —who not only knew my brother, but had spent the last three years with him. Three years that should have been mine. Three years during which Elijah had transformed from my loving brother into a vengeful murderer.

My eyes stung, and I bit my lip to keep the tears away.

“You know,” Oliver said, popping open the locket and glancing inside. “You’ve changed a lot since this photograph was made.” He tilted his head and squinted at me, his eyes overbright. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you sooner.”

My whole body stiffened. “Were you trying to find me?”

“No. I was trying to find Elijah’s letters, and, well . . . they led me to you.”

My heart beat faster. The letters—it was always about those damned letters. I glanced at the table of Frenchmen. As long as they were still here, I could keep talking to Oliver with some semblance of safety.

I looked back to the demon. To his unnatural beauty . . . and increasingly drunken comportment.

“What,” I said, my voice dangerously soft, “do you want with the letters, Oliver?”

“They’re all the ones I wouldn’t let Elijah send. I thought if I found them, I’d find him. ”

“You mean you kept him from sending me letters?”

“Egads, yes!” Oliver blinked quickly, as if it took a lot of concentration to focus. “They’re filled with explanations of necromancy—of spells and translated grimoire passages. It’s dangerous stuff.

Plus, he wrote to you almost every day. Like you were his diary.”

“Oh?” I wound my fingers in my skirts. “I don’t have three years’ worth of letters.”

“The ones you have are the ones he considered most valuable. He must’ve destroyed the others.

But I know he cast a spell on the important ones. A finding spell, so that one day—in case things went wrong—they would reach you and you would understand.”

“But I don’t understand.” My teeth were grinding so hard, my jaw had started to ache. “I have read the letters, Oliver, yet I still can’t fathom what Elijah was doing.”

Oliver jabbed a thumb to his chest—or he tried to. His movement was sloppy, and he swayed back in his seat. “I can try to explain them to you. I was there for everything.”

“No,” I snapped. “You are not allowed near my letters.” Especially not if they have secrets of necromancy in them. “And,” I added, “I still do not see why you were trying to find them in the first place.”

“No? I thought I was being very ”—spit flew with the word—“clear. It was my magic that made the finding spell, so that means I can track the letters. I sensed the letters were boarding the ship, so I might have picked a pocket to get on board.”

“I don’t believe you.” I slid my uneaten toast away and pushed back from the table. “You were in my room just now, and you were searching through my things—not for Elijah or for me. You were searching for my letters.”

His eyes darted sideways, and he swallowed several times. But before he could weave some clever excuse, I stood and puffed out my chest. “I’ve heard enough from you, Oliver. I’m going to my cabin now, and if you follow me, I will scream.”

“B-but . . .” His lip quavered. “I thought we could . . .”

“Could what?”

He tapped his rum. “Grieve together.”

I rolled my eyes. “I dealt with my grief months ago. I’m not doing it again.”

I strode past him, giving his chair a wide berth, but I wasn’t far before Oliver called after me—his voice barely audible over the rowdy Frenchmen. “I’m sorry for going into your room. I won’t do it again.”

I paused, my left fist curling, and strode back toward him—but only far enough so he could hear me speak.

“No, you won’t go into my room again, Oliver. You won’t come near me ever again. I want nothing to do with you, do you understand? Elijah wasn’t the only necromancer in the family.” I thrust out a pointed finger, wishing with all my heart that my charade could be real. If only I were a necromancer. If only I were powerful enough to destroy those in my way.

But Oliver did not know I was bluffing, so I said with all the authority I could muster, “If you dare come close to me without my permission, I will use everything I know to destroy you.”

I thought I would start bawling the moment I reached my cabin, but, in fact, being away from the depressed demon and his drink and walking with long, purposeful strides was enough to lift my mood —or at least to clear away some of the pulsing anger.

But not enough to calm my thoughts.

A demon? Bound to my brother by a necklace? An old man in Egypt?

I was more confused than ever . . . but I felt I could be certain of one thing: the drunk young man in the dining room was not Marcus.

I found Mrs. Brown in her dressing gown, lounging in one of the armchairs and reading. “Miss

Fitt,” she said with a nod.

I winced. “Please, just call me Eleanor.” Ever since I’d realized Miss Fitt sounded identical to

“misfit,” I had vowed I would never use my surname again.

She sniffed. “As you wish.”

“Where’s Lizzie?” I asked, crossing toward my bed.

“The bathroom, preparing her evening toilet.”

“Oh.” I peeked at what Mrs. Brown was reading as I passed: a book on manners. My lips twitched, and I wondered if it was the same book Daniel toted.

At that thought, an image of Daniel in a black evening suit materialized in my mind . . . and my mouth went dry. If anyone could fill out a dress suit well, I was certain it was he.

Clarence filled out his suit well too —

My lungs clenched shut, pushing out my air. I did not want to think of Clarence. Dwelling on his memory would stir up emotions I did not need.

I sucked in a shaky breath and dropped to the floor before my drawer. As I yanked out my nightgown, I checked quickly for Elijah’s letters—still nestled beneath my spare petticoat.

Right then the door swung open. Laure strutted in. “Ah, Mademoiselle Fitt! You were not in the saloon—you missed the most wonderful card game.” She stopped beside me and leaned onto her bunk, adding in a lower voice that smelled of wine, “Please tell me you did not spend the evening with the old goat.”

“The who?”

“Madame Brown.” She motioned to her chin and mouthed, “Beard. Like a goat.”

Despite my rattled nerves, I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, I spent most of the evening on the promenade deck.”

“Ah, do you feel better now?”

“Much.” I smiled.

“ Magnifique. ” She bent down to her own drawer and withdrew a white shift. “Come, let us prepare for the night’s slumber. I wish to ’ave great dreams of true love and adventure.”

A little snort came from the armchair. Laure whirled around and wagged her finger in Mrs.

Brown’s face. “Oh, what do you know of l’amour , you old—”

“That’s enough.” I grabbed her arm and towed her to the door.

Laure hooted a laugh. Once we were in the hall and headed toward the bathroom, she whispered, “But she is an old goat, non ?” She raised her voice in song. “Old goat! Vieille chèvre ! Old . . .” She trailed off as a wide-eyed Lizzie Brown walked by, her head swiveling to watch us pass.

I had to press my fingers to my lips to keep from laughing.

After we had used the bathroom, a stewardess came to our cabin to help us remove our dresses and —in Laure’s case—corset. I hadn’t worn one in months, and I rather liked the snide glares people gave me for it. One day the suffragists and I wouldn’t be the only ones foregoing the whalebone prisons.

By the time we were in our nightgowns, Laure’s wine giddiness had faded into wine exhaustion; and once the stewardess left, I practically had to carry her to her bunk. The Browns were already tucked in, and I waited until I could hear Laure’s heavy breathing before I switched on an electric lamp beside my bunk, pulled Elijah’s letters from my drawer, and spread them over my bed.

There were only eight in total, and if Oliver spoke the truth, then these were the most important. I started with the first, dated from the summer of 1873, when Elijah had first left.

As they had seemed when I’d originally read them, the letters were a confusing, rambling mess.

Mentions of his work were dropped in with names. A hotel steward, a cab driver, a librarian—they were all sprinkled around his day-to-day activities.

And then there were the lines addressed to me. The descriptions of places he thought I’d like, stories he knew I’d laugh at, and promises to come home soon.

In the second letter, Oliver’s name appeared twice, but it was only in reference to a joke. There was no mention of Oliver in the third letter, nor did anything crop up in the fourth or fifth.

Until my eyes lit on the name “Ollie” in the final line of the fifth.

Once, in Marseille, Ollie told me a hilarious riddle about Jack and the beanstalk, but since we were in the crypt of Notre-Dame de la Garde, our laughter echoed around all those soldiers’ tombs until the priest finally made us leave.

“Very useful story, Elijah,” I muttered under my breath. “You don’t even share the riddle’s answer.” All the same, now I knew that he must have called Oliver “Ollie,” and that nickname did appear rather frequently.

A yawn took over my mouth, and my eyes stung with exhaustion. I sank back on my bed. It was late, and I had eight more days of sailing to sort out things with this demon. I hadn’t felt a single twinge in my hand since leaving Philadelphia, and I had three roommates to awaken if anyone entered our cabin. For now I felt safe.

It wasn’t long before the rocking ship lulled me to sleep.

It was a dream. I knew it was a dream—I’d had it so many times before—and as always, I was terrified it would end.

Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Smelling of machines and forest, tasting of salt. His lips pressed to my neck, his hand on my waist.

My hand—my right hand—pushed against his stomach, and my left scratched his back. My eyelids fluttered open, and I pulled back slightly. A yellow streetlamp shone on his sandy hair and sun-roughened skin.

“Empress,” he whispered. His lips locked back on mine, and I sank into the embrace.

Then, as always happened no matter how hard I clung to the kiss, the dream shifted.