A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(38)

I moved to follow but instantly stopped again. My jaw went slack. The hardwood floor was covered in an elaborate violet carpet that matched the chaise longue and two armchairs. A huge, plush bed in sky blue stood beneath a draping blue curtain that contrasted perfectly with the maroon-and-

gold window curtains. A writing desk, two bedside stands, and even a full-length mirror stood guard against cream walls.

“Wow,” I said. “Your situation has really changed. To think you were living and working in a closet only a few months ago—to think that Philadelphia still believes you’re to blame for all those deaths and walking corpses.”

She opened her palms. “Like I said, I think that’s why the Marquis makes Joseph go out so much —to counteract the bad gossip. And to help his own presidential campaign. Either way, we’re the only people who can help Paris, and unlike the stupid Centennial Exhibition, no one here expects us to pretend the problem isn’t exactly what is. These sacrificed Dead are walking, yeah? And it’s our job to find who’s behind it all.”

I frowned. “Tell me more about the Dead. What’s happening exactly?”

“We call them les Morts, remember?” She crossed to the bed and flung herself on her stomach.

“The basics are that these Dead show up randomly . . . but they’re the Hungry Dead. Rabid and fast.”

“Is it a necromancer?”

She propped herself on her elbows. “We don’t know. See, all les Morts have one thing in common: they were murdered first . . . and their ears and eyes were cut off.”

I shrank back, my stomach coiling. “That’s what you meant by ‘sacrificed’?”

“Yeah, and it’s not nice. They keep showing up reanimated. Or they were. We haven’t seen any in almost three weeks. But listen, Joseph can explain it better. He has some theories, and he can tell you about ’em once he’s back from”—she twirled one hand in the air—“living the tiring but very glamorous life.”

“You sound as if you don’t like the glamorous life.” I pointed at the nearest window. “But a view of Paris? Free clothes and trips to Germany? What is there to dislike?”

“A lot.” She rolled her eyes. “You should see how the women fall over Joseph and Daniel; it’s . . .”

She clamped her mouth shut.

“It’s what?”

“Nothin’.” She rolled onto her back and watched me through half-lowered lids.

“What is that look for?” I demanded.

“This is my I-know-how-you-feel-about-Daniel face.”

“Excuse me?” I hitched up my skirts and stalked to the bed. “How do I feel about him?”

She tipped her head to the side. “You two are like . . . I dunno, like something that’s completely in love but won’t admit it.”

“What? That’s utterly absurd.” I dropped onto the chaise at the foot of the bed.

She crossed her arms. “You seem awful defensive.”

“Honestly.” I moaned. “Why does everyone seem to think this about me? I am not in love with

Daniel Sheridan.”

“Who else thinks it?”

“Oh, um—” I paused, not wanting to mention Oliver. “My maid.” I glanced to the right. “But I’m not. In love, I mean.”

She swung her legs around and leaned back onto the pillows. “Isn’t there some line about protesting the truth too much?”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” I sighed dejectedly. “It’s from Hamlet, and you’re probably right. But listen, I thought . . . well, I thought there was something between us. But when I asked him how he felt, he told me very plainly that he was not in love with me.”

Jie winced.

“Surprise.” I wiggled my fingers halfheartedly in the air. “Now can you please drop these silly notions.”

“But have you considered that maybe it’s a complicated situation because of—”

“Enough,” I cut in. “Please. I do not want to discuss Daniel a moment longer. Please finish what you were saying before. About all the women.”

She nodded slowly and clasped her hands behind her head. “Well . . . the ladies are in love with

Joseph and Daniel, and it’s sickening.” She watched me, clearly waiting for my reaction.

“Don’t worry, Jie.” I gave a tight laugh. “The women can have them both. I have other things to worry about. Les Morts. Marcus.”

“Marcus?” She sat up. “You mentioned him in your telegram, but I didn’t understand.”

“Um . . .” I gulped, searching my brain for any topic that wasn’t Marcus. I only needed a few minutes to get a solid story in order. A story that carefully avoided any mention of Oliver. I cleared my throat. “Can we possibly order dinner first?”

“Right!” She scooted off the bed. “I promised you a baguette. I’ll get you some food, and then you can tell me what’s going on. And then”—she waved to my enormous yawn—“I’d say it’s time for bed.”

I patted my mouth until the yawn passed. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”

She grinned, her eyes crinkling. “I’m glad you’re here, Eleanor.”