A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(64)

And I was most assuredly not standing on the cleaned side. Crusted blood was all over the butler’s face, a layer of brown streaks, and his ear . . .

Placing a gloved hand over my mouth, I moved in close. Through the jagged flesh—it had not been a clean cut—was the beige gleam of the man’s skull.

It was sickening . . . and yet fascinating. To think that a person’s blood could have so much power

—

I straightened, horrified by my thoughts. This man had been murdered. I ought to be repulsed.

Disturbed.

But you aren’t, my conscience nagged.

Yes, I am, I insisted. I am .

I swallowed tightly. “Do you think he was dead when he was cut up?”

Joseph winced. “Judging by the amount of blood around the wounds, he was alive during this procedure.”

My stomach flipped—that was truly horrifying. “The poor, poor man,” I murmured, and my eyes settled on the white powder on his shoulders. I had noticed it at Madame Marineaux’s, except now there seemed to be much less of it. I motioned to it. “Do you know what this is from?”

“Non. We have seen something like it on several bodies, but it could be anything. Dust from an old building, crumbling paint—there is no way to tell. These Hungry cover so much ground and are so violent.” He exhaled loudly and replaced the sheet over the man’s destroyed face. “I wish we had more facts with which to work instead of only half clues and ignorant musings. The only thing of which I am certain is that these sacrifices must be the work of a demon.”

A demon. Sacrifices.

My stomach curdled. What if it was Oliver? I had no proof he had been in America—and a three-

week lull in les Morts? That was enough time to leave Paris and return. . . .

I towed my mind back to the lab—I would deal with that darkness later—and, glancing at Joseph, I tried to don a happy face. “So . . . shall we begin this first lesson?”

“Yes.” He scratched absently at his cheek. “To begin, you must first understand why using self-

power is so dangerous. It is no different from opium—each time you draw on your spiritual energy, your soul rots.”

“Rots?” I repeated doubtfully. He had said something similar the day before, and even knowing that the magic was addictive, I still found the idea of a festering soul to be rather . . . dramatic. I told

Joseph as much.

“But nonetheless, it is true.” He scrubbed roughly at his scars, motioning with his other hand that we should return to the main table. “It is addictive, Eleanor, and as with any addiction, one’s morals degrade.”

“So what you’re really saying,” I declared as we moved to the stools, “is that my scruples will rot —not my soul.”

Joseph’s jaw clenched. We reached the table, but neither of us sat. “Eleanor, look at what became of Marcus. Of Elijah. They lost all sense of what was right and wrong—”

“But I am not Marcus, and I am not Elijah.” The ferocity of my words surprised me, but I couldn’t seem to stop them. “Self-power is fast—natural—and it doesn’t keep me tethered to a machine. Spells have so many uses, Joseph.”

“You are right that I cannot raise a body or make a phantom limb, yet I can blast away the Dead.

That is all that I need to do.”

“But that is limiting.”

“Listen to yourself,” he hissed. “Do you not hear how the magic controls you, even now?”

“That isn’t true,” I said, teeth gritting. “I have fought and fought my magic today—just as you ordered. I have not used it once.”

He relaxed slightly. “Good. I am glad you say that. You must keep fighting. All you need is electricity.”

No, I thought. Electricity cannot stop Marcus when he comes. But I did not say this. Instead, I scanned the room for some other evidence of electricity’s limitations. My eyes landed on the butler’s corpse, and an idea hit—something I did want to do yet could not achieve, even with necromancy.

I swept my skirts to the side and took a seat. “Can I talk to a spirit with electricity?”

His eyes thinned. “Why do you ask?”

“If we could talk to les Morts, we could know who killed them. No more running aimlessly around the city. Or,” I continued, another idea forming, “there’s a soldier from Napoleon’s army that might know something useful.” I quickly explained what Daniel and I had found at the library. “So you see, Joseph? We could solve everything if we could only talk to these people. Is that possible with your method?”

“Talk to these Dead,” Joseph corrected. “You must remember that they are no longer people. Their desires and dreams are not what they were in life. Nonetheless, you do make a good point.” He bent over the table and grabbed a thick, gray book called A Treatise on Spectres and All Other

Manifestations of Spiritual Energy. “I, myself, have never heard of a way to do this—even with spells —yet that does not mean one does not exist. Perhaps we can find something in this book.” He glanced up at me, waiting.

He was offering me a truce, and though I didn’t agree with Joseph, I di d know when to stop fighting.

I nodded, and with a hesitant smile Joseph pushed his stool close to mine, sat down, and flipped back the book’s cover. But we barely made it through three pages before we were interrupted.