A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(80)

Oliver spun back to the door.

“Don’t go.” I grabbed his hand. “Please, Oliver. There’s no reason to be so mad.”

“No reason?” He flung off my hand. “You call losing our only clue to the Black Pullet no reason?

You call losing my only connection to Elijah no reason?”

“We do have a clue,” I snapped. “We at least know we have to go to Marseille.”

“No, Eleanor. We think we have to go to Marseille.” He resumed his stomp to the door.

“Stop!” I shrieked. “This isn’t fair for you to be so angry. I can try to remember what Elijah said!

Or I can try to set you free before the command—” I broke off. He was already to the door.

I lurched after him. “Please, please do not go. If you do, I’ll . . .”

Oliver paused, his whole body tensing. Slowly he looked back. “You’ll what, El? Command me?”

I gulped and nodded.

His eyes flashed gold. “Oh, I dare you to. I dare you to command me. Because I will fight it. I will fight it until you and I are both on the ground weeping from the pain.” He ripped open the door. “Now let me go. I want to be alone.” Then he stormed away, slamming the door behind him.

And I was left standing there, watching the empty space where he’d just been. “But I don’t,” I whispered, “I don’t want to be alone.”

My bedroom door had barely been shut for four shaking breaths when a knock sounded. My heart heaved—was Oliver returning?

The knock came again. “Mademoiselle Fitt?” a man asked—a man I didn’t know. “Est-ce que vous-êtes là? J’ai un télégramme pour vous.”

Telegram? Maybe there was word from home! I hurtled to the door and swung it wide. A startled, blue-uniformed steward gawked at the state of my gown and hair. In his hands was a silver platter atop which lay a neatly folded telegram.

I snatched it from him—“Merci, merci! ”—and then I kicked the door shut, already unfolding the telegram.

In Le Havre. Will reach Paris Saturday. Have news.

Allison

My jaw went slack, and for several moments I could do nothing but reread the message again and again.

Allison Wilcox was coming to Paris. On Saturday . . . that was tomorrow!

“Have news,” I whispered, my eyes searching the scant message for some sort of sign; but there was nothing to be found.

Why hadn’t she telegraphed from Philadelphia? To be arriving so soon could only mean she had left shortly after me—on some indirect voyage, I assumed. Yet . . . what could have possibly prompted such a trip?

Panic began to creep in. Panic and guilt and a growing shroud of black dread. Allison was coming tomorrow with news. I had almost killed Laure. I had threatened the Spirit-Hunters. I had raised a hundred animal corpses by accident. I had left Elijah’s letters out, and now someone had destroyed them. And my demon—the one person I thought I would have left—had abandoned me.

And Allison Wilcox was coming tomorrow. Oh, why, why, why? What news could she have?

Nothing good, nothing good . . .

The sound of rustling paper hit my ears. I blinked. My hands shook violently, and my stomach churned. I staggered toward the bathroom, certain I would vomit. Certain I would collapse at any moment.

I paused at the door, clutching at the frame. “What have I done? What have I done?” I slid down to the floor. Daniel was right. I was disgusting for being so foolish . . . so weak.

And now I was alone too, and very, very lost.

Without thinking I pulled in my power—what few traces had returned since raising the corpses . . . since healing Laure. There wasn’t much, but even that little trickle was enough to soothe me. It was like a prayer to a nun, and simply feeling the blue energy slide into my heart. . . .

I summoned the only spell I knew. “Hac nocte non somniabo,” I whispered. The magic eased out of me, taking my dread and my panic and my problems with it. I exhaled slowly, sinking into the heady feeling and savoring it.

Take a nap. Just a small nap until Oliver returns.

Using the doorframe, I dragged myself up to stumble to the bed. And as I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, a smile played on my lips.

For I was not completely lost. I still had my magic. . . .

I awoke to another knock at my door. Terror rose in my chest, bright and paralyzing. Was it the

Spirit-Hunters? I snapped my eyes open, only to find that the sun had barely moved.

“Who—” I tried to call out, but my voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. “Who is it?”

“Mademoiselle Fitt? It is Madame Marineaux.”

I shot upright, my fear receding with each heartbeat. Here was someone who did not hate me.

Someone who did not know all the horrors of my life, who sought my company simply because.

I bolted toward the door, black briefly clouding my vision . . . but then it receded, and I staggered to a stop. I was still wearing my ruined brown gown—the gown she had given me! And my arms were coated in animal blood, and my hair—

“Mademoiselle Fitt? May I come in?”

“Uh . . .” I crept to the door.

“The Marquis told me you were caught in the hotel’s Morts.”

I reached the door and with great care cracked it barely an inch. “Yes, Madame. I fear I am a terrible mess. Perhaps you ought to return later.” Through the space, I saw her face tighten with worry.