A Darkness Strange and Lovely - Susan Dennard

“Promise to set me free,” he shouted, “and then I’ll save you!”

“Fine! Yes!” I shrieked over their raging howls. “I promise!”

Triumph flashed over his face. Gripping my left hand, he started whispering words I didn’t recognize and could barely hear. Then he leaned in until our foreheads touched. “Say Sum dominus et veritas.”

I hesitated.

“Say it, Eleanor—now!” The boat tipped dangerously, and the Hell Hounds’ growls shattered through my skull.

“Sum dominus et veritas!” I screamed.

Blue light flashed in Oliver’s eyes, and he tugged my glowing right hand up. The air around it sparked, cracking with electricity. Oliver’s eyes flashed the same color as my hand.

Abruptly, the wind stopped, and with it the howls.

But not the smell of grave dirt.

I turned to face them. The guardians of the spirit realm. They looked exactly as they had on the spirit dock, but now they stood still, confused. Four dogs towering over us, their noses sniffing and yellow eyes staring.

“Wh-what do we do?” I croaked.

“Give them a minute,” Oliver whispered. “Their target—your hand—just vanished. They should leave soon . . . I think.”

After what felt like hours of holding my breath, the dogs finally did twirl around and leave. I darted forward to watch them go.

Over the ship they bounded, their feet barely skimming the wood, before they leaped up off the edge and winked out of existence completely.

I spun to Oliver. “They’re gone?”

“Yes. Gone.”

My breath whooshed out. I almost doubled over. Oliver slipped his hand around my waist and guided me to the nearest bench, where we both plopped down and swallowed in air.

“That . . . that was close.” I was coated in sweat, and my scratches were scabbing over anew.

“Too close.” Oliver leaned onto his knees and held his head. “But that was smart of you, El. To bind to me, I mean.”

I winced. Maybe it had saved my life, but at what price?

“Don’t look so miserable,” Oliver grumbled. “You got to keep your life, and you got your hand back.” He reached for my right wrist and held it up.

My jaw sagged. All I could manage was a shocked sputter.

For there, wiggling at me as good as new, was a very flesh-colored, very real hand.

Chapter Eight

The first thing I did with my new hand was pinch Oliver.

“Hey!” He scooted away from me on the bench.

“Is it real?” I leaned toward him to pinch again, but he wriggled away.

“Of course it’s real! Well, mostly.”

“What do you mean ‘mostly’?” I held it to the light, flexing and straightening the fingers. My body blazed with a warmth ten times more powerful than after the dream ward was cast. The closest

I’d ever come to a feeling like this was when the doctors had fed me laudanum after amputating my hand. But this was a much, much better feeling. Instead of a happy lethargy, I felt ablaze with energy. I could do anything.

Oliver returned to his seat, eying me cautiously. “It’s a phantom limb—it’s only here because of my magic.”

“A phantom limb,” I repeated, shaking my head. “And will it stay forever?”

“About that . . .” He fixed his eyes on his feet. “It’s bound to me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the hand only exists as long as I exist.”

“So if I set you free, I lose the hand.”

“If?” Oliver wagged his finger at me. “When, you mean. You just made a binding agreement.”

“What happens if I don’t follow through?”

He bit his lip. “There is, um . . . a time limit. If you don’t set me free within the next two months, then your new hand will vanish. And, if Marcus’s spell is still in effect, then the Hell Hounds will come after you just like they did five minutes ago.”

“So I’m really no better off than before!” I cried. “All I did was sign over my life to you!”

“And I signed over mine!” He threw his hands up. “You ought to be thanking me, El! You’ve got absolute control over my magic now—anything you want done, I have to do.”

I deflated slightly. “Why two months?”

“The longer the time frame, the longer the incantation. We were in a bit of a rush, you know.”

“And now . . .” I stared at my fingers, torn between staggering relief and pulsing terror. “Now you’re my demon? Like a djinn?”

“Precisely. And you’re my master.”

“Will you call me Master Eleanor?”

“No.” He looked horrified. “I never called your brother Master Elijah.”

“What if I command you to?”

“Then I have to.” He groaned. “But is that really the sort of command you want to give?”

I shrugged. “Well, I have nothing else to ask for . . .”

“Then it’s a damned good thing I haven’t taught you the words of command yet.”

I fixed my eyes on him, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Of course, I will tell you.” He crossed his legs and lowered his voice, leaning close. “Sum veritas. You said it when you bound to me. It means ‘I am the truth.’”

I drummed my new fingers on my thigh, savoring the feeling. “So all I do is give you a command and add those words at the end?”

He nodded.

“All right. Go to the edge of the boat”—I pointed at the railing around the deck—“and wait for me.

Sum veritas. ”

A warm wave rolled over my body, and for a split second Oliver’s eyes shone blue.

He blinked, and then a scowl cut into his forehead. “Truly, El? That’s your command?” He slid off the seat, muttering, “Abuse of power.”

I shoved up and hurried after him. “Can you not resist?”

He slowed and clenched his teeth. “It . . . hurts. Don’t you feel it?”

I frowned and focused on my body. Sure enough, there was a strange sense growing in my belly—

as if my breakfast wasn’t sitting quite right.

“All right,” I said, “I cancel the command. You can go wherever you want. Sum veritas. ” Again the pleasant tingle coursed through me, and Oliver exhaled sharply. We padded back to the bench and sat.

“No more abusing power,” he ordered. “Please. You might turn me into a Rakshasi, if you’re not careful.”

“Turn you into a what?”

“A who. Rakshasa are demons. Very angry, very awful demons. For one, they have a fondness for making their fingernails venomous.”

“Venomous?”

“Nasty, isn’t it?” He shuddered. “I had the same reaction when Elijah told me about them.”

“So you haven’t met any?”

“No. Demons don’t exactly cavort in the spirit world, and most Rakshasa who cross into the earthly realm head straight for the Orient. For some reason, they seem to thrive there—perhaps they like the taste of rotting Asian flesh more than European? Who can say? But, oh dear”—his lips twitched up—“you’re looking a bit green, El.”

I grimaced. “I daresay rotting flesh isn’t the ideal topic for . . .” I trailed off. A figure had just appeared on the deck, her usual dark hair falling over her shoulders and her sleeve ripped jaggedly.

Laure’s eyes met mine, and relief washed over her face.

“Invisibility,” I blurted. My happy warmth receded fast in the face of fear. “My hand—make it invisible.”

“What?” Oliver reared back. “I can’t do that—”

“Well, hide the blasted thing somehow.”

“Why?”

“My roommates have seen me without it.”

His face paled. “I can’t do a spell like that, El—it’s impossible.”

“But it’s magic,” I hissed. “You can do anything!”

“It’s spiritual energy,” he hissed back, “and there are limits.” He grabbed my sleeve and tugged.

“Just pull it down. You’ll have to pretend.”

So I did precisely that, and just in time, for Laure had reached us. “Mon Dieu!” she cried. “You are all right! How did you know that was coming?”

“How did I know what was coming?” I asked carefully. Had she seen the Hell Hounds? My eyes flicked to Oliver’s, but he merely lifted one shoulder.

“That thing—that cyclone!” Laure wrung her hands. “Every lady is lost in a faint.”

“Cyclone?” I pressed.

“Oui. Made of water.”

Ah—a waterspout. Interesting explanation.

“Was there any damage?” Oliver inserted.

She turned to him, and recognition flashed in her eyes. “You are the young man from the other night, non?”

“Yes, he is,” I rushed to say. “He was on deck too when . . . when this waterspout hit.” I shifted my new hand beneath my skirts. “But was there any damage to the ship?”

“Non. It is the strangest thing. Other than some items knocked over and the icy water on everything, it is all fine.” She dropped to a whisper. “But I did hear that the captain wants to turn around. People are in a panic. For some reason, many think they saw dogs and not a waterspout. So the captain now believes we should return to shore.”

I sat up, alarmed. “Aren’t we too far? Surely we’re halfway to France by now.”

“Non—not quite, and there are so many Americans. They want their own soil.” She rolled her eyes.

“You should see Mrs. Brown—’er poor granddaughter must wave smelling salts beneath her nose.

And the little girl is one of those swearing that the waterspout was really a pack of wild dogs.” Laure giggled, as if it were the most absurd idea in the world.

Oliver snickered too, so I forced my own laugh. “Listen, Laure,” I said, “surely there are enough

French people to keep the captain from turning around.”

“C’est possible.” She pursed her lips. “I can speak to any passengers who are still conscious.

Perhaps we can make the majority.”

“Je peux vous aider,” Oliver said, his voice unusually silky.

Interest flared in Laure’s eyes. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Bien sûr. Of course.” He gave her a smile—a disarmingly handsome one.

A pleased flush burned on her cheeks. “I would welcome your help.” Her eyes flicked briefly to me. “Eleanor?”

“I don’t speak French,” I muttered. “Or at least not enough to help.”

She shrugged. “Très bien. You”—she flourished her fingers at Oliver—“will be enough.”

“I will join you momentarily.” He bowed smoothly, and as Laure sauntered off, I couldn’t help but notice the extra sway in her hips.