Strange and Ever After

  “Who else would it be? I do not think even Marcus could reach us this high.”

  He huffed a humorless laugh. “I’m antsy is all. I don’t like having a Wilcox on board. I don’t trust her.”

  As his words sank in, horror solidified in my gut. I had not once thought about the Wilcox family’s connection to Daniel. That Allison’s father and brother had tried to kill him.

  I dug my hands into my eyes. I had been so preoccupied with myself, I had forgotten the one piece of Daniel’s past that he wished to escape more than anything: the accidental death at his hands, the dynamite factory explosion, and the prison time he’d served when the Wilcoxes had framed him for murder.

  And now a Wilcox was on the ship.

  “I’m so sorry, Daniel. I didn’t even think about Allison—”

  “It’s fine,” he cut in. “If Joseph says she can stay, so be it. But it doesn’t mean I trust her.”

  “A-all right.” I frowned, for once grateful that Daniel did—and felt—anything Joseph commanded. At least he wouldn’t make trouble with Allison.

  I leaned back into the hall and strained to see through the dim light. “Who is at the wheel?”

  “Jie.” Daniel’s voice was low, and when I twisted back toward him, he shrugged one shoulder. “We’re just coasting over the Mediterranean for now. Ain’t difficult to fly, and . . . well, she doesn’t want to sleep.”

  “Ah.” I slipped into the room, rubbing at my arms for warmth. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Six hours? Seven?” His eyes landed on my shivering arms. He frowned and dropped the knife on the table. “Let me get you fresh clothes.”

  I opened my mouth, a natural protest forming . . . but then fading. I did want warm, dry clothes. So I nodded and held out my hand for the knife.

  “I’ll cut the garlic. And perhaps . . . some potatoes? Or bread?”

  Another huffed laugh—but this one genuine. “Absolutely, Empress.” With a playful, almost tender smile, he popped my chin with his knuckle. “Potatoes, bread, and clothes. I can do that.” Then he handed me the knife and strode from the galley.

  And as I watched him go, my heart was shaking almost as much as the rest of me. Despite how he felt about my magic, I could not forget the absolute honesty in his apology yesterday. Nor could I forget our kiss in the rain . . . or that, yet again, he had come to my rescue. I owed him so very, very much.

  He was trying—he really was.

  Yet it was so hard to be light after what we’d faced in Marseille. After seeing Jie’s blank face and shorn hair. After learning of Mama . . .

  My mind could not seem to move forward. Jie. Mama. Jie. Then Marcus, with his gloating grin . . . then back to Jie.

  With a tight breath, I returned to the garlic. At least there was comfort in the mundane. In how easily the knife sliced through. At how the sharp tang of garlic filled the room. I could almost pretend I was back home. That it was May. . . . Elijah would be home any day, and Mary would be bringing in the evening paper as I made supper.

  Clack, clack. I sank into that familiar sound. The familiar feel of cooking. Of course, just as I finished chopping, Daniel returned, and my daydream vanished like a popped soap bubble. I wiped my hands on my pants, dragging my mind back to the present and burying reality beneath layers of careful control.

  Yet as I looked at Daniel, I froze. For atop a fresh shirt and trousers was an ornate, cream-colored hatbox.

  I knew what was in that box—I had accidentally seen its contents in Paris. But why Daniel would show it to me now, I couldn’t guess. I wanted it—oh God, how I wanted it—but now did not feel like the right time. I was so tired, so heartbroken.

  Daniel set down the box and offered me the clothes. “While you dress, I’ll cut some potatoes. I don’t like cooking, since open flames ain’t exactly safe on a balloon, but I’ll do it. For you.” He flashed me a lopsided grin.

  “Daniel,” I said, my voice tight. “Is that for me?” I motioned to the box. “Are you going to give it to me?”

  His smile faltered. “Yeah. It’s for you.” His eyes skipped from my face to the box and back. “It’s somethin’ I wanted to give you in Paris, but . . . I couldn’t.”

  “And perhaps you shouldn’t now. Perhaps you ought to wait until the time is right.” My blood pounded in my ears.

  “I need to do it, Empress.” His chest rose as he inhaled. Then he yanked off the lid, and, cringing, he held it out to me. “This is for you.”

  Ever so slowly, I dragged my eyes from his tightened face . . . down his strong shoulder and long arm . . . to the box.

  Nestled within and burning bright in the electric light was a mechanical hand.

  A sob trembled up from my stomach, but I bit it back. Even though I’d seen the hand before—when Laure had accidentally knocked over the box in Paris—it gutted me to see it again. The wire tendons, the bronze knuckles, and the seamlessly carved wooden fingertips . . .

  There was so much meaning held within this creation—all the tenderness and thought that could characterize Daniel. And also all the anger and bleakness, for when he’d first seen me in Paris and realized I didn’t need the mechanical hand, he had let his temper break loose.

  This hand symbolized everything about our relationship. The good, the bad, and that inevitable, frightening truth that I would one day need the hand, when Oliver was gone.

  “It’s perfect,” I finally croaked.

  Daniel’s face relaxed, and he plucked the hand from the box to hold it to the light. Then he groaned. “There’s a spot on it. Goddamned grease gets on everything. . . .” He trailed off, his eyes widening to meet mine. “Er, I mean, gol’ . . . dern?”

  I forced a laugh and reached for the hand. “I don’t care if there’s a stain, Daniel. I still want it.”

  The edge of his lips curving up, he laid it on my palms. The metal was cool, and as I examined it more closely, I found the carvings even more meticulously intricate than I’d first thought.

  “This is a masterpiece, Daniel.” I shook my head, awe taking over all emotion, and caressed the small, curved fingernails. “You should patent it.”

  “Maybe. Plenty of time for that later.”

  Something about his voice made me lift my eyes . . . and I found his face had gone very still. As if he had stopped breathing.

  I swallowed.

  He took a step toward me. “Empress. I need you to know something.” Then a long inhale, and he closed the space between us. I did not move. Not even when I had to hold the mechanical hand to my chest because he stood so near. Not even when I had to roll my head back to see his face. And not even when his fingers reached up to brush my hair lightly from my eyes . . . and then linger down my jaw.

  “A few years ago,” he said, lowering his hand, “when I first met Joseph, I made a promise to myself. I swore I would live my life unflinching. Unafraid. Just like Joseph does. No matter how hard I try, though, I never seem to do that with you. Whenever you’re near, I flinch. Whenever I want you most, I always pull away. But . . . no more.” He shook his head once. “I’m going to tell you exactly how I feel—right now—and you can take it or you can leave it. I just want you to know. . . . I need you to know.”

  My fingers tightened around the mechanical hand, squeezing it until the gears cut into my palm. I knew what was about to come. I had wanted it for so long, and now would be the perfect moment if not for everything else.

  Yet before I could open my mouth, Daniel forged ahead.

  “I don’t know what’s coming,” he went on, “but I do know what’s behind us. We go back and forth all the time—me and you. Saving each other, fighting, flirtin’ . . . and then saving each other again. But this time, in Marseille, it was too close.”

  “I . . . don’t follow,” I said. This wasn’t what I had expected him to say.

  “I barely got to you in time, Empress. You almost didn’t get out of that city alive, and . . .” He inhaled sharply—as if he was imagining what would ha
ve happened if I hadn’t made it out of Marseille. “I never could’ve forgiven myself if I’d lost you—don’t you see that?” His eyes captured mine once more. “Especially if you never knew how I feel about you. So, unflinching and . . .” He swallowed. “And unafraid, I . . . am . . . in love with you.”

  Now the sob did come—I could not stifle it. For months these were the words I had dreamed Daniel would say to me. Even after he broke my heart in Philadelphia, I had wanted these three words: “I love you.”

  Yet now that he was saying them, my chest felt like it might crush beneath the weight of it. I’m in love with you too, I wanted to say. I have been since Philadelphia.

  But the words would not come—they seemed trapped inside, and all I could manage was a shuddering exhale. A pitiful nod. This one desire—a taut strand among many—had finally been released, and it felt all . . . wrong.

  Wrong to speak of love with Mama’s death fresh on my heart.

  Wrong to feel happy when Jie’s vacant eyes burned in my brain.

  I finally had Daniel’s love, yet I could not summon the voice to say it back.

  And sweet Daniel did not move. He did not press me; he did not breathe. He simply watched me and waited.

  My lips parted; his eyes lit up.

  Nothing came. Though my brain shrieked You must say you love him too! You will lose him if you don’t! my mouth closed and nothing came.

  Daniel’s face slowly hardened with each passing second—not angrily but . . . acceptingly. He was fighting whatever roiled inside, and with a slight bob of his head, he murmured, “I should check on Jie.” Then he walked stiffly from the room.

  My breath writhed up my throat as if to call after him—yet still I could summon nothing. I gaped down at the mechanical hand, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I had wanted his love for months, and now I suddenly couldn’t speak it aloud?

  Tears blurred my vision, cutting and deserved, and through them I could just make out the small grease spot. On the back of the hand, right above the wrist and the various tendons trickling out, there was a black smudge.

  Halfheartedly, I rubbed at it with my thumb. It did not move. I rubbed harder . . . then scratched with a fingernail. But the grease would be stuck there forever.

  And I supposed that was all right.

  I opened my eyelids groggily . . . and started. Wood creaked beneath my feet; waves lapped gently around me; the air was motionless and thick.

  No-man’s-land.

  I had gone to bed after Daniel gave me the mechanical hand—and I had cast a dream ward as Oliver had ordered. So this shouldn’t be possible. I should not be standing on this gray dock that vanished off into darkness. And yet here I was with the jackal beside me, his ears erect and head low.

  Hurry, he said to my mind.

  I sat up. “Hurry where? And how did I get here?” A glance behind me showed the shimmering curtain only paces away, and I could hear no snarling of Hell Hounds. I turned back to the jackal—but he was jogging away from me in a steady lope. I scrabbled to my feet.

  “Did you see my mother?” I called, pushing into a run. He did not answer, nor did he slow. I squinted ahead, my vision bouncing with each step, but I saw only the dock disappearing into a distant fog.

  The wood scraped at my bare feet. But I ignored the splinters that dug into my heels and continued on. The heavy, static air made each breath feel too shallow, while the wooden slats blurred and the dock shivered with each of my steps.

  The jackal looked back. Faster.

  “Where . . . are we going?” I shouted between gasps for air.

  Hurry. He darted back into a run—and I now had to sprint to keep up.

  But I had gone only a few bounding steps when I heard the first howl—far off yet unmistakable.

  My footsteps faltered. I almost tripped over my feet. “I can’t follow you anymore,” I shouted after him. “The Hounds are coming!”

  The lone howl had transformed into two. Then three. They grew in volume with each step—and my heart lurched into my throat.

  “I need to go back!” I shrieked, stumbling to a halt. I flung a glance behind me . . . and balked.

  The curtain was so distant, I could not see it. All I could see was gray dock and endless waves. Blind panic rushed through my brain.

  Hands shaking, I grabbed a chunk of flesh on my bicep. Maybe I could wake myself up. It had worked when I had first crossed into the realm, and Oliver had shouted me back to the earthly realm.

  No. The jackal will show you.

  My gaze lurched ahead—and a frozen wind gusted into me. Hard. I tipped to one side, squinting to see through stinging eyes.

  The jackal had stopped only twenty paces ahead. His ears lay flat against his head, and with a dipping motion of his snout, he shifted his gaze down.

  He was pointing at something.

  But the Hounds were so close now. The icy wind ripped through my hair and yanked at my loose shirt.

  And, God, they were so loud. Echoing in my skull.

  Look! The jackal’s voice burned behind my eyes. Look NOW.

  My fingers fell from my bicep, and in a burst of speed, I launched myself toward the jackal—toward whatever it was he wanted me to see.

  I reached him. I looked down . . .

  And I saw into a hole. A gaping, jagged expanse in the middle of the dock. Beneath it I could just make out the dark, swirling waters of . . . of I didn’t know—whatever it was that surrounded this no-man’s-land between realms.

  I looked at the jackal. “This is what you wanted me to see?”

  He shook his head once, and then—with a high-pitched whine that somehow pierced deep into my mind—he jerked his snout down, into the shadowy waters below.

  And that’s when I saw it: a boat. As old and splintered as the dock, it was hidden just out of sight at the edge of the hole.

  “Wake up!” Clarence Wilcox’s voice slid into my ears. I spun around, my heart rising—with hope. With fear.

  He raced toward me wearing the dress suit he had died in, and his coattails whipped like icicles behind him.

  And on his heels, barreling toward me with the strength of a thousand cyclones, were the Hell Hounds.

  Clarence flung his hands up, his knees kicking high with each step. And he screamed, “It’s not time, Eleanor! Not yet! Wake up! WAKE UP!”

  The jackal jumped at me. Fangs snapped in front of my face. I stumbled backward, and somehow golden streaks reared up along the sides of my vision.

  “No!” I planted my feet. Wind and frozen mist thundered over me and through me. But I would not move until I could speak to Clarence. “The boat—I can get in the boat!”

  The jackal jumped again. I held my ground even as the world turned black before my eyes and howls shattered my ears.

  But then Clarence’s figure vanished in a swirl of black and gray—and the jackal’s heavy feet slammed against my chest. The jackal’s glowing eyes surged into my face. . . .

  I fell backward, and in a rush of light and silence, I plummeted through the curtain.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hands gripped my shoulders—shaking. Jarring me awake. My eyelids burst open, and I stared dazedly into burning yellow eyes.

  Oliver gaped at me, his breathing rough. Then fury scored into his face. He flung me back as if scalded. “You returned,” he hissed.

  I didn’t answer. The Hell Hounds’ growls echoed in my ears, and my pulse still skittered. I squinted at the porthole. An orange glow filtered through. Dawn.

  “You went back,” Oliver repeated, “after I told you not to.”

  “Not on purpose,” I croaked. “I cast a dream ward.”

  “Liar.” His face sank into a sneer.

  “I swear, Ollie.”

  Doubt flickered on his face, and I pushed on. “All I know is that I cast a dream ward, fell asleep, and awoke on the dock.” I rose roughly onto my elbows. “And . . . Clarence Wilcox was there. I saw him.”

  Oliver’s sneer
finally vanished, replaced with weary resignation. He strode to the porthole, and the sunrise disappeared. He became a silhouette of blazing orange. “Let them go, El. Let Clarence go. Let your mother go. And for God’s sake, let Elijah go.”

  “Because you have let Elijah go?”

  “Master your grief,” he continued dully, “and then let them go.”

  Though the room spun, I stumbled to him. “Are you such a master of your grief?” I jabbed my hand into his waistcoat and yanked out the flask. He jolted toward me but made no move to reclaim it.

  He simply barked a stony laugh. “My loss is a part of me, El. I cope with it as best I can. But you?” His gaze roamed over my face. “You fight to keep what you cannot have back.” His hands rose, and almost languidly, he pried each of my fingers from the flask. “Crossing realms will not return your family.”

  “And I did not cross on purpose.” I relaxed my grasp, and the flask fell into his palms. “Marcus’s spell must be drawing me over the curtain still.” Even as the words fell from my tongue, I sensed they were not true. Marcus was not the one pulling me over the curtain. Somehow, these trips were linked to the jackal.

  But I kept that to myself, for at that moment Oliver said, “Revenge will not bring back your family either, Eleanor.”

  “Revenge?” I repeated, incredulous. “Marcus must be purged from this earth, and it has nothing to do with revenge. Even you said he no longer belongs here—that his time has already come.”

  “Huh.” Oliver unscrewed the flask top, twisting back to the porthole. “I did say that, didn’t I? And it was only two days ago. How funny.” He gulped back liquor, and his cheeks briefly brightened with drink. His yellow eyes too.

  “What is funny?”

  “How much has changed in two days.” He returned the flask to his pocket.

  And I gritted my teeth. He had come here to wake me . . . and to scold me. Yet now he was a wall of defiance. “And what precisely has changed?”

  No response at first. Then with his focus still on the shining sea outside, he said, “I saw what Elijah truly was. I saw the black soul inside him and what sort of necromancer he had become.”