The Seine belonged to Paris. It was the very heart of the city, and the buildings grew up straight from its banks into the crisp blue skies overhead. I could stand in the very middle of the Pont Solférino, look left and then right, and know—deep down know—that with a single glance I was seeing everything Paris had to offer. And what Paris had to offer, first and foremost, was beauty. Just as the
Parisians carried themselves in a way no American ever could, with a sense of poise rooted directly in their bones, the river Seine carried itself with the same grace.
If I could have left the world behind right then and set up camp in a tiny attic overlooking the city —if none of my troubles existed—then I would have. Gladly.
But alas, the church bells tolling three and Jie’s thumb gesturing back to the hotel reminded me that I could not escape. Not today . . . and perhaps not ever.
By the time we’d walked back to the Spirit-Hunters’ lab, the sun just starting to set, dread began to resume its coil around my neck. I had willingly let dreams of Paris squeeze out everything else, and all because I didn’t want to face the reality of my life. Of death.
But I had to confront it now. When I finally skulked into the lab, I found Joseph bowed over books.
His hat and gloves were off, yet he looked as crisp as always. Examining his reading fare, I headed for a stool beside him.
But I instantly pulled up short, my mind filled with a single thought: No! The titles stacked before me were all focused on one topic. A History of Demonology in Eastern Religions; The Rise and Fall of
Famous Necromancers and their Demons; Amulets, Spells, and Black Magic.
“Wh-why the interest in demons?” I squeaked.
Joseph didn’t glance up. “I believe we may be dealing with such a creature for les Morts. ”
A second surge of panic flooded my brain. A demon behind the sacrifices? A demon such as
Oliver? I sputtered a cough. “Wh-why would you think a demon is behind les Morts?”
Joseph closed his book and glanced at me. “The sheer number of sacrificed victims suggests more than a single necromancer at work.”
“Could . . . could it be several necromancers then? And not a demon?” My words sounded pleading.
“It is doubtful. According to Summoning Demons for Power”—Joseph rapped the page—“most magical partnerships are made with demons. As such, I believe we are dealing with either a necromancer-demon pair or a free demon.”
“A free demon?” My forehead wrinkled up. “Does a demon not have to be bound to a person in order to stay in our realm?”
Joseph’s eyes slid to me. “You know a great deal about demons, Eleanor.”
“Not really.” I squeezed my fingers around my skirt and forced my face to stay neutral. “Only stories from books. And church.”
“Ah, but of course.” He looked away, and I could not tell if he believed me or not. “A free demon,” he went on, “can exist in this world as long as it is hidden. Masked, you could say.” Joseph ran a hand in front of his face. “The mask is created by the necromancer to hide the demon from the spirit world’s guardians. Thus, a free demon is not bound to a necromancer but in an agreement with one.
The demon can still use its magic at will—it does not require a necromancer’s command. Does this make sense?”
“I think so.” I nodded. “The necromancer agrees to hide the demon with a mask, and the demon is free to use its magic.”
“Precisely.” Joseph rubbed at his scars for several moments, watching me. Then he lowered his hand. “But listen to me, Eleanor. Only someone very foolish would ever go into an agreement with a demon. The allure of necromancy is nothing compared to that of a demon’s magic. So whomever we are up against—demon, necromancer, or both—is likely very desperate and very corrupt. Do you understand?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I knew the minute I tried to speak, my words would fail. I had been desperate, hadn’t I? But corrupt? No. No. I had had no choice but to bind to Oliver—the Hell Hounds would have destroyed me. . . . I would have died and Marcus would have gotten the letters and . . .
Joseph shifted in his seat. He was waiting for my answer.
“I still do not see,” I said as flatly as I could, “why it cannot be several necromancers together.”
Joseph frowned. Sharply. I had not answered his question; he had noticed. “Eleanor, consider that most necromancers seek control and power. They do not like to share. And”—he tapped the book again—“according to this book, there have only been a handful of paired necromancers since this type of magic first evolved.
“Marcus’s parents,” he continued, “are a perfect example of how rare such pairs can be. His father was trained in voodoo and his mother in necromancy. They wanted to control New Orleans.”
“And they worked together?”
“Non, quite the opposite.” He huffed out a weary breath. “From what I gathered from Marcus, I would say they worked against each other more than anything—and this is what usually happens with such pairs. Both mother and father were always trying to recruit their son, yet neither ever realized he had his own dark plans to take New Orleans for himself. But listen, this is not why I have called you here.”