“Actually, yes.” I swallowed. “I read about séances.”
“Séances,” Joseph murmured. “They are very hard to successfully employ, and there are certainly dangers involved. However, it is an avenue worth researching. But first . . .” He set his hands on the table. “Daniel, I would very much like to see your newest inventions.”
I, however, had no desire to see them. I stood. “Perhaps I should go—”
“Non!” Joseph’s hand shot up. “This equipment is as much yours as mine, and I believe it will help you control your powers.” He gave an encouraging nod. “Look at these items as your tools.”
“Um, all right.” I reclaimed my seat, and Joseph motioned for Daniel to continue.
“Well, this box”—Daniel nudged his boot against the middle crate—“has two new influence machines. Nothing exciting.” His voice was coated with the odd, stiff affectation once more. “This other box contains the pulse pistols.” He shoved his crowbar into the crate he’d been prying at before I entered the room. As the nails squeaked, he said, “Do you remember the pulse bombs in Philadelphia?
The dy***ite propels a magnetic rod, thereby creating an electromagnetic pulse. That pulse laid the
Dead to rest.”
“Quite useful and ingenious.” Joseph’s words were overenthusiastic, as if he was trying very hard to keep Daniel pleased.
“Useful,” Daniel agreed, “but slow.” He yanked the final nail from the crate. “You had to have matches, and you had to wait for the fuse to burn. Well, no more of that.” He hefted off the lid and swept aside straw, revealing a device shaped like a revolver. Copper wire coiled around the barrels.
“These are the pulse pistols. No more wasting time. You merely pull the trigger, and the Dead go down. There are two limitations, though. First, the range isn’t as wide as the bombs.” He tapped a munitions box beside the gun. “Second, the guns only hold one shot at a time, so either you carry a few loaded pistols all the time or you hope you can reload faster than the Dead can reach you.”
That’s quite a limitation, I thought. And beneath that, another thought flashed: I don’t need that.
Daniel tossed a pistol to Joseph, who caught it deftly and held it to the light.
“Incredible. This would have made things at Madame Marineaux’s easier, I daresay.” He glanced at me, a hopeful smile on his lips.
And that smile rankled me. A great deal. Why was he pretending to be pleased with me when the truth was he considered me and my magic an abomination?
Daniel strode to the last crate, his spine straightening. “This last invention is something I’m real . . . I mean . . . something of which I’m very proud.” He spent a few minutes working the nails out.
Once the lid was off, he pushed aside the straw and dug out an ornately designed, cream-colored box.
It was much like a lady’s hatbox, all soft designs and curves. Instantly, pain swept over his face. He dropped the box roughly on the floor. It hit with a heavy thud.
“What is in there?” Joseph asked.
“Nothing.” Daniel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s . . . it’s empty.”
Joseph gave me a glance, and I tugged at my earlobe. That box was most assuredly not empty, but before I could ponder what might be inside, Daniel fished out a second, smaller box. He placed it tenderly on the table and slid off the top.
My eyes widened.
Inside, nestled on a velvet cushion, was a crystal the size of my fist. Though it was rough and uncut, it still glittered like sunlight on water.
Daniel slid his hand beneath the velvet pillow and withdrew what looked like a crooked, copper wrench. On one end was a clamp and on the other was a spring-loaded handle.
“I call this a crystal clamp,” he said. “It latches onto the crystal like so. . . .” He spread the clamps wide and set the crystal within. Then he clasped the handle. “Now, you squeeze this. That in turn squeezes the crystal and creates an electric current. As long as you’re squeezing, you have electricity.”
I gasped as comprehension hit me. “It’s like my amethyst earrings. Piezoelectricity, right?”
Daniel’s eyes flicked uncertainly to mine. “You . . . you remember that?”
Of course I remembered it. The day he had taught me that word was the day he’d carried me home in an unconscious heap. The day he had given me a new parasol. The day I had finally started to hope for more than just friendship . . .
“I am not sure I remember.” Joseph drummed his fingers on the table. “Though I do recall something about squeezing quartz and getting an electric current, non?”