Deadly

Autorentext
Marisha Pessl is the New York Times bestselling author of Night Film and Special Topics in Calamity Physics, as well as the young adult novels Neverworld Wake and the Darkly series*.* She lives with her husband and three daughters in upstate New York.

Zusammenfassung
Grace Kelly glamour meets The Inheritance Games stakes in this glittering young adult mystery where puzzles, romance and danger shimmer. A sequel to the national bestseller Darkly.

DARKLY ISN’T DONE WITH HER YET.

Months after the haunting events of last summer, Arcadia is chasing light—Paris, familiar friends, maybe even closure. But when her old crush Poe vanishes without a trace, her search leads to his ransacked apartment, a stolen Louisiana Veda ghost game, and whispers of a decades-old murder at a legendary Riviera hotel. 

As secrets swirl beneath the surface of luxury, Arcadia finds herself drawn into a mystery that blurs the line between myth and truth. The deeper she goes, the more she realizes: The stolen game isn’t just haunted—it’s hiding something. And someone doesn’t want it found. 

The twisted mechanics of the Darkly empire have been set in motion again. But this time it is operating against a panorama of evil and conspiracy vaster than Arcadia ever imagined.

Welcome back to the world of Darkly. Where the past is a puzzle, the present is a trap, and the only way out is to play.

Leseprobe
1

There should be a law against ruining your life to save the boy who broke your heart.

And yet, here I am on an airplane about to take off for the South of France on a rescue mission.

I am saving the life of Poe Valois III.

I have two weeks. Two weeks of Eminence High School’s winter break to find him, make sure he’s alive and well, and exorcise his ghost from my heart once and for all.

I stare at the name of the hotel I scribbled on the paper, twisting the delicate steel keys on my necklace.

Hôtel du Flâneur-­Soir.

An hour ago, I was alone in my family’s shop, Prologue Antiques, having finally sent off my mom and new stepdad, Mr. Francis Asquith, on their honeymoon to Turks and Caicos.

It was like launching two moderately functioning rovers to Mars. The fact that my mom, Gigi, got her dream wedding and is actively living happily ever after is hard evidence the universe isn’t just benevolent. It’s adorable.

I had sent off the latest Baccarat chandelier to my favorite client, Mr. Armande Chupie, including my hand­written answer to his last letter. Thank you again for your business. How did you like the rare Fabergé “Samorodok” cigarette case? Isn’t the embroidery of the crowd in St. Petersburg incredible?

I’ve never met Mr. Chupie, but from what he tells me, he’s “an old man with questionable knees” who runs a hole-­in-­the-­wall antiques shop in Paris called La Solitude Éternelle. His first inquiry arrived out of the blue in September, and because he buys literally everything I recommend, no questions asked, no haggling, Prologue has experienced something unheard of this fall—­an actual profit.

Then he started sending me letters. It’s embarrassing how much I look forward to them.

The gothic black envelope.

The scribbled handwriting with blots of blue ink in the margins, like he actually climbed inside my head and noticed I have a weakness for fountain pens.

The mysterious things he tucks inside—­without explanation. The pressed wildflowers. The scrap of poetry torn from some musty forgotten tome. The tiny rose candies that I discovered had been discontinued in the early 1900s.

I made sure the Sale signs were visible in the shop windows. holiday clearance, 25% off! And I was locking up, thrilled at the thought of a hot date with my pajamas, when Poe called me.

I hadn’t heard from him in four months. None of us had.

Last summer, after the Darkly internship—­when the legendary and long-­defunct 1980s board game company chose seven teenagers across the globe, including me, and flew us to England to live on an island and solve a mystery—­we became family. But now? Mouse figured Poe had forgotten us. Franz worried he was in rehab. But Poe’s rude and occasional one-­word responses to our group chat—­ok and yup—­suggested he was fine, just preoccupied.

I had made a hard rule to never answer his phone calls. We are friends. After what we went through last summer, we couldn’t help but be bound for life. But anything more between us? Never, ever, forever.

Maybe that’s why I answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

He was in a speeding car—­at least, that was what it sounded like—­squeals of metal and wind. “Paradise—­”

His deep voice said my old nickname, and the memories came flooding back—­Louisiana Veda’s abandoned library, the burning touch, the kiss.

The whole thing was over before it was ever even a thing.

For me, it was a six-­hour masterpiece opera, a cornerstone of art and civilization. For Poe? Background rock at Starbucks while waiting for his triple shot.

“Listen very carefully,” he shouted over the noise. “I need you to come here. Right now, to my hotel. Hôtel du Flâneur-­Soir—­”

I was speechless. After all this time, he was summoning me to a hotel? Was this a booty call? Except the call cut out with a deafening clang.

Then he was back. And something in his voice scared me. “—­Tadoah—­”

Tadoah?

My stomach dropped. Of course I knew the word.

It means The Demise of Alice Hayes.

“—­six two nine—­loop meadows—­a purple sea—­”

What was he saying? A shrill howl crashed the line.

“—­chase—­there will be an envelope—­”

“Poe, I can’t hear you—­”

Glass was exploding. “—­kill—­”

Then he was screaming. He was hurting.

He was scared. “—­they’re coming—­”

“Who?”

“—­you live eternal in my heart, Paradise—­forgive me—­”

The line went dead.

Ever since, I’ve called and called him. But it’s only gone to voicemail. “C’est Poe. Laissez un message . . .”

And he isn’t responding to my texts.

You live eternal in my heart, Paradise.

The only plausible explanation for that is that my brain invented it out of magical thinking and a bad connection. Because there’s zero chance Poe actually said that.

And forgive him for what?

“My dear Miss Gannon, I present your artisanal fromage.”

I glance up as the flight attendant, Carl, slides a spread piled with French cheese alongside the tray of chocolate-­covered strawberries.

“Here we have moldy, moody blues from the Loire Valley. Soft and rosy rinds from Île-­de-­France? And of course, the black sesame crisps.” He is pointing out cheese and crackers with the same hand gestures normal flight attendants use to indicate exit rows and oxygen masks. “May I bring you anything else before takeoff, Miss Gannon?”

“No, thank you.”

“How does the loungewear feel? Cozy or swimmy?”

I zip the free Chanel hoodie to my chin. “It’s amazing.”

“Miss Arcadia Gannon?” chimes the pilot brightly over the intercom. “Yo…