Strange and Ever After (3 page)

For half a breath I considered bandages and salves. It would please Daniel, and I wanted that. . . . But then another
splat!
filled the cabin. More blood on the floor. Traditional healing would take weeks; I did not have weeks.

So I said, “No, Daniel.”

Hurt flashed over his face. His body tensed . . . but he made no move to leave. He simply stared at me, pain and frustration and . . .
disgust
warring in his gaze.

I understood his feelings—he believed, as Joseph did, that
my magic corrupted me. That necromancy festered inside my soul.

But he and Joseph were wrong, and if Daniel truly wanted to help me, he would accept my magic as it was. Just as I accepted
him
for who he was: a man with a criminal past and dark memories.

“You heard her,” Oliver said, sauntering closer. He wore a smile as fake as his voice. “She asked you to go, Danny Boy.”

Red exploded on Daniel’s cheeks. In a violent twist, he rounded on Oliver and slammed him to the wall. “You have poisoned her mind, demon.”

Oliver’s eyes flared bright gold. “And you,” he growled, all his indifference gone, “have poisoned her heart.”

Daniel’s fist reared back . . .

And I finally moved. “Stop!” I staggered toward them. “Just
stop
!”

Daniel froze, his gaze fixed on Oliver’s face. . . . Then his breath whooshed out. His fist fell. “I-I’m sorry, Empress—”

“Empress,” Oliver said with a snort. “That’s so bloody obnoxious.”

Daniel flung him a sneer. “Go to hell, demon.”

“If only I could,” Oliver retorted.

“Enough,” I snapped at Oliver. Then to Daniel. “Please. Let me heal the way I wish to be healed.”

Daniel eyed me slantwise, and his chest rose and fell as he visibly tried to gain control of his temper.

But he lost; his temper won.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Use your magic. I have an airship to fly.” Then, shoulders tensed, he strode through the door.

Oliver waited until Daniel was out of sight, then he eased the door shut and turned to me. Any semblance of nonchalance was gone entirely now. “What,” he hissed, “just happened?”

“He doesn’t like you,” I said softly.

“
He
is not what I meant, and you know it.”

I did know it.

“Though,” Oliver went on, glaring at the door, “I will say that man is too volatile for you.”

“Hmmm.” I watched as another drop of blood spattered on the floor.

“Hmmm?” Oliver repeated, closing the space between us. “It does not bother you that he cannot control his temper?”

I lifted my gaze. “Daniel knows me better than anyone else.”

Oliver’s face hardened—his posture too. Even his single word, “Oh,” was made of stone. Then suddenly he pushed his face into mine. “And does
Daniel
know you just crossed into the spirit realm? Because
I
know.”

“I forgot to cast my dream ward.”

“Really? After almost losing your life to the Hell Hounds several times, you simply
forgot
the one thing that keeps you safe. Sorry, El, but I do not believe you.” He twisted away and stomped to the porthole. “Your grief makes you a fool.”

I stretched my hands toward him. “Please heal me, Ollie.” My voice cracked. I wanted his magic—and not just for the wounds. I
needed
it to soften the blade gouging out my insides.

“No.” Oliver planted his hands on the wall and stared out the window. “What were you thinking, El? I can’t protect you if you’re in the spirit realm, and you can’t set me free if you’re dead. Recall: death already claimed your brother, and that is what got us in this demon-and-master tangle in the first place. So please—for my sake—stop being such a bloody
idiot
.”

I flinched. “You are as volatile as Daniel is.”

“Temperamental, perhaps,” Oliver admitted, swinging his gaze to me. “But only when you have earned it. Daniel is cruel whenever his feelings are hurt.”

“Do
not
,” I spat, “try to turn me against Daniel. I love him, and your words will not change that.”

Oliver snorted and turned back to the porthole. “He puts you through quite a lot of heartbreak for love—”

“Enough.” I crossed the room and thrust my hands at him. “I want these cuts healed, so do it.”

“You want me to heal your grief, you mean.” He withdrew his flask and gulped back liquor. “Just admit it, El. You want me to erase all your sadness. Well, I fear I cannot. Nothing can heal that sort of wound. Though you might try this.” He offered me the flask.

“No.”
A frustrated hunger burned in my stomach, briefly erasing the stab of loss. The knife of regret. “You will heal me now, Ollie.”

“Or what?” He straightened. “Will you
command
me?”

“Yes.”

His eyes flashed. “Do it then. Command your tool. Just as
you did last night when you scorched away part of my very
being
with electricity. Just as you always do when you want something.”

My breath hiccupped. I deserved Oliver’s temper for what had happened in Paris. Yet when I had commanded him to grab a crystal clamp—a device that produced electricity from quartz—I hadn’t known the electricity would kill a piece of his soul.

But
he
had been the one to manipulate me into binding to him.
He
had become my tool willingly, and
he
had given me a two-month deadline by which I had to set him free.

“Use me, Eleanor.” Oliver leaned toward me. “
Betray
me so that for that brief moment while my magic keeps you warm, you can pretend your life is not broken. Why, I bet if you try hard enough, you could even pretend your mother is still alive.”

His words crashed into me. I rocked back on my heels, and all my guilt for mistreating him vanished.

“Heal me,” I said. “Heal my wounds now, Oliver.
Sum veritas
.” The words of command slid off my tongue like snakes, and instantly Oliver’s eyes ignited with bright blue magic.

His flask fell to the floor. He grabbed me and viciously squeezed my hands in his—so tightly that my cuts ripped wider and the splinters dug deeper.

Then through clenched teeth, he began to murmur. A heartbeat passed. Two more . . . until finally the warmth came—a sparkling, pure heat a thousand times more comforting than alcohol or an embrace. It washed over me, through me. It circled
around my heart and then settled into every piece of my soul.

And one by one, the splinters wriggled out of my skin. The lacerations on my hands and knees closed up, and the pain around my heart eased. When the last cut was finally healed, Oliver flung away my hands and stalked to the door. “You will push everyone away,” he growled beneath his breath. “Just like he did, you will lose us all.”

He.
Elijah. My brother.

Oliver grabbed for the doorknob.

“Wait,” I called. I finally felt strong again. I finally felt
alive
.

Stooping down, I retrieved Oliver’s flask. He drank too much, my demon. It might dull his grief, but he was wrong: magic
did
heal mine.

I stepped toward him. “I am not Elijah.”

“Yet you are becoming him.” His golden eyes met mine, glowing in time to his pulse. “All you care about is how the magic makes you feel. How is that so different from your brother?”

“You were the one who introduced me to power.”

“Perhaps I did,” he agreed, “and perhaps I inflated your ego too much in the process. You are strong, but you are not omnipotent.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and his eyes fluttered shut. “And nor does it atone for what you did to me last night—
forcing
me to touch electricity. . . . I can never forgive you.”

Before I could open my mouth to argue—to explain how his power saved all of Paris—he said, “And what of Laure?” His eyes opened and latched on to mine. “She is your friend, yet you killed her—you actually
killed
her when you brought
that corpse back to life. If I hadn’t been there to save her, then Laure would be dead now.
And
,” his eyebrows rose, “as if that was not bad enough, you promised to explain everything to her. Yet instead, you left her in Paris with nothing but a note.”

“That,” I ground out, “was my only choice. We have to reach Marseille before Marcus does—you
know
that. And as for the butler’s corpse, raising it was an accident.”

“Accident or no, you have pushed Laure away.” He ticked off one finger. “And you have pushed me away.” He ticked off a second finger. “Who will be next, El? I understand how much you want to make Marcus pay, but at what cost—”

“How can you possibly comprehend?” I cut in, my pitch rising. “Do you have a family? Or loved ones? Or someone you would give your very
life
to protect? No,” I went on, unconcerned when his nostrils flared or his breath hitched. “You have
none
of those things, so do not speak to me as if you understand.”

For a long moment he stayed silent. His lips pressed tighter and tighter, turning into a white line.

Then I felt it. Felt the deep, agonizing pain that lived inside him.

He didn’t mean for me to feel it—it simply shuttered over our bond and then instantly vanished again.

Yet I almost staggered back from the force of it. I had to bite the inside of my mouth to keep my face blank. I would not give him the satisfaction of thinking he had
gained
something with that display.

“You’re dismissed,” I said, swiveling away and crossing to the bunk.

“Am I?” Oliver barked a laugh. “You
will
push everyone away, El. Even your precious Danny Boy.”

I flung myself onto the bunk and squeezed my eyes shut. “Do not act as if you care for my life, Oliver. You only want me around so I may set you free.”

Fabric shifted and feet padded. I popped my eyes wide—to find Oliver only inches away, his body angled down. “You’re right,” he whispered. “I have no family. Yet I
do
have a home—a spirit realm that I will do anything to return to. You see me as your tool, Eleanor, and I see you as mine. After we destroy Marcus and my responsibilities are complete, do not forget: you owe me.”

Then without another word and with his unnatural, demonic grace, he strode to the door and left.

I lay on my bunk for a time, staring at the curved, metal walls. Joseph’s and Daniel’s voices drifted through my open door from the cockpit. Allison was, I assumed, on board as well, but where, I did not know—and I was too focused on Oliver’s words to worry over it.

Was he right?
Would
I push everyone away as Elijah had? The way this bright, hot guilt burned along my shoulders and through my chest, the words felt all too true.

But maybe this was another of my demon’s tricks—another cruel twist of words to keep me wallowing in pain and grief. Maybe
he
pushed my friends away.

I had accused him of that once before, in Paris. First Jie had discovered Oliver’s existence and raced off in a rage. Then
Oliver had interrupted Daniel and me right before Daniel was going to kiss me. And of course, seeing Oliver had sent Daniel into a wild, red-faced fury.

One by one, Oliver had turned my friends against me, whittling away my allies until I had only him. Perhaps he did the same now.

You cannot give in to him,
I ordered myself, and with a forceful huff of breath, I shoved aside all those black thoughts. I would focus on my magic instead. So warm, so perfect. The further I sank into it, the less I had to feel. The less I had to think.

Yet I could not seem to make the heady contentment come. It wasn’t muffling my troubles as it usually did. The magic was fading too fast—so quickly, in fact, that I feared there was a hole in my chest through which it leaked. And if I looked down, I would see straight through to the other side.

I drew in a big breath, begging the thrum of power to stay . . . to
grow
, when my right hand slid into my pocket.

And my knuckles grazed against something grooved and smooth and palm sized.

I stiffened, then wrenched the ivory fist from my pocket and sat upright in bed. I had completely forgotten I had it, and as I traced the lifelike wrinkles and fingernails carved into it, I finally
felt
something.

I felt the air slide into my lungs. I felt my heart beat steadily in my chest. And I felt better. Stronger.

I didn’t know what this artifact was—only that it was magical. And ancient. I had originally thought it was an amulet and
that it contained a vast compulsion spell. But Madame Marineaux had told me I was wrong.

It is a far more powerful artifact than any amulet,
she had said. And yet she’d offered no more explanation to what the carved ivory might be or what it might do. Then, just as the Hell Hounds were blasting her soul into oblivion, she had shown me where to find it. She had planted the image of the fist into my brain, and I had claimed the artifact for myself. There was something so appealing about it. As if whatever power lived within was somehow pulsing out when I held it. When I watched it.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. I balked, and thrust the ivory fist back into my pocket. I would tell Oliver and the Spirit-Hunters about the fist eventually. But there was no need to tell them now—not when we would be in Marseille soon and dealing with Marcus. Whatever this strange artifact was, it could wait.

Someone cleared his throat, and I found Joseph standing in the doorway, fingers on his bandages.

I swung my legs off the bunk. “Yes?”

Joseph’s hand dropped. “I came to offer you my condolences.” His voice was gravelly with exhaustion. “The loss of a mother is something no one should have to endure.”

“Yet we all must at some point,” I said flatly.

“True.” He sank into a bow. “Nonetheless, I am sorry, Eleanor. I feel . . .” He lifted, his forehead drawn tight. “I feel as if this is my fault. I could not see what Marcus was becoming all those years ago. I did not stop him until it was too late.”

Marcus had been Joseph’s childhood friend. They’d both
trained their magic with the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. Yet Marcus had turned to a darker power—to necromancy and sacrifice—and all the while, the Voodoo Queen and Joseph had remained oblivious.