Susan Dennard - A Darkness Strange and Lovely
“In other words,” I said, “you stole the ticket. Just like you stole the alcohol.” Even though I too had stolen my ticket, I’d at least had enough conscience to compensate the poor woman—and to feel like utter scum for taking it in the first place. Oliver obviously had no such morals.
“You’re welcome to buy me more alcohol,” Oliver said, smiling sadly. “I intend to get so rip-
roaring drunk that I don’t remember a thing tomorrow.”
“All because Elijah died?”
He winced. “How can you say it so . . . so callously? Yes, because I just learned my best friend died. My master. My only—”
“Enough,” I snapped, sitting taller. He was definitely getting too close to topics best left alone. “I don’t care one whit about your grief or your supposed demon feelings. I want to hear how you knew
Elijah. Now talk.”
The muscles in his jaw twitched, but he didn’t argue. “As I was saying, I was simply existing.
Then one day, a few years ago, I was summoned. It’s like . . . like a tugging in your gut. One minute I was watching the universe unfold, and the next I was being yanked into a dingy hotel room in London.
Suddenly I had a body and a skinny young man standing in front of me.”
“And from where did the body come? Is it yours?”
His nose wrinkled up. “Of course it’s mine! I didn’t take some poor person’s corpse, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Well, how else does one get a body?”
“It’s . . . it’s like water and ice,” Oliver said. “Phase changes. On the spirit side I was water. Then as I stepped through the curtain into the earthly side, I became ice.”
I broke off more toast, considering this. “So was it you hiding in the shadows downtown?”
He stared blankly—clearly clueless as to what I referred, which could only mean I had seen
Marcus in Philadelphia. But then a new question occurred to me. “Why are your eyes yellow?”
He ogled them at me. “That’s pretty standard for anyone whose natural form is raw energy.”
Meaning Marcus’s true form was pure soul—which it was, since his body had died years ago.
“Does this phase change happen to everyone? Because Marcus—the spirit who stole Elijah’s body—
crossed from the spirit realm, yet he stayed in his spirit form. A ghost.”
“As for that, I’d guess it’s because he was dead.” Oliver guzzled back more rum and then wiped his lips. “Basically, this fellow’s body and soul were separate. When he crossed the curtain, he stayed in his spirit form because that was all he could be. However, if a man still possesses both a body and a spirit, then he would change phases. For example, if you”—he tipped his head toward me—“went to the spirit world, you’d change into a watery soul form.”
I grunted. It made sense. “So you had a body and then Elijah bound you? Why did he need to use the locket?”
“The guardians,” Oliver drawled, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world. “The ones who keep unwanted humans out of the spirit world—they also do a rather good job of keeping demons and spirits in it. When a necromancer calls something over, he has to hide it from these guardians right away. Hiding is done by binding; and to bind a demon, you have to use an object of significance.
Elijah chose this. It binds me to your world, hides me from the guardians, and keeps me completely powerless.”
“Powerless?”
“Yep.” Oliver ran a finger along his chin. “I can’t do any magic. Only Elijah can use my power—
at least until our agreement ends.”
I leaned forward. “But Elijah’s dead.”
He twisted his face away and took another pull of rum.
“So,” I said, forcing Oliver to look at me again. “Does a spirit or demon have to be called by a necromancer? Because Marcus crossed over without a necromancer’s help.”
Oliver’s eyebrows jumped. “The guardians didn’t sense him? He must be very strong then. Of course, yellow eyes would suggest that too.”
I fidgeted in my seat. My emotions were stewing in a way I knew best to avoid. Anger seemed the best approach, and if there was one feeling I could summon easily, it was rage. “First Elijah hid you from the guardians, then he made you his slave, and now you can’t use your magic. Plus, your master died.” My lips curled back. “Why, I’d say you’re not a very good demon, are you?”
Oliver cringed.
“And,” I continued, “I have to wonder why you weren’t in Philadelphia with my brother. Why didn’t you protect Elijah?”
Oliver screwed his eyes shut. “It was his necromancy that killed him, wasn’t it? He must’ve done something stupid and . . .” His words faded, fresh tears welling in his eyes.
For some reason, this only infuriated me more. “So you could have saved him? Why didn’t you, then? Why weren’t you there? If you really are—no, were—his demon, then why weren’t you with him when he died?”
Oliver flinched as if I’d slapped him, but his eyes stayed close. “E-Elijah sent me away. He knew he had to give me some impossible task so I’d be out of his way and couldn’t interfere.”
“That is quite a convenient excuse,” I said sharply, my voice rising. “Why, exactly, would he send his demon away?”
Oliver’s eyes snapped open. “He knew I’d try to stop him. I didn’t like what he wanted to do—the killing, the black magic. We argued. A lot.” He dabbed at his eyes and then guzzled back more rum, swishing it around in his mouth.
“You know what I think?” I watched him from the tops of my eyes. “I think you were careless.
You didn’t want to save him or be with him—”
“No,” Oliver breathed. “El, he gave me a direct command. I couldn’t disobey him—not while we were bound. I told him—so many times—that there was nothing good in Le Dragon Noir. I told him any ghost in the spirit realm should stay there, but Elijah . . . he was determined to resurrect your father.”
“Determined?” I gritted my teeth. “More like insane. Where did he send you?”
“We were in Luxor. He sent me to Giza to find the Old Man in the Pyramids.”
“The who?” I snapped.
“The only person in the universe who knows how to raise a . . . a terrible creature. The Black
Pullet.”
The Black Pullet. That sounded familiar. Then I remembered some of Elijah’s final words: I’ll go back to Egypt. I’ll resurrect the Black Pullet, and we’ll live in wealth for the rest of our days, and everything will be all right.
“And did you find the Old Man?” My voice was a low snarl. “Was this mission that kept you from saving Elijah at least a successful one?”
Oliver’s head shook once. “I couldn’t find a bloody thing, and by the time I got to New York to meet Elijah, he had already left for Philadelphia. He was probably already dead.”
I hugged my arms to my chest. It was a lot to take in, and the hot rage in my chest was spreading to my throat.
Here was some person—some monster—who not only knew my brother, but had spent the last three years with him. Three years that should have been mine. Three years during which Elijah had transformed from my loving brother into a vengeful murderer.
My eyes stung, and I bit my lip to keep the tears away.
“You know,” Oliver said, popping open the locket and glancing inside. “You’ve changed a lot since this photograph was made.” He tilted his head and squinted at me, his eyes overbright. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you sooner.”
My whole body stiffened. “Were you trying to find me?”
“No. I was trying to find Elijah’s letters, and, well . . . they led me to you.”
My heart beat faster. The letters—it was always about those damned letters. I glanced at the table of Frenchmen. As long as they were still here, I could keep talking to Oliver with some semblance of safety.
I looked back to the demon. To his unnatural beauty . . . and increasingly drunken comportment.
“What,” I said, my voice dangerously soft, “do you want with the letters, Oliver?”
“They’re all the ones I wouldn’t let Elijah send. I thought if I found them, I’d find him. ”
“You mean you kept him from sending me letters?”
“Egads, yes!” Oliver blinked quickly, as if it took a lot of concentration to focus. “They’re filled with explanations of necromancy—of spells and translated grimoire passages. It’s dangerous stuff.
Plus, he wrote to you almost every day. Like you were his diary.”
“Oh?” I wound my fingers in my skirts. “I don’t have three years’ worth of letters.”
“The ones you have are the ones he considered most valuable. He must’ve destroyed the others.
But I know he cast a spell on the important ones. A finding spell, so that one day—in case things went wrong—they would reach you and you would understand.”
“But I don’t understand.” My teeth were grinding so hard, my jaw had started to ache. “I have read the letters, Oliver, yet I still can’t fathom what Elijah was doing.”
Oliver jabbed a thumb to his chest—or he tried to. His movement was sloppy, and he swayed back in his seat. “I can try to explain them to you. I was there for everything.”
“No,” I snapped. “You are not allowed near my letters.” Especially not if they have secrets of necromancy in them. “And,” I added, “I still do not see why you were trying to find them in the first place.”
“No? I thought I was being very”—spit flew with the word—“clear. It was my magic that made the finding spell, so that means I can track the letters. I sensed the letters were boarding the ship, so I might have picked a pocket to get on board.”
“I don’t believe you.” I slid my uneaten toast away and pushed back from the table. “You were in my room just now, and you were searching through my things—not for Elijah or for me. You were searching for my letters.”
His eyes darted sideways, and he swallowed several times. But before he could weave some clever excuse, I stood and puffed out my chest. “I’ve heard enough from you, Oliver. I’m going to my cabin now, and if you follow me, I will scream.”
“B-but . . .” His lip quavered. “I thought we could . . .”
“Could what?”
He tapped his rum. “Grieve together.”
I rolled my eyes. “I dealt with my grief months ago. I’m not doing it again.”
I strode past him, giving his chair a wide berth, but I wasn’t far before Oliver called after me—his voice barely audible over the rowdy Frenchmen. “I’m sorry for going into your room. I won’t do it again.”
