A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(15)

He skittered to the other side of the hall. “Look. I’ll stay right here. Just talk to me. Please.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” I slunk right. The agony in my wrist had pulled back to a distant throb, and the unbidden tears had dropped away. “Don’t you dare come near me, Marcus.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” the young man cried. “I’m Oliver.”

“And you just happen to have the same yellow eyes?”

He frowned. “Yellow eyes? Is Marcus a . . . a demon? As in a creature of spirit bound to this world by a necromancer?” His hand lifted to his collar, and he slipped out a long golden chain.

My heart stopped when I saw it. So did my careful trek. I knew that round locket hanging from the chain’s end. “Where did you get that?”

His golden eyes never leaving my face, the young man dangled the chain toward me. “You know it, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Any words I wanted to say were trapped in my throat. I had bought that necklace for Elijah just before he went abroad. Inside was a picture of the thirteen-year-old me.

The young man let the chain and locket drop. “My name is Oliver, and I’m Elijah’s demon.”

“Demon,” I whispered, the word filling every space in my mind. “Elijah’s demon.” For several long seconds, I simply stared. Then my heart and body jolted into action. I staggered back into a run.

Oliver did not follow me.

I reached the doorway at the end of the hall, and it did lead to the dining room. Only a handful of guests remained, sitting at a table that spanned the middle of the room. Judging by their sloppy posture, they were thoroughly drunk.

Demon, demon, demon. The word pounded in my mind with each step.

A black-uniformed waiter glided to a stop in front of me. “May I help you?”

Demon, demon, demon . . .

“Mademoiselle, may I help you?”

I gaped at him, tongue-tied. I couldn’t say “Help! A necromancer who claims he’s a demon is following me.” Especially because Oliver—or Marcus, if his yellow eyes meant what I thought they might mean—was nowhere to be seen.

I finally stammered, “F-food?” and the waiter nodded, guiding me to a table against the wall. I dropped onto a red-upholstered chair and ordered a plate of buttered toast.

Then, trying to slow my breathing, I massaged my wrist and watched the door.

“A demon,” I whispered. Would that make sense in the context of Elijah’s letters? I couldn’t remember. The only thing I knew about demons was that they were supposedly bad, and it was probably in my best interest to avoid them.

Laughter erupted from the group of drinkers, and while I watched with mild interest and disgust, they all lifted their glasses in a wild French cheer.

I glanced back at the entrance and started.

Oliver had ambled in, his jaw set and his hands in his pockets.

I sat, rod straight, as he sauntered almost casually to the table of drinkers and bellowed, “Vive la

France!”

As they all roared their approval, he swiped a bottle off their table and then strolled toward me.

“Stop,” I ordered once he was ten paces away. “Not an inch closer.”

He nodded. “All right. I’m stopping. I am not coming a single inch closer.” He strode to a table nearby and dragged a chair to the precise spot I’d told him to stop. Then he plunked down, yanked his stolen bottle to his chest, and turned his yellow eyes on me. “I intend to drink all of this gin.”

My eyes narrowed. “All right.”

He frowned. “Well, you could at least protest a little. I thought you didn’t like it when Elijah drank. He said you got all worked up when he sipped your father’s whiskey.”

Somehow my spine straightened even more. I had done that, but the only person who would know was Elijah. “For one,” I said carefully, “I was more worried about Elijah getting caught than getting drunk. For two, I don’t care in the slightest about you.” I dipped my head toward the bottle. “Drink up.”

His lips twitched down. “You’re just as bossy as he is.”

“As he was,” I snapped. “Elijah’s dead.”

His face paled. “Dead?” He clapped a hand over his mouth and turned away.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s dead, and Marcus stole his body.”

“Blessed Eternity.” The young man grabbed at his hair. “No wonder I can’t find him. If he’s dead and his body has been possessed . . .” He popped off the bottle’s top and gulped back a long swig.

Then he dropped his head in his hands and began to weep.

I blinked, completely stunned. Either he was trying to catch me off guard or he was genuinely crushed to learn of Elijah’s death. But I was saved from deciding which by the arrival of my toast.

The waiter looked as horrified as I was by Oliver’s tears—especially when Oliver suddenly roused himself enough to latch on to the waiter’s sleeve. “Another bottle of gin, please.”

“Your cabin and name?”

“I’m with them.” He motioned to the inebriated Frenchmen.

The waiter’s eyebrows arched with disbelief.

Oliver, his eyes now bloodshot and nose puffy, shouted, “Vive la France!” And again the table burst into cheers.