A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(16)

“See?” Oliver demanded.

The waiter glowered but didn’t argue.

And all the while, I watched in sick fascination. “You’re not Marcus,” I said at last.

“No.” Oliver rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Is this Marcus the one who . . .” His voice cracked. “Who took Elijah’s body?”

“Yes.”

“I should’ve been there.” His jaw clenched. “Oh God, if only I had been there.”

My eyes narrowed, and in a wary tone, I said, “I thought that demons could not say the Lord’s name.”

He gave me a look halfway between a repulsed sneer and an amused smile. “Then you clearly know very little about demons. The myth is actually that I cannot say ‘Jesus’ and yet the name just crossed my lips, did it not?”

“Yes, it most assuredly did.” My words came out harsh. “So, pray tell, why should I believe you’re a demon then?”

“Why? Did you not see this?” He yanked out the locket, wrenching it full force against his neck.

Over and over, each movement more frantic than the last, he tried to snap the chain. Soon an angry red line was scored into his flesh.

Yet still he ripped at the necklace.

“Stop!” I cried.

“Only if you believe me. Do you see this, El?” Another yank. “I am bound.” He flung out his hand, releasing the locket. “Simply because the rumors fail to accurately portray my kind does not make me any less real.”

“Though nor does a chain that won’t break,” I retorted. “If you really want to convince me, you’ll have to give a better reason than that locket.”

Oliver rubbed the bridge of his nose, and an ache flared in my chest. It was such an Elijah-like gesture—the old Elijah, the skinny, child Elijah—that I could have been sitting next to my brother at that very moment.

No wonder he seemed so familiar on the pier.

Yet of course, this similarity was not enough to make me trust him. “I’m listening,” I said. “For now, so you had best tell your story quickly.”

He sucked back another swig of gin, and I noticed with a start that the bottle was almost empty.

Then, smacking his lips, he said, “I was . . . well, born isn’t the right word . . . more like created two hundred years ago. You see, demons are a lot like humans, only we live in the spirit realm. We grow and age and eventually go where all spirits go.”

I picked at the edge of my toast. “I thought spirits went to the spirit realm.”

“Oh no. There’s a final afterlife. First, though, your spirit has to travel through my home.”

“And your home is the spirit realm.”

“Yep. And demons”—he splayed his fingers gracefully across his chest—“start there before eventually passing into the great unknown.”

“So you’re dead.”

“No!” He snorted. “I’m very much alive. I merely come from a different realm is all. I’m made entirely of spiritual energy. Plus, I live— exist—a great deal longer than humans.”

Behind him, the Frenchmen burst into an animated debate. I had to lift my voice to be heard. “So if all you do is exist, then why are demons painted as creatures of evil?”

His eyes flashed. “Because people are scared of us. We’re creatures of pure spiritual energy—we have a lot of magic at our command. But the truth is, demons are exactly like humans: good, bad, or”—he gave me a withering smile—“neutrally disinterested.”

At that moment, the Frenchmen’s debate ended with a rousing chorus of unintelligible, off-key singing. Oliver glanced back, his body perking up. Then, with very deliberate movements, he rose and stumbled over to their table, his now-empty bottle in hand and voice chanting along.

While he swayed and sang, the waiter returned. He set the new bottle of gin on my table, shot a disapproving look at the happily drunk carolers, and then glided away.

I nibbled at my toast and waited with growing impatience. There was only so long I could maintain my veneer of calm and strength—especially when memories of Elijah hovered so close to my heart’s surface. Several moments later, though, Oliver returned with a new bottle tucked under his arm. He dropped into his seat and inspected the label. “Rum. Delightful. A personal favorite.”

“Three bottles of liquor?” I sniffed disgustedly. “And all of them stolen.”

Oliver shrugged. “They have the money. I do not.”

“No? Then how did you buy a ticket onto this ship?”

“I did not buy a ticket per se. I found one . . . no, borrowed.” He nodded as if this was the proper term.

“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—”