A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(18)

“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.”

I paused, my left fist curling, and strode back toward him—but only far enough so he could hear me speak.

“No, you won’t go into my room again, Oliver. You won’t come near me ever again. I want nothing to do with you, do you understand? Elijah wasn’t the only necromancer in the family.” I thrust out a pointed finger, wishing with all my heart that my charade could be real. If only I were a necromancer. If only I were powerful enough to destroy those in my way.

But Oliver did not know I was bluffing, so I said with all the authority I could muster, “If you dare come close to me without my permission, I will use everything I know to destroy you.”