A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(22)

Hell Hounds were out to get me.”

“Should the binding spell end with Elijah’s death?” We reached the saloon door. I motioned for him to open the heavy thing, and he hopped in front and heaved it wide.

“I thought it would,” Oliver said, “but . . . I don’t think it did. I certainly can’t do any magic, and

I’m . . .” He paused, and I had the distinct impression he was debating how much to tell me. At last he finished, “I think I must still be bound.”

And I knew in an instant he had opted to hide something from me. My distrust for him ramped up a notch.

As I strode past him and through the open doorway, he said, “You were in the spirit realm, you know. Right on the edge.”

“So it wasn’t a dream?” The door slammed behind us with a bang.

“No. It was real,” Oliver said, speaking at a normal volume.

I wiped at my face, trying to ignore how that made me feel. “Let’s say . . . well, let’s say I believe you. How did I get there? And why?”

“I don’t know, El.”

“Can you at least tell me what the dock was, then? Or the golden light at the end?”

“That whole area is the border between worlds. The dock is like a no-man’s-land, and that golden light was the curtain to the earthly realm.”

“That’s all very complicated.” I resumed walking. The saloon carpets were soft and welcome beneath my feet.

“It’s not complicated,” he retorted, following after me. “Ghosts that won’t settle collect at the border. They wait for their chance, for the Hell Hounds to look away, and then they run for that golden curtain.”

“But I saw Elijah there.” I glanced back at Oliver. “Does that mean he wants to come here?”

Oliver scratched his head. “You’re certain it was him?”

“Yes. And I saw an old friend of mine—one of Elijah’s victims, actually.”

He grimaced. “It sounds like their spirits were there to help you—on purpose— which makes me think that somehow they knew you were in danger. Like maybe they were watching out for you.”

“So that was really Elijah?”

Oliver nodded. “His spirit, yes.”

My throat closed tight. Elijah and Clarence—two people I’d have given anything to speak to again.

It would seem Oliver was thinking the same thing, for he said, “Did Elijah, um . . . well, did he say anything?”

“Like what?” I stepped onto the main stairs, paused, and gripped the left handrail until my knuckles were white.

“Like maybe a message,” Oliver explained. “For me.”

“No.” I resumed my descent, adding gruffly, “There wasn’t exactly time.”

“Right.” He shambled after me. “Of course not. Silly of me to have hoped.” He stared at the steps, his pace steady. Then his head snapped up. “Never mind. We have more important things to dwell on.

Like seeing the doctor. And figuring out why the Hell Hounds are after you—oh, and figuring out how they keep finding you.”

“We?” I paused on the next landing. “I don’t trust you.”

“No.” He tapped his chin, and his lips curved up in an almost arrogant smile. “But even if you don’t, I’m the only person who can help you right now. You told me you knew about necromancy, but obviously that was a lie. The first lesson in necromancy has to do with the Hell Hounds: Don’t mess with them. They’ll blast your soul straight into the final afterlife. No second chances. No questions asked. There’s a reason I never let down my guard, and those dogs are it. If they manage to sense me here—to recognize I’m in the wrong realm—I’ll be gone in an instant.”

“So . . .” I bit my lip, my grip still tight on the handrail. “If you hadn’t woken me just now . . .”

“No more Eleanor Fitt.”

I sucked in. There was a lot I didn’t know—and now I owed my life to a demon because of it.

Fantastic.

Oliver cleared his throat. “It was total luck, actually. Like I said, I never drop my guard. When I sensed the Hounds were here and not after me, I thought . . . well, I assumed the worst. I saw you on the dock in Philadelphia, you know—saw how you reacted when the Hounds came. And so I ran to see if you could sense them this time. To make sure you were all right. Luckily I was able to distract you —by waking you up—and that sent the Hounds away.”

“Distract me,” I repeated slowly. “It seems that every time my thoughts are elsewhere, the Hounds disappear.” I lifted my wrist. “And so does the pain in my hand.”

His eyes grew wide. “Your hand? It hurts when the Hounds come?”

“Yes, and it even starts flickering—like the ghost of my hand is somehow here.”

“Because it is!” He sprang onto the next landing and spun to face me. “Oh hell, it’s clever—don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see at all.”

“Your hand—or the spirit of your hand—is trying to cross the curtain. The Hell Hounds are doing what they do best: stopping it.”

“But why would my hand try to cross?” I clutched my wrist to my chest and strode past him onto the next flight of stairs. “Does it have its own spirit?”