A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(28)

“Then it’s a damned good thing I haven’t taught you the words of command yet.”

I fixed my eyes on him, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Of course, I will tell you.” He crossed his legs and lowered his voice, leaning close. “Sum veritas. You said it when you bound to me. It means ‘I am the truth.’”

I drummed my new fingers on my thigh, savoring the feeling. “So all I do is give you a command and add those words at the end?”

He nodded.

“All right. Go to the edge of the boat”—I pointed at the railing around the deck—“and wait for me.

Sum veritas. ”

A warm wave rolled over my body, and for a split second Oliver’s eyes shone blue.

He blinked, and then a scowl cut into his forehead. “Truly, El? That’s your command?” He slid off the seat, muttering, “Abuse of power.”

I shoved up and hurried after him. “Can you not resist?”

He slowed and clenched his teeth. “It . . . hurts. Don’t you feel it?”

I frowned and focused on my body. Sure enough, there was a strange sense growing in my belly—

as if my breakfast wasn’t sitting quite right.

“All right,” I said, “I cancel the command. You can go wherever you want. Sum veritas. ” Again the pleasant tingle coursed through me, and Oliver exhaled sharply. We padded back to the bench and sat.

“No more abusing power,” he ordered. “Please. You might turn me into a Rakshasi, if you’re not careful.”

“Turn you into a what?”

“A who. Rakshasa are demons. Very angry, very awful demons. For one, they have a fondness for making their fingernails venomous.”

“Venomous?”

“Nasty, isn’t it?” He shuddered. “I had the same reaction when Elijah told me about them.”

“So you haven’t met any?”

“No. Demons don’t exactly cavort in the spirit world, and most Rakshasa who cross into the earthly realm head straight for the Orient. For some reason, they seem to thrive there—perhaps they like the taste of rotting Asian flesh more than European? Who can say? But, oh dear”—his lips twitched up—“you’re looking a bit green, El.”

I grimaced. “I daresay rotting flesh isn’t the ideal topic for . . .” I trailed off. A figure had just appeared on the deck, her usual dark hair falling over her shoulders and her sleeve ripped jaggedly.

Laure’s eyes met mine, and relief washed over her face.

“Invisibility,” I blurted. My happy warmth receded fast in the face of fear. “My hand—make it invisible.”

“What?” Oliver reared back. “I can’t do that—”

“Well, hide the blasted thing somehow.”

“Why?”

“My roommates have seen me without it.”

His face paled. “I can’t do a spell like that, El—it’s impossible.”

“But it’s magic,” I hissed. “You can do anything!”

“It’s spiritual energy,” he hissed back, “and there are limits.” He grabbed my sleeve and tugged.

“Just pull it down. You’ll have to pretend.”

So I did precisely that, and just in time, for Laure had reached us. “Mon Dieu!” she cried. “You are all right! How did you know that was coming?”

“How did I know what was coming?” I asked carefully. Had she seen the Hell Hounds? My eyes flicked to Oliver’s, but he merely lifted one shoulder.

“That thing—that cyclone!” Laure wrung her hands. “Every lady is lost in a faint.”

“Cyclone?” I pressed.

“Oui. Made of water.”

Ah—a waterspout. Interesting explanation.

“Was there any damage?” Oliver inserted.

She turned to him, and recognition flashed in her eyes. “You are the young man from the other night, non?”

“Yes, he is,” I rushed to say. “He was on deck too when . . . when this waterspout hit.” I shifted my new hand beneath my skirts. “But was there any damage to the ship?”

“Non. It is the strangest thing. Other than some items knocked over and the icy water on everything, it is all fine.” She dropped to a whisper. “But I did hear that the captain wants to turn around. People are in a panic. For some reason, many think they saw dogs and not a waterspout. So the captain now believes we should return to shore.”

I sat up, alarmed. “Aren’t we too far? Surely we’re halfway to France by now.”

“Non—not quite, and there are so many Americans. They want their own soil.” She rolled her eyes.

“You should see Mrs. Brown—’er poor granddaughter must wave smelling salts beneath her nose.

And the little girl is one of those swearing that the waterspout was really a pack of wild dogs.” Laure giggled, as if it were the most absurd idea in the world.

Oliver snickered too, so I forced my own laugh. “Listen, Laure,” I said, “surely there are enough

French people to keep the captain from turning around.”

“C’est possible.” She pursed her lips. “I can speak to any passengers who are still conscious.