A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(29)

Perhaps we can make the majority.”

“Je peux vous aider,” Oliver said, his voice unusually silky.

Interest flared in Laure’s eyes. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Bien sûr. Of course.” He gave her a smile—a disarmingly handsome one.

A pleased flush burned on her cheeks. “I would welcome your help.” Her eyes flicked briefly to me. “Eleanor?”

“I don’t speak French,” I muttered. “Or at least not enough to help.”

She shrugged. “Très bien. You”—she flourished her fingers at Oliver—“will be enough.”

“I will join you momentarily.” He bowed smoothly, and as Laure sauntered off, I couldn’t help but notice the extra sway in her hips.

The instant she was out of sight, I slid close to the demon. “Listen: you have to keep the captain from taking us back to New York.”

“How?”

“Magic.”

He recoiled. “A compulsion spell? Absolutely not! You have to sacrifice a living person to do that.”

My insides flipped sickeningly.

“Exactly,” he said, seeing my grimace. “You have to cut out all the body parts you want to control.

So to compel the captain’s tongue, I’d have to—”

“Cut out someone else’s tongue,” I said quickly. “I get it . . . but is there not some other way?

What can you do with your magic?”

“Basic things. Mostly I just give you my power so you can cast spells. But . . .” He tapped his chin for a moment. “I suppose I could interfere with their navigation.”

My eyebrows rose. “Do I have to cast a spell for that?”

“No.” He jumped to his feet, his lips twisting up. “You see, I’m an incredibly persuasive demon.

All it takes is a little conversation, charm . . . alcohol with the captain, and this boat will not be turning around.” He winked. “I’ll find you later, Master Eleanor.”

Then, arms swinging, he strode off to the saloon.

Oliver found me hours later in the dining room, shoving whatever I could find into my mouth. I felt wretched. Tired, hungry, and drowning in shame. Why had I bound myself to Oliver? What had I done? And what would the Spirit-Hunters say?

Oliver slumped into the seat beside me, his nose wrinkled. “Elijah said you enjoyed food, but this is disgusting.”

I gulped down some coffee and cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, Ollie. Demons may not eat, but humans do.”

“Demons have to eat too,” he retorted. “My body might not die as easily as yours, but it still needs food—and sleep.” He set his forearms on the table. “But you, Eleanor, are not eating. You’re gorging.”

I scowled. “I can’t help it. No matter how much I eat, I find I’m still hungry at the end.”

“I wonder . . .” His eyes thinned. “Finish your coffee so we can start studying necromancy.”

My heart bounced. Before I even knew what I was doing, I said, “All right.” But then I stopped, horror rushing through me. No—I didn’t want to learn more. Necromancy could only bring evil, and I would not do that.

“Actually,” I began, but then my stomach gurgled with such agony, I couldn’t speak. Maybe I had overindulged. “Actually,” I tried again, “I don’t need to learn it, do I? You told me the other day I could learn spells or bind to you.”

Oliver bit his lip. “Well . . . you’re forgetting the agreement.”

Another rumble churned in my belly. I gulped. “What agreement?”

“The one in which you promised to set me free within two months.”

Again the excitement shivered through me, but it was rapidly quelled by my conscience. I did not want this. No. “Set you free, set you free,” I muttered, hugging my hands over my stomach. “Is that all you care about?”

“Blessed Eternity!” he swore. “I just saved your life—”

“Only so I would save yours!”

“Well, you’re bound to this promise whether you like it or not.” He pounded the table. “Set me free or be Hell Hound lunch.”

“O-or,” I said, watching his face, “I can just take you to the Spirit-Hunters in Paris. Joseph can set you free.”

“Who can set me free?”

I winced as a hot wave of nausea hit me. No more eating three lunches in a row. “The Spirit-

Hunters—they’re the ones who will help me with Marcus. Did Elijah not tell you about them? They were in Philadelphia when he . . .”

Oliver scowled, his eyebrows dropping so low they shaded his eyes. “When, pray tell, would Elijah have told me? He wouldn’t let me come to Philadelphia, remember?”

“He didn’t write?”

“No,” Oliver spat. “He didn’t bloody write.” He turned away, his jaw muscles twitching.

“Oh,” I murmured. Then, with a deep breath, I explained who the Spirit-Hunters were and how

Joseph’s specialty was blasting spirits back to their realm.

“The important word there is ‘blast,’” Oliver said, shifting back toward me. “He’ll probably destroy my soul like a Hell Hound.”