A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(30)

“You’re just being dramatic.” Sweat beaded on my brow, and I dabbed at it. I craved water to cool me, but I knew there wasn’t any space in my stomach for it.

“I am not being dramatic.” Oliver glared, offended and . . . and something else. Something dark.

Something angry. But I couldn’t tell if it was directed at me, the Spirit-Hunters, or someone else entirely.

The lines on his face relaxed, and he said almost flippantly, “How about this: you learn necromancy. Then you can set me free the old-fashioned . . .” He stopped speaking, and his eyebrows drew together. “Are you ill? You look a little green.”

I swallowed. “I . . . I think I ate too much.”

“Of course you did!”

“Can you help me walk to my cabin?” I made to stand up, but he flicked up his hand and stopped me.

“Not that you deserve this after intentionally stuffing your face, but I can ease your gluttonous pains if you wish.” He fingered the chain around his neck. “All you have to do is say the words.”

“Sum veritas? How will that make my stomachache go—” I broke off and dropped my gaze to my belly. The trickle of warmth was sliding through me, glowing faintly blue.

I gasped because, oh, I loved it. It was two long heartbeats of perfection, and then when the haze cleared, I realized my nausea had vanished.

And fear grabbed hold of my chest. I jerked my head toward Oliver. “Wh-why’d you do that?”

His eyes were wide, scared. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask for it!” I was terrified because my body wanted more— needed more—of that magic.

“Actually, you did.” He lunged to his feet. “Don’t be mad—but you said it. You said the command.”

I stood. “That’s all it takes? I just say those words and the magic comes?”

“Not normally.” He backed up several steps. “It’s just that you were thinking about relief and I was also thinking about relief, and then you said the words, so . . .” He snapped his fingers.

I advanced on him, my mind a jumble of terror and desire. “If it’s so easy to use your magic, Oliver, then am I always at risk?”

“Not all spells are a risk. This one was good, right? Your face is healed too.”

“What?” I roared. Other passengers turned to stare, but I didn’t care. I frantically patted my face—

it was smooth. Perfect. Unnatural.

My breath came in gasps. I had to get out of here!

I tried to march by Oliver, but he grabbed my elbow. “Where’re you going?”

“Away!” I wrenched my arm free. “This . . . it’s all too easy, Oliver!”

“But not normally. This was just circumstance.”

“Then let’s not put ‘circumstance’ to the test anymore today.” I massaged my forehead, willing my heart to settle. “I’ll be in my room if you need me—though I’d prefer you not need me.” Then I dropped my hands and stalked away from him.

“I really am sorry,” he called after me. But nothing in his voice sounded sorry to me. I was shaking with nervous energy—with fear.

I couldn’t deny that magic felt good.

Worse—and what truly scared me—was that for all my proclamations of not casting more spells, I desperately wanted more.

We reached Le Havre five days later on a bright Tuesday morning. I still refused to learn necromancy, and Oliver still refused to meet the Spirit-Hunters—though, it was not so hard to understand why. They had been Elijah’s enemies, and they did hunt creatures such as him.

The closer we got to France, the more a strange panic seemed to boil in my chest.

One would think that the safety of the Spirit-Hunters would soothe my anxiety. Certainly Joseph’s solid reliability was welcome—as was Jie’s friendship.

But Daniel? Our awkward final moments had been bad enough. Add in my constant waffling from indignant hate to pathetic longing, and I was a veritable typhoon of contradictory emotion. Half of me was desperate to see him; half of me hoped never to lay eyes on him again.

“Shakespeare had no blasted idea what he was talking about,” I growled, leaning against the promenade deck’s rail. I had given up my pride and let Laure convince me to sneak up with the first-

class passengers so we could watch our arrival in Le Havre.

“Pardon?” she asked. “What about Shakespeare?” She pronounced the name “Shock-eh-spear.”

“I said, he had no idea about love or anything.”

“You’re in a fine mood,” Oliver said, coming to the rail beside me. “Something the matter?”

“No,” I growled, swatting a bonnet ribbon from my face. Laure and Oliver exchanged mocking glances, and with a groan, I marched away from them. They’d become the best of friends ever since discovering their mutual interest in flirting. And, while I’d been grateful to have the demon occupied elsewhere, I had begun to find their tendency to gang up on me thoroughly insufferable.

I moved to another empty spot on the handrail and focused on the approaching city. The climate was perfect, thanks to the sea—sunny, yet cool—and the view was absolutely picturesque. Le Havre was a city of white buildings that hugged the shore while great, black ships paced the harbor in front.