A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(34)

If Elijah had come to my rescue out of love, then what did that mean about Clarence Wilcox? Why had he saved me?

“However,” Oliver continued, “there is a much higher chance for broken hearts in the spirit realm.

More often than not, lovers get separated.” He spoke as if he’d experienced that separation firsthand.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Ollie, have you ever loved?”

He nodded slowly. “I loved your brother, and . . .” A shy smile spread over his lips. “I find I am starting to love you.”

I shifted in my seat, surprised by his honesty. “You do not mean . . . that is to say, you do not love me romantically.”

He barked a laugh. “Egads, no! Not for you—no, no.” Then his face sagged, and he turned away to stare out the window.

I desperately wanted to ask “For whom then?” but the way his lips compressed . . . he looked so utterly sad that I could not bring myself to do it.

Plus, at that moment, he withdrew a silver flask from his coat pocket and drank back something that smelled like whiskey.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded.

He smacked his lips. “I saw it in your roommate’s luggage and decided it was the perfect size for my hand.”

“You stole from Laure? But she’s your friend!”

He frowned. “Not Laure. That old goat-faced lady—”

“Mrs. Brown?” I squealed. “No! No! She carries a flask?”

“Carried,” he corrected.

I sniffed. “You’re awful. And you really must stop stealing.”

He opened his hands in a noncommittal way, and then after taking another long swig, he slumped down in his seat. “You know,” he drawled, “I actually know quite a lot about love from my many years of watching the universe—”

I groaned. “Oh, the wise demon doth speak. Hark so that we all may learn!”

He laughed, straightening slightly. “I’m serious. I’ve seen a lot of souls pass through my home, and I’ve seen a lot of loves still hanging on. Those long-lasting ones”—he tapped his heart—“are the ones filled with tenderness and smiles.”

“Oliver, the demon poet,” I said drily.

He rolled his eyes. “One last piece of advice, El: if this Spirit-Hunter does not love you back, then good riddance. Real love isn’t about drama or heartbreak. Real love just is.”

I ran my tongue over my teeth and stared silently outside. Oliver was right—I knew he was right.

With a sigh, I turned back toward him. “You remind me of Elijah, you know. The way you talk to me.

The things you say. You’re just like he was before . . . before . . .” I shook my head, unable to say the words.

A heartbroken smile dragged at Oliver’s lips and eyes. “I’m not surprised. When a necromancer calls for a demon, the one that answers is the one most similar to the necromancer.” His fingers went to the locket. “Elijah was a good man before revenge took over his mind.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat was pinched too tight. “He sacrificed himself at the end—jumped in front of one of the Hungry to save me.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” He bent forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “He cared about you more than anyone else in this universe. Even more than me— hard to imagine, I know.” The edges of his mouth twisted up.

“Tell me about him,” I urged. “Tell me what you used to do together.”

“Other than chess and riddles?” Oliver’s face shifted into a frown. “There was a great deal of eating . . . and sleeping. Oh, and studying. Can’t forget all the bloody libraries he used to drag me to.”

“What about . . . what about necromancy? I know you said you were more his friend than his tool, but surely he used your magic some. What spells did he have you do?”

Oliver’s frown deepened. “I’d rather not talk of it.”

“Please?”

“No.” He sat up. “Please, El. It’s too . . . too fresh.”

“Oh.” I hugged my arms over my stomach. “Then perhaps later?”

“Or perhaps never.”

“But why?”

He clutched at his heart and turned away. “Because it’s personal, that’s why. Can’t you be satisfied with knowing that he cared about you?”

“No.” I slid to the edge of my seat. “I can’t be satisfied with that. I need to know more—”

“Well, you won’t learn more from me.” He gestured almost tiredly to the window. “We’re coming into Paris, if you care to see.”

That ended my protests immediately, and I pressed myself as close to the window as I could get. In the distance, cast in pink, was a crowded city with layers that rose up like a cake and crawled with movement. It was like watching the dancers in a ballet, and I felt a sudden, deep urge to write bad poetry.

But the closer we got, the more the charm started to vanish. And the more complex the labyrinth of streets and buildings around us became, the more the filth and soot stood out.

“It’s so . . . so dirty,” I said at last.

“Ha!” Oliver barked. “Isn’t every city?”

“Philadelphia certainly is, but . . . I had this idea of Paris being . . . well . . . perfect.” I gnawed my lip. “Where are all the electric streetlamps? Or the bridges and gardens? The ones you see in the prints?”