Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(5)

“It’s fine,” I repeated more forcefully. I did not want bandages. I wanted Oliver’s magic—warm and safe. Then I wanted solitude.

“Please, Daniel,” I added. “You should get back to flying.”

“Joseph’s at the helm. He’ll be fine for a few more minutes.” He lowered his voice and dipped in close. “Please, just heal yourself the normal way—”

“Magic is the normal way for her.” Oliver’s drawl held the same false apathy.

Daniel’s teeth gritted, but he held my gaze. “Please, Empress?”

For half a breath I considered bandages and salves. It would please Daniel, and I wanted that. . . . But then another splat! filled the cabin. More blood on the floor. Traditional healing would take weeks; I did not have weeks.

So I said, “No, Daniel.”

Hurt flashed over his face. His body tensed . . . but he made no move to leave. He simply stared at me, pain and frustration and . . . disgust warring in his gaze.

I understood his feelings—he believed, as Joseph did, that my magic corrupted me. That necromancy festered inside my soul.

But he and Joseph were wrong, and if Daniel truly wanted to help me, he would accept my magic as it was. Just as I accepted him for who he was: a man with a criminal past and dark memories.

“You heard her,” Oliver said, sauntering closer. He wore a smile as fake as his voice. “She asked you to go, Danny Boy.”

Red exploded on Daniel’s cheeks. In a violent twist, he rounded on Oliver and slammed him to the wall. “You have poisoned her mind, demon.”

Oliver’s eyes flared bright gold. “And you,” he growled, all his indifference gone, “have poisoned her heart.”

Daniel’s fist reared back . . .

And I finally moved. “Stop!” I staggered toward them. “Just stop!”

Daniel froze, his gaze fixed on Oliver’s face. . . . Then his breath whooshed out. His fist fell. “I-I’m sorry, Empress—”

“Empress,” Oliver said with a snort. “That’s so bloody obnoxious.”

Daniel flung him a sneer. “Go to hell, demon.”

“If only I could,” Oliver retorted.

“Enough,” I snapped at Oliver. Then to Daniel. “Please. Let me heal the way I wish to be healed.”

Daniel eyed me slantwise, and his chest rose and fell as he visibly tried to gain control of his temper.

But he lost; his temper won.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Use your magic. I have an airship to fly.” Then, shoulders tensed, he strode through the door.

Oliver waited until Daniel was out of sight, then he eased the door shut and turned to me. Any semblance of nonchalance was gone entirely now. “What,” he hissed, “just happened?”

“He doesn’t like you,” I said softly.

“He is not what I meant, and you know it.”

I did know it.

“Though,” Oliver went on, glaring at the door, “I will say that man is too volatile for you.”

“Hmmm.” I watched as another drop of blood spattered on the floor.

“Hmmm?” Oliver repeated, closing the space between us. “It does not bother you that he cannot control his temper?”

I lifted my gaze. “Daniel knows me better than anyone else.”

Oliver’s face hardened—his posture too. Even his single word, “Oh,” was made of stone. Then suddenly he pushed his face into mine. “And does Daniel know you just crossed into the spirit realm? Because I know.”

“I forgot to cast my dream ward.”

“Really? After almost losing your life to the Hell Hounds several times, you simply forgot the one thing that keeps you safe. Sorry, El, but I do not believe you.” He twisted away and stomped to the porthole. “Your grief makes you a fool.”

I stretched my hands toward him. “Please heal me, Ollie.” My voice cracked. I wanted his magic—and not just for the wounds. I needed it to soften the blade gouging out my insides.

“No.” Oliver planted his hands on the wall and stared out the window. “What were you thinking, El? I can’t protect you if you’re in the spirit realm, and you can’t set me free if you’re dead. Recall: death already claimed your brother, and that is what got us in this demon-and-master tangle in the first place. So please—for my sake—stop being such a bloody idiot.”

I flinched. “You are as volatile as Daniel is.”

“Temperamental, perhaps,” Oliver admitted, swinging his gaze to me. “But only when you have earned it. Daniel is cruel whenever his feelings are hurt.”

“Do not,” I spat, “try to turn me against Daniel. I love him, and your words will not change that.”

Oliver snorted and turned back to the porthole. “He puts you through quite a lot of heartbreak for love—”

“Enough.” I crossed the room and thrust my hands at him. “I want these cuts healed, so do it.”

“You want me to heal your grief, you mean.” He withdrew his flask and gulped back liquor. “Just admit it, El. You want me to erase all your sadness. Well, I fear I cannot. Nothing can heal that sort of wound. Though you might try this.” He offered me the flask.

“No.” A frustrated hunger burned in my stomach, briefly erasing the stab of loss. The knife of regret. “You will heal me now, Ollie.”