Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(7)

Then without another word and with his unnatural, demonic grace, he strode to the door and left.

I lay on my bunk for a time, staring at the curved, metal walls. Joseph’s and Daniel’s voices drifted through my open door from the cockpit. Allison was, I assumed, on board as well, but where, I did not know—and I was too focused on Oliver’s words to worry over it.

Was he right? Would I push everyone away as Elijah had? The way this bright, hot guilt burned along my shoulders and through my chest, the words felt all too true.

But maybe this was another of my demon’s tricks—another cruel twist of words to keep me wallowing in pain and grief. Maybe he pushed my friends away.

I had accused him of that once before, in Paris. First Jie had discovered Oliver’s existence and raced off in a rage. Then Oliver had interrupted Daniel and me right before Daniel was going to kiss me. And of course, seeing Oliver had sent Daniel into a wild, red-faced fury.

One by one, Oliver had turned my friends against me, whittling away my allies until I had only him. Perhaps he did the same now.

You cannot give in to him, I ordered myself, and with a forceful huff of breath, I shoved aside all those black thoughts. I would focus on my magic instead. So warm, so perfect. The further I sank into it, the less I had to feel. The less I had to think.

Yet I could not seem to make the heady contentment come. It wasn’t muffling my troubles as it usually did. The magic was fading too fast—so quickly, in fact, that I feared there was a hole in my chest through which it leaked. And if I looked down, I would see straight through to the other side.

I drew in a big breath, begging the thrum of power to stay . . . to grow, when my right hand slid into my pocket.

And my knuckles grazed against something grooved and smooth and palm sized.

I stiffened, then wrenched the ivory fist from my pocket and sat upright in bed. I had completely forgotten I had it, and as I traced the lifelike wrinkles and fingernails carved into it, I finally felt something.

I felt the air slide into my lungs. I felt my heart beat steadily in my chest. And I felt better. Stronger.

I didn’t know what this artifact was—only that it was magical. And ancient. I had originally thought it was an amulet and that it contained a vast compulsion spell. But Madame Marineaux had told me I was wrong.

It is a far more powerful artifact than any amulet, she had said. And yet she’d offered no more explanation to what the carved ivory might be or what it might do. Then, just as the Hell Hounds were blasting her soul into oblivion, she had shown me where to find it. She had planted the image of the fist into my brain, and I had claimed the artifact for myself. There was something so appealing about it. As if whatever power lived within was somehow pulsing out when I held it. When I watched it.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. I balked, and thrust the ivory fist back into my pocket. I would tell Oliver and the Spirit-Hunters about the fist eventually. But there was no need to tell them now—not when we would be in Marseille soon and dealing with Marcus. Whatever this strange artifact was, it could wait.

Someone cleared his throat, and I found Joseph standing in the doorway, fingers on his bandages.

I swung my legs off the bunk. “Yes?”

Joseph’s hand dropped. “I came to offer you my condolences.” His voice was gravelly with exhaustion. “The loss of a mother is something no one should have to endure.”

“Yet we all must at some point,” I said flatly.

“True.” He sank into a bow. “Nonetheless, I am sorry, Eleanor. I feel . . .” He lifted, his forehead drawn tight. “I feel as if this is my fault. I could not see what Marcus was becoming all those years ago. I did not stop him until it was too late.”

Marcus had been Joseph’s childhood friend. They’d both trained their magic with the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. Yet Marcus had turned to a darker power—to necromancy and sacrifice—and all the while, the Voodoo Queen and Joseph had remained oblivious.

“That was years ago,” I murmured.

“Yet guilt is the one wound time cannot heal.” Joseph’s fingers moved to a series of scars on his left cheek—gifts from Marcus. “Some days I catch myself missing his friendship. Such a mind—and a sense of humor too. We used to be inseparable. . . . But no one wants to believe their dearest friend is a murderer. Even when the facts are right before you.”

Then Joseph surprised me—shocked me, really—for he heaved a sigh, and his posture slouched. For the first time since I had met him three months past, the Creole looked lost. And young.

“I cannot believe he has Jie,” he said, shaking his head. “If you are right—if that hair clasp from Madame Marineaux was the amulet that compelled Jie to join Marcus—then it is one more thing I was too blind to see. One more person I foolishly trusted.”

My chest tightened with a twinge of anger. Of hurt. And even a twinge of shame.

“I trusted Madame Marineaux too,” I admitted. “None of us could have known what she really was, Joseph.”

“No.” His eyes thinned thoughtfully. Then he glanced into the hall and toward the airship’s aft. Toward where Oliver had walked only minutes ago.

He was thinking that I trusted Oliver. That I did not know what my demon really was . . . And he was right. I trusted Oliver with my life, yet I understood nothing of his desires or motivations. I knew none of my demon’s secrets.