“Perhaps I did,” he agreed, “and perhaps I inflated your ego too much in the process. You are strong, but you are not omnipotent.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Nor does it atone for what you did to me last night—forcing me to touch electricity. . . . I can never forgive you.”
Before I could open my mouth to argue—to explain how his power saved all of Paris—he said, “And what of Laure?” His eyes opened and latched on to mine. “She is your friend, yet you killed her—you actually killed her when you brought that corpse back to life. If I hadn’t been there to save her, then Laure would be dead now. And”—his eyebrows rose—“as if that was not bad enough, you promised to explain everything to her. Yet instead, you left her in Paris with nothing but a note.”
“That,” I ground out, “was my only choice. We have to reach Marseille before Marcus does—you know that. And as for the butler’s corpse, raising it was an accident.”
“Accident or no, you have pushed Laure away.” He ticked off one finger. “And you have pushed me away.” He ticked off a second finger. “Who will be next, El? I understand how much you want to make Marcus pay, but at what cost—”
“How can you possibly comprehend?” I cut in, my pitch rising. “Do you have a family? Or loved ones? Or someone you would give your very life to protect? No,” I went on, unconcerned when his nostrils flared or his breath hitched. “You have none of those things, so do not speak to me as if you understand.”
For a long moment he stayed silent. His lips pressed tighter and tighter, turning into a white line.
Then I felt it. Felt the deep, agonizing pain that lived inside him.
He didn’t mean for me to feel it—it simply shuddered over our bond and then instantly vanished again.
Yet I almost staggered back from the force of it. I had to bite the inside of my mouth to keep my face blank. I would not give him the satisfaction of thinking he had gained something with that display.
“You’re dismissed,” I said, swiveling away and crossing to the bunk.
“Am I?” Oliver barked a laugh. “You will push everyone away, El. Even your precious Danny Boy.”
I flung myself onto the bunk and squeezed my eyes shut. “Do not act as if you care for my life, Oliver. You only want me around so I may set you free.”
Fabric shifted and feet padded. I popped my eyes wide—to find Oliver only inches away, his body angled down. “You’re right,” he whispered. “I have no family. Yet I do have a home—a spirit realm that I will do anything to return to. You see me as your tool, Eleanor, and I see you as mine. After we destroy Marcus and my responsibilities are complete, do not forget: you owe me.”
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 pilothouse. 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.