Oliver recoiled. “Why?”
“If the body is gone, then Marcus cannot speak to Jacques’s spirit. No one can.” I reached up and dug my fingers into the gouged-out hole. “Help me remove the casket.”
“Wait.” Oliver’s hand fell on my forearm. “I want to speak to the spirit. Before we destroy the body.”
“Yes,” I said without glancing away. “I know you do.”
His fingers slid up my arm and then wrapped around my bicep. He twisted my body toward him. “Look at me.”
I complied, leveling him with a stare.
“We use my magic to raise him,” he said.
“No.” The word lashed out.
Oliver’s grip tightened. “Yes.”
I drew in a deep breath, my eyes never leaving his. “I want to use mine because—”
“I know bloody well what you want and why. Magic feels so good, doesn’t it?” His nose wrinkled up. “Magic helps you keep all that pain and guilt away. Yet you’re incapable of controlling your power, El. You’re too impulsive.” Before I could argue, he brought his face near mine. “Elijah could not raise this body, which means it must have required a huge amount of magic and skill. Yes, you have the power, but you do not have the discipline.”
“Why would you think—”
“Yesterday,” he spoke over me, “you betrayed me. Twice. You were careless with Elijah’s letters, and you forced me to touch electricity. You killed a piece of my immortal soul, and then”—he dipped closer—“only hours ago, you crossed into the spirit realm with no concern for your life or mine. I must learn how to find the Old Man in the Pyramids, Eleanor, and I will not let your recklessness and bloodlust stand in the way of fulfilling my final command from Elijah. This is my only remaining way to learn where the Old Man is, so I will raise Jacques Girard, and you will stand by and observe.”
“What if,” I snarled, “I refuse to command you? You cannot use your magic otherwise.”
Oliver’s eyes blazed even brighter than the candle. “If you refuse me in this, Eleanor, then you have truly become Elijah—and even you can no longer deny it.”
For several heartbeats I held his stare. I wanted to be the one to summon Jacques because I wanted to use my magic. And . . . a throbbing, tender part of me wanted to do it to spite Oliver. To prove to him that I could control my magic—that I was powerful.
And that I was not Elijah.
But at last I simply lifted one shoulder and schooled my face into apathy. “Fine, Oliver. You raise Jacques.” I flipped my hand in the air. “Sum veritas.”
Oliver’s eyes flashed blue, and the magic from my command spun through my chest. Then my demon bared his teeth in a triumphant grin and shoved the candle back into my hand.
Bracing one leg on the wall for leverage, Oliver dug his fingers into the broken tomb cover.
Minutes passed, and the only sounds were Oliver’s breaths and bits of rubble breaking. I watched, silent and fuming. My fingers held the ivory fist, but as before, its usual magical hum did not comfort me.
Just when my lips parted to bark “Faster!” at Oliver, something deep within the wall snapped. Rock grated on rock, and with each fresh heave, the casket—or rather the stone slab on which it lay—began to move. In minutes Oliver had the wooden casket exposed.
The top half of its lid was missing. Oliver peeked inside . . . and instantly flinched back. “Nothing left but a skeleton.” He rubbed his forehead on his sleeve. “But it will be enough.” He did not look at me or wait for any sort of go-ahead or nod. He simply eased one hand into the open casket, his face scrunched up, and began to chant.
His eyes slowly shifted to blue—a gradual glow of his magic instead of the usual, explosive flare—and as his mouth moved, his skin took on a soft, ethereal sheen as well.
But then thunder boomed.
His words broke off. I jolted toward the crypt’s entrance. It had been a distant sound, but there was no mistaking it—I knew that explosive sound too well.
“Dynamite,” I whispered. Then I turned back to Oliver. “It’s a pulse bomb. Keep going.”
Oliver’s nostrils flared, but he did as he was told.
As his words picked up once more, a rhythmic song that filled the crypt, I lifted my candle and crept back toward the entrance. My senses slid along the length of my awareness spell, but I felt nothing. We were still alone . . . yet for how long?
The hairs on my neck pricked up, and each of my footsteps seemed oddly muffled. There was electricity in this crypt. It’s just Oliver’s magic, I told myself. But I wasn’t convinced. This had a different feel—a layered, coated feel that was nothing like the pure, bright surge of Oliver’s magic.
The rattle of bones suddenly filled the crypt. I stopped midstride just as Oliver roared out, “He’s awake!”