“Revenge?” I repeated, incredulous. “Marcus must be purged from this earth, and it has nothing to do with revenge. Even you said he no longer belongs here—that his time has already come.”
“Huh.” Oliver unscrewed the flask top, twisting back to the porthole. “I did say that, didn’t I? And it was only two days ago. How funny.” He gulped back liquor, and his cheeks briefly brightened with drink. His yellow eyes too.
“What is funny?”
“How much has changed in two days.” He returned the flask to his pocket.
And I gritted my teeth. He had come here to wake me . . . and to scold me. Yet now he was a wall of defiance. “And what precisely has changed?”
No response at first. Then with his focus still on the shining sea outside, he said, “I saw what Elijah truly was. I saw the black soul inside him and what sort of necromancer he had become.”
I reared back. “That was not Elijah in Marseille.”
“Close enough,” Oliver muttered to himself. “It is what he would have become.” Then louder, “I am not on this team, Eleanor. I will never be on this team any more than I will ever be human. Remember that.”
Demon. Jie’s voice whispered through my brain—the way she had looked at Oliver. The way he had vanished afterward.
“Once I find the Old Man,” he went on, “then I am done with this. Jacques Girard told me what must be done, and once this command”—he clutched at his stomach, his teeth clenching—“is complete, then I can go home. You may set me free, and I can return to my peaceful existence in the spirit realm. Finally.”
“But what of Marcus? He must be stopped.”
“I do not care about Marcus.”
“He stole Elijah’s body.” I grabbed Oliver’s shoulder, tried to turn him toward me. “I thought that mattered to you.”
“No.” The word shot out. Then, faster than I could react, Oliver closed me in against the wall. “Elijah,” he whispered, “got exactly what he deserved, El. Can you not see that? There is nothing to avenge.”
“You loved him. You told me you loved him.”
“And he betrayed me.” Oliver moved back, and he glared at me through half-closed lids. “First loves are blind. And second loves . . .” He snorted, shifting back to the porthole once more. “Second loves are even more so.”
“So you will leave me?” I grabbed at his arm.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“H-how? I have to set you free—within two months. That was the deal.” My fingers fisted around the fabric of his sleeve. “If I do not set you free, then you cannot leave me.”
“Is that what you think?” The edge of his lip twitched up. “Oh, naive Eleanor. You only ever see what you want to see, don’t you? Take me, for example.” His face angled toward me. “You only see a demon bound to his master—and you’re right. I may not be a man . . . but it does not mean I lack for feelings.
“I have wants too,” he went on, “and the more I’m trapped in this human body, the more I find myself wanting like a man wants. Feeling like a man feels. As if the demon pieces of my soul are rubbing off and washing away.” He dipped in closer, his voice dropping to a mere whisper. “So be careful, El. Be careful how you treat me, for one day you may find you’ve pushed me too far.”
You might wake up and find me gone.
His threat pulsed through my skull. Actual words—just like the jackal’s.
I gasped, releasing his sleeve. “How did you do that? Put your thought inside my mind?”
“There is much I can do that you do not know about.” Oliver flourished his hands and sauntered back two steps—though a stiffness marked the movement, as if he too might have been surprised.
“But . . . you cannot leave me,” I insisted. “You need me—to command your magic.”
“Then I suppose you will have to push me too far, El, and see what happens. Or”—his eyes narrowed—“if you bear me any affection at all, then simply be kind. And please, do not go into the spirit realm. You risk us both each time you do.” Then, with a graceful twirl, he moved toward the door. “What is the line, El? From A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Something about a spaniel . . .”
“‘I am your spaniel,’” I said hollowly, watching him cross the cabin. “‘And the more you beat me, I will fawn on you.’”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. Except . . .” He pulled the door lightly open and glanced back at me with a pained smile. “I am not a spaniel, and the more you beat me, I will run.”
I stared at the sunrise for what felt like hours. Oliver’s words had cut deep, and though I did not see how he could leave me—I was the master; he was bound to me—I was scared to test his threat. If he could speak straight into my mind, what else could he do?
As selfish as I knew it was, Oliver was the only thing I had left from my former life. The only thing that still tied me to Elijah. I needed that bond, for in just two short weeks, my magical link to this demon had become as familiar to me as my pulse.