“Well, I was puzzled by it. Pharaon. Pharaoh.” He licked his lips as if tasting the word. The breeze twined through his hair, brushing strands onto his forehead. Into his eyes.
He did not seem drunk now. He seemed poised. Dominant. Demon. His legs slid into a slow, predatory gait around me.
“You are not even male,” he murmured, his gaze roving up and down the length of me as he paced. “So why would Girard label you with such a title?”
“I don’t know,” I said, keeping my eyes firmly ahead. I would not let Oliver take control of this moment.
“Well, I asked Girard that question.” Oliver stalked behind me and then leaned in toward my ear. “Imagine my surprise,” he whispered, “when he said you carry an artifact. An imperial artifact that marks you as pharaoh.”
Cold slid through me. Yet I stayed very still and kept my face blank.
Oliver resumed his careful walk until he was back in front of me. Until his glowing eyes bored into mine. “Girard told me this artifact is an ivory hand, and funnily enough, I recalled someone else with such a hand. Someone in Paris who is now dead.”
“If you have known so long,” I said coolly, “then why have you said nothing until now?”
“Because you said nothing to me.” He cocked his head to one side. “I thought I would see how long before you did share—for surely you would tell me eventually. Me. Your demon. But then what should happen tonight?” His eyebrows lifted. “I watched as you received the final pieces of the artifact.” He tipped his face toward me. “Yet you still. Said. Nothing.”
“You . . . you saw?” My mind raced back to that frozen moment when Thutmose II had knelt and offered me the ivory tusks. “How did you see? O-or know?”
“Time might have slowed, El. My brain, my eyes—they did not.”
“You should have said something.”
His nostrils flared. “No, you should have said something.”
I compressed my lips. I owed him no apology.
He pulled back, and with a forced nonchalance, he leaned against the obelisk. “But why ruin this perfect night, hmm? You and your inventor. So happy.” He spread his hands. “It amazes me how easily you forget all the darkness surrounding you, El. How blind you are to your own corruption. Luckily, I am here to remind you. Let us see. . . .” He ticked off one finger. “First, your brother killed Miss Wilcox’s brother—among many other victims, murdered at his hands.”
My teeth gritted as Oliver ticked off a second finger. “Then he died, and a necromancer took possession of his body.”
My teeth gritted harder. Why could he never let me have one moment’s peace? “Stop.”
A third and fourth finger unfurled. “That same necromancer wearing Elijah’s skin then killed your mother and compelled your best friend—”
My hand cracked out. I slapped him. Pain lanced up my arm, and he lolled against the obelisk. Yet he did not stop speaking. “You are as blackened as Elijah now, Eleanor, and no matter how fast you run, you cannot escape what you are becom—”
I attacked.
It was as if a switch went off inside me. I lost all sense of who I was. I simply saw Oliver’s gloating, perfect face, and I wanted to shred it.
My fingers grabbed at his cheeks. He spun away—but I expected it. We were connected. I knew what he would do.
I lashed out with my leg and tripped him. He tumbled forward, tangling in my skirts, and I sprang onto his back—pummeling. Scratching. Hissing.
His chest hit the earth. I landed on him, clutching for his neck—for the soft flesh above his pulse.
He flipped me. In half a breath, wheat and grass streamed along the sides of my vision. I crashed onto my back. My breath punched out. Oliver pinned my arms over my head.
I fought. I kicked.
But my demon was strong. He held me firmly trapped.
“What do you want?” I screeched at him, writhing. “Why do you do this?”
“Let’s call it a final attempt to reclaim my dignity.”
“But why do you torment me?” I fought harder. I kicked harder. “You know what shadows chase me—why can I have no happiness?”
“Because I cannot, and I am a petty soul.”
“What?” My fury burst out in a sigh of confusion—and the wind carried it all away.
“I am unhappy, and I am petty.” Oliver spat into the grass, and in a careful, deliberate move, he released my arms . . . and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You do not know what it is like to live completely driven by a command.”
“You’re wrong,” I rasped, my lungs heaving for air. “I do know what . . . it feels like. I am driven every day to . . . obliterate Marcus.”
“Exactly.” Oliver planted his hands on either side of my head and leaned down. His eyes throbbed with golden light. “You live by what moves you. I live by what moves my master. I have no drive of my own. No loyalties. And no love.”
“Still . . . wrong.” I swallowed and wet my lips. “You have me.”
“Do I?” he said softly. Then he rolled off me and collapsed on the grass beside me. “I do not have you at all, Eleanor, and you were right. He does know you better.”