“Tell me how to do it, Oliver, and I will set you free.”
His hand lifted; his fingers gripped around my wrist. “No.” His voice was so quiet, I could barely hear it. But then he took a step closer, and his voice trickled in my ear. “I cannot let you do this. I was wrong about you. You are not Elijah. And I see that now.”
I did not move—though my heart did. Something about those simple words made my pulse stumble and my gut tighten.
And when Oliver’s free hand slipped behind my head, I still did not move. Nor when his fingers tangled in my hair or his forehead lowered to touch mine.
“You asked me how I could speak to your mind, El, and I told you that there were many things demons could do.” He gave a dry, whispering laugh. “The truth was, I didn’t know how I’d done it. I’d never done that with Elijah—and my thoughts had never reached you before either. Not until that moment when . . .”
“When?” I breathed.
“When I realized I . . .” His words died on his tongue, and he shook his head ever so slightly against mine. “It’s our bond. Don’t you see? It’s so strong. So much deeper than what I had with Elijah. So much . . . bigger.”
And you think that’s why we can do this? I asked. Speak to each other mind to mind?
Yes. The word shimmered through my brain, bright and poignant. That is why we can do this, so are you sure you want to give it all up?
“I . . .” My voice cracked. “I want you to be happy. That means letting you go.”
“But if you set me free,” he whispered, “you will lose your hand.”
“I know.”
“And you will no longer be able to use my magic. Or even touch it.”
“I know. But you were right, Oliver. Like you said on the airship, I must let go of everyone I love. And that includes you.”
He smiled sadly. “I appreciate that you have listened to me for once, but I don’t think this is what you actually want. You feel guilty—am I right? You saw my pain and my memories, and now you pity me.” He shifted as if to draw away.
“No,” I croaked, yanking him closer. “That isn’t it at all. This . . . this is it.”
I tipped up my chin and stared into his yellow eyes. . . .
And then I bared my soul to Oliver.
I poured everything I had through our deep, wide bond. My life in Philadelphia, before Father died. Then after. Before Elijah’s return—then after that too.
I showed Oliver how much I had loved my brother—idolized him. He had been older and so clever, and I had always trusted everything he did or said.
I let my pain for Clarence crash out of me. My heartbreak when Daniel rejected me, and the tears when Mama disowned me. My bone-deep terror over Jie. My grinding hatred for Allison.
I gave Oliver everything I had—and I showed how much I loved him too. How much I loved and relied on him, both as a demon and as a man.
Yet I also showed him how fear lived inside me. Fear that I had changed him, fear that he had changed me. Fear that we could never exist apart . . . unless I let him go now.
Bit by bit, memory by memory and heartbeat by heartbeat, I showed my soul to Oliver until there was nothing left to give.
Then as the final pieces of who I was washed over our bond, I tried to let him go. To pry my soul from his—and to release my grip on his locket.
“Wait,” he rasped, squeezing my wrist and tightening his fingers in my hair. “Don’t do it. Don’t break the bond. Not yet.”
“This is what you wanted.”
His head nodded, his nose touching mine. I want to go home, he whispered to my mind. But if you do this, I will leave you.
“Then,” I whispered, my lips skimming over his chin, “that is what you should do. Leave. No more commands. No more pain. Find what you want, and I will find what I want.”
And with those words, I let him go completely. My fingers released the locket. My heart released his soul.
Oliver staggered back, his eyes brilliant as the sun. Then he began to cough.
And I began to cough too.
I was drowning . . . no—I was suffocating. There was a hole in my body, and it was real this time.
I gaped down, watching my chest billow ineffectively. Oliver was gone from me. I had lost him.
“Oh God,” I wheezed. My gaze leaped back to him. But his yellow eyes swayed in my vision.
He stumbled close and gripped the sides of my face. “Desperate measures.” His words were rough and broken. “Desperate measures to do what needs to be done. Thank you. Thank you.”
Then he dropped his hands, pressed the glowworms into my left palm, and lurched to the ladder.
And for several agonizing seconds, all I could do was watch him climb the rungs and disappear. My lungs heaved and heaved. I tried to claw at my throat . . .
But I had no hand.
My right wrist was a puckered, shadowy scar. Green in the glowworms’ light. “Stay,” I tried to call after him.
I shambled to the ladder and clumsily ascended—only to topple up through the hole and into the harsh moonlight.