He frowned. “Well, you could at least protest a little. I thought you didn’t like it when Elijah drank. He said you got all worked up when he sipped your father’s whiskey.”
Somehow my spine straightened even more. I had done that, but the only person who would know was Elijah. “For one,” I said carefully, “I was more worried about Elijah getting caught than getting drunk. For two, I don’t care in the slightest about you.” I dipped my head toward the bottle. “Drink up.”
His lips twitched down. “You’re just as bossy as he is.”
“As he was,” I snapped. “Elijah’s dead.”
His face paled. “Dead?” He clapped a hand over his mouth and turned away.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s dead, and Marcus stole his body.”
“Blessed Eternity.” The young man grabbed at his hair. “No wonder I can’t find him. If he’s dead and his body has been possessed . . .” He popped off the bottle’s top and gulped back a long swig.
Then he dropped his head in his hands and began to weep.
I blinked, completely stunned. Either he was trying to catch me off guard or he was genuinely crushed to learn of Elijah’s death. But I was saved from deciding which by the arrival of my toast.
The waiter looked as horrified as I was by Oliver’s tears—especially when Oliver suddenly roused himself enough to latch on to the waiter’s sleeve. “Another bottle of gin, please.”
“Your cabin and name?”
“I’m with them.” He motioned to the inebriated Frenchmen.
The waiter’s eyebrows arched with disbelief.
Oliver, his eyes now bloodshot and nose puffy, shouted, “Vive la France!” And again the table burst into cheers.
“See?” Oliver demanded.
The waiter glowered but didn’t argue.
And all the while, I watched in sick fascination. “You’re not Marcus,” I said at last.
“No.” Oliver rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Is this Marcus the one who . . .” His voice cracked. “Who took Elijah’s body?”
“Yes.”
“I should’ve been there.” His jaw clenched. “Oh God, if only I had been there.”
My eyes narrowed, and in a wary tone, I said, “I thought that demons could not say the Lord’s name.”
He gave me a look halfway between a repulsed sneer and an amused smile. “Then you clearly know very little about demons. The myth is actually that I cannot say ‘Jesus’ and yet the name just crossed my lips, did it not?”
“Yes, it most assuredly did.” My words came out harsh. “So, pray tell, why should I believe you’re a demon then?”
“Why? Did you not see this?” He yanked out the locket, wrenching it full force against his neck.
Over and over, each movement more frantic than the last, he tried to snap the chain. Soon an angry red line was scored into his flesh.
Yet still he ripped at the necklace.
“Stop!” I cried.
“Only if you believe me. Do you see this, El?” Another yank. “I am bound.” He flung out his hand, releasing the locket. “Simply because the rumors fail to accurately portray my kind does not make me any less real.”
“Though nor does a chain that won’t break,” I retorted. “If you really want to convince me, you’ll have to give a better reason than that locket.”
Oliver rubbed the bridge of his nose, and an ache flared in my chest. It was such an Elijah-like gesture—the old Elijah, the skinny, child Elijah—that I could have been sitting next to my brother at that very moment.
No wonder he seemed so familiar on the pier.
Yet of course, this similarity was not enough to make me trust him. “I’m listening,” I said. “For now, so you had best tell your story quickly.”
He sucked back another swig of gin, and I noticed with a start that the bottle was almost empty.
Then, smacking his lips, he said, “I was . . . well, born isn’t the right word . . . more like created two hundred years ago. You see, demons are a lot like humans, only we live in the spirit realm. We grow and age and eventually go where all spirits go.”
I picked at the edge of my toast. “I thought spirits went to the spirit realm.”
“Oh no. There’s a final afterlife. First, though, your spirit has to travel through my home.”
“And your home is the spirit realm.”
“Yep. And demons”—he splayed his fingers gracefully across his chest—“start there before eventually passing into the great unknown.”
“So you’re dead.”
“No!” He snorted. “I’m very much alive. I merely come from a different realm is all. I’m made entirely of spiritual energy. Plus, I live— exist—a great deal longer than humans.”
Behind him, the Frenchmen burst into an animated debate. I had to lift my voice to be heard. “So if all you do is exist, then why are demons painted as creatures of evil?”