“So,” I said, forcing Oliver to look at me again. “Does a spirit or demon have to be called by a necromancer? Because Marcus crossed over without a necromancer’s help.”
Oliver’s eyebrows jumped. “The guardians didn’t sense him? He must be very strong then. Of course, yellow eyes would suggest that too.”
I fidgeted in my seat. My emotions were stewing in a way I knew best to avoid. Anger seemed the best approach, and if there was one feeling I could summon easily, it was rage. “First Elijah hid you from the guardians, then he made you his slave, and now you can’t use your magic. Plus, your master died.” My lips curled back. “Why, I’d say you’re not a very good demon, are you?”
Oliver cringed.
“And,” I continued, “I have to wonder why you weren’t in Philadelphia with my brother. Why didn’t you protect Elijah?”
Oliver screwed his eyes shut. “It was his necromancy that killed him, wasn’t it? He must’ve done something stupid and . . .” His words faded, fresh tears welling in his eyes.
For some reason, this only infuriated me more. “So you could have saved him? Why didn’t you, then? Why weren’t you there? If you really are—no, were—his demon, then why weren’t you with him when he died?”
Oliver flinched as if I’d slapped him, but his eyes stayed close. “E-Elijah sent me away. He knew he had to give me some impossible task so I’d be out of his way and couldn’t interfere.”
“That is quite a convenient excuse,” I said sharply, my voice rising. “Why, exactly, would he send his demon away?”
Oliver’s eyes snapped open. “He knew I’d try to stop him. I didn’t like what he wanted to do—the killing, the black magic. We argued. A lot.” He dabbed at his eyes and then guzzled back more rum, swishing it around in his mouth.
“You know what I think?” I watched him from the tops of my eyes. “I think you were careless.
You didn’t want to save him or be with him—”
“No,” Oliver breathed. “El, he gave me a direct command. I couldn’t disobey him—not while we were bound. I told him—so many times—that there was nothing good in Le Dragon Noir. I told him any ghost in the spirit realm should stay there, but Elijah . . . he was determined to resurrect your father.”
“Determined?” I gritted my teeth. “More like insane. Where did he send you?”
“We were in Luxor. He sent me to Giza to find the Old Man in the Pyramids.”
“The who?” I snapped.
“The only person in the universe who knows how to raise a . . . a terrible creature. The Black
Pullet.”
The Black Pullet. That sounded familiar. Then I remembered some of Elijah’s final words: I’ll go back to Egypt. I’ll resurrect the Black Pullet, and we’ll live in wealth for the rest of our days, and everything will be all right.
“And did you find the Old Man?” My voice was a low snarl. “Was this mission that kept you from saving Elijah at least a successful one?”
Oliver’s head shook once. “I couldn’t find a bloody thing, and by the time I got to New York to meet Elijah, he had already left for Philadelphia. He was probably already dead.”
I hugged my arms to my chest. It was a lot to take in, and the hot rage in my chest was spreading to my throat.
Here was some person—some monster—who not only knew my brother, but had spent the last three years with him. Three years that should have been mine. Three years during which Elijah had transformed from my loving brother into a vengeful murderer.
My eyes stung, and I bit my lip to keep the tears away.
“You know,” Oliver said, popping open the locket and glancing inside. “You’ve changed a lot since this photograph was made.” He tilted his head and squinted at me, his eyes overbright. “No wonder I didn’t recognize you sooner.”
My whole body stiffened. “Were you trying to find me?”
“No. I was trying to find Elijah’s letters, and, well . . . they led me to you.”
My heart beat faster. The letters—it was always about those damned letters. I glanced at the table of Frenchmen. As long as they were still here, I could keep talking to Oliver with some semblance of safety.
I looked back to the demon. To his unnatural beauty . . . and increasingly drunken comportment.
“What,” I said, my voice dangerously soft, “do you want with the letters, Oliver?”
“They’re all the ones I wouldn’t let Elijah send. I thought if I found them, I’d find him. ”
“You mean you kept him from sending me letters?”
“Egads, yes!” Oliver blinked quickly, as if it took a lot of concentration to focus. “They’re filled with explanations of necromancy—of spells and translated grimoire passages. It’s dangerous stuff.
Plus, he wrote to you almost every day. Like you were his diary.”
“Oh?” I wound my fingers in my skirts. “I don’t have three years’ worth of letters.”
“The ones you have are the ones he considered most valuable. He must’ve destroyed the others.