Oliver scratched his head. “You’re certain it was him?”
“Yes. And I saw an old friend of mine—one of Elijah’s victims, actually.”
He grimaced. “It sounds like their spirits were there to help you—on purpose— which makes me think that somehow they knew you were in danger. Like maybe they were watching out for you.”
“So that was really Elijah?”
Oliver nodded. “His spirit, yes.”
My throat closed tight. Elijah and Clarence—two people I’d have given anything to speak to again.
It would seem Oliver was thinking the same thing, for he said, “Did Elijah, um . . . well, did he say anything?”
“Like what?” I stepped onto the main stairs, paused, and gripped the left handrail until my knuckles were white.
“Like maybe a message,” Oliver explained. “For me.”
“No.” I resumed my descent, adding gruffly, “There wasn’t exactly time.”
“Right.” He shambled after me. “Of course not. Silly of me to have hoped.” He stared at the steps, his pace steady. Then his head snapped up. “Never mind. We have more important things to dwell on.
Like seeing the doctor. And figuring out why the Hell Hounds are after you—oh, and figuring out how they keep finding you.”
“We?” I paused on the next landing. “I don’t trust you.”
“No.” He tapped his chin, and his lips curved up in an almost arrogant smile. “But even if you don’t, I’m the only person who can help you right now. You told me you knew about necromancy, but obviously that was a lie. The first lesson in necromancy has to do with the Hell Hounds: Don’t mess with them. They’ll blast your soul straight into the final afterlife. No second chances. No questions asked. There’s a reason I never let down my guard, and those dogs are it. If they manage to sense me here—to recognize I’m in the wrong realm—I’ll be gone in an instant.”
“So . . .” I bit my lip, my grip still tight on the handrail. “If you hadn’t woken me just now . . .”
“No more Eleanor Fitt.”
I sucked in. There was a lot I didn’t know—and now I owed my life to a demon because of it.
Fantastic.
Oliver cleared his throat. “It was total luck, actually. Like I said, I never drop my guard. When I sensed the Hounds were here and not after me, I thought . . . well, I assumed the worst. I saw you on the dock in Philadelphia, you know—saw how you reacted when the Hounds came. And so I ran to see if you could sense them this time. To make sure you were all right. Luckily I was able to distract you —by waking you up—and that sent the Hounds away.”
“Distract me,” I repeated slowly. “It seems that every time my thoughts are elsewhere, the Hounds disappear.” I lifted my wrist. “And so does the pain in my hand.”
His eyes grew wide. “Your hand? It hurts when the Hounds come?”
“Yes, and it even starts flickering—like the ghost of my hand is somehow here.”
“Because it is!” He sprang onto the next landing and spun to face me. “Oh hell, it’s clever—don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see at all.”
“Your hand—or the spirit of your hand—is trying to cross the curtain. The Hell Hounds are doing what they do best: stopping it.”
“But why would my hand try to cross?” I clutched my wrist to my chest and strode past him onto the next flight of stairs. “Does it have its own spirit?”
Oliver joined me. “Sort of. Remember what I said about phase changes? Well, the spirit form—
the, ah, water form—of your hand still exists. Only your ice form—your earthly body—is missing a hand. You must have cast a spell that’s calling your soul hand here. Then, because it’s not hidden from the Hounds, they attack every time it tries to cross.”
“Except that I haven’t cast a spell.”
“So someone else is calling your hand then. Someone who wants you dead, I’d say. But your hand isn’t magically bound to you, so it’s not hidden from the guardians.”
My eyes widened. “Marcus! He must be the one calling my hand!”
“You mean the necromancer wearing Elijah’s . . .” Oliver’s face tightened. “Him?”
“Yes. He’s the only person I can think of who could cast a spell like that. He wants something from me—” I broke off. I didn’t want Oliver to know Marcus wanted the letters as well. Not before I knew what exactly was in those letters that made them so valuable.
Beside me, Oliver shivered. “This Marcus must know quite a few tricks to cast such an advanced spell. If he is really the one behind this, he must know a lot about you as well—if he knows your hand is missing, I mean.”
I gulped. Mama must have told him.
“There’s no way you’ll be able to escape him,” Oliver went on. “Not without learning some necromancy.”
“No,” I spat. “I’m not doing that.” We rounded another landing and moved onto the final flight.