“What do you mean?”
His mouth bobbed open with disbelief—but it quickly transformed into a smirk. “You don’t know what the Black Pullet is, do you?” He stopped walking, and the breeze swept through his curls. “All this with Elijah and yet you have no idea what he sought.”
Bristling, I stomped my foot. A cloud of charred dust swirled up. “You’re right. I know nothing about it. I haven’t wanted to know.”
Oliver’s expression turned grim. “Refusing to understand what Elijah became—refusing to learn about what he wanted and why . . . that won’t help you. You have to let him go, El—let go of whatever memories you have. When he died, Elijah wasn’t the boy you grew up with . . . or the man I f—” He broke off. “The man I knew. The person he became wanted the Black Pullet. Wanted immortality and endless wealth. You have to accept that.”
No, I don’t. My memories of Elijah were all I had left of my old life. My life with a father, a brother, and . . . and a mother who still cared. I bit my lip and bowed over to wipe the dust off my skirts. “So is that what the Black Pullet does then? Give one immortality and wealth?”
“Yep.”
I lifted back up. “Well, no wonder Marcus would want it.”
Oliver stiffened. “Marcus wants it?”
“Yes. He told me after he took Elijah’s body—”
“Blessed Eternity, El! No wonder he’s after your letters! Le Dragon Noir was the only text in the world that explained how to find the Old Man in the Pyramids. That was one of the reasons Elijah was trying to get his hands on the missing pages.”
I winced. “Which means when Elijah sent you to Cairo, he did know that . . .”
“That I would fail to find the Old Man? Yes.” Oliver sat back, his jaw tightening with anger.
“Elijah wanted me out of his way. That’s something I have to accept.” He snorted, a humorless sound.
“Of course, as you told me on the boat, all those key pages from Le Dragon Noir are now gone—
destroyed by your wonderful Joseph. And that leaves me with an unfulfilled command and only one place in the entire universe with a clue to finding the Old Man.”
“My letters,” I whispered.
“Think about it, El. If you want to stop Marcus, then there’s only one solution that I can see: you have to figure out what secrets are locked in Elijah’s letters.”
“But they’re all gibberish.”
“Not if you know what you’re seeking.” He splayed his hands on his chest. “Remember, I was
Elijah’s demon. I would know what to look for. Give me the letters, El. I can help.”
“Can you? Is this why you’ve wanted the letters all this time? To . . . to chase the Black Pullet?”
“What?” Oliver’s voice was barely above a whisper. “How can you say that? If all I wanted was to find the Black Pullet, I would have stolen those letters a long time ago. Yet I haven’t, El. I have kept your trust. I won’t deny those letters mean something to me, but it has nothing to do with the Pullet.”
“So what does it have to do with?” Then it clicked—something else he had said clicked firmly into place. “Your command,” I breathed. “Your final command from Elijah is unfulfilled, so it still drives you. You have to find the Old Man in the Pyramid.”
He twisted his face away.
“Does it hurt you to resist it?”
“Yes,” he whispered, emotion thick in his voice, “but I keep hoping that if you learn necromancy and free me, then the command will end. Or if I could just find this Old Man—before Marcus does—I can fulfill Elijah’s final order. Then this constant ache will stop. And then,” his voice turned into a snarl, “I can destroy the bastard who stole Elijah’s body.”
But to free Oliver—or destroy Marcus—I would need to train my necromancy. I wet my lips, almost relieved that I had to train if I wanted to help my demon.
No! I screamed at myself. You can’t practice necromancy! You promised Joseph.
A frustrated groan slid from my throat. What was happening inside me? Why were my heart and my head in such disagreement?
Oliver’s forehead knit with concern.
“Go on,” I said shakily. “Let’s find a place to . . . to train.” I gestured for him to lead the way, and he pulled me through a crumbling doorway and into a grand hallway. In one corner a wide staircase curled up . . . only to stop halfway, with a pile of smashed marble beneath. Overhead, the gray clouds floated somberly by.
I found a broken column and eased down. Oliver insisted on first dusting off his own broken column—“Do you know how hard it is to get limestone off a suit?”—before finally settling across from me.
My stomach grumbled. “What a shock,” I said drily. “I am hungry. Again. ”
“It’s part of the necromancy, you know.”
“Yes, I guessed that. Whenever I do a spell, I find I’m famished afterward.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You’re only famished when the spell wears off—and you will stay famished until you cast another.”