A Darkness Strange and Lovely

two months to free me, and it’s not some simple spell. It requires a great deal of training to master.”

My stomach knotted, and I gazed down at my right hand. I’m sorry, Joseph, I thought.

But the truth was, I wasn’t sorry. I wanted this—and judging by Oliver’s growing smile, he knew precisely how much my body craved more magic.

“All right, Oliver.” I squeezed my fingers into a fist. “You win.”

Chapter Thirteen

A half an hour later, with the dressmaker and her assistant gone, I made my way to the front of the burned Tuileries Palace, where Oliver had told me to meet him. The day had turned dreary— overcast and damp—and now that the balloon was gone, there was little to draw visitors to the gardens.

“We have to be careful,” he said as I approached the palace’s crumbling grand front doorway. His head swiveled as he checked for any observers. “The police don’t like people in here—though they really only patrol at night, when the bummers crawl in. I don’t see anyone now.” He motioned for me to follow, and together we crept inside.

The charred floors were laden with weed carpets, and shimmers flickered in the shadows.

Gooseflesh rippled down my body.

“There are a lot of ghosts here,” I murmured as we picked our way over a toppled wall.

“It was a big fire,” Oliver answered, guiding me down a hallway. Our feet crunched over the rubble.

“Can we talk to them?” I waved to the shadows. “To the spirits?”

“No. I told you that.”

“You said I couldn’t talk to spirits on the other side of the curtain. You never said I couldn’t reach ghosts on this side.”

He grunted and tugged me through a shattered window into an open courtyard. “These aren’t spirits. They’re merely pieces of souls. Stuck here. They have no voice, no memories. The Hell

Hounds don’t even bother them.”

“Oh. That’s rather sad.”

“Death is always sad business to the living.” He exhaled loudly. “Why else would people want the

Black Pullet?”

“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.”