“The uniform stands out too much,” he muttered.
I nodded. “Right. I remember.”
Before I could process anything, he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his beautiful, muscular torso.
Merciful Lilith, I thought, my throat dry. My stomach dropped. My eyes roved over the firm muscles of his abs and biceps. Flames erupted in my cheeks, and I finally had the decency to avert my gaze, though it was too late. The image of his shirtless body was imprinted on my mind, glued there as if taunting me.
Oliver hissed in pain as he pushed his injured arm through the sleeve. I caught a glimpse of a festering red cut on his arm before the shirt obscured it from view.
“Shall we?” Oliver asked, his eyes empty and his lips tightening. The lack of emotion in his face was startling and foreign to me. It was painful to watch, so I looked away.
“Yes. I’m ready.”
Chapter 26
AS WE EXITED THE CATHEDRAL, the silence between us was palpable, like an inflamed wound that kept worsening. I followed Oliver as he weaved expertly through the crowd of evacuees headed in the opposite direction. His tall, bulky form pressed through the throng easily, and my short legs struggled to keep up and fight my way through. Occasionally, he glanced over his shoulder at me, but he never stopped. I assumed he preferred to keep his distance so I couldn’t speak to him.
Not that I’d know what to say anyway.
Fighting the crowd was like swimming upstream. My shoulders and elbows bumped against the hundreds of bodies around me, making me feel claustrophobic. My eyes stayed glued on Oliver’s blond head, which was easily visible thanks to his excessive height.
The streets thinned, surrounded by smaller homes and apartments. At long last, Oliver turned onto a side road, and I followed, eager to break free of the crowd. After several minutes of walking in silence, I recognized some of the buildings—a small market, a large church, and the courthouse.
I frowned as Oliver led me a few blocks behind the courthouse to where the tall clocktower rested.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“We’ll need some help,” Oliver said.
He approached the clocktower with both hands raised. His eyes closed, he muttered,
“I call upon the magic in this space,
Reveal to me your hiding place.”
A light blue glow emanated from his hands as he pressed his palms into the bricks. A few bricks trembled and then vanished in a puff of dust. The blue glow faded from Oliver’s hands, and in place of the absent bricks was a large gap in the clocktower. Oliver reached into the hole and withdrew a heavy book I recognized easily.
“The Grimoire,” I breathed.
Oliver hoisted the giant book from the crevice and cradled it gingerly in his arms. As soon as the book left the hiding space, the bricks reappeared, filling the hole again.
“You keep it in the mortal realm?” I asked in surprise.
“It’s harder for demons to access since they don’t often cross over to this side. Well, until El Diablo, that is.” Oliver grimaced. “We’ll have to acquire some ingredients from the apothecary. I assume the owner has evacuated, but that’s just as well. We can avoid unwanted questions.”
He paused, and his olive eyes bore into mine. “It would be better if we had help. Ramón, Elena—”
“No,” I said sharply. “I don’t want to involve anyone else in this.” I swallowed. “Even you, Oliver. No one but me should have to suffer for this. Getting home is my problem, not yours.”
“Oh. Well, then if you can read Spanish, you are more than welcome to cast this spell on your own.” Oliver thrust the book toward me, his eyes glinting.
My mouth fell open. “The translation charm—”
“—only works with spoken words,” Oliver said with a smirk.
My heart dropped to my stomach. “Oh.”
“I’d be happy to teach you the language someday, but sadly, it seems you’re in quite a hurry to return home.” He was mocking me, but his voice was tainted with bitterness. He swiped his hand across the surface of the book, and dust swirled in the air.
I coughed. “So, where is this apothecary?”
Oliver jerked his chin toward the way we’d come. “Follow me.”
We weaved through buildings and returned to the main road. The crowd of evacuees had thinned, and the afternoon sun sank lower toward the horizon. My stomach growled so loudly that Oliver glanced back at me in concern. The corners of his mouth pinched in a reluctant smile.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Do you need to stop and eat?”
I shook my head and slid the sack off my shoulders. I withdrew an empanada and sniffed it curiously.
Oliver stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide. “Alba gave you empanadas?”
I held the buttery, flaky pastry-like thing in my hand and nodded. “Do you want one?”
Oliver licked his lips and nodded. His wide, eager eyes reminded me of a toddler about to open a Christmas gift.
I laughed and offered the empanada to him. We ducked onto a side road away from the crowd and crouched to the ground, our backs against the wall of a small church. I bit into an empanada, and chewy, flavorful beef and cheese melted onto my tongue. I groaned with satisfaction.
Oliver chuckled. “I know.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes as we chewed.
Then Oliver said, “It isn’t your fault, you know.”
“What?”
“Manuel’s death.”
I froze mid-chew, the food turning sour on my tongue. I swallowed and whispered, “You weren’t there.”
“Oh, you’re right. I suppose I should ask, were you the one that stabbed him?”
My gaze snapped toward him, pain and fury swirling inside me. “It’s not funny, Oliver.”
“Answer the question.”
I gritted my teeth. “No, I didn’t stab him.”
“Did you drag him there against his will?”
I glared at him. “No.”
Oliver brushed crumbs off his hands and climbed to his feet. “Then it wasn’t your fault.”
I shot to my feet too, my
