“I’m sure Elena wanted you to think that way.”
My eyebrows rose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Who was it that called to Manuel for help?” When my brow furrowed, Oliver pointed to his forehead. “Telepathically.”
“Oh.” I paused, remembering something Manuel had said when he’d come to our aid. I heard your call for help. “It was Elena.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows and nodded pointedly. “Exactly.”
“Are you saying it’s her fault?”
Oliver sighed. “No. It’s obviously the demon’s fault. But Elena’s feeling guilty too. And the way she processes her guilt and grief is by lashing out at others. Don’t let her convince you this is your fault. Maybe if you’d run away, the Wendigo still would’ve caught up to you, and Manuel still would’ve come to help. And I guarantee it, Elena still would’ve found a way to blame you because you were the only other person there.”
I blinked and crossed my arms over my chest. I shifted weight from one foot to the other as discomfort wriggled through me. “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t feel guilty.”
“You’re right. Feel the guilt, the grief, the anger. But one thing I’ve learned in war is that there’s a time to process and a time to set it aside. If we let guilt consume us constantly, we would fail in battle every time.”
I chewed on my fingernails. “How do you set it aside?”
Oliver ran a hand through his honey-colored hair, half his mouth twisted in a grimace. “It helps to remember there are always casualties in war. You can’t save everyone. I know that doesn’t mean much, but it helps me a bit. I haven’t perfected my methods yet, but I know what doesn’t work—letting it take over your brain. Move your attention to something else. Something important.”
I dropped my arms. “Like hunting a Second Tier demon?”
Oliver pointed to me and winked. “Exactly.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Oliver.” My smile faded as I looked at him, at the warmth in his eyes despite how many times I’d yelled at him. “Look, Oliver, I’m sorry about those things I said to you in the cathedral. For every nasty thing I’ve said to you, really. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
His brow furrowed. “Sure I did. I haven’t been very kind to you either.”
I shook my head, my eyes closing. Lilith, why is it so hard for me to be honest? A lump rose in my throat. “No, I still wasn’t being fair to you. The truth is, I wasn’t really angry with you. I was angry with . . . everything. I just took it out on you. And I’m sorry.” I opened my eyes but stared at the stones on the ground, unwilling to meet Oliver’s gaze.
“Well, I appreciate that.” Oliver’s voice was tender. Quiet.
I looked at him then. His face lifted with a soft smile, and I felt some of the tension between us melt away. His eyes roved over my face as if searching for something, and I stared back at him, lost in the yearning behind his green eyes.
I felt it too.
I swallowed, my throat dry. I looked away and secured the strap of Alba’s bag onto my shoulder. “We should get going. Lead the way to this apothecary.” When I glanced back at Oliver, his eyes tightened. I wasn’t sure what he’d expected or looked for in my expression, but apparently, I’d failed to show it.
He waved his arm, gesturing that I follow him. We walked down the main road along with the last of the refugees. As the sun slowly set, the number of civilians dwindled, and darkness began to cloak the city.
I was about to ask Oliver what we could use for light when he announced, “We’re here.”
He pointed to a tiny shop sandwiched between several others. The sign hanging from the building was so small and faded I could barely see it at all.
Oliver jiggled the handle, but the door was locked. He shoved his shoulder against the door a few times until it gave way and burst open.
An assortment of smells reached my nose. Some sweet, some spicy, and some downright unpleasant. I squinted, trying to make out my surroundings in the darkness.
Oliver shuffled around nearby, and then a burst of light flooded the room as he lit a lantern.
Shelves upon shelves stocked with potions, herbs, and other scented items wrapped around the cramped store. There were so many stocked shelves that we couldn’t even pace the limited amount of floor space.
Oliver set the Grimoire down on a table and flipped through pages. I peered curiously over his shoulder.
“Here we are,” he said, pointing to the page. “How to banish a Second Tier demon . . . Lilith, that’s a lot of ingredients. We’d better start searching.”
Oliver bustled to the nearest set of shelves and raised his hand, touching various bottles and jars as he searched for ingredients.
Knowing I wouldn’t be much help reading labels in a different language, I stared curiously at the next page in the Grimoire. The heading was identical to the previous page except for the number “3” at the top.
How to banish a Third Tier demon, no doubt.
How to banish El Diablo.
I glanced up at Oliver, but he was too immersed in his search to pay me any attention.
I leaned closer to the Grimoire, squinting at the incoherent letters. The Spanish was hard enough to decode, but it was written in a curly, flowery script that made it even harder. I compared it to the previous page, noting that almost all the ingredients were the same as the Second Tier spell except for one:
Sangre del demonio.
I frowned. What was sangre?
A loud poof echoed from across the room, and a cloud of smoke engulfed Oliver. He coughed several times, and I straightened, alarmed.
“What happened?” I asked, waving my hand to clear the smoke.
“I just—” Oliver broke off coughing again “—mixed the wrong ingredient. Don’t
