I lean forward, until my nose nearly grazes his sharp chin. I’m taking too great a risk. I should’ve groveled. Yet he’s never responded to anything but a show of strength before.
“If I’m to survive and do what you ask, how do I get rid of the rot?”
His hands release from my back. He wants space, room to breathe and think. But he’s never afforded the same to me. I bring my hands up to either side of his head, keeping him in place. His jaw sizzles against my palms, but I keep hold. I don’t show any hint that I know he could rip himself away from me.
“How much longer do I have?” I press. “Is it your influence or something else?”
“You can’t object to my nature, Eleanor,” he says, ignoring my questions. “Ournature. Did you not trick the girls yourself?”
“Because of you!” I shout in his face, baring my teeth. “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you!”
He blinks at me. He doesn’t need to say it. Suffering is his design. It’s not him who became too comfortable. I did. My heartbeat quickens, fills my ears.
“What did you think would happen? You’d knock on my door and leave unscathed? That’s not how this works.” He grasps my arms and wrenches them away, dislodging me. “You can keep having a tantrum, or we can plan. Your choice.”
My choice.Everything is my choice. Between terror and sorrow, between violence and ruin. I can never blame him because there’s always, technically, a choice. Kill my sister’s heart or her soul.
He breathes in through his slim nose, glaring at me. I’ve rattled him, despite how much power he wields over me.
“There’s something different about you,” he mutters as he turns around, sitting again at his desk and motioning me to join him. “Something’s rubbed off on you.”
The Devil’s lapdog. Ever ready to bite. Rotting inside for lack of power. Contracted to a Prince of Hell to be rid of every other man who hurt me.
For all I despise it, I’ll fall to dust before I give this up.
“I’ve been in the city all day and not yet bathed,” I say instead, sitting.
He laughs. Rubs at his temples. I take the break in tension to peer at his desk. The papers look familiar, small-lined text in columns.
“No. An influence. There have been no others, have there?”
My heart clenches for a split second. Douglas. But he’s dead. He doesn’t count. As though he’s reading my thoughts, Mr. Pratterman’s eyes widen.
“The lighthouse keeper?” His grin returns. “I’d thought he was keeping scarce of you, given your…circumstances.”
“He hates me.” That’s as far as I’ll allow him into my ghost’s world.
“He’s good at that,” Pratterman mutters, a look crossing his face that I can’t parse. Does he have a history with Douglas? “Fascinating.”
“Can we focus?”
I hate the glint in his eye as he tosses the papers into the fire. Instead of curling further into black, they straighten, lighten. They lie on the red logs of the hearth for a moment, then disappear up the flue.
“Canyoufocus?” he repeats, no longer harsh. Our roles constantly shift. A planet and its moon, always in his orbit but rarely in the same position. “The rot is a surprise, I’ll admit. The response of a mind and body too weak to process my continued influence. I’ll investigate any other similar cases from my archives. I don’t foresee a cure. If anything, it’s your heart that needs fixing.”
I can’t give up my own life. Nor can I convince him to change my target. The rot will surely consume me without his help. I must kill Bridget before Liney can disown me.
“Give me the strength I need to sacrifice her.”
The desk melts into a new form between us. The books and scrolls disappear. A display box full of knives emerges. Large, small, glinting, rusted, straight, wavy.
“First you choose a weapon. Then we imbue it.”
I scan the knives. Some are beautifully crafted while others are crumbling.
“Where are they from?”
“Across history. Each was used under contract, so they have the capacity for pure power.”
