"Tell me how you did it," Fitzroy said.

"I don't know what you're on about, and I don't want to know. Let me go. I don't want to be here."

His gaze flicked to the clothes still folded on the bed and the food I'd left largely untouched. I'd nibbled at the bread and cheese, but the butterflies fluttering in my stomach wouldn't let me eat more. "Is there something else you desire?"

"My freedom."

He waited, as if he expected me to add something of a material nature that he could command Seth or Gus to deliver to my room. "I will grant you your freedom when you tell me how you became a necromancer."

Necromancer. Was that the name for me? It was quite an improvement over devil's daughter. "I don't know nothing about necromancing." I clenched my jaw, folded my arms and sat on the floor.

After a moment, he crouched by my side. I'd not heard his approach. The man was light on his feet. Even more surprising was that he had no smell. No hint of any soap or hair oil, no body odor, nothing. It was the oddest thing, and more unnerving than his quiet step.

"There is another who can bring the dead back to life," he said. "A young woman of eighteen. Are you related to her?"

"I don't know no women, and I ain't related to nobody." I hugged my knees and pressed my forehead against them. "I don't know anything about bringing dead bodies back to life, neither."

Another long pause then, "Where are you from?"

I didn't answer.

"How long have you lived on the street?"

I hugged my knees tighter. He didn't go on and when I glanced up, I saw that he'd moved away. He watched me from the window, his arms once more crossed. The window was on the opposite side of the room to the door—the door that he'd left unlocked.

"He saved you, didn't he?" Fitzroy didn't pose it as a question. "The prisoners were going to hurt you, but the spirit frightened them off by re-entering his body. At your command."

If he knew that much already, what else did he know?

"How did you do it?"

I snorted. "You've got the wrong boy."

"No."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do." He said it with the utmost conviction that I knew I could never get him to doubt himself. "Is it something you've always been able to do?"

"You're a tosspot."

He grunted. "I expect a gutter dweller to come up with something more offensive than that."

"A fucking tosspot."

"Better. Now answer my question." He leaned a hip and shoulder against the wall and glanced out the window. A small frown connected his brows.

His distraction gave me the opportunity I needed. I sprang up and sprinted for the door.

But he reached it first. His palm slammed against the wood at my head height, the sound reverberating around the tower room. I watched him through the curtain of my hair, searching for signs that he would use that hand on me. His only movement was a small tightening of his lips.