Sinner's Heart (Hellraisers)

by Archer, Zoe

Her pleasure gleamed beside his own, and that gave him a curious sense of . . . satisfaction. Strange, to gain that feeling from something out of bed.

  And the time with Livia in bed had been just as strange. He had never spoken to a woman, in bed or out, with such depth, such intimacy. Some women had pressed him for details of his time fighting in the Colonies, their gazes and hands continually drifting to his scar. He would push their hands away, make their eyes close in pleasure, and kept his history to himself. A few facile anecdotes for the more insistent females.

  None of the Hellraisers were aware of the details of what Bram had seen and done in the Colonies. Not even Whit knew about Ned Davies. Only Livia.

  He waited for his mind to rebel, to recoil in horror at letting anyone learn the brutality of his existence in the army. All that he found was an odd, unfamiliar loosening within his chest. As if binding chains at last fell away, leaving him to test the scope of his newfound freedom.

  So long had he dwelt with those chains—he almost missed them. Almost, but not quite.

  I used to race with Whit and Edmund here. Edmund never could beat us, but he surely tried. We used to terrify the people out for a peaceful stroll.

  Leaving a swath of sighing maidens in your wake.

  Never cared for maidens, he answered. Inexperience makes for tedious flirtation.

  Inexperience makes most everything tedious. But a jaded eye takes the luster off the most glittering diamond.

  Bram guided his horse back toward the more populated section of the park, where men and women paraded themselves and made conspicuous their leisure. When he was a boy, he loved coming to the park, watching the dashing bucks and flower-hued girls engage in the complicated, arcane maneuvers of the adult world. He loved to see the gentlemen on their prime horses, both with twitching flanks and proud miens. He used to stand on the banks of the Serpentine and send off armadas of twigs, creating vast naval battles in his imagination.

  Now all he saw were vainglorious attempts at consequence, another generation of fools chasing dross, and a large, muddy artificial river.

  But there was a young girl crouched at the edge of the Serpentine, dropping leaves onto the surface of the water and watching them drift. Her inattentive nurse gossiped with a fellow servant. Meanwhile, the child most likely saw not leaves but fairy barges gliding upon the river. Her pleasure, and dreams, were real. For a few years more, she would have the privilege of dreams. Their loss was inevitable, but for now, they were hers.

  If she survived.

  Something moved in the river. An unidentifiable shape, more like a shadow, and it headed for the girl. He strained to get a better look, then jolted in shock.

  A creature. He could barely discern its outline—its skin seemed to mimic the appearance of the water.

  Gods preserve us, Livia cried in his mind. A demon.

  He’d only glimpsed a few of those beasts, as they’d fled Leo’s burning home. They had run by too quickly for him to truly see them, but he’d had fast, vague impressions of claws, teeth, yellow eyes. This thing seemed another species entirely.

  Whatever variety of demon it was, the thing moved toward the girl playing on the riverbank, its outstretched claws reaching for her. And no one noticed. Except him.

  It will pull her into the water, Livia said, horrified. Drown her.

  Bram acted without thinking. He spurred his horse into a hard gallop and raced toward the child. Pedestrians leapt out of his way, some crying out, but he paid them no heed. His focus was solely on the girl and the demon that stalked her.

  The child looked up in shock as he rode right to her. Without slowing his horse, he leaned down and scooped her up into his arms. She squirmed in his grasp, but he held on tightly. Riding up to the stunned nursemaid, he handed the child over.

  “She was about to fall into the water,” he explained tersely.

  Cradling the child, the nurse stammered her thanks, but Bram was already riding away.

  The brief peace he’d obtained moments earlier rusted and flaked away.

  Such events grow more common the longer the Dark One is at liberty, Livia murmured.

  Needing a distraction, he turned his horse toward Rotten Row. The hour was far too early for true men and women of fashion to be out, but that did not prevent a goodly throng from assembling.

  Bram nodded at passing acquaintances. Conversation barely stirred. People rode on horseback or carriage as though impelled by the last vestiges of societal imperative, their gazes chary, their words hoarded.

  His bones heavy as iron, he urged his horse forward. A small collection of elegant but soberly dressed men stood at the base of a tree, their heads bent together, their brows furrowed in the way only men of importance could frown.

  One of them glanced up as he passed. Lord Maxwell. An earl who took his Parliamentary duties with extreme gravity. Maxwell recognized Bram, and waved him over. Bram mentally groaned. He only wanted to go home and retreat into the welcoming recesses of a brandy decanter. But, Hellraiser or no, he couldn’t outright ignore Maxwell.

  Slowly, Bram guided his horse toward the group of men. They all stared up at him as he neared. All of them were known for their political authority—even a disinterested nobleman like Bram had knowledge of them.

  After terse civilities were exchanged, Maxwell spoke. “We beg a moment of your time, Rothwell.” He eyed Bram’s horse. “Perhaps you might deign to lower yourself.”

  The impulse to kick his horse into another gallop and ride away seized him.

  These men may have vital intelligence, Livia said. If they are as influential as you believe, we cannot afford to ignore them. Not in these dark hours.

  I’ve made no pledges to any cause, Bram reminded her acerbically. Yet he dismounted and edged his way into the circle. He counted amongst the five men two senior cabinet officials and one of the king’s closest advisors. Anxiety deepened the lines on their faces and formed bags beneath their eyes. Bram wasn’t alone in his insomnia.

  “Unusual to see you about at this hour,” Maxwell noted.

  “I need coffee or brandy, or perhaps both,” Bram said. “So let’s keep this brief.”

  Maxwell cleared his throat and exchanged glances with the other men. “You are an intimate of John Godfrey, are you not?”

  At the mention of John’s name, the hair on the back of Bram’s neck rose. Livia, too, tensed. “We have been friendly, yes.”

  “Have been,” pressed one of the cabinet officials, “but are no longer?”

  “My time is my own, just as John’s is his. Tell me what you want.”

  “Can we trust you?” This, from the king’s advisor, his knuckles whitening on his ivory-topped walking stick.

  “I wouldn’t trust anyone,” Bram answered.

  “He’s useless,” the cabinet official growled at Maxwell. “Either he’s deliberately being obtuse, or he’s Godfrey’s man.”

  “I’m no one’s,” Bram said through clenched teeth.

  “What choice have we?” Maxwell looked helplessly at the other men in the circle. “Godfrey keeps his intentions to himself and everyone else at a distance. Rothwell is our only option. He’s the closest thing Godfrey has to a friend.”

  The advisor let out a heavy sigh. “Go ahead, then.”

  “Nothing has been agreed to,” Bram interjected hotly. The lingering remnants of his temper unraveled. “And if you talk of me like a dumb animal, then I’m getting back on my horse and you can all go to hell.”

  Stop growling like a wounded bear, Livia snapped, and listen. John is the Dark One’s closest, most powerful ally. Surely whatever these powdered wigs are speaking of must have significance.

  Though Bram’s anger continued to roil, he forced out, “Just say what you want of me.”

  “Godfrey’s becoming more aggressive in Parliament,” Maxwell said after a pause. “Creating alliances, breaking apart old confederations. Brokering deals and ensuring that other pacts collapse. ’Tis clear that some greater schem
e is afoot, but none of our efforts have been able to determine precisely what he intends.”

  “I’m to play the role of spy.” Bram’s voice was flat.

  Several of the men grimaced. Typical that they would cringe away from plain speaking—the only means Bram had available to him.

  Not so, corrected Livia. You are remarkably subtle and insinuating when dealing with women.

  Except you.

  I am always the exception. Pride laced her words. He could imagine her tossing her head, regal as an empress.

  He fought a smile. Damn, but it was difficult to engage in two conversations simultaneously, especially if one of them was with a ghost that had invaded his consciousness.

  “If you might gain Godfrey’s confidence,” Maxwell said. “Learn more about his objectives, and the means he intends to use to gain those objectives.”

  “Then pass this intelligence on to you and this distinguished company.” Bram stared at each of the men in turn. “Thus the reason why I keep my involvement with politics to a minimum. I like not this business of cunning and guile.” Strategy was reserved for the battlefield—yet to these men, Whitehall was the battlefield.

  “Will you do it?” pressed the king’s advisor.

  “Why should I?” Bram fired back.

  All of the men began speaking at once, throwing out words like duty, honor, and greater good. The crown itself was endangered, and England would fall with it. Their voices battered against him as waves against a cliff. It took hundreds if not thousands of years for those waves to carve away at the stone.

  Cease your reflexive obstinacy, Livia snapped in his mind. Whether you will do as they ask or no, nothing’s harmed by saying yes.

  He held up his hand, silencing the cabal. “If it will quiet your infernal nattering, then I agree.” His words were meant for the gathered men as well as Livia.

  The men exhaled in a communal sigh of relief. The ghost, however, had some choice Latin curses for him.

  “Come to my home tomorrow at ten in the evening,” said Maxwell. “We shall discuss your findings then.”

  Bram mounted his horse. He looked down at these powerful men of England, their worn, weary faces, the lines of strain around their mouths. They dressed in the finest in tailoring, and their wigs were immaculately dressed. For all that, they were but a collection of bones and flesh, as vulnerable as a pauper begging for alms, subject to the same inevitability of death and obscurity. They controlled the fate of the nation, but there would come a time when every one of them would be laid out in a box of pine and lowered into the ground.

  “When I decide I have something to recount,” he said to them, “I shall let you know. We’ll discuss it at a time and place of my choosing.” Before anyone could speak or argue, he urged his horse into motion.

  What will you do? Livia asked as he rode away.

  Dance on the edge of a blade, he answered. As I always do.

  Books and papers lay in riotous profusion upon every available surface, including the floor. Maps draped over chairs, and the abundance of broken quills on the carpet resembled the massacre of flocks of birds. Unlike Bram’s study, John’s saw much use, and John himself unfolded from behind a massive desk as Bram entered the chamber.

  A look of wariness passed briefly over John’s face when the footman announced Bram, but he smoothed it into a welcoming smile, his hand outstretched in greeting.

  “A most agreeable surprise,” John murmured, shaking Bram’s hand.

  “You seem well-engaged.” Bram released John’s grip and glanced at the mountains of paper on the desk.

  “Never too occupied for an old friend and fellow Hellraiser.” Stepping back, he asked, “Can I offer you some tea? Wine?”

  “Brandy.”

  John’s brow rose, yet he picked his way through the stacks of books and debris toward the sideboard. He poured two glasses.

  Bram. Livia spoke with tight urgency. His arms. His hands.

  I see them.

  For his work at home, John had discarded his coat, and the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled back. Markings of flame covered every inch of exposed skin. His forearms. His hands—from fingers to palm. Bram’s gaze rose higher. Without his stock, the neck of John’s shirt hung open. More flames wound around up from his chest, creeping up his neck like a choking weed.

  It’s spread much faster on him than it did on any of the others, Livia said. Fertile ground.

  John wended his way back to Bram, navigating the clutter and bearing two full glasses. “’Tis a veritable labyrinth in here. The fault is mine, not my servants, for I forbid any of them from cleaning.”

  “And keep them out with a locked door when you aren’t around.” Bram took the offered glass.

  John patted a pocket of his waistcoat. “At all times the key is on my person. There are so few who can be trusted.”

  Livia snorted. How he enjoys this.

  “Yet I can trust you, can I not?” John held Bram’s gaze with his own. Neither of them were fooled by his smile.

  “As much as you can trust yourself,” answered Bram. He did not wait for John to offer a toast, but drank down his brandy in one swallow.

  More leisurely, John sipped at his drink. “We ought to arrange an excursion, you and I. It has been far too long since we kept company. Perhaps an assembly, or the theater. You were ever an enthusiast of the theater.”

  “Actresses and opera dancers,” Bram said. “The plays themselves bored me.”

  Refined as always, sighed Livia.

  “It was Edmund who actually watched the plays,” added Bram.

  John studied the bottom of his glass as if it held a miniature marvel. “If not the theater, then some other diversion.”

  “Of late, the city has become less diverting. Had to find other means of occupying myself.” After setting down his glass on a small table, Bram pulled folded pieces of paper from his coat’s inside pocket. Mutely, he held them out to John.

  John took the papers, frowning, and unfolded them. His frown dissolved as he read their contents. “But this is marvelous.” He grinned. “I trust you received no trouble for your efforts.”

  “None.”

  In truth, the only trouble he had experienced came from that long-disused machine of his conscience. Rusty and corroded, it had groaned as he had used his Devil’s gift of persuasion to gain entrance into a minister’s home and private study. The papers were easily secured, just as easily spirited away, with Livia acting as sentinel.

  He hadn’t wanted to pilfer the documents. Outright theft was not one of his many crimes. Only Livia had convinced him to act.

  Sin is often required to ensure success, she had argued.

  Ruthless, that’s what you are, he had answered.

  In everything. There had been no shame in her voice. It verged on admirable, her merciless resolve. She would permit no obstacle to subvert her will.

  Now he had handed over a packet of stolen documents to John. It seemed to have the desired effect.

  John continued to scan the papers, his gaze sharp and rapacious. “With this information in my possession, I shall be much closer to my goal.” He glanced up at Bram. “You’ve my gratitude.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d want suitable compensations.”

  This isn’t what we agreed upon, Livia interjected with alarm.

  Rather than look hurt or angry at Bram’s demand, John smiled. He seemed to approve of Bram’s greed. “Name something you desire, and it shall be yours.”

  Bram’s eyebrow arched. “Far-reaching claim.”

  John held out his hands, brandishing the marks of flame on his skin. “It is a claim I can make with all assurance. If I can rely upon your support, the pleasures and privileges you have enjoyed will seem miniscule in comparison.”

  With disinterest, Bram examined the title page of a nearby book. The frontispiece promised a long and phenomenally dull treatise on methods of gover
nance, written by a gentleman with far too much education. He thumbed through the pages and found not a single illustration, only an abundance of long words and foreign phrases. Carelessly, he tossed the book over his shoulder. It landed with a thud and John winced.

  “Give me your word,” Bram said, “that I shall have precisely what you promise.”

  We were only going to draw him out, Livia protested, her voice turning strident.

  “Give me yours,” came John’s immediate answer. “Betrayal is thick around us, and I’ve only use for those I can trust.”

  “You have it,” Bram replied after a moment.

  No! Livia’s shout echoed in Bram’s head, and he struggled to keep from scowling.

  Still, John looked dubious.

  With a sigh, Bram bent and pulled a poniard from his boot. John stepped back, yet a pistol suddenly appeared in his hand, retrieved from somewhere on the desk.

  Livia’s cursing nearly drowned out Bram’s own thoughts. Her frustration at being powerless seethed through him.

  “A gun’s damned prosaic for a man with the Devil’s mark on his flesh,” Bram drawled.

  “The gifts he has bestowed upon me are elegant and subtle.”

  “Elegant and subtle can’t rip a hole in a man’s chest. Thus, the pistol. But it’s unnecessary, at least where I’m concerned. If it’s a blood oath you require . . .” He drew the tip of the poniard across his hand. Bright crimson welled. “Here it is.”

  Smiling, John tucked the pistol into the back waistband of his breeches. He took the offered blade from Bram and made a cut across his own palm. Their hands clasped.

  Stop, stop, stop! This is the wrong choice! Did nothing penetrate your obstinate skull? We have to fight John, fight the Dark One! You cannot—

  “There’s proof,” Bram said, and John started. Bram had not realized he had all but shouted his words, trying to drown out Livia’s excoriation.

  Satisfied, John stepped away. He took a kerchief from a pocket in his waistcoat and wrapped it around his cut hand.

  “The gesture is appreciated,” he murmured. “And if you knew my intent, you would understand such an action’s necessity.”

  “I cannot know your intent unless you tell me. The reading of thoughts is your bailiwick.”