by Archer, Zoe
“Find Bram’s soul, find the Devil.” Whit gave the fire another jab, sparks rising up, then tossed the iron to the ground. “If it’s seclusion you need, we’ll give it.” He herded everyone toward the door. They swiftly moved out of the chamber, until she and Bram were alone.
He stood his ground as she approached him, his eyes fevered blue beneath his lowered lids. The other Hellraisers were prime specimens of masculinity. She recognized this, but from a distance. It was him, Bram, who ensnared her, whose presence she felt at all times. She sensed him, awake or asleep, alive or dead, and as she closed the distance between them now, she felt anew the twist in her heart.
“Convenient,” he murmured, his voice low. “That tracking my soul demands privacy.”
“It doesn’t.” She slid her hands up his chest. “Yet I don’t want an audience when I do this.” Raising up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his.
He growled into her mouth, and drank of her deeply. And briefly. A groan resounded in his chest as he pulled back. “I want nothing more than to kiss you for hours. But, damn it, we haven’t the time.”
“This is the spell.” She wove her fingers into his hair and pulled him down again.
He did not resist her. He brought his arms up to wrap around her, one hand pressed low on her back, the other curved against her throat.
She sank into the kiss, savoring him, feeling him. His heat and taste. His tongue stroked like velvet in her mouth, and she responded in kind with her own hunger.
Beyond the sensations, the sensual pull between them, she submerged herself in the essence of him. His unrelenting strength, and the core of darkness that would always be part of him. She had seen his memories, had felt his experiences, and though some of the threads connecting them had been severed, their silver echoes lingered, binding them together. From hellion child to Hellraiser man, she knew every part of who he once was and who he continued to be.
That essence of him never diminished, even when his actual soul had been torn from him. She felt its resonance within him, in the hot and demanding sensation of his mouth joined with hers.
Where are you? Where is your missing self?
And as they kissed, as desire rose up in her and the need for him, for all of him, words tumbled through her mind, summoning her power.
In her own language, long dead, she called out with her thoughts and with her innermost self. Let me find you, my heart, my love. From the shadows to the light, let me find you.
Here.
She jolted. The answer had come clear as a song.
Reaching out again, she searched.
Here.
She broke the kiss. Features drawn with desire, Bram gazed down at her. His hands were like hot iron as they held her close.
“I have found it.” She spoke in a husky murmur, her body alight with need. Need that could not be sated. Not now.
He did not look surprised that the spell had worked. Only nodded. Yet before he let her go, he tipped his forehead down to touch hers, and his breath was rough and labored over her skin.
“I wonder that I ever felt alive,” he said, voice a smoke-tinged rumble. “Until you.”
By slow degrees, he released her. With the fire blazing close, she still missed his heat, and fought the impulse to cling. She did not cling. She was whole and entire without him—yet so much better with him.
She went to the door to summon the other Hellraisers back into the chamber. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw that Bram had moved away from the fireplace, and now faced the windows, hands braced on the sill. His shoulders rose and fell, as if he still fought to regain his breath.
Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne all drifted into the chamber. Each of them looked expectantly at her.
“The time to act is now,” she said without preamble. “The gate is open, the army of demons assembling.”
“Where?” Whit demanded.
“I know the place but not the name.”
“So long as you can lead us there,” Leo said, “names aren’t important.”
Bram at last turned away from the window, fully in command. “My armory is plentiful. We each equip ourselves—swords, guns, knives. Anything you can use to fight, take it.”
“Will they be enough?” Zora asked.
“No.” Livia gazed at her, and at each mortal in turn. “It’s not the weapons, but those who wield them.”
The city streets stood oddly empty, even for so late an hour. From her experience with Bram’s memories, she knew that no matter the time, London’s streets swarmed with life—exhausted chairmen waiting to take home a reveler, link boys carrying torches, whores, thieves, farmers, drunkards, beggars. That the avenues were nearly pitch black and treacherous with refuse served as no obstacle. At any hour, humanity abounded.
Tonight proved the exception.
Livia rode beside Bram, the head of their caravan of six. Zora and Whit each had their own horses—the Romani woman sat upon her steed as though she had been born in the saddle—and Leo rode with Anne sitting behind him, her arms around his waist. The five horses’ hooves clattered loudly in the stillness, the sound echoing off impassive façades.
A thick miasma clung to the cobblestones, and the sky formed an ash-colored canopy that the moon could not breach. And everywhere was heavy choking silence.
“We’ve not been in London for weeks,” Whit said lowly. “Has it been thus the whole time?”
“This night sees a new malevolence,” Livia answered.
Bram murmured, “Even the criminals are in hiding.”
“There’s a greater evil out tonight,” said Livia.
Whit gave a soft snort. “Used to be that the Hellraisers kept people cowering at home.”
“Now Hell itself is the threat,” Bram replied. He frowned as the broad, black stretch of Hyde Park appeared ahead of them. Beneath the leaden sky, the Serpentine gleamed dully, and appeared as still as the frozen lake of Cocytus. There was no sign of the water demon they had beheld several days prior. The trees stood in mute sentry. What, during daylight hours, was a place of leisure, seemed at that moment a blighted wasteland.
“John’s coming here?” asked Anne.
Livia nodded toward the expanse of parkland. “Not here, but this is where we’ll find more strength for our fight.”
Though it was clear that the others in the company wanted more explanation, they remained silent as they followed.
Livia did not know this place well, yet she understood precisely where she needed to be. She urged her mount faster, heading toward the northeast corner of the park. As she neared, it became clear what drew her.
“Damn and hell,” Leo muttered.
The mist thickened here, swirling and clotting. It glowed with a terrible light. Then gathered—into human shapes. They were hollow-eyed, gaunt, and collected like flies over a corpse. The figures jostled one another, mouths open as if to speak, but no sound emerging.
“Demons?” Anne whispered.
“Our allies,” said Livia. “Perhaps.”
“Must be a thousand of them,” Zora whispered.
“More,” said Livia. “This has been a place of execution for centuries.”
“Oh, God.” Anne gulped. “Their necks.”
All of the apparitions bore dark bruises around their throats. Some had their necks twisted at unnatural angles.
“The fruit of Tyburn Tree,” Bram said, stone-faced.
As Livia and the others neared the throng, the specters turned to face them. The vastness of their numbers formed an icy stone in the pit of Livia’s stomach. She had seen heretics thrown to lions and enslaved gladiators battle unto death, yet never had she witnessed the assembly of the dead, hundreds of years of executions gathered together as ruined testimonial to the demand for blood. All sanctioned under the auspices of the law.
Men, women. Even some children.
“I thought Romans enjoyed their executions,” Livia said.
“Beer, beef, and hangings,” answered
Bram. “It’s the English way. The cost of freedom.” The grimness of his expression belied his flippancy.
“The Dark One’s presence rouses them.” Livia eyed the multitude as they drew closer.
“You said they’re our allies,” said Whit. “They can fight alongside us. Even our numbers.”
“Poor fools—they’ve no flesh. They can touch nothing, move nothing—as it was with me. But they aren’t without power.”
“The hell are you doing?” Bram demanded when she dismounted.
She leveled him a glance over the neck of her horse. “Attempting to level the odds.”
By the time she had turned around to face the throng of chalk-faced specters, Bram stood beside her. “Whatever you mean to try,” he growled, “you aren’t doing it alone.”
She drew yet more strength, knowing he was with her, and stepped closer to the horde of ghosts. Four reached out—three men and one woman—their hands open and searching. Bram tensed, poised to strike back, but Livia held him back. The spirits’ hands all moved through Livia’s body, just as insubstantial as she had once been. They opened their mouths to speak, yet no sound emerged.
“I know your frustration,” she said. Indeed, a restive energy moved through the crowd, its discontent and anger palpable. “No mercy shown to you. Your lives stolen. And to what end? To satisfy a feeble sense of justice? To deter others from repeating your folly? Those were the platitudes mouthed at you, but we all know they meant nothing.”
As she spoke, her words carrying across the field and through the mob of ghosts, they grew more restless and agitated.
Behind her, Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne made sounds of concern, and their horses snorted in anxiety, tugging on their bridles and hooves pawing at the ground.
“Riling them is injudicious,” Bram muttered.
“We need them angry,” she answered under her breath.
At the least, he didn’t ask her why. He said, louder, “I’ve seen a hanging. ’Tis a holiday for the crowd. They don’t care if justice is being served. They don’t concern themselves with right or wrong, or the law. All they want is a good death. No blubbering. No begging for mercy. The people of London wouldn’t know mercy if it had its hands wrapped around their necks.”
The assembled specters grew yet more uneasy, their images flickering, expressions shifting from bafflement to anger.
Livia pressed, “How many of you died for a theft no greater than a loaf of bread? Or on the basis of hearsay or circumstance? Who amongst you were killed because it was easier for the law to end your lives than admit it was wrong?”
As she talked, and the horde of ghosts became more roused, the air above them began to shimmer. It crackled with hot red energy, bright and sharp. The rage of the dead taking shape.
“In life, you were denied vengeance,” she continued. “Those who wronged you, who profited or enjoyed your death—they never faced retribution. Their wickedness lived on. But this night,” she said, staring into a thousand faces, a thousand abbreviated lives, “we can take back what was stolen.”
She pointed toward the south. “A great evil masses. The greatest evil known. This is the wickedness in men’s hearts that robbed you of life. This is what denied you compassion, for the enemy I and my friends face tonight is the source of that darkness. And so I ask of you, will you aid in our fight?”
Though the crowd could not speak, the red light sizzling above the mob turned volatile, its glare blinding. She had her answer.
“Leo,” she threw over her shoulder. “Make haste. To my side, and take the leather bindings from my saddlebag.”
In a moment, Leo handed her the strips of leather as he stood on her other side. She cradled the material in her cupped hands. “I need you,” she said to Bram.
“Whatever you require.”
Quickly, she outlined her plan. Both Leo and Bram raised their eyebrows as she described what she intended to do, but neither argued. This was her realm, and she ruled it well. When she was certain that the two men knew their parts, she began to chant in the tongue of Egypt—her words shaping a spell of gathering. She envisioned it as a net, vast and inescapable, ancient language fashioning the web she cast out over the ghosts’ fury.
It taxed her, the creation of the spell, as she struggled to subdue the enraged energy. Twice, the red force threw off the net, but on the third attempt, she covered it with her sorcery.
At once, the energy fought back, trying to break free.
“Now,” she said through gritted teeth.
Bram stepped forward and took the straps from her hands. Muttering words in the long-dead tongue, he wrapped the straps around one edge of the net. He pulled hard on the straps, drawing the net toward him. As he hauled the energy nearer, he dug his feet into the ground and his body strained. The glare of red light covered him, casting a long shadow behind him so he appeared as a god of creation. Yet she kept her attention fixed on maintaining the net, continually repairing tears, re-knotting it when the strain threatened to rip it open.
By slow, painful degrees, she and Bram brought the energy closer, closer. And then, at last, with a groan, she pulled all of that seething force into the leather bindings held in Bram’s hands. The straps glowed with power.
Leo stepped forward. As he took the strips of leather, he hissed softly. He quickly wrapped the straps around his hands, binding them as a pugilist would wrap his hands in preparation for a fight. Clearly, he had ample experience doing precisely that. He flexed his hands experimentally, testing the straps to ensure their give. Bright red energy gleamed up from the leather, spreading up his arms.
He strode toward a nearby tree, then threw a punch right into the tree’s thick trunk. A splintering, shattering sound cracked through the silence. The tree shuddered and fell, its branches snapping, its roots torn up from the ground.
Leo stared down at his wrapped hands. When he glanced up at Livia and Bram, he wore a brutal smile.
“Fitting,” he said. “These spirits of Tyburn, they’re my people. We’re of the same low birth, the same status. And now the strength of their righteous anger is mine.”
“Nothing for me?” muttered Bram.
She slanted him a look. “You’ve power of your own. None needs to be borrowed.”
“Having more is always better.”
Turning back to the assembled ghosts, Livia said, “Be at peace now. Your fight is now ours.”
The spirits uttered soundless thanks. A moment later, they faded back into mist. The stillness that followed felt absolute, a thousand grasping hands had let go of their clinging hold, and the welcome oblivion that ensued.
Leo strode back toward the others, with a cautious Anne meeting him halfway. She lightly touched his wrapped hands, then stared at Livia.
“I think there is nothing you cannot do,” she breathed in wonder.
“You’re right,” Bram answered. He gazed at Livia with heat and pride.
Her heart expanded, growing to fill the vast, shadowed park, yet she dared not voice the truth—she could not guarantee them a victory. That lay beyond the compass of her power. All she could do was arm herself and her allies, and hope it would be enough.
Chapter 16
Bram had led columns of troops through the forests of the New World. They had marched through ancient, unexplored woods, surrounded on all sides by cool arboreal shadow and unseen enemies. Crimson coats had made for bright targets in those green places, and the convoy of hundreds of men made an irresistible lure to their foes. Yet he and his fellow soldiers marched on in a show of force, unbowed by an enemy that conducted war in a most un-English fashion.
He and his brother soldiers had been proud, confident. They fought for king and country. Even when hungry, wet and exhausted, they marched on, knowing with the certainty of children that they—with their training and numbers—would prevail.
Bram now rode at the head of an army consisting of six. He had no idea the size of the enemy’s forces. He did not know how they conducted b
attle. He understood only that he must fight, and command his troops. He had to believe they would conquer their foe. No other alternative.
He did know that they would be badly outnumbered. Six against a horde of demons. And John, the possessor of tremendous power, and the Devil, himself. There couldn’t be greater adversaries.
Yet Bram wasn’t helpless, nor alone. Anne and Zora had impressive magic, Whit and Leo both wielded powerful weapons. Bram felt the quick energy of magic within himself. He felt the purpose and determination of his own heart.
Nothing, however, had the strength of Livia.
He glanced over his shoulder to see her riding just behind him, her shoulders back, eyes ahead. A warrior queen. The magical energy within him caught the resonance of hers, and hummed with life, as though hearing the call of its own mate.
Every muscle tightened in readiness. He wanted this battle. Needed it. Staggering odds be damned. It must happen.
The unnatural silence continued as Bram led everyone south. Every street stood empty, windows shuttered. London retreated into itself, sensing somehow the battle to come.
Following Livia’s instruction, he rode over Westminster Bridge. As he did, he felt himself breach a film of sinister power that sizzled across his skin. More heat danced across his chest, his arm, his abdomen. All the places where the Devil’s mark writhed over his flesh. As if anticipating the flames of Hell that would greet him after death, and eager to burn the meat from his bones.
He felt, too, the pitch in his stomach. The enemy was just ahead—so his soldiering sense declared, and it had never guided him astray.
The bridge came and went, and they rode to the very edge of a wide, dark field ringed with trees. He knew this place, as did the other Hellraisers. They brought their horses to a stop and looked out over the empty expanse.
“St. George’s Fields,” Bram murmured.
“Where everything began,” Livia said.
“Not the underground temple?” asked Whit.
Bram shook his head. “The breach between us—it was here it first happened. Here the Hellraisers took up arms against each other, and the Devil’s snare broke us apart.”