Sinner's Heart (Hellraisers)

by Archer, Zoe

  An ugly night. Whit had been the first of the Hellraisers to see the Devil’s gifts for what they truly were. They had brawled here, in this liminal place at the edge of London, raised swords and fists. Bram had been deep in his sins’ thrall. He’d wanted pleasure at any cost—even the loss of his closest friend. That night, in this place, they had become enemies.

  “I see no one.” Leo scanned the field. The moon broke through the clouds, glazing the plain with pale, cold light. Not a single soul waited for them. Not John, nor the Devil. No armies of demons. An empty expanse, an ordinary field at the southern edge of London.

  “They’re coming,” Bram answered. Tension knotted along his shoulders and in his gut, as it always did before a battle. Presaging what was in store.

  “This is where Bram’s soul led us.” Livia studied the field like a general.

  Zora said, “Perhaps we ought to—”

  The ground shook, the air filled with a sound like rock being torn apart, and bestial screams. It rattled in Bram’s bones. The horse beneath him danced and shied, its eyes rolled back in fear. He fought to keep his mount under control, pulling tight on the reins. His focus wasn’t on the animal, however.

  At the furthest edge of the field, the ground cleaved open. It shuddered and splintered as if a massive pair of hands ripped the earth asunder. A visible darkness poured forth from the fracture, bleeding outward, seeping poison into the night. Talons and clawed hands appeared at the edge of the widening crevice. They clutched at the dirt, dragging themselves up.

  “Exalted gods.” Livia’s curse barely rose above the din.

  Bram joined her in swearing. No other words came to him.

  Demons clambered out of the torn earth, each one more vile and terrible than the last. They swarmed like pestilence, creatures wrought in the depths of nightmares. Some were formed in human shape, massive in size, with blister-red skin and claws the length of a man’s forearm. Others slid upon the ground, serpent-like, dragging themselves forward on stunted arms as their gaping fanged mouths gulped at the air. Winged creatures spilled out like flies from a rotting carcass, and though they had huge bodies and wings like beetles, they had men’s distorted faces.

  Bram lost count of variety of demons that crawled and flew from the depths of Hell. He never suspected such an abundance, and the tension within him ratcheted higher as the foulest beasts he’d ever seen gathered at the edge of St. George’s Fields.

  Some of the demons carried weapons—jagged blades that devoured light, ancient-looking pikes and short swords seemingly made from sharpened dragon teeth.

  The creatures were massing at the other end of the field, shrieking in rage, seething with readiness to fight, yet held back as though waiting for something. More creatures were crawling up from the rift.

  A thunderclap shook the plain once more, and there was John, mounted atop a beast that appeared half horse, half lizard. Its eyes of flame nearly matched the madness burning in John’s gaze. Even from the other side of the field, Bram saw the deranged fury blazing in his erstwhile friend. Moonlight gleamed over the flames writhing across John’s skin and on the blade of the sword he carried.

  The demons that had managed to free themselves from the rift milled in disordered groups. John positioned himself in front of them, patrolling the line and chanting loudly. Summoning more creatures up from Hell.

  His words broke off when he saw Bram and the other Hellraisers. A brief look of confusion crossed his face. He hadn’t been expecting them.

  He schooled his features quickly. From the back of his cloven-hoofed mount, he stared at the Hellraisers and laughed. “Once I thought the Hellraisers invincible,” he shouted across the field. “Now I see them for what they truly are: a pathetic collection of reprobates. And their women,” he added with a sneer. “How did I ever count myself as one of your number?”

  “Because we took pity on you,” Bram called back.

  A snarl twisted John’s face. “I’m gathering Hell’s might behind me. A handful of dissolute libertines and their sluts cannot keep me from my fate.”

  “Nor shall we.” Livia looked scornful. “Your destiny is to burn in the flames of the Underworld for eternity. I’m eager to escort you to your fate.”

  Snarling, John flung out a hand. A bolt of black fire leapt from his palm. It shot across the field. Bram and Livia pulled their horses sharply to the side, narrowly missing the bolt. It tore into the ground, scorching the grass and flinging rocks.

  Bringing his horse back under control, Bram allowed himself the fullness of his rage. It filled him with a cold, deliberate purpose. He dismounted and handed the reins to Livia, who watched him cautiously.

  He drew his sword. A trusted weapon. It had saved his life more times than he could recall, had tasted the blood of his enemies and hungered for more. The feel of it in his hand was natural, right.

  “I’ve need of your strength,” he said to Livia.

  “It is yours. Always.”

  He turned to face John and his growing demon army. Despite every soldierly instinct telling him not to, he closed his eyes. Yet he could not allow any distractions. Within himself, he felt the sharp edge of his magic. He drew on it, drew on the anger and darkness and demand for combat. Livia’s magic surged in him, as well, hot and bright as an unforgiving sun, and he welcomed her ruthless power.

  There were lives to avenge. Lives to save—especially Livia’s. The task fell to him. He could not falter, nor fail.

  The magic within him rose up. He did not know incantations and spells as Livia did. Instinct alone led him. He opened his eyes. Blue energy crackled around him, the sky overhead suddenly filling with jagged streaks of lightning.

  A sharp, loud snap. Lightning struck his sword. Its current traveled through the metal, through his veins, filling him with power. He embraced it, pulling it deep, illuminating the darkest corners of his fury.

  Livia was there, beside him. “Your eyes . . .”

  He studied his reflection in the blade of his sword. Though the blade itself seethed with energy, he could see that his eyes themselves blazed with light, pure blue. Like a demon he looked. Like a demon he felt.

  He felt his mouth curl into a savage grin. Livia’s answering smile was equally wicked.

  Oh, they were a fine pair.

  Bram raised his sword once more. With John watching from the other side of the field, Bram stuck the tip of his blade into the dirt, as though stabbing an adversary. Lightning crackled up from his sword. He dragged the weapon through the soil, trailing electricity. Shimmering blue light radiated up from the gouge in the earth.

  “Here and no farther,” he shouted to John. “You will never cross this line.”

  The demons screamed and John scowled.

  A grinning figure suddenly appeared, twenty feet from where Bram had drawn a line in the earth. Rage choked Bram’s throat when he saw that the Devil wore a parody of a general’s uniform, the fabric black instead of scarlet, adorned all over with silver braid and the marks of his rank.

  An insult.

  Bram barely held himself back from striding to Mr. Holliday and thrusting his blade into the bastard’s chest. Of a certain the Devil would strike him down before he could so much as cut off one of his silver buttons.

  “These displays are enthralling.” The Devil eyed the shimmering demarcation, a mocking smile on his lips. He turned his gaze to Livia, making Bram tense, and then looked beyond her at Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne. “A superior fighting force you’ve assembled here. Shall we negotiate the terms of surrender?”

  “I won’t accept your surrender.” Bram kept his feet planted firmly, his sword in hand. “Only your destruction.”

  Mr. Holliday chuckled. “Never lose your sense of idealism, Bram. It will make your torment that much greater.” He raised his hand, and Bram’s heart contracted. In the Devil’s hand was Bram’s soul, gleaming far more brightly than ever before.

  Bram thought he’d grown inured to seeing it, his soul. It co
uld no longer move him, or so he believed. Yet to see it again, see its radiance and promise, made him ache with loss. He glanced over at Livia. He hadn’t known what he was missing. Now he did.

  Under her breath, Livia cursed in her own tongue.

  “I am so used to entrusting these things to my subordinates,” the Devil murmured, conversational. “It never occurred to me how delightful it is to keep them close. Perhaps I shall revise my policy. Besides, there is nowhere safer than in my grasp.” His face twisted into a grotesque sneer, illuminated by the glow from Bram’s soul. “This shall always be mine. You will fight, you will die. And still this will belong to me. The consequences of which you are fully aware.”

  “I’ve felt Hell’s fire at my back,” Bram said.

  “You will feel it everywhere.” The Devil tapped the center of his chest. “Most especially here—knowing that you fought and died for nothing.”

  Bram said, “Not nothing.”

  The Devil swore. His smooth countenance distorted with anger and confusion as the soul he held slipped from his fingers. He snatched at it, trying to steal it back, yet it kept sliding from his grasp. As Bram stared, his soul drifted toward him, breaching the distance. Mr. Holliday flung nets of shadowed energy, but no sooner had the net closed around Bram’s soul than it glided free again. It floated resolutely toward him.

  “How are you doing this?” Bram demanded of Livia.

  Eyes wide, she shook her head. “This is not my work. I believe . . . it is entirely you.”

  “I haven’t enough magic—”

  “No magic. You. Your fight is for me, for your friends, and untold thousands. But not for yourself.” She gazed with wonder as Bram’s soul neared. “He cannot hold you, not when you have become . . . complete.”

  Bram stood, stunned. For so long, he’d felt a part of himself missing, an empty expanse inside. Searching for that emptiness now, he discovered it gone, filled as he was with purpose, with Livia.

  Not a perfect man, not by a considerable amount, but striving.

  Hissing, the Devil made a last desperate lunge for Bram’s soul. The shining object moved faster. Eluding his grasp, it shot forward. Straight into Bram’s chest.

  Radiance suffused him, a warmth unlike anything he’d experienced. Not merely a physical warmth, but a sense of rightness, a unification. The manifold facets of himself aligned. A thousand emotions beset him—sorrow, joy, relief, rage—as though the barrier holding them at bay shattered. He saw the face of his father, his brother, fallen soldiers, Edmund.

  It was too much. He could not withstand the onslaught. He could bear a hundred wounds and not falter, but this . . . this threatened to raze him to ashes.

  A hand, slim and steady, clasped his. He knew her touch by deepest instinct. It shored him, strengthened him. She would not let him fall.

  Bram shuddered once, and then came back into himself. Beside him, her hand in his, stood Livia. Pride shone in her eyes, and a gleam of tears he knew she would deny.

  “All your own doing,” she whispered.

  “Useless distraction,” the Devil spat. He tugged on his coat, righting his appearance. “It signifies nothing. There’s one outcome to this battle. My army will cross that line”—he pointed to the boundary in the dirt—“and transform London into my kingdom on earth. The streets will run with blood. It will be a banquet of suffering.”

  “The Devil has no gift of prophecy,” Bram answered.

  “There are no certainties.”

  John snarled. “I’ll enjoy grinding your bones to powder—that is certain.”

  “Six against over a hundred.” Mr. Holliday tutted. “If your friend Whit still gambled, I’d stake everything on us. The odds don’t favor you.”

  Livia released Bram’s hand as she stepped forward. “Even probability can be altered.”

  “It does not matter,” John cried. “None of this matters.” He wheeled his mount around and resumed his chanting. More demons clambered up from the rift to join the assembled others.

  After a final sneering glance, the Devil snapped his fingers and vanished. He would be back—of that, Bram was certain.

  Bram now turned to Livia.

  She nodded toward the Hellraisers. “Your troops await your orders.”

  Livia had seen Bram as a soldier and off icer—in his memories. Now, she saw him assume that role once more. The mantle of authority settled easily across his wide shoulders. He swung back up into the saddle, fluid, and brought his skittish horse around so that he faced the Hellraisers.

  His expression was steely, betraying nothing.

  “Leo, you’ll take the slithering demons, the things that crawl. Anne, use your command of air to beat back the winged creatures. Throw them to the ground and Leo can finish them.” He turned to Whit and Zora. “The demons with hooves and those that walk on two feet, they’re your responsibility. Cut them down.”

  Livia could not tear her gaze from him as he gestured with his sword. It was clear he expected obedience, assured in his judgment. His friends nodded, accepting his directives without question.

  This is what Bram was always meant to do. If he held any trepidation, any uncertainty, he did not reveal it. The sharp angles of his face held confidence, and his long, muscled body seemed coiled to strike.

  All the while, the enemy across the field snarled in readiness. John shouted orders to the demons.

  Every part of Livia tensed. All of this had come to pass because of her greed for power. Now the war to end everything awaited.

  Never before had she been in actual battle, moments away from plunging headlong into full combat. She had come to the aid of Leo and Anne as they fought a band of attacking demons, but this—over a hundred hellspawn beasts waiting to bring down the wrath of the Dark One, creatures growling and rattling their weapons, eager for blood—this was an unknown realm.

  One that might well see her and Bram dead, and the world horribly transformed.

  She watched him now, a man not only at the height of his physical strength but also the strength of his heart, his will. He had changed utterly from the dissipated rogue she once knew, yet the core of him, shadowed and edged, that remained constant.

  And she loved him for it.

  The thought struck her like a blade of fire.

  A fine time for revelations.

  She gave an inward, mocking smile. Yet she fooled no one, least of all herself.

  All her years, all the knowledge she possessed, the cynical wisdom that sheltered her, all of it fell away. Watching Bram now prepare his army of six, she felt herself engulfed in emotion. He had won her, in every way.

  She could not speak of this. Not now. So she kept the knowledge of her love close, a hoarded, feared treasure, as dangerous as it was valuable.

  “What of you and Livia?” Whit asked.

  “We head the charge.” His gaze held hers, and her heart stuttered. “I need you at my side.”

  “The only place I want,” she answered.

  He brought his horse alongside hers so the flanks nearly touched. With a single, direct movement, he leaned close, cupping the back of her head. Then kissed her. A greedy, demanding kiss, his mouth hot, his need like flame. She gave as she received, just as eager, just as ravenous. This kiss might have to last the rest of her life, however short that might be, and into eternity.

  For all her vows to keep her newly discovered love to herself, he must have felt it in her kiss, for he pulled back enough to stare into her eyes.

  “This is not the end,” he said, low and fierce.

  “We shall prevail,” she whispered back. Even if she did not truly believe they could defeat the Dark One and his army, she had to cling to hope.

  The blue fire in his gaze flared. He kissed her once more, and she clutched at his shoulders, holding him as tightly as these last moments would allow.

  They broke apart. It felt as though the world itself had been torn in two.

  Needing something to stop the pain, she glanced ove
r at their fellow Hellraisers. Her heart contracted once more as she saw both couples—Whit and Zora, Leo and Anne—locked in their own passionate, fraught kisses. The final communion before battle. With equal shows of reluctance, the couples broke apart.

  At last, there could be no further delay. The moment had arrived.

  Everyone took up their positions. Across the field, John broke off from his chanting to order the demons into rough groups. As though they were indeed an army.

  Time slowed to mark each second, each breath and heartbeat. She had dwelled in a state of endless time, believing it would stretch on without cessation, that one moment was no different from the next.

  That had changed. An entire kingdom resided within every inhalation. The world shifted with every exhalation.

  She knew love. Recognized it just in time to have it ripped away. Perhaps. They might yet survive, she and Bram. They might win.

  Yet she strongly doubted it.

  “Charge!” screamed John.

  “For the world’s souls!” Bram shouted.

  The battle had begun.

  The Hellraisers and demons thundered toward one another. The ground shook, and the sky itself seemed to tremble.

  Closer and closer drew the enemy. Moonlight glinted on their weapons, their claws and fangs and wings.

  Livia did not feel fear. Only quiet, deadly purpose.

  A sound like Armageddon crashed over the field as the two sides met. Demon and Hellraisers clashed. Everything became chaos. Movement and noise.

  Livia pulled fire from herself, summoning the magic of every warrior goddess she knew. Minerva, Morrigan, Artemis. She felt their power suffuse her, her body alight with energy, as though flame had replaced muscle and bone. As demons advanced, she lashed out, fiery bolts of power coursing from her free hand, the other hand holding her mount’s reins. Beasts screamed and fell, their limbs severed, holes blasted into their bodies, whilst others pushed in.

  She fought to keep her horse controlled, thick swarms of foul creatures on every side. The air stank of sulfur and carrion.