by Zoë Archer
He released his hold on her shoulder, moving his hands to cup the back of her head. The sensation of his rough fingertips sliding through her hair and against her scalp traveled the length of her body. He walked them backward until she met the wall. It felt as solid and hard as Bram himself. The whole while, his gaze never left hers.
Both weakness and strength surged through her. What he had willingly surrendered, for her . . . she could hardly comprehend it. And to have all of him, solid and true, pressed to her, to have sensation after so long without—it was too much, and she wanted more.
“Your hair, your skin,” he growled. “Everything. I tried so damned hard to imagine what you’d feel like.”
“Have I surpassed your imagining?”
“The difference between a candle and a conflagration. You demolish me.”
Her heart was laid bare. The things she had seen and done in her life, and the centuries that followed, wicked and cruel woman that she was, she’d thought herself inured to emotions such as these. Feelings were for the young and credulous, those who hadn’t gained experience or sense to protect themselves. Here she was, past youth, past innocence, and with his words and gaze and touch, she felt as raw and open as if she had been torn, squalling, from the flesh of the world.
She wanted to touch him everywhere, run her hands over his body, his face. Draw him into her completely. She stretched up on her toes. As she did, her hands and breasts slid along his chest, and she moaned at the contact. The need she felt for him was a palpable thing, an ache.
He tipped her head back. His mouth lowered to hers.
Her breath caught, anticipatory. Their lips touched. She exhaled.
The gods protect her. His kiss . . .
He knew this art. He knew her. But they had never done this together. And it was the dawning of everything.
His lips were firm against hers, yet supple. They traced her mouth, learning the shape and feel in measured exploration. Control did not last—for either of them. For with only a few touches of lips to lips, hunger erupted from its cage, tearing through her. She opened her mouth and stroked her tongue against his.
An animal sound rumbled deep within him. His tongue met hers, and they loosed themselves upon each other. A greedy consuming. He tasted of autumn apples and masculine spice. The first thing she had tasted since made flesh. Over a thousand years, she had known no flavor, and now—him. If she tasted nothing else for the rest of her days, she would be content.
He pressed her tight between the wall and his body. She pushed back into him, straining. She felt his kiss everywhere. She learned her own body all over again, discovering it as his kiss drew awareness from her and filled her with sensation. It was a revelation of the soft and needy places in her body, in the thick beat of her heart. Her hands drifted from his chest to roam all over him, at last knowing the hewn hardness of his form, taut and muscled and living.
She gasped against his mouth when he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the wall.
“The final thread of my sanity will snap if you keep touching me,” he rumbled.
“I’ve been mad,” she said, breathless. “We can lose our minds together.”
Yet he did not release her. Finally she knew his true strength, unrelenting, as he held her fast to the wall. He trailed his mouth along her jaw, then lower, down the curve of her neck, until he reached the hollow at the base of her throat. He licked her there, and made a growling sound of appreciation.
“Succulent,” he murmured. “All of you.”
Her body had fully wakened. She knew what she was capable of, and wanted it with him. “Kiss me again,” she demanded. “Just one.”
Yet he stepped back. “We both know it can’t stop at one kiss. And we both know that we have to get the hell out of here. Now.”
Every part of her protested. She also knew he spoke the truth, much as it pained her.
She pushed away from the wall. “How far is it to this . . . Wapping?”
His gaze raked her. “Too far.” Yet he held out his hand to her.
After drawing a shuddering breath, she laced her fingers with his.
He moved to rest his free hand on the hilt of his sword, then scowled when he discovered there was no sword. “I’ve a bloody armory at home. But home isn’t a possibility.”
With a quick incantation, she conjured up a small crackle of lightning that sparked from the tips of her fingers. “We aren’t entirely without defense.” Her magic, however, hadn’t its normal strength, tapped as it was by the trying events of the day.
Bram walked along the corridor and down the stairs leading to the basement, towing Livia behind him. They passed through the kitchen, and then stepped out into ashen day. Pale as the sunlight was, she still blinked and squinted, adjusting herself to the new phenomenon.
He glanced at her, and she knew he saw her for the first time in true daylight. She even cast a small shadow, watery though it was in the weak, diffused sunshine.
“A force beyond nature, that’s what you are. Yet you’re mortal, too.” He stared at the place in her wrist where her pulse beat. “Vulnerable. The Devil knows it. And to hurt you, he’ll go to any lengths.”
“I won’t hide. You voyaged to the realm of the dead to ensure I’d fight.”
“So I did. And I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for you. We fight together.” He placed a fingertip beneath her chin. “I’ll arm myself. Then God help who or whatever stands against us.”
She said nothing. Brave, his words were, but the Dark One was an enemy few could defeat. Whatever had enabled her to trap him once before, she doubted such miracles occurred twice in a lifetime.
Chapter 12
Though the streets were nearly empty, Livia felt herself ablaze with awareness and power. She perceived everything—the wash of light over the cobbles, the feel of clammy air rippling over her skin, the stink of refuse rotting in the gutter. Voices and sounds were louder, sharper, and she drew everything into herself, feeding upon sensation.
Bram rode through the city, with her sitting behind him, her arms clasped about his waist. She held onto him as a means to restrain herself. Now that she possessed form and flesh, she wanted to devastate, to devour everything. The greed she had felt once was miniscule by comparison. She had been denied for a millennium. No longer. Magic and power hummed through her veins. She felt herself capable of anything.
Valeria Livia Corva had returned.
Pushing down her avarice taxed her. It felt as though she struggled to chain a starved lioness. And everywhere was meat, fresh and bloody.
Bram drew up beside a shop and dismounted. After helping her down, they went inside, his hand a continual assuring presence as it clasped hers.
A bell rang when they entered. Merchandise of every description filled the small shop—chairs and desks, baskets brimming with clothing, porcelain, framed paintings, even stringed musical instruments. Light barely penetrated the crowded window.
A dark-haired woman emerged from the dusty shadows. Livia whirled to face her, then saw herself. She stared at her reflection in a mirror. Tentative, she approached, studying herself. She had not truly seen herself in over a thousand years. The mirrors of this era were far better than the ones of her time, revealing every nuance and detail in their polished surfaces.
“How may I be of assistance, my lord?” A shopkeeper appeared, her gray hair pinned beneath a cap. She paused when she saw the bloodstains on Bram’s clothing.
“I’ve need of several items,” answered Bram.
The shopkeeper recovered. “There is nothing you cannot find in my establishment.”
“Swords.”
“I keep them in the back,” she replied.
“Bring them out. Quickly, for we’ve not much time.”
“Yes, my lord.” There came a soft clatter as the woman picked her way to the back of her shop.
Livia barely heard their conversation. Her attention held on the image of herself in the mirror. There—she coul
d see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and she could just make out the faintest crease in the corner of each eye. And a few silver strands interwove with her dark hair. At the time of her death, she had not been a girl, but a woman grown. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.
Bram’s image appeared behind hers in the mirror. Dark, lean, his jaw and cheeks covered with stubble but his eyes sharp as cut sapphires, he was as feral as she.
“Are you as you remembered yourself?” he asked.
“That woman was greedy and vain.” She traced her finger around the outline of her face in the glass. “A wicked creature.”
“Transformation is better than reformation.”
She exhaled a small laugh. “If I’m to keep myself in check, you’ll need to offer me more restraint than that.”
“The last thing I can offer you is restraint.” Raw hunger gleamed in his eyes.
A throb of need resounded low in her belly. What they had started back in the abandoned house truly was the beginning of something ravenous, something that could consume them both in its heat and immensity.
They both seemed to understand that they hadn’t the luxury of time to explore their desire. Their gazes broke apart, an act of mutual self-preservation.
“Here you are, sir,” the shopkeeper said, returning. She cleared off a section of the cluttered counter and set several long wooden cases atop it. “All legitimately acquired, I can assure you. From gentlemen who have found themselves in impecunious circumstances.”
Both Livia and Bram turned to examine the cases as the shopkeeper opened the lids. Rust-colored velvet cradled half a dozen swords of different sizes and shapes, some thin-bladed, others heavier and curved. Knowing little of weaponry, Livia watched Bram as his trained and critical gaze moved over the various swords.
He picked up one weapon and frowned at it, turning it this way and that, running his finger along its edge. Whatever he saw there did not meet his standards, and he returned it to the case. He took another sword and did the same inspection. Moving into the center of the shop, he took several practice swings, his movements precise and fluid.
As many times as Livia had seen Bram in combat or even practicing his swordplay, she continued to be enthralled by the sight of him in motion. The shopkeeper thought so, as well.
“This will do,” Bram said, setting the sword on the counter. “A pistol, too, if you have one.”
“I do,” the woman answered. “I also have some fine garments that might interest you, my lord. And you, my . . . er . . . lady,” she added, glancing at Livia. Her gaze moved over Livia’s tunic and sandals.
“Bring those, as well,” said Bram.
“My tunic is made of silk from Seres,” Livia insisted when the shopkeeper bustled off again. “Carried thousands of miles upon the backs of camels, over treacherous mountains and scorching deserts.”
“Lovely, to be sure. But a beautiful woman dressed in the style of Ancient Rome invites attention. And we don’t want attention.”
He was right. Too many dangers lurked close. When the shopkeeper returned, her arms full of rustling dresses, Livia selected one that seemed closest to her size and preference—a gown of apricot-hued silk, trimmed with blue ribbon. The ribbon was frayed, and some of the stitches along the sleeves gaped. Livia eyed this evidence of wear with distaste. She had never worn second hand garments.
“I’ll take you back to Madame De Jardin’s,” Bram said. “A whole new wardrobe, made for you alone.”
Neither voiced the question as to when they would have the gowns made. It spoke of a future that she nor Bram could vouch for.
“I also brought some, ahem, undergarments.” The shopkeeper surreptitiously uncovered a snug-looking white article that appeared as though it encircled the torso.
Livia poked the garment. It was rigid. Like a cage. “I’m to wear this?”
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but have you not worn stays before?”
“She’s from Italy,” said Bram.
The shopkeeper nodded sagely. “I see you have no maid with you today, my lady. If you’ll follow me, I can help dress you.”
Livia was no stranger to being clothed by a servant. From the time she had been a small child and all through adulthood, she’d had slaves and later temple acolytes who had served her. With a regal nod, she let herself be led to the back of the shop, to a cramped, curtained nook.
Dressing was an exercise in constraint as she was squeezed into the stays and draped in layer after layer of garments. Several minutes of this and then she emerged from the nook, the older woman trailing behind her.
Bram had been peering out the window, scowling as he surveyed the street, yet when he caught sight of her, his scowl lifted. He prowled toward her, gaze hot and lingering on her exposed chest.
“These modern clothes suit you very well,” he murmured, eyeing the low neck of her gown.
“The stays are an appalling contrivance,” she answered.
“Even worse that women of this time submit to them. And no Roman woman of virtue reveals herself so boldly.”
“The sacrifices we must make for the sake of modernity.”
“I note you aren’t the one with a cage of metal around your ribs.” She glanced down critically at the garment. “My own clothing was better.”
“You flatter whatever you wear.” Bram swore in frustration. “Damn John and the Devil. If they weren’t threatening to tear London apart, I’d show you my appreciation.”
Her cheeks heated, and the shopkeeper coughed. Livia reveled in the warmth flooding her face—it meant she was alive, and earthly. Yet she could do nothing to explore her carnality. Not with such meager time and safety. Like Bram, she cursed circumstance.
She made a sweep of the shop, gathering up a few items. “I’ll want these,” she told the shopkeeper.
“Yes, madam.” The older woman could not fully hide her curiosity at Livia’s selections, but Livia had neither the time nor interest in explaining the intricacies of spellcasting.
They concluded the rest of their business quickly. Bram purchased a pistol, a lantern, and a shirt that was threadbare but clean. He declined to barter his coat and waistcoat. When the shopkeeper offered him actual money for Livia’s silk tunic and gold ornaments, he looked to Livia for the answer.
Livia considered the muslin-wrapped bundle she now carried. In this world, she had no wealth, only the things wrapped in a bolt of coarse fabric. Doubtless she could fetch a considerable amount for her jewelry, at the least. And she had been trapped in the same garments for over a thousand years. Easy to grow tired of them after so long.
“I purchased the bracelets from a Greek artisan,” she murmured. “He had a shop in Trajan’s Market.” The artisan long ago had turned to dust, and the market itself likely was a ruin. Her jewelry and clothing were relics—like her.
“I’ll keep them,” she said.
The shopkeeper looked disappointed, yet, seeing Livia’s resolve, acquiesced. A large handful of coins on the counter helped silence the older woman’s objections.
Glancing toward the window, Livia saw that the sky darkened. “Darkness is falling.” Which meant that the danger increased. The Devil preferred to carry out his work under cover of night. Though soon, if he went unopposed, day or night would no longer matter. All of it would be darkness, and every moment would be misery.
She felt it even stronger now that she had been given flesh—the Dark One’s growing strength. It choked the streets and wove its way between the smallest crevices in the buildings. Unseen but palpable.
The shopkeeper now seemed eager to have Livia and Bram leave. She scooped up the coins into a pocket in her apron, and all but shoved her and Bram out the door.
Dusk cloaked the street, and figures scuttled in the shadows. Livia pressed the bundle of her clothing to her chest and shivered from the cold. In a swirl of velvet, Bram draped his coat over her shoulders. His warmth and scent enveloping her gave some comfort, yet for al
l his strength and determination, he was still mortal. As was she. They could both be hurt. Or worse.
Silently, he paid the boy holding the reins of his horse. The boy scurried off the moment the coin touched his palm.
Bram mounted his horse, secured her bundle of old clothes, then held out a hand for her. She seated herself behind him, struggling a little with the mass of her cumbersome gown, then clasped her arms around his waist. Warily vigilance tightened his body. The night held a venomous chill, as though it had been honed to a cutting edge.
“And now?” she asked, her words barely a whisper.
“We seek shelter where we can.” He pressed his heels into the horse’s side, setting it in motion. “But whatever safety we find won’t last.”
Bram seethed with frustration. None of the circumstances were as he wanted them. Here was Livia, no longer a spirit but a woman of flesh, and he wished to take her back to his home, settle her upon a fireside couch strewn with silk pillows, feed her scalloped oysters, sweetmeats, the tender leaves of artichokes glazed in butter. There would be glasses of full-bodied Chambertin gleaming like rubies. He wanted a soaking tub filled with warm water perfumed by jasmine blossoms. He desired gowns of crimson damask, emerald faille—bright, rich hues to flatter her olive skin. He would surround her in luxury, in comfort, in sensuous pleasure.
Instead, they crouched on a coarse woolen blanket on the dusty floor of an empty dockside warehouse, gnawing on stale bread and tough lumps of mutton, trading sips from a bottle of dubious wine—the only food he’d been able to procure.
Riverside chill seeped between the cracks in the walls. Noisome vapor, smelling of rot and sludge, curled amongst the few crates left behind from the last shipment. It was so quiet Bram heard the water slapping against the pilings. Yet the other sounds of river traffic and life, the ferrymen and mudlarks and stevedores loading and unloading ships, those were absent.