by Zoë Archer
All four visitors gaped at Livia. Cautiously, Zora approached Livia, her coin-decked necklaces jingling with each step. She reached out with one ring-adorned hand. When her finger brushed across Livia’s arm, the Gypsy woman cursed softly in Romani.
“But this cannot be so,” she murmured. “A ghost made flesh?”
Eternally the regal empress, Livia tilted up her chin. “You cannot fathom the extent of what is possible.” With a wave of her hand, glowing spheres appeared overhead like stars, bathing the chamber in celestial blue light. Another wave and the spheres combined to form a second, pale sun.
“Fireworks may impress the crowds at Vauxhall.” Leo, as usual, appeared skeptical. “They’ll not be so effective against the Devil.”
“Or John,” Whit noted.
Livia flung out her hand. A sound like thunder shook the chamber as a shaft of light shot from her palm. It slammed into the practice dummy at the far end of the room. Ash drifted to the floor—all that remained of the figure.
Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne looked back and forth between the destruction and a smirking Livia, their expressions identically shocked.
“Welcome back to London, Hellraisers,” Bram said. “You’re just in time for the end of the world.”
Chapter 15
Rows of dispassionate faces stared down, ageless, untouchable. The faces would never age, know want or fear. They did not care that a great evil was massing, or that soon, very soon, that same wickedness would lay waste to everything.
Bram looked at the portrait of himself in the Red Drawing Room, hung between the rows of past men to wear the title Lord Rothwell. Gazing at his painted image, he felt neither disgust nor anger, but a dim kind of pity. The poor bastard in the painting had no idea what awaited him, the horrors he would see, and yet for all the agony he would endure, ultimately he emerged, if not better, then stronger. Everything brought him to this place, this moment: leading a counsel of war, his friendships in the process of being repaired, and an extraordinary woman by his side.
His dreams of the future had been facile. Honor. Glory. Unformed concepts that hadn’t been tested. Not once did he envision himself as he was now.
As it must be. The process of maturation took us far from all preconceptions. One could either bemoan the fact, curling in on oneself in a misery of stasis, or move forward.
Forward, then.
“John leading an army of demons?” This from Leo, arms crossed as he stood behind his seated wife. “A militia of books, perhaps, or an infantry of Parliamentary bills—but demons? I can’t see it.”
“He’s a scholar not a soldier.” Whit stood by the mantel, his arms also crossed.
Bram glanced down to see that he, too, had folded his arms across his chest. He smiled wryly to himself. Men were much the same when it came to preparing for combat, from the Colonies to a London mansion.
“His old identities have gone up in flames.” Livia sat in a throne-like Tudor chair. Her words were abstracted as she continued to maintain the web of magic over the city. “The Dark One has worked his alchemy on him. Nothing of his old self remains.”
“Nothing?” Zora stood next to Whit, hands on her hips.
“Not an inch of his skin is without the Devil’s mark,” Bram said.
Anne shuddered, and Leo and Whit swore.
“There’s no hope for him,” Whit said.
“None.” Bram gazed at his friends. “No redemption, no clemency. I need to know that when the time comes, I can rely on all of you to do what must be done.”
“Kill him.” Leo’s expression hardened. “Edmund died in the street like an animal. I’ll gladly wipe John from the face of the earth.”
Rather than rebuke her husband for his bloodthirstiness, Anne nodded in agreement.
“A fight it must be.” Bram glanced at Zora and Anne. “This shall be hard warfare. Harder than any battles you’ve yet fought. Are you equipped for the challenge?”
Whit and Leo chuckled, while Zora and Anne exchanged speaking glances. Zora stepped back from the mantel, as did Whit. Suddenly, her hand was gloved in flame. The flames stretched, becoming longer, until she held what looked like a whip made of fire. She snapped the whip. The burning logs inside the fireplace shattered. She smiled as she turned back to Bram, the flames around her hand shrinking until they went out.
Anne rose from her chair. She, too, faced the fireplace, then lifted her hands. A biting gust of air seemed to spring from her palms, knocking over a small table in her path. The wind scoured the hearth, dousing the flames just as all the candles in the room were extinguished.
Darkness filled the drawing room.
Livia snapped her fingers, and the fire and candles all relit. Both Zora and Anne gazed at Bram, wearing matching expressions of challenge.
“You’ll make for excellent artillery,” said Bram.
“Better than any cannon or firearm.” Whit curved an arm around Zora’s shoulders.
“More accurate, too,” added Leo, taking his wife’s hand.
“The women are our most powerful weapons.” Livia raised a brow. “The men may prove the greater liability, for they’ve no magic.”
“True.” Whit rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Yet Zora can turn this ordinary saber into a weapon of exceptional power.”
“She might do the same for you,” Livia said to Leo.
His mouth twisted. “Swords are forbidden to commoners. I’d say hang the rules, but I never learned the art of swordplay. But I’m a damned good shot, and can fight with my fists.”
“You can persuade the demons to turn back,” Whit said to Bram, “or fight amongst themselves.”
Bram hadn’t made use of his Devil-given gift in a long while. It could prove useful in the coming fight. He turned to Leo. “Let me kiss your wife.”
Whit and Zora exclaimed, Anne gasped, and Leo snarled, “Like hell.”
From her position near the fire, Livia remained still, her expression opaque.
“I’m going to kiss your wife,” Bram said, “and you are going to permit me.” He focused his will on Leo, exerting pressure through thought. You’ll allow me to do as I want.
Bram took a step toward Anne. She immediately brought her hands up, a swirl of cold air churning around her. Yet before she could push Bram back with her magic, Leo planted his fist solidly in Bram’s jaw. Bram stumbled back, his head ringing, but he kept his feet.
“You don’t bloody touch my wife,” Leo said with a rumble.
“We just proved two hypotheses,” said Bram.
“That you’re the same damned libertine you’ve always been?”
“That my gift of persuasion no longer exists. I’d never attempted to use it on you before, so it ought to work. Clearly, it didn’t.”
“And the other theory?” Anne asked, slowly lowering her hands. The icy wind abated, so the only sounds came from the fire and Leo’s enraged growls.
Bram lightly touched his jaw and winced. By morning, he’d have a large bruise adorning his face. “Master Bailey does indeed throw a very powerful left hook.”
“You could have tried to persuade him to do something else,” Whit objected.
“Such as?” asked Bram.
“Punch you.”
Though it hurt like a bastard, Bram grinned. “He’d want to do that anyway, magic or no.”
By minute degrees, the strain in the chamber eased, yet it did not entirely dissolve. They were not the same band of friends they had been months earlier, affable and reckless, unconcerned with anything but their own pleasure. A metamorphosis had transpired. Bram saw it in Whit and Leo’s gazes, in the set of their shoulders and the way they both stood as though ready to brawl. Nothing was certain, no outcome was a given. If they had once been confident that the world would bend to their desires with nary a consequence, that confidence had been replaced by a hard-edged understanding—they must fight for what they wanted.
Bram did not regret the difference.
“You’re
like us, then,” Leo said. “No magic.”
Livia rose and moved to stand in front of him. She was older than the other two women in the room, and she wore her experience like an empress wore her ermine. He had always preferred his lovers to be worldly—it made for a more stimulating time in bed, and it also ensured that there would be no misunderstandings as to the transitory nature of their relationship.
But all those were fatuous reasons. Gazing at Livia, at the hard-won wisdom in her eyes, he understood that there were facets of her he would never entirely grasp, and that he could spend the rest of his days searching them out with only the promise of knowing her fully.
How many days he had left . . . that was a duration no one knew, least of all himself.
“There’s magic still within him,” she said quietly. She placed her palm against his chest.
He covered her hand with his own and closed his eyes. Following the means she had taught him, he delved into himself, down through the shadowed labyrinth of his consciousness. Something shone in that darkness, still. The golden key shimmering in the gloom. It hadn’t the same bright edge as when she had been a spirit, but even diminished, the power continued.
Opening his eyes, he smiled at her, and she smiled back. They were part of each other. Now and for eternity.
Feeling the Hellraisers’ gazes upon him, he returned their stares. If there had been any doubt that he and Livia were lovers, that doubt now vanished. Yet they were more than lovers, and Bram let the Hellraisers know this with a meaningful look. In silent communication and solidarity, Leo glanced at Anne as Whit gazed at Zora, then both men looked back to Bram. Men needed few words to converse, and so they did now.
These are our women, and we are theirs.
Only months prior he, Whit and Leo shared in everything, bound together by friendship more powerful than any female could ever provide. They might not have unburdened their deepest selves to one another, but each man had been stalwart in his loyalty to the others.
That had changed. Three women had altered the terrain, reshaping whole continents. Livia, Zora, and Anne were the keepers of their hearts now. And though the Hellraisers might repair the fractures between them, they were no longer everything to one another.
“Your hand,” Whit said.
Everyone’s gaze fell on Bram’s hand resting atop Livia’s. The Devil’s mark curled over his skin, flames dancing up to his knuckles.
“Wafodu guero still has your soul,” said Zora.
Bram remained silent.
“If that’s so,” Leo said, “then if anything happened to you during the battle—”
“I’ll be trapped. In Hell.” He did not miss Livia’s flinch. “Already been considered.”
“Perhaps you ought to remain safely behind,” Anne said.
“I realize that you do not know me, Mrs. Bailey,” said Bram, “but you’ve only to look at me to realize that I’d rather suffer eternal torment than sit out this battle.”
“No matter the cost?” Anne pressed.
His gaze solely on Livia, Bram said, “I do this because of all I have to lose.”
* * *
Livia studied the assembled company, ringed close around the fire, everyone wearing matching expressions of grim determination. An odd gathering, this. Noblemen and commoners, well-bred ladies and windblown wanderers. Soldiers and sorceresses.
Had she planned to assemble an army, one capable of defeating the Dark One, this would not be it. She needed a whole battalion of warriors, trained not only in martial combat but the use of magic. These mortals had only recently walked the paths of magic, imperfectly learning its ways. Of all of them, she alone knew all of magic’s depths, its uses and dangers. And of all of them, she alone knew how great their enemy truly was, how the odds against them were so steep as to be impossible.
She looked at them now, these Hellraisers and their women, understanding that they might all be marching to their deaths. Commanders of armies did the same. They would review their troops and issue orders, knowing full well that within hours or minutes, the living men would be reduced to inanimate collections of cold muscle and blood.
She had seen Bram’s memories, learned the contours of his mind. He had looked into men’s eyes, understanding that, on his orders, the men would die.
Once, not very long ago, Livia had been comfortable with her role as general, rallying her patchwork battalion and prepared to sacrifice anyone and everyone to vanquish the Dark One. That had been before. Before Bram. With his touch and his words, his gaze and his will, he had altered the landscape of her heart. He’d died to bring her back to the realm of the living.
Which was precisely why she could not allow thoughts of failure to poison her resolve. This was the time of determination, confidence. If she did not genuinely feel these things, she must believe her own lie, else everything was lost.
“Waiting for John to act first will only see us scrambling to defend ourselves,” she said to the others.
“Aggression is the position of power,” said Bram with a nod.
“His is to be an army of demons.” Whit planted his hands on his hips. “We’ve no scouts to tell us where they are massing, which means we’ve no way to stop their advance.”
“The Rom always have their ears to the ground,” Zora said. “We trade information even more than we trade horses. I could try to contact my band, see if they’ve heard anything.”
“There isn’t time,” Bram said. “I saw the madness in John’s eyes, the flames on his skin. He tried to kill Lord Walcote in order to gain more dark power. The moon turns the color of blood—a sign, Livia tells me, of the gate opening between Hell and this world. He’ll act, and soon.”
“This very night.” Livia moved to the window and stared out at the moon she and Bram had seen earlier. The web she’d spun shook as if in a wind, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint a specific origin. She turned her thoughts over and over in her mind, gnawing on them like a wolf with a bone.
“Hell.” Leo growled. “They could appear right in the middle of Covent Garden, but we wouldn’t know until it’s too late.”
“If we went out in pairs,” Anne suggested, “we might comb the city and report back should we find anything.”
Bram shook his head. “We’d still lag behind. Livia’s right—we need an aggressive approach. Find him before he brings out his army.”
Turning away from the group, Whit picked up the fire iron. He jabbed it moodily into the logs burning in the hearth. “He’s got the Devil on his side. If John doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.”
Livia straightened. “The Dark One hasn’t much power of his own. He’s a manipulator. When he wants something accomplished, he influences others to do his deeds.”
“Including give the Hellraisers magic,” noted Leo.
“A puller of strings,” Livia said. “With John as his puppet.”
“Where the Devil is,” Bram said, his feet braced wide, his hands on his hips, “that’s where we find John.”
A sound of frustration from Zora. “Wafodu guero isn’t forthcoming with his whereabouts. Tracking him will be just as difficult as finding that murderous gorgio.”
“He has something in his possession,” Livia said. “Something too valuable to risk to another vault, thus he keeps on his person.” She turned to Bram. “Your soul.”
His expression was sharp and fierce. “You’re capable of this.”
She nodded. “We’ll need silence, and seclusion, but it can be done.”
“What can be done?” Leo demanded.
“We must find John,” she said. “To do that, we have to track the Dark One. To do that, we must hunt him down—”
“With my soul as a beacon,” Bram finished.
Leo’s brows rose. “Damn—it’s possible to do that?”
“I’ve seen his soul a handful of times, and it guided us from the darkness of the other realm,” Livia said. “I know it as well as I know my own.” She felt Bram’s heated gaze
on her, and she returned the look.
“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.