Demon's Bride

Chapter 12

Leo waited until shadows swathed the house. He left Anne upstairs, deeply asleep. They had not spoken much after her father had quit the house. What words had been said aloud were terse, strained. Yet the whole of the evening, he wanted to clutch her close, to bury his face in her hair and draw her scent deep into his lungs. To whisper the things that weighed heavy within him.

Instead, they had sat far apart, mute, and even in the bedchamber, they had moved around the room like strangers encased in glass. They had lain beside each other with intimate formality. Smothering darkness pressed down, leaving words and touches stillborn.

Now Anne slept. He hated having to leave her, limbs soft, skin warm and fragrant. But his business could not wait.

Slipping on his banyan, Leo padded through the dark corridors of his house, and down the stairs. A lone footman drowsed by the front door. The servant did not stir as Leo passed through the foyer. The place was still as a tomb.

In cold and darkness, he entered his study. He did not bother lighting a fire, but he lit a candle and set it on the end of his desk.

“Veni, geminus,” he said.

The scent of burnt paper stained the air. And then there stood the geminus, dressed for an evening out, like any man of means. Leo tried to stare hard at the thing’s face, yet his gaze continually slid away.

“Such a pleasure,” the geminus said, bowing, a smile in its voice.

Leo folded his arms across his chest. “Time for answers.”

“I am in all things obliging. Whatever you desire shall be yours.”

“The truth,” said Leo tightly. “Neither you nor your Mr. Holliday ever told me about the flaw in my gift.”

“Flaw?” The geminus chuckled. “Not a flaw, but merely a limitation.”

“The name you give it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I couldn’t tell Wansford about the mining disaster. I couldn’t even warn the damned mine owners when I went down to the Exchange.” Leo had approached the men at the coffee house, determined to tell them that there would be loss of life if they did not take precautions. And he had stood there like a dullard, spouting nonsense about the best kind of fish to eat, whilst the mine owners stared at him, baffled.

He had tried to write, just as he’d done with Wansford. Again, only nonsense came from his pen. There had been nothing he could do. No way to prevent the disaster.

“Such events cannot be averted,” answered the geminus. “Even my master cannot stop it.”

Leo stalked toward the creature. “None of this was told to me.”

“Why should it?” The geminus spread its hands. “Until now, it has served you exactly as you desired. Have you not profited, and profited well, from this gift?”

Leo dragged in a breath. Only one answer: he had.

“It matters naught,” continued the geminus, its tone appeasing, “this tiny aspect of what is a most generous gift. So you cannot prevent what is foreseen. What of it? You can still reap profits the likes of which are unknown to all mortal men. Your wealth and power continue to grow. Those men you consider your enemies continue to fall. There is nothing you cannot have. Nothing,” it added, “you cannot give to your wife.”

Damn it, but the geminus was a sly bastard. Leo knew the thing manipulated him, said precisely what he needed to hear. He was aware of the creature’s machinations, yet they played upon him, just the same.

He fought against the subtle trap the geminus wove. “That doesn’t change the fact that, even if I didn’t want to stop the mine from collapsing, I couldn’t warn Wansford not to invest in it.”

The geminus shrugged. “Again, ’tis trifling. The man is no friend of yours. Further, with your knowledge of the imminent misfortune, you made a counterinvestment that shall yield very agreeably, to both you and to him. I see no difficulty.”

Surely the Devil and his underlings must practice their art at the Exchange, for this creature spoke honeyed words intended to beguile. Had Leo not trained himself well in the art of deception, he might have ceded to the geminus’s blandishments.

“The underhandedness of this whole business makes me wonder: what else are you not telling me? What hidden traps does the Devil have in store?”

The geminus made a shocked sound. “Sir, you wound me and my master. He has been most generous, and here you cast aspersions.”

“He’s been called worse, and by far more than me.”

The geminus strolled away toward the fireplace. With a wave of its hand, the kindling blazed. Firelight limned the outline of the geminus, the rest of it naught but shadow. It studied the flames for a moment.

“It is time,” the geminus said, “for a reward.”

Leo frowned. Of all the responses he’d anticipated, this was not one he’d considered. “Why?” he demanded.

“Because you have served my master well.”

His frown deepening to a scowl, Leo said, “I serve no one. I act in my own best interest.”

“Of course,” the geminus answered quickly. “You are your own man. A quality my master admires greatly. What I meant to say is that you have made my master exceedingly proud. The ruthlessness you display at the Exchange, the men whose lives you destroy ... all of this pleases my master. Thus, he desires to give you a reward, in recognition of your good works.”

“Tell me about this reward.”

“Greater power. Should you so desire it. You will be able to see farther into the future, decades, and to trigger this ability, you will no longer require coins, but simply any object belonging to your intended prey.” Laughing, the creature said, “Is this not a wondrous gift? And most generous of my master to offer it?”

Leo turned the idea over and over in his mind. Tempting, indeed. Obtaining items owned by his quarry would be an easy matter. The cuff of a coat during a handshake. Inspecting a gentleman’s ornate walking stick. The rewards would be even greater than before, his power immense. Anything he desired—his. Anything Anne could ever possibly wish for—hers.

The old order, based on ancestry and blood, would crumble. He could fashion a new world, where a man’s value was based on his deeds, not birth. Any who opposed him and this new world would see themselves utterly crushed, smashed to powder beneath the relentless grindstone of progress, with his shoulder pushing the stone forward.

“Yes, you see my master offers you a most marvelous power.” The geminus moved from the fire, its footsteps muffled by the carpet. “Speak but a word, and it is yours.”

“Tell me the price.”

“It has no cost, sir.”

“There is always a cost.”

The geminus tutted. “Time on the Exchange has made you chary. What I ask is merely a trifle.”

Leo narrowed his eyes. “I gave you one, months ago. At the temple.” In order for him and all the other Hellraisers to receive their gifts, they had been required to present tokens. Leo had given the geminus a snuffbox, which had been a minor loss indeed, as he never took snuff, only kept the thing as part of a gentleman’s effects.

“One more. Anything shall suffice.”

Glancing around the room, Leo espied a tortoiseshell-and-silver quill stand on his desk. He removed the sharpened, waiting quill, and held the stand.

“Yes,” said the geminus.

Leo had no remembrance of buying the thing. A memory did come to him, though: the battered pewter quill stand and matching ink pot his father used. The pride in his father’s face when he would take up his pen and write, and how happy it made Adam Bailey to see his son make use of it as though the act of writing was itself a commonplace skill, not something painfully acquired later in life.

It had cost his father a week’s earnings to buy that pewter quill stand, and it had already been well used by the time he’d purchased it from the chandler.

The ornate object Leo now held likely cost ten times the quill stand his father had bought. And yet, he didn’t care about this thing at all. It meant nothing. As for the dented pewter writing accessories once belonging to his father, those were kept securely in a strongbox in a locked drawer of Leo’s desk. Only Anne knew of their whereabouts, their significance, for he had shown them to her, and she had handled them with the respect one saved for sacred relics.

This was why she meant so much to Leo, why he had to keep her with him at all costs. Only she understood what he valued. Only she accepted every part of him.

Staring at the expensive trinket in his hand, Leo wondered: what would his father do in this situation? He might refuse the Devil’s offer of power. Or he might seize any advantage given to him, for his father had been at all times ambitious. This was the greatest bequest he left for his son—the need to rise ever higher.

His back heated as greed surged through him. He wanted to take, to claim. Everything he could. For himself, for Anne. For the memory of Adam Bailey.

He glanced up. The geminus stood before him, though Leo had not heard it move. It held out its hand.

“That thing has no value,” the geminus said. “But what my master offers is inestimable.”

Leo’s fingers tightened around the quill stand. Then released. He placed the object in the geminus’s hand. The creature immediately put the quill stand in its coat pocket.

“A wise choice.”

“When will this gift take effect?”

“Immediately.”

To test this, Leo considered taking something from the footman dozing in the entryway, but he had little care for the fortunes of a servant. It must wait until the morrow, when the Exchange opened and Leo could prey upon any number of men.

“If our business for the evening is concluded, I shall away.” The geminus practically sang with good spirits. It strolled toward the door and opened it.

“You have no need of doors,” said Leo.

“Ah, but sometimes I find them amusing, sir, and my humor is too pleasant to waste on tedious appearing and disappearing. I believe I shall take a stroll in your garden. Such a place at night will suit my fancy.”

Leo shrugged. His thoughts were too occupied with whom he should meet tomorrow at the Exchange, what fortunes he would make for himself, and whose he would demolish. “As you wish.”

“Good night, sir. And may I say again how very gratified my master is made by your continued efforts on his behalf.”

“I act on my own behalf.”

The geminus smiled, or so Leo sensed. “That you do, sir.” With that, it quit the study, closing the door behind it. A moment later, Leo heard its footsteps outside on the garden path.

Leo stood alone in the chamber, searching within himself for a sense of his new power. He could not perceive it, not yet, but he felt its potential. Damn, but he wished the sun would rise so the day’s work could begin. If only that were one of his abilities. He felt sorely tempted to run up to the bedchamber and wake Anne, tell her of his greater power. Yet he could not. At the least, he wanted to see her, hold her. His greed for more encompassed them both.

After dousing the fire and candle, he returned upstairs. He threw off his banyan and walked toward the bed.

“Leo?” Anne’s whisper floated through the darkness.

He settled between the covers and pulled her close, fighting the urge to reveal what new gift had been given to him. They would both reap the benefits. “You sound surprised.”

“I thought you were in the garden.”

He stilled. “I was in my study. Some work needed attending.”

“But ... I just saw you out there.” She edged back, away from him. “I heard footsteps outside, and you weren’t in bed, so I looked out and there you were, walking up and down the garden.”

The geminus. He hoped she did not mistake the creature for a would-be burglar, and want to summon the constabulary. “The gardener, perhaps.”

“No. The moon came out, and I saw your face. It was you. I know my own husband. But you weren’t wearing your nightclothes, you were fully dressed.”

Leo was out of bed in an instant. He threw back the curtains and peered into the garden. No one was there. Not the geminus, and not the gardener Leo had invented. He glanced back at Anne, moonlight turning her to silver and shadow, caution in her gaze.

She had seen the geminus, and thought it was him. It could not be possible.

Memory like a knife pierced him. Months earlier, Whit had deserted the Hellraisers. They had fought on Saint George’s Fields, guided there to intercept Whit by his geminus. Whit had pointed at that geminus, told his friends to look at the thing as if expecting a revelation. When none came, when they had seen naught but a faceless creature, Whit had despaired, and turned his back on them. The Gypsy girl with him had seen something, though.

The same as Anne had seen. Whit’s geminus looked like Whit. And the geminus who answered Leo’s summons was his double.

And there had been Robbins, who had insisted on seeing Leo at a coffee house when Leo had been, in fact, home.

Hot pain shot through his left calf. As though he were being branded. He staggered into the small closet and fumbled for a candle. It flared to life with a hiss. Hand faintly shaking, he held the light up to see his calf.

Just above the ankle: an image of a flame.

“Leo.” Anne’s voice was very close, right outside the door to the closet. “Tell me what is going on. If something is wrong, I need to know.”

Using his fingers, Leo snuffed the candle’s flame. He did not bother wetting his fingertips, simply crushed out the fire with his bare skin. But if there was pain, he did not feel it. He felt only the thick, choking smoke of approaching doom.

“Nothing.” He left the small chamber and found Anne waiting for him, ghostly in her night rail, and beautiful. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and he rasped, “Nothing is wrong.”

Anne threaded her way through the cramped alleys, dodging men in sober woolen coats and tricorns, their faces serious as though the fate of nations weighed on the next few hours. Which it did, in a fashion. For her many discussions with Leo had revealed to her that commerce comprised the blood of statehood. Money flowed through England’s veins. Should it cease to flow, death would follow, and decay.

Yet the men she passed were not too deeply involved with business that they did not see her. She attracted many curious stares, and one gentleman in a full-bottomed wig stopped outright in his tracks to gawk at her.

Pulling her cloak closer, Anne gave the gentleman a polite, cool nod, but kept walking. A footman trailed close behind her.

“At which of these coffee houses will I find my husband?”

The footman shrugged. “He always leaves the carriage and walks in. I never even been here before.”

Meaning Anne had no guide for this new, masculine world of Exchange Alley. A cartographic challenge, then. The native populace always knew where they were, but it was left to the cartographer to learn the landscape.

The scent of coffee and the sounds of men’s voices thickened the air. Everyone walked with great purpose, else they huddled close in grave conversation. Signs adorned each storefront. LLOYD’S. NEW UNION. NEW JONATHAN’S. JERUSALEM. Inside, a continual supply of coffee and newspapers was provided. A far distant country from the gossip and idleness of genteel women. A palpable energy buzzed, making her heart beat faster.

Or perhaps it was not the energy of the place, but Anne’s errand.

She ducked her head into one coffee house, and scanned the crowd within. Startled eyes turned to her. So many men, but none were Leo. Moving down the street, she peered into another, yet the results were the same. The process repeated itself, again and again.

“Are you sure he is here?” she asked the footman.

“Coachman told me he dropped Mr. Bailey here this morning.”

There was no help for it but to ask. She stopped a man hurrying by. “Excuse me, sir.”

The man took in the details of her clothing, her fine cloak, her soft hands. He blinked in surprise. “Madam?”

“I seek Leopold Bailey.”

He frowned. “The Demon? You’d best keep away from him, madam, for he’s been on a tear these past days. Either makes a man laugh with joy or weep with despair, as the humor takes him. A demon, indeed.”

“That demon is my husband.”

“Beg pardon, madam.” The man gave her a shamefaced bow. “At this time of day, you’ll find him at the Albatross. Which is just around the corner. Third shop on the left.”

Anne murmured her thanks and walked on. Each step made her pulse drum harder.

A sign painted with a large seabird told her she had found the place she sought. She gazed through the dust-streaked windows. Her heart leapt up to lodge in her throat. There he was, sitting at a table with three other men. The men listened intently to whatever it was Leo said, nodding and scribbling in small notebooks.

Gathering her courage, Anne moved to the door. “Wait out here,” she told the footman. Then she walked inside.

Smoke from countless pipes striped the walls, and the floorboards tilted unevenly. Tables were jammed close together, men huddled around them, and she heard words such as interest, profit margin, and dividends. She knew what those words meant now. Yet this still was a strange and alien place.

Anne kept her gaze fixed on her husband’s tawny head, and his wide shoulders. His back was to the door, so he did not see her approach. The men seated with him did, and one by one, they fell silent and stared as she neared.

Leo turned, frowning. His expression shifted to one of pleasure. Followed by fierce concern. He rose in a single, sinuous motion and stepped close.

“Something has happened,” he said. “Are you ill? Hurt?”

She shook her head, though she did feel both ill and injured. “We must speak.”

“Not here.” He took her hand and led her from the coffee house, without saying a word of farewell to the men with whom he had been conversing. “There’s a tea shop not far.” His stride long, he strode down the alley, Anne hurrying to keep up.

They left the close alleys and coffee houses, and walked on until he guided her into a shop with a clean bow window. Here, the air smelled of congou and butter, and framed prints of pastoral bridges adorned the walls. Though the hour was still early for ladies of fashion, there were yet a few women gathered at the tables, their calico gowns of good but not exceptional quality, their hair and hats artfully arranged by an unseen maid. The wives of the merchants who worked a few streets away.

She and Leo took the table in the corner. Dishes of tea appeared before them, served by a rosy-cheeked girl. Anne watched the leaves swirl within her cup, caught in miniature vortices.

“I’m half sick with worry,” Leo said. “And you’re pale as frost. Tell me what has upset you.”

To give herself a moment to compose herself, she took a sip of tea. “The mine,” she said at last.

Leo’s expression tightened. He leaned back. “Your father’s investment is safe.”

“I don’t give a damn about the investment.”

Several feminine gasps sounded in the quiet of the tea shop.

Lowering her voice, Anne said, “There was a collapse at the iron mine in Gloucestershire.”

“Word circulated this morning.” His gaze was shuttered. “Three men died. How did you learn of it?”

She would not look away from his storm gray eyes. “I had one of the footmen making inquiries, keeping me abreast of any developments.”

“Then you and I know the same things.”

“You know far more than I do.” She leaned over the table. “Such as: the cave-in at the mine.”

Cold sickness spread through her when he did not deny this. He looked away, his jaw tight.

“How? How could you know? Unless ...” She swallowed. “It was planned. Deliberate sabotage.”

His gaze snapped back to hers, angry. “Not deliberate. Simply ... an act of God.” A bitter laugh escaped him.

“Men were killed. Somehow you knew. And did not try to stop it.”

“I tried. But couldn’t.” Self-recrimination roughened his voice.

“How, Leo? How did you know?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She stared at him. “I cannot believe you would say that. To me, out of everyone.”

The agony in his eyes carved her apart. “It has to be this way.”

“You’ve shown me that we can shape the world as we see fit, make it bend to our will. Whatever secrets you keep, you do so for your own benefit.” Eyes hot, she pushed back from the table and headed for the door, ignoring the stares of the tea shop patrons.

Leo’s hand formed an iron band around her upper arm as he stood next to her. “Stay here,” he bit out to the footman.

Anne had no idea where they walked, until they emerged on the embankment. A dank, thick scent rose up from the dark Thames, and close by came the din of London Bridge. Vessels plied the water, tall-masted ships at anchor, and small rowboats ferrying people through the dangerous currents beneath the bridge.

She felt a choking sensation in her throat, as she and Leo faced each other. The treacherous river was to his back.

What Lord Whitney had said, it could not be true. It could not, for if he did speak the truth, it meant that the Devil was real, that there was actual magic in the world, and wickedness embodied. It meant that not only was there genuine evil, but her husband had willingly bargained with it.

Her heart and mind reared back.

“I swear to you, Anne,” he said now. “Nothing between us is any different.”

“You’ve no idea how much I want to believe that.”

He reached out and ran the back of his fingers over her cheek. His gaze was bleak. “We can make it so.”

His fingers drifted up from her cheek to wind through her hair. Oh, she loved his hands, broad and rough. She loved the strength of him, and how, when he touched her, his eyes flashed silver. Seeing her, seeing into her. A simple touch, yet with it, she felt the chaos of the city retreat, the perilous river recede.

A curl tumbled down as he tugged a ribbon free. He stroked the coil of hair, longing in his eyes, but then his gaze turned distracted as he wound the ribbon around his finger.

He seemed to visibly withdraw. His body remained precisely as it was, but his mind went elsewhere.

She recognized the look. He had appeared much the same when her father had brought him a coin. Right before Leo told her father he would not invest in the mine.

“What do you see?” she asked.

His focus returned, a sudden sharpening of awareness. He became wary, guarded—of her. As though she concealed a dagger in the folds of her skirt.

“I see my wife.” Yet he dropped his hand and the ribbon slid from his fingers. It gleamed in a satiny curve as it fell to the ground, where it lay in the mud.

“That is exactly what I am, Leo. Your wife.” She stared up at him. “The one person you should trust above all others.” Tell me, she willed him with her gaze. Whatever it is, I must know. Yet she feared his honesty.

He took several paces away from her. Then turned, and cautiously approached, as if uncertain whether or not she would bolt away. She stood her ground. They faced each other, scarce inches between them, testing each other, testing themselves. His hand came up to cup the back of her head. She tilted her face up. In slow, slow degrees, he brought his mouth to hers. With the sound of the surging river enveloping them, she felt herself slide beneath a tide of yearning, wishing life could be as simple as a kiss.

They held tight to each other, until someone shouted lewd encouragements.

“Go to Hell,” Leo snarled to the waterman on his skiff.

“Ain’t you heard, guv’nor?” The waterman chortled. “We’re all goin’ to Hell.” He poled his flat-bottomed boat on, chuckling all the while.

Leo said nothing, but it was clear that if the waterman had been within reach, Leo would have made him suffer. Her husband stared at the Thames—the boats and ships upon it, bringing his cargo and wealth, the swarms of people skimming across the surface of the water like insects, and the buildings and warehouses crouched on the banks. He gazed at it all as if he could burn everything down with only a look. Anne half expected to see flames burst to life along the masts bobbing at anchor.

He faced her. “Everything will be all right.”

Yet it was clear that even he did not believe his hollow words.

He ensconced himself in a dockside tavern, having lost his taste for commerce on this day. She had gone home—or so he imagined, for they had talked little as they returned her to the waiting carriage. Her hand had been light on his arm as they had walked, her gaze abstracted. Vast troves of unspoken words lay between them. As he had handed her into the carriage, she had slipped from his grasp like smoke. He’d watched her drive away, though he wanted to shout after her, Stay.

Now he stared at the empty tankard before him. Two men diced by the fire. Another whittled what appeared to be a piece of bone, peering at his handiwork through one eye.

“Another drink, sir?”

He waved the tapster off, but tossed him a coin for good measure. Drink would not straighten his head. Answers came scarce at the bottom of a tankard.

The geminus had spoken true. Any object now gave him access to what would be—including a ribbon belonging to his wife. Until then, he had only looked into the futures of those he sought to undermine or exploit. No longer being beholden to coins gave him an even greater advantage. And a yet larger hunger for more. He could not find satiety. A profit of a thousand pounds meant nothing. His demand refused appeasement, as though a monstrous serpent lived within him, consuming everything, including himself.

Her ribbon lay in the mud. It had shown him a future he did not want to see. Anne, speaking with the Roman ghost. The ally of Whit, and enemy of the Hellraisers. There was nothing Leo could do to stop this future from happening. He could not warn his wife. His only option was to wait, and he despised waiting.

A shadow darkened his table. Without looking up, Leo knew exactly who cast it. His body tensed.

“You aren’t impervious to bullets,” he said, “for all your Gypsy’s magic.”

He did glance up then to see the man he’d once called friend. It had been months since last he had seen him. Whit looked a little thinner, but not haggard. Far from it. When Leo had known Whit, he’d been indolent, indulged by birth and circumstance, finding his one real spark at the gaming tables. Now, he was sharp as vengeance, his gaze alert to everything around him.

“Nor can your gift of prophecy deflect a blade.” Whit’s hand rest lightly on the pommel of his saber, his nobleman’s privilege. “Prior history has proven so.”

Leo resisted the urge to rub the scar on his shoulder. When Whit had turned his back on the Hellraisers, there had been a fight in Oxford. The rapier that had wounded Leo had, in fact, belonged to Bram, but Whit had manipulated luck to cause the injury.

“Both of us could mortally wound the other,” said Leo softly. “But who will be first? Shall we wager on it?”

“I came to warn you,” Whit replied, resisting the lure, “not kill you.”

Leo’s chuckle was low and rueful. “Assuming that you’re faster with your sword than I am with my pistol.”

“The danger to you and your wife grows hourly, and yet you waste time with braggadocio.”

Leo shot to his feet and grabbed Whit’s neck cloth. The tavern fell silent. “Threaten her, and I will kill you.”

“Goddamn it, Leo, you are the one who threatens her, not me.” Whit shoved against him, but Leo would not release his hold.

Whit spoke, low and quick. “What the hell do you think the price of your gift was? What do you think we all bargained in exchange for that magic? Our souls.”

Leo narrowed his eyes and released Whit. “I still have a soul.” He could feel it within himself, and its bright aching resonance whenever he was near Anne.

“Every day, you lose more and more of it.” When he saw that Leo meant to contradict him, Whit continued. “The markings that appeared after we made our bargain—they are growing. From one night to the next, they spread across your skin. The more they grow, the more of you they cover, the more your soul is taken. Until there is nothing left. Until you belong to the Devil completely, and you are damned.”

The marking of flame on his calf was growing daily, and now it reached almost up to the back of his knee.

His legs urged him to move. Leo shouldered past Whit and went out into the street. Whit followed. Leo did not know where he headed, only that he must keep moving.

Whit kept pace as Leo walked, his stride equally long. “You feel it. The Devil’s hunger, constantly craving the destruction of others. As the markings grow, so does his hold on you. You will become his puppet, his minion. I know this, because it happened to me, as well. As it is happening to all of the Hellraisers.”

“Don’t know why I should trust you,” Leo said on a growl. “You’ve proven yourself a traitor already.”

They dodged heavy drays rattling down to the wharf, and dogs nosing in the heaps of rubbish.

“If not for the sake of your soul,” Whit said, “then for the sake of your wife.”

“Leave her out of this,” snarled Leo. Simply hearing Whit speak of Anne set Leo into a killing humor.

“It is you who have involved her.” Whit grabbed Leo’s shoulder and swung him around so they faced each other. “For I tell you truly, Leo, you aren’t merely losing your soul, you are losing her.”

Leo shook himself out of Whit’s grasp, but he felt as if he’d been stabbed through. He glanced down, just to be certain that he hadn’t. It wasn’t Whit’s blade that wounded him, but his words.

“This association with the Devil will cost you everything,” continued Whit. “Your life, your fortune, your soul. Your love.” He peered closer. “You do love your wife, don’t you?”

Leo stood utterly still. His heart beat thickly in his chest.

“I do.” The realization scoured him.

“Then if you won’t fight for yourself, fight for her.” Shouting by the docks drew Whit’s attention. He glanced around, wary. “London is not safe. And the Hellraisers are to blame.”

“Mankind has always been treacherous. That isn’t the fault of the Hellraisers.”

“The Hellraisers have worsened a chronic illness,” said Whit. “Hastening society toward early collapse. And one of the first casualties will be your marriage.”

Leo inhaled sharply. “If that is true ...” His jaw tightened. “I have to find a cure.”

Whit backed toward an alley. “I cannot stay longer. But when you are ready, you will find me.”

“Whit, damn it—”

“Hurry,” was all Whit said, and then ducked into the alley.

Leo ran after him, but there was no one in the passageway. He stood alone.