Demon's Bride

Chapter 15

Cold morning mist lay chill upon the ground and draped the tree branches as Leo and Anne trudged along the road toward the inn. Difficult not to see this mist as a winding cloth, wrapped around the world as it was made ready for burial.

Leo was not a man given to flights of imaginative fancy. He dwelt in the real, the possible. Even when he used his visions of the future, he sought out truths that he might gain more profit, more power. He had never been a poet, nor aspired to be one. Pretty words and fanciful images meant nothing in Exchange Alley. And when he had spoken tender words to Anne, he had been plain, blunt. He could offer only that.

Yet now he saw the frigid morning fog as a shroud, and the thought could not be dislodged.

As he and Anne walked, they passed farmers with carts heading into the city, their wagons loaded with carrots, turnips, chickens, to be sold in Covent Garden or Fleet Market. The farmers looked askance at two obviously well-dressed but filthy strangers plodding wearily down the road. Clicking their tongues at sway-backed jades, the farmers moved past Leo and Anne quickly.

The sun continued to rise, but it offered no warmth. Anne shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

He held out his arm. “Come. I’ll keep you warm.”

She shook her head. “I am well.”

“Your lips are blue.” When she still refused to come nearer, he cursed and, after removing his brace of pistols and musket, whipped off his coat. The movement pulled hot lines of pain through him, his wounds crisscrossing his body, but he ignored this. Instead, after replacing his weapons, he stalked over to Anne and settled his coat over her shoulders. It was dirty and torn, but better than nothing.

She did not thank him, yet at least she kept the coat on, clutching the lapels close. On her, the garment was huge, sleeves hanging down past her knees. She looked so damned fragile, shrunken. Appearances deceived, however. Anne’s resilience and courage were an inevitable surprise. He should have known that his genteel bride was so much more than a dainty ornament, or a means of entry into the world of the elite.

He said none of this. Anything he offered her now would be rejected. Yet that did not mean he had given up. Resolve burned hotter and brighter than ever. Someway, somehow, he would make her his again. Even if it took the rest of his life.

Which might not be much longer. The Devil’s methods remained cloudy to him, yet he knew with hard-edged certainty that the attack in Kew Gardens was merely the beginning.

He had to find a way to end this.

With that in mind, he resumed his walk toward the inn, though he kept his pace slower, to accommodate Anne’s exhaustion and shorter stride.

At last, a two-story building appeared, a painted sign of a black lion swinging over its door. A boy slept in front of the door, waiting to receive travelers’ horses. Leo stepped over him and Anne did the same as they went inside.

A man smoking a long-stemmed pipe sat by the fire in the taproom. At his feet curled a large orange cat, slumbering luxuriously. The man raised his brows at Leo and Anne’s appearance.

“Lord Whitney,” Leo said.

The man appeared as though he might protest divulging this information to such nefarious-looking characters.

Leo set a bag of coins on a nearby table. It jingled heavily.

The man took out his pipe and pointed its stem upward. “Third door on your left.”

Leo took the lead as he climbed the creaking stairs, Anne close behind him. They reached the first floor and crept down the corridor, as silently as the aged, protesting floorboards allowed. From behind one door, someone snored. From behind another came the sound of a mattress creaking against the ropes, its rhythm unmistakable.

Anne deliberately did not meet Leo’s gaze.

He moved past that door, until he found the one he wanted. Testing the doorknob, he found it locked. Impatient, he wanted to pound the door down, but he also did not want to awaken the entire house. He was just about to knock lightly when the door opened. Just wide enough for a saber blade to jut out, its point touching his throat.

“And a good morning to you, Whit.”

The saber lowered. “Step inside. Quickly.”

Leo and Anne slipped inside. The door shut and locked behind them. They found themselves in a snug bedchamber, gray in the morning light. Whit stood in the center of the room, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of breeches. No doubt about it, Whit had grown thinner these past months, his muscles standing out in stark relief. As if the apathy that had once imbued him had burned away, leaving behind a man lean with purpose.

Movement by the bed drew his attention. Leo had a fleeting impression of white cambric, dark, sleek limbs, and then Zora stood beside her lover. Her black hair lay in thick waves around her shoulders, and her eyes were darker still. And full of fire. She stared at him and Anne warily.

“Can we trust him?” the Gypsy woman asked. As she spoke, small tongues of fire engulfed her hands, throwing light and shadow.

Anne gasped, and even though Leo had seen a display of Zora’s power once before, it still made him start, witnessing it again.

Gazing at the lacerations on Leo’s body, the bloodstains on his skin and clothes, Whit answered, “Now we can.”

The innkeeper fetched coffee and rolls, and his wife brought a basin, a water-filled ewer, and linen towels, all of which were placed upon a table in front of a looking glass. Then, with more coin lining their pockets, the couple scurried out to leave their guests in private.

Zora bandaged the cut on Anne’s arm, a task Leo wanted for himself, but his wife’s wary gaze held him back. He watched Anne splash water on her hands and face. A simple, domestic act, and one he had witnessed many times at home. But home was far away, and the life they had shared there lost.

For now.

The water was only slightly dirty when it was Leo’s turn to bathe. Soon, it turned dark with blood—the red of his own, and the sticky blackness of the demons’ blood. He needed to clean the wounds on his body, so he shucked his waistcoat and then his shirt, letting them drop to the floor as he stood at the table.

Anne gasped. He met her gaze in the mirror, saw the horror on her face as she beheld for the first time the markings of flame upon his back.

Shame crawled over him, hot and viscous. An unfamiliar emotion.

“That answers my first question,” drawled Whit, leaning against the wall. He had thrown on a shirt, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Your soul still belongs to the Devil.”

“How do you know this?” asked Anne. Her voice was thin, tight.

“He had marks much the same on his body.” This, from the Gypsy woman. She strolled to Whit and ran a hand over his shoulder, then down his arm. Possessive, her touch, as if laying claim to Whit and his body, and speaking of deepest intimacy. Judging from the flare of heat in Whit’s gaze, he welcomed his woman’s proprietary touch. “Here, and here.”

Leo’s gut twisted with want. Not so long ago, he and Anne had touched each other the same way. After the fight in Kew Gardens, he desired nothing more than to hold her tightly, wanted that now, confirming that they had both emerged from the battle alive and sound. He couldn’t—not without her fighting him.

“The marks have grown,” Whit said. “And they’ll do so until you are covered by them.”

“What happens then?” Anne pressed.

Leo already knew the answer. “Then I’m his entirely. Irredeemable.”

Anne pressed her fingertips to her mouth, her face growing paler still in the watery morning light. Her gaze moved over the markings, and Leo forced himself to hold steady and motionless beneath her perusal.

“There is but one way to prevent that,” continued Whit. “To remove the markings completely. You must reclaim your soul.”

Bracing his hands on the table, Leo felt tension knotting his muscles, all along his arms and across his back. “I’ve already renounced the Devil.”

Whit studied Leo’s wounds critically. “That I can see. But it isn’t enough. A man may say a thousand words, make a thousand vows, yet none of it matters in the face of deeds.”

“That much, I know.” Rather than continue to feel Anne’s hurt gaze, Leo busied himself with cleaning and dressing his wounds. He washed them ruthlessly, not sparing himself any discomfort as he scrubbed. Yet he made a poor martyr, for physical pain meant nothing in comparison to the bleeding ache within.

He could not fully reach the lacerations on his back, and struggled to clean them. When Anne approached and plucked the cloth from his hand, he held himself very still. She refused to meet his gaze. But she was gentler than he had been, dabbing at the cuts, and then finally taking strips of linen and wrapping them around his chest and back.

He remained motionless, soaking up her touch, her care. It did not matter that Whit and Zora were in the room, as well. He was aware of only Anne. Her hands, her breath across his skin, the small crease between her brows as she secured his bandages. She felt as close as another mortal being could be, yet impossibly far away. He knew her so well. He knew her not at all.

Turning his head slightly, he saw Whit and Zora watching this small scene. Both wore expressions of pity.

Pity was an emotion he always refused. It was for weakness and those who lacked resolve. Not once in his life had he turned away when the challenge seemed too great. This would be no different.

“Tell me how to reclaim my soul,” he said.

“Each geminus maintains a vault of souls,” began Whit. “Souls it has acquired through nefarious means.”

Leo’s gut clenched. Robbins had thought he’d seen Leo at Exchange Alley—working late, Robbins had believed. It hadn’t been Leo, but his geminus. Little did those men of business know that they had, in fact, traded their souls to the Devil. Damning themselves without realizing it.

“Geminus,” said Anne. Finished with her tasks, she moved away—though he wanted to grab hold of her, he kept his hands ruthlessly at his sides—and perched on the edge of the bed. “That ... other Leo.”

“The dark part of himself created when first the Hellraisers made our pact with Mr. Holliday,” answered Whit. He gave a wry smile. “That’s what the Devil likes to be called. The geminus serves Mr. Holliday, and holds Leo’s soul for its master.”

“Then we kill the geminus,” said Anne.

“Killing the geminus means killing Leo,” said Whit. “So long as it remains in possession of Leo’s soul, any injury or wound it sustains, he is hurt, as well.”

The memory of pain throbbed through Leo, recalling how he had tried to throttle the creature and nearly choked himself to death. And the injuries the geminus incurred when Anne had thrown Leo into the bookcase. Bruises covered his torso, ugly purple beneath the white bandages.

His hurt body only emphasized how gravely, dangerously wrong he had been, and yes, his pride suffered. Damned fool, each laceration and bruise accused. Blind, arrogant imbecile.

He held up his shirt, intending to put it back on, but it was tattered and stained. Whit rummaged through a valise until he found a fresh shirt, and tossed it to Leo. Fortunately, they were of a size, and the shirt fit well enough. It provided some cover, yet now that Anne had seen his markings, it felt as though nothing could ever hide the evidence of his hubris, the spectacular failure of his judgment.

“So we cannot kill the bloody thing,” Leo bit out. “There must be another way to get my soul back.”

“If your geminus operates as mine did,” said Whit, “then there may be a means of doing so. Within its vault is your soul. Should you get into that vault, you can reclaim your soul and the curse is lifted.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Anne said.

Zora made a huff of sardonic amusement. “Nothing is simple, where Wafodu guero is concerned.”

“For one thing,” added Whit, “the vault is not fixed in its location. Zora and I discovered this the hard way in a tavern in Oxford. The vault lies behind any door the geminus so chooses. And only the geminus may access it. It may open a door, any door, to get inside the vault, but if you try to open the same door, all you will find is an ordinary room.”

“But I could force the geminus to open the door,” said Leo, “then enter right behind it, without the door closing.”

“Even if you could force the geminus to do that, it has power to keep you from going inside. You will find it impossible to enter.”

“Goddamn it.” Leo paced, frustrated. “There must be a way to get into that vault.” He whirled to face Whit. “How did you get inside?”

“I didn’t. Zora did.”

“And only then through the use of Valeria Livia Corva’s magic,” added the Gypsy woman.

Anne straightened. “The ghost?”

“A powerful sorceress, as well,” said Whit.

“It was she who gave me this.” Zora held up her hands, and flames suddenly danced along her fingertips. She smiled wickedly. “Very useful when fighting the Devil.”

“She gave me something, as well.” A fast, hard current of cold air gusted from Anne’s raised hands. The flames surrounding Zora’s fingers guttered and dimmed.

Leo and Whit exchanged glances. “Extraordinary women,” Leo murmured.

“The finest that walk this earth.” Whit smiled then, his old gambler’s smile, full of rakish charm, only now he sought only the favor of his woman, not the cards.

Damned strange to see Anne—quiet, studious Anne who loved maps and known truths—the possessor of magic. Yet fitting, somehow, for it showed outwardly the strength he knew she possessed within. Seeing her fight the demons using her power ... if he hadn’t been battling for his life, and hers, he would have found the sight thrilling.

Even now, it made his pulse race faster, his breath catch. He was awed by her.

As she lowered her hands and the summoned wind died down, her gaze met his. She had to see the pride in his eyes, the fullness of his heart, for she gave him the smallest of smiles, and he smiled in return. As though they shared a secret pleasure, a gift only they could truly appreciate.

A filament of pleasure gleamed within him. All was not lost. She could be his again.

Then she seemed to remember precisely why she had been given this power, and her smile faltered.

It was enough. For the moment. He’d capture any hope. What he needed now was a means of reclaiming his soul. The rest he would seize later.

“Then we require the ghost,” he said, turning back to Whit. “Livia. She needs to be here.”

Yet Whit shook his head. “She has not appeared to us, not since yesterday. If she showed herself to you recently, it must have tapped her power.”

“How long does it take for her to regain her strength?” asked Anne.

Zora shrugged. “A day, two days. When it involves magic, rules and time mean nothing.”

Another impediment. Leo took up his pacing. Anne’s smile offered him the slenderest of hopes, and he refused to let anything stand in his way. “If she’s been fighting against the Devil all this time, she alone holds the most information, the most power. Proceeding without her would be a mistake.”

“So, we must wait,” said Anne.

Leo forced down a growl. He did not want to wait. Impatience burned him, hotter than any fire. “I want to summon the bloody geminus and get this over with.”

“The moment you do,” warned Whit, “a horde of demons will descend, and that”—he nodded toward the pale strips of bandages that showed beneath the shirt Leo wore—“will appear nothing more than kitten scratches in comparison.”

Snarling in frustration, Leo slammed his fist into the wall. Fissures in the plaster spread out in jagged lines, and a satisfying pain radiated up his arm, but it did little to ease his anger. He pulled his arm back, ready to strike again.

A strong hand clasped his wrist, stopping him. Whit’s hand, with its long gamester’s fingers, and the gleaming signet ring that proclaimed him a peer of the realm. Leo wore no such ring, and never would. Yet it did not matter to him anymore. Distinctions such as nobleman and commoner ... what did they mean in the face not only of eternal damnation, but the loss of the only love he had ever known?

He stared at Whit, this man who had once been a close friend, then an enemy and now ... an ally.

“You aren’t alone in your sentiment,” Whit said, empathy in his gaze. “Not long ago, I felt the same way. But battering yourself to jelly solves remarkably little, I have discovered.”

“Not that you didn’t try,” said Zora.

Whit added in a voice low enough to be heard only by Leo, “And such displays can be rather ... unsettling to those who care about us.” He glanced meaningfully toward Anne.

Leo followed Whit’s gaze to Anne. She stood beside the bed, her hands clenched, her mouth drawn into a taut line. Concern darkened her eyes and paled her cheeks as she stared at him.

He had done enough to cause her fear. Slowly, he lowered his fist. Whit released his hold, and a sigh seemed to move through the room.

“A wise investor knows when to bide his time,” Leo said, gathering calm. “Act too soon, and what could’ve been a promising venture becomes far too costly. Disastrous, even.”

“No help for it, then,” said Anne. “Until the ghost, Livia, returns, we’ve got to wait to make our plan.”

Words such as we and our kindled fresh fires of hope within him. That was all he needed. The slimmest chance, the faintest possibility. He had built empires for himself upon grains of sand. With a few words from his wife’s mouth, he had enough to sustain him for the long battle ahead.

Anne lay atop the covers in only her shift, staring at the low-beamed ceiling. Ashen morning light filtered through worn curtains, cracks in the ceiling and the unmistakable gouges from rats in the timbers. Despite her exhaustion, sleep refused to come, so she counted the fissures in the plaster, hoping to lull herself into, if not slumber, then perhaps a stupor.

Yet her mind would not quiet.

After the conclusion had been reached that they must await the reappearance of the ghost, it had been decided that what Anne and Leo next needed most was rest. She had been swaying on her feet, her eyes hot, her body aching. Zora, a woman she knew not at all, had immediately gone to find her a room of her own. And when the Gypsy returned to lead her away, Leo had stared at her hungrily. But he let her go.

Anne was glad of that. She had boiled away the last of her strength, leaving an empty urn, and though her mind demanded that she keep him at a distance, her heart and body craved him—even now.

Rolling onto her side, she watched a fly form obscure shapes in the air as it buzzed across the room. Zora sat on the floor by the window, her legs tucked beneath her. She frowned over what appeared to be a child’s primer, and her lips silently, slowly formed the shapes of words.

Anne looked away. The day crept toward its zenith, and sounds of life penetrated the walls. Voices in the taproom. Horses outside. A carriage, a child’s cry. They seemed near, and yet distant, echoes from dreams of other lives.

What would the men in the taproom say, were she to hurry downstairs and proclaim that the Devil was real, that magic was real, and she herself possessed it? They would call her mad. And if she demonstrated her new power, they would run away in terror, or perhaps revive the custom of burning witches.

Her mouth tugged in a sardonic smile. Let them try and burn her. She would blow out the flames with a wave of her hand.

Unless they bound her hands. Then she might be burned. Already, she thought she could smell her flesh being charred, flaking away from bone to be borne aloft on currents of heat.

Leo would come to her aid. Shoot them all down, or use his fists to knock them senseless, then cut the ropes binding her to the stake and take her far away to safety.

She shifted onto her back. No indulging in fantasy, in fairy tales. The world is not so kind as to give us heroes and rescues—not without a price.

“Unquiet thoughts make for a poor lullaby.” Zora spoke softly, her voice smoky and subtly accented.

Anne turned her head to look at the Gypsy. Zora set the primer on the floor and crossed her wrists in her lap. Odd that the Gypsy would choose to sit on the floor rather than the nearby chair, yet she looked perfectly comfortable. Her dark gaze moved over Anne, clever and astute, rich with a worldly knowledge Anne could only envy.

“I hated him, too,” Zora murmured.

Anne frowned. “Leo?”

“Whit.” The Gypsy shook her head. “That gorgio fascinated me, yes, but I knew what he was, what he had done. He’d taken so much from me—my family, my freedom. I wanted nothing to do with him.”

“But I thought ... you seem so very ... in love.” It hurt Anne’s throat even to say that word, love, yet she had seen the way Lord Whitney looked at Zora, the way he touched her, and there could be no other word to describe it. He would do anything for Zora, and she for him.

Zora’s gaze warmed, and her mouth curved into a small, private smile. “Oh, most terribly. Yet he spilled more than a little blood to earn it.”

This conversation was stranger than Zora sitting on the floor. Anne did not know this woman. In truth, she and the Gypsy could not be more different. The rings gleaming on Zora’s fingers and the ropes of shining necklaces draped across her bosom seemed like emblems of distant, exotic lands.

Yet there was a point of convergence for her and the Gypsy: Hellraisers.

“I don’t want Leo’s blood spilled.” Anne shuddered to recall the angry lacerations over his body.

Zora shrugged. “If, Duvvel willing, we survive our task, you won’t have to see him again. If that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want.” Anne turned to look back at the ceiling. She lay her forearm across her eyes.

“Hard men to love, these Hellraisers.” Zora’s words were wry, yet tinged with deeper emotion. “Harder still to not love them. But I think there is a reason why Livia chose to give magic to you and I.”

“Because we might get close to the Hellraisers.”

A definite smile sounded in Zora’s voice. “Because we’re strong.”

The door opened. Someone entered the room. Anne did not remove her arm from where it lay. Only one person would come inside—and she knew the purposeful sound of his footfall. He never tiptoed anywhere. Certainly not with her.

“The door was locked,” Zora said.

“I had the innkeeper give me another key.”

Of course he did. Leo could make anything happen through force of will.

Untrue—he had not made Anne love him. That, she had done all on her own.

“I want to be alone with my wife,” he said.

“I don’t think she wants to be alone with you,” answered Zora.

Before Leo could retort, Anne spoke. “It’s all right. And I’m certain Lord Whitney would rather have you with him than sitting on the floor in here.”

“I left him in the taproom,” said Leo.

Anne thought she could hear reluctance in Zora’s movements as she rose. But the Gypsy walked quietly from the room, shutting the door behind her.

Anne and Leo were alone.

“Here’s some stew and bread.” As he said this, she heard a bowl being set down atop a table, and the rich scent of cooked meat and the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread drifted through the room.

“I’ve no appetite.”

He expelled a breath. “Think what you will of me, Anne, but don’t starve yourself out of spite.”

Taking her arm away, Anne looked over to where he stood near a small table. Arms crossed, feet braced wide. He had borrowed some of Lord Whitney’s clothing—a serviceable green coat and waistcoat, in addition to the shirt, but no stock, so the collar of his shirt fell open to reveal the strong sinews of his neck, the shadow at the base of his throat. Hair wet, undone, and slicked straight back. Yet he had not shaved. Golden stubble lined his cheeks. He was dangerous as a buccaneer, and blade-handsome.

Yearning and need throbbed through her. And sorrow.

“Spite? Is that what this is? Spite?” She sat up, and the room tilted. Truly, weariness took a toll. And, she admitted to herself, hunger. “How very petty of me. To be out of temper when I discover that my husband is in league with the Devil. And had been lying to me for the whole of our marriage. What a dreadful virago I am.”

His expression hardened. “Don’t,” he growled. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

“As truth ill becomes you.”

Snarling in frustration, he dragged his hands through his hair. Anne watched his every movement with a greedy pain. She wished she could despise him. How simple everything might be.

“It was a mistake,” he ground out. “A goddamned mistake.”

“Putting too much sugar in one’s tea is a mistake. Giving one’s soul to the Devil in exchange for dark magic deserves a grander sobriquet.”

He crossed the room in two long strides, until he loomed over her. “You’re a woman possessed of a good imagination. Imagine this: You are offered your heart’s desire. What you want more than anything in the world. The cost of this gift is never mentioned, only its advantages. All you have to do is hand over the smallest trinket, and you finally possess that which you’ve always coveted.” Anger and need darkened his eyes as he stared down at her. “Imagine it, Anne. Put yourself precisely in that situation and then judge me.”

She stared up at him. This fierce storm of a man, devastating as a hurricane. She did as he asked; she envisaged herself in his position. Months ago, before she had met him, what might she have wanted so badly? A place of her own. A husband, family.

She did have those things, and lost them. Both because of Leo. But to keep them, to keep him ...

The other Hellraisers were men of wealth and aristocratic privilege. Leo had wealth in abundance, but not the proper breeding. She knew so much about him now, how much he craved access into a world that barred him entrance, his pride. His need for acceptance.

All of those things he had been offered. Few could have resisted the temptation. Saints, perhaps, and Leo was far from beatification. God knew she was no saint.

“The lies, Leo,” she said at last. “All those untruths I swallowed, like a credulous patient gulping poison instead of medicine.”

“What was I to tell you? How could I even begin to broach the topic? ‘Lovely day at the Exchange, my dearest, and by the by, I made a bargain with the Devil.’”

She shoved up from the bed, shouldering past him. “Do not be flippant about this. You’ve no right to ridicule me.”

He let out a breath. “True. I’ve only my self-abnegation. And your hatred of me. Both justly earned.”

“I don’t hate you.” She turned to face him.

He brightened, and the hope in his gaze made her heart break all over again.

“I want to despise you.” She knew she was being cruel, yet the cruelty was for herself as well as him. “It is not merely the lies you told, but the fact that you deliberately used me. Collecting coins for you. Having me believe I was gratifying some secret wish, a shared confidence for you and I alone. And I was so bloody eager to give you whatever I could. To help forge our wedding vows into a true marriage.” She shoved her knuckles into her eyes, forcing back the tears that wanted to fall. When she felt in control of herself again, she let her hands hang down at her sides. “None of it was genuine. Just a manipulation.”

He did not look away, did not flinch. Though it was clear that each word she spoke wounded him. Anger drained from his gaze, leaving behind regret and pain.

“True, again.” His voice was a harsh rasp. “I used you, Anne. Most grievously. I’ve no excuse but my own greed. There’s naught I can say but ... I am sorry.” He swallowed hard. “From the depths of my heart, I’m sorry.”

She wanted to go to him. Comfort him. Never had she seen him in such pain, or with such aching want. Yet she kept herself rooted to the floor, the cool of the warped floorboards chilling her feet.

“I do not know what between us is real. What is illusion.” She forced words from her burning throat. “Did you ever care for me, Leo? Or was I simply a puppet?”

He moved stiffly to the window, and braced his hands on either side of the glass. His distant gaze seemed to barely see anything outside. Cold light carved him into sharp planes.

“At the onset,” he began, “my motives were mercenary. Perhaps even more so than one of your typical aristo marriages. I saw you as a key, a way to open doors that had been closed to me. Ours was not a love match.”

His words hit her like thrown rocks, yet she anticipated the blows. “That, I know. Each of us gained something from the marriage. It was a business deal. Commodities exchanged.” She blinked as a sudden ray of sunlight pierced the gloom and knifed into the chamber. It could not hold out against the clouds, though, and shrank away until only its afterimage remained burned into her sight.

“Still,” she continued, “I thought that, in time, we came to share something. Something beyond ... the boundaries of commerce and trade.”

He turned back to her, his expression fierce. “We did. We do.”

“How can I know? What can I trust?”

“Trust this.” He stalked across the room to her. She knew his intent, and stayed precisely where she stood.

She thought he would grab her roughly, crush her to him. Certainly his gaze burned and his visage tightened with hunger. But he was not cruel, nor brutal.

Stepping close so that their chests met, he threaded his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head with exquisite tenderness. He tipped her head back. Ravenous, reverent, his gaze moved over her face, as if seeking to commit every inch of her to memory. Slight tremors shook his hands, or perhaps it was she who trembled.

He lowered his mouth to hers, brushing his lips across hers, relearning her feel. Her eyes drifted closed as he took the kiss deeper, lips opening, urging hers to part. She wanted this so badly. When her own mouth opened, allowing him inside, a sound midway between a moan and a growl curled up from deep in his chest, a sound of profound need.

She tasted him, and his flavor was delicious, bittersweet. For he was familiar and strange, wonderful and terrible. Her hands came up to grip his tight biceps. This was as much touch she would allow herself, though she wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him close.

My God, how tenderly he kissed her. His lips spoke to her; she was the center of everything, the origin and the destination. Sweet and profound.

“Trust this,” he whispered against her mouth. “You seek truth. Here it is.”

“A kiss can lie,” she whispered back.

He shook his head. “Not mine. I’ve not the art of a seducer. Nor the words.” He pulled back enough so that their gazes met, and locked. “In all that has happened, in all that I had, you were the truest thing. Only you.”

She felt herself bleeding inside, torn and agonized. What he wanted from her, she did not know she could give. “Leo ...”

Abruptly, he released her and stepped away. Her hands hung in the air as he tugged off his borrowed coat. Waistcoat and shirt followed, all of them tossed to the floor without thought. Until he stood before her, bare-chested but for the bandages.

He turned, and she saw—for only the second time—the markings on his back. The pattern of flames twisted across his shoulders, emphasizing firm muscles. They were almost beautiful, the markings, but for their sinister connotation. They showed he remained the Devil’s possession.

“The marks have grown,” he said, keeping his back to her. “From the first day to now, they have spread over me. I didn’t know why, not until this morning.

“When they cover you, your soul is utterly lost.” The markings coiled down from his shoulders, along his back in a V-shape. A single tongue of flame wound down the length of his spine. Yet the skin of his back was not fully covered by the images. His lower back remained mostly bare, as did the upper curve of his buttocks, just appearing at the waistband of his breeches.

“Even with my gift of prophecy,” he said over his shoulder, “much of what I do on the Exchange involves hours of research, and careful consideration of available facts and knowledge. But instinct is vital, too. I trust my instincts. Always have. They seldom lead me astray.”

He faced her, chin high. “And I trust my instincts now when they tell me that those markings would have covered me by now ... were it not for you.”

She blinked. “Me?”

“You saved my soul.” He spoke plainly, with no embellishment, no uncertainty. “Had you not come into my life, had you not been who you are, my soul would now belong to the Devil. I know this as I know my own heartbeat.”

Slowly, she walked toward him, and he held himself very still. She moved past him, until she faced his back.

Her hand brushed over the slope of his shoulder. He inhaled sharply at the contact. Beneath her touch, his muscles tightened, responsive and alive. He radiated heat. With careful deliberation, she traced the markings, each image of flame drawn upon his skin.

“I wish ...” She followed the marks, trailing down between his shoulder blades, along his spine. The capability of this man, his will made flesh. “I wish you valued yourself more.”

“When I’m with you,” he rasped, “I do. I see what I can become, the better man I might be.”

“Might be,” she echoed. “But will you become that man?”

He shook his head. “The one future I cannot see is my own.”

“Yet you envisioned mine. You touched something that belonged to me, and you saw.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her. Releasing him, she picked up a scattering of pins she had removed from her hair, then placed them in his hand. “Tell me what you see now.”

Reluctance tightened his mouth. “Anne ...”

“Tell me.”

He exhaled. Then his gaze grew distant—the same distance that had come into his eyes when they stood on the banks of the Thames, and he had taken a ribbon from her hair. Fresh anger surged. He had used his magic against her. It felt like a violation.

His gaze sharpened again. “It was ... unclear.”

“No prevarication,” she bit out. “Honesty, Leo. Or there is no moving forward.”

His eyes narrowed. “I am being honest. I saw more demons, and a struggle. I was there, too. But the where and when of it—that I couldn’t tell.”

Her uncertain future held only one certainty: another battle. What transpired between then and now, and what came after—assuming there was an after—that lay in her hands.

She stared down at them, her hands. Not so long ago, they were as dangerous as hothouse lilies, and just as delicate. Now, they contained power. Truly for the first time in her life, she had power.

And she would make use of it.