Sinner's Heart

Chapter 6

He could not recall being awake at this hour, not having already seen his bed. Usually if Bram watched the sun crest the spires and rooftops, he was on his way home after a night’s revelry, experiencing the waking city as a visitor from a distant land. Men of trade bustling to their offices. Farmers walking beside their drays laden for market. Crossing sweeps, housemaids, bankers, merchants, costermongers. Here was the realm of business, ambition, subsistence—concepts as alien to him as breathing underwater or flight.

Yet now he rode his chestnut mare through the glare of a daytime London, and though oppressive clouds draped low in the sky, he squinted against the brightness. He had the oddest feeling that the good, industrious citizens would stand and point accusing fingers at him as he wended through the streets, demanding the intruder be driven from the gates and there to pass his days in exile.

But rest had been in short supply as of late. He’d barely dipped below the surface of sleep before his eyes had opened, sticky and hot, to stare at the bed canopy overhead. Livia’s words had dug beneath his skin like burrs, banishing peace. He’d risen from bed no more replenished than he had been hours earlier. Almost on principle, he’d thought to lie abed until his usual hour, but disquiet churned like a rising storm. After nearly murdering an innocent man, he doubted he’d be welcome at the fencing academy. How then, to quell the cagey energy that goaded him into motion?

His grooms had been startled by his appearance in the stable and demand for a horse to be saddled. They had complied, as they were paid to do, and minutes later he trotted toward the park. Impatience burned him. A full gallop was the only pace that could give any measure of release, yet traffic demanded that he keep himself at a sedate gait. At the least, it allowed him the rare experience of seeing London at the height of its bustle, the innumerable people jostling and hurrying from one end of the city to the other on important—or unimportant—business.

All was not order and civility, however. The streets were littered with broken glass, shattered pieces of masonry, and charred wood. An overturned carriage lay on the cobblestones like a carcass, picked clean by carrion feeders. Broken windows reflected back the cloudy sky in shards. And the people moved as though chased by resolute assassins, their heads down, shouldering aside whomever crossed their path, snarling in anger should anyone prove a slow-moving obstacle.

The disease advances, Livia’s voice murmured in his mind.

If a limb is infected, he answered, it’s amputated.

Too late for that. The sickness is in the blood, and our own hearts spread its decay.

He had no answer to that. Everywhere around him was proof. As he progressed toward the park, he felt Livia’s presence, always near, always close. Impossible to feel truly alone when she never left him, like a second heartbeat.

The greater irony? Only days ago, he considered her the greatest punishment. Now . . . the piercing loneliness he had felt, even sometimes in the company of the other Hellraisers, kept itself in abeyance. She was opinionated, obstinate, maddeningly headstrong. And the only person—if a ghost could be called a person—who gave him no quarter. Whit, his closest friend, never knew him as thoroughly as Livia did. Whit never had access to Bram’s most closely-kept self. Livia was everywhere within him.

Guiding his horse around two women arguing in the road, Bram thought, Last night was a first for me.

Visiting a brothel without partaking of its merchandise? Her voice was wry.

That was novel. But I’ve never had so much conversation with a woman in my bed.

Technically, I was on your bed. And I’m not truly a woman.

Most assuredly you’re a woman. When sleep had come, his dreams had alternated between scenes of chaos and fevered images of Livia, fully flesh, fully nude, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her olive-hued limbs entwined with a man’s. Sometimes the man had a stranger’s face, sometimes the face was Bram’s. A mingling of her memories and his. He’d awakened with an uneasy heart and an aching cock.

Did he desire her? Resent her? Like her? Or was it an uncomfortable alloy of all these feelings?

You must have spoken to the women you took to bed, she answered.

Not certain if ‘Spread your legs,’ counts as legitimate discourse.

Her low chuckle was that of a goddess, pagan and earthy. I was never one for an exchange of confidences either. There were more important matters to attend to once a mattress was in the vicinity.

I’d no idea Roman women were so . . . unconstrained, he thought. Aside from Messalina.

She was too stupid to conduct her affairs with discretion, Livia scoffed. But my freedom was my own doing. I didn’t want to suffer the confining virtue of being a wife. And honored daughters resigned themselves to respectable, stultifying chastity. A priestess of Hecate, however, and one with my wealth of knowledge about magic, the years of study and natural ability . . . if there was something, someone I wanted, I could have them.

You sound like a Hellraiser.

Had there been such a thing when I lived, I surely would have been one.

You would’ve been fearsome indeed. He seethed with restlessness, but thinking of beds port was a continuous drumbeat, like an ancient slave ship urging its captives to greater speed on the oars, lest they suffer the wrath of the lash.

At last, Hyde Park came into view, its treetops and wide swaths of field a welcome respite after the tight press of buildings and people.

A relief to see that it wasn’t a hanging day at Tyburn. Massive crowds would gather around the triangular gallows, with wealthy spectators in Mother Proctor’s Pews to get the better view of the condemned’s last few moments alive. People of every stripe and class all assembled—shopkeepers, apprentices, gentlemen, ruffians. All hoped for a good show; displays of bravery were applauded, but fear received boos. Gingerbread sellers and people hawking copies of the condemned’s last words—before they had even uttered them—worked the crowd. Pickpockets found ample prey, an irony given that many of those about to be executed were thieves. The din and bloodlust could make one’s head pound.

Only once after his return from the Colonies had he gone to see a hanging. He had comported himself with reserve, watching the criminals dance at the ends of their ropes with a façade of disinterest, but the moment he had returned to his private chambers, he’d emptied the contents of his stomach. Thereafter he found ways to occupy himself far from Tyburn Tree on hanging days.

He avoided Rotten Row and the early risers sedately parading their horses up and down. What he wanted was a good, hard gallop.

Reaching an open expanse of grass, he kicked his horse into greater speed, and his heart gave its own kick to feel the animal bolt into motion.

The wind in his face, his greatcoat flapping behind him, the horse tearing across the field, he smiled.

He felt Livia gather close around him like a mantle, and together, they rode like demons through the park. Bent low over the neck of his horse, he gave the mare full rein. The animal was bred for speed, and it took the open space with ground-eating strides. Its hoof beats became the beat of his heart, fast and heedless, the world turning to a blur of gray and green. He lost himself in the velocity, his muscles attuned to the horse’s, his thoughts naught but motion.

Faster, urged Livia.

His mouth pulled into a grin, and he pushed the mare into greater speed.

Above the rush of wind and the pound of the hooves, he heard Livia laugh. He couldn’t stop his answering laughter, both of them caught in the heady taste of freedom, where nothing existed but speed. As if they could outrun the coming catastrophe. For a few moments, they could pretend.

Yet the horse could not sustain its pace for too long. It would run itself to death, if he so desired. He had no wish to have the mare collapse beneath him, and so he was forced to slow, gallop to canter, canter to trot, and finally, a docile walk. The horse snorted and steamed, pleased with itself.

That was . . . a marvel, Livia said. Pleasure sparkled through her voice, and he felt her smile like a caress.

Her pleasure gleamed beside his own, and that gave him a curious sense of . . . satisfaction. Strange, to gain that feeling from something out of bed.

And the time with Livia in bed had been just as strange. He had never spoken to a woman, in bed or out, with such depth, such intimacy. Some women had pressed him for details of his time fighting in the Colonies, their gazes and hands continually drifting to his scar. He would push their hands away, make their eyes close in pleasure, and kept his history to himself. A few facile anecdotes for the more insistent females.

None of the Hellraisers were aware of the details of what Bram had seen and done in the Colonies. Not even Whit knew about Ned Davies. Only Livia.

He waited for his mind to rebel, to recoil in horror at letting anyone learn the brutality of his existence in the army. All that he found was an odd, unfamiliar loosening within his chest. As if binding chains at last fell away, leaving him to test the scope of his newfound freedom.

So long had he dwelt with those chains—he almost missed them. Almost, but not quite.

I used to race with Whit and Edmund here. Edmund never could beat us, but he surely tried. We used to terrify the people out for a peaceful stroll.

Leaving a swath of sighing maidens in your wake.

Never cared for maidens, he answered. Inexperience makes for tedious flirtation.

Inexperience makes most everything tedious. But a jaded eye takes the luster off the most glittering diamond.

Bram guided his horse back toward the more populated section of the park, where men and women paraded themselves and made conspicuous their leisure. When he was a boy, he loved coming to the park, watching the dashing bucks and flower-hued girls engage in the complicated, arcane maneuvers of the adult world. He loved to see the gentlemen on their prime horses, both with twitching flanks and proud miens. He used to stand on the banks of the Serpentine and send off armadas of twigs, creating vast naval battles in his imagination.

Now all he saw were vainglorious attempts at consequence, another generation of fools chasing dross, and a large, muddy artificial river.

But there was a young girl crouched at the edge of the Serpentine, dropping leaves onto the surface of the water and watching them drift. Her inattentive nurse gossiped with a fellow servant. Meanwhile, the child most likely saw not leaves but fairy barges gliding upon the river. Her pleasure, and dreams, were real. For a few years more, she would have the privilege of dreams. Their loss was inevitable, but for now, they were hers.

If she survived.

Something moved in the river. An unidentifiable shape, more like a shadow, and it headed for the girl. He strained to get a better look, then jolted in shock.

A creature. He could barely discern its outline—its skin seemed to mimic the appearance of the water.

Gods preserve us, Livia cried in his mind. A demon.

He’d only glimpsed a few of those beasts, as they’d fled Leo’s burning home. They had run by too quickly for him to truly see them, but he’d had fast, vague impressions of claws, teeth, yellow eyes. This thing seemed another species entirely.

Whatever variety of demon it was, the thing moved toward the girl playing on the riverbank, its outstretched claws reaching for her. And no one noticed. Except him.

It will pull her into the water, Livia said, horrified. Drown her.

Bram acted without thinking. He spurred his horse into a hard gallop and raced toward the child. Pedestrians leapt out of his way, some crying out, but he paid them no heed. His focus was solely on the girl and the demon that stalked her.

The child looked up in shock as he rode right to her. Without slowing his horse, he leaned down and scooped her up into his arms. She squirmed in his grasp, but he held on tightly. Riding up to the stunned nursemaid, he handed the child over.

“She was about to fall into the water,” he explained tersely.

Cradling the child, the nurse stammered her thanks, but Bram was already riding away.

The brief peace he’d obtained moments earlier rusted and flaked away.

Such events grow more common the longer the Dark One is at liberty, Livia murmured.

Needing a distraction, he turned his horse toward Rotten Row. The hour was far too early for true men and women of fashion to be out, but that did not prevent a goodly throng from assembling.

Bram nodded at passing acquaintances. Conversation barely stirred. People rode on horseback or carriage as though impelled by the last vestiges of societal imperative, their gazes chary, their words hoarded.

His bones heavy as iron, he urged his horse forward. A small collection of elegant but soberly dressed men stood at the base of a tree, their heads bent together, their brows furrowed in the way only men of importance could frown.

One of them glanced up as he passed. Lord Maxwell. An earl who took his Parliamentary duties with extreme gravity. Maxwell recognized Bram, and waved him over. Bram mentally groaned. He only wanted to go home and retreat into the welcoming recesses of a brandy decanter. But, Hellraiser or no, he couldn’t outright ignore Maxwell.

Slowly, Bram guided his horse toward the group of men. They all stared up at him as he neared. All of them were known for their political authority—even a disinterested nobleman like Bram had knowledge of them.

After terse civilities were exchanged, Maxwell spoke. “We beg a moment of your time, Rothwell.” He eyed Bram’s horse. “Perhaps you might deign to lower yourself.”

The impulse to kick his horse into another gallop and ride away seized him.

These men may have vital intelligence, Livia said. If they are as influential as you believe, we cannot afford to ignore them. Not in these dark hours.

I’ve made no pledges to any cause, Bram reminded her acerbically. Yet he dismounted and edged his way into the circle. He counted amongst the five men two senior cabinet officials and one of the king’s closest advisors. Anxiety deepened the lines on their faces and formed bags beneath their eyes. Bram wasn’t alone in his insomnia.

“Unusual to see you about at this hour,” Maxwell noted.

“I need coffee or brandy, or perhaps both,” Bram said. “So let’s keep this brief.”

Maxwell cleared his throat and exchanged glances with the other men. “You are an intimate of John Godfrey, are you not?”

At the mention of John’s name, the hair on the back of Bram’s neck rose. Livia, too, tensed. “We have been friendly, yes.”

“Have been,” pressed one of the cabinet officials, “but are no longer?”

“My time is my own, just as John’s is his. Tell me what you want.”

“Can we trust you?” This, from the king’s advisor, his knuckles whitening on his ivory-topped walking stick.

“I wouldn’t trust anyone,” Bram answered.

“He’s useless,” the cabinet official growled at Maxwell. “Either he’s deliberately being obtuse, or he’s Godfrey’s man.”

“I’m no one’s,” Bram said through clenched teeth.

“What choice have we?” Maxwell looked helplessly at the other men in the circle. “Godfrey keeps his intentions to himself and everyone else at a distance. Rothwell is our only option. He’s the closest thing Godfrey has to a friend.”

The advisor let out a heavy sigh. “Go ahead, then.”

“Nothing has been agreed to,” Bram interjected hotly. The lingering remnants of his temper unraveled. “And if you talk of me like a dumb animal, then I’m getting back on my horse and you can all go to hell.”

Stop growling like a wounded bear, Livia snapped, and listen. John is the Dark One’s closest, most powerful ally. Surely whatever these powdered wigs are speaking of must have significance.

Though Bram’s anger continued to roil, he forced out, “Just say what you want of me.”

“Godfrey’s becoming more aggressive in Parliament,” Maxwell said after a pause. “Creating alliances, breaking apart old confederations. Brokering deals and ensuring that other pacts collapse. ’Tis clear that some greater scheme is afoot, but none of our efforts have been able to determine precisely what he intends.”

“I’m to play the role of spy.” Bram’s voice was flat.

Several of the men grimaced. Typical that they would cringe away from plain speaking—the only means Bram had available to him.

Not so, corrected Livia. You are remarkably subtle and insinuating when dealing with women.

Except you.

I am always the exception. Pride laced her words. He could imagine her tossing her head, regal as an empress.

He fought a smile. Damn, but it was difficult to engage in two conversations simultaneously, especially if one of them was with a ghost that had invaded his consciousness.

“If you might gain Godfrey’s confidence,” Maxwell said. “Learn more about his objectives, and the means he intends to use to gain those objectives.”

“Then pass this intelligence on to you and this distinguished company.” Bram stared at each of the men in turn. “Thus the reason why I keep my involvement with politics to a minimum. I like not this business of cunning and guile.” Strategy was reserved for the battlefield—yet to these men, Whitehall was the battlefield.

“Will you do it?” pressed the king’s advisor.

“Why should I?” Bram fired back.

All of the men began speaking at once, throwing out words like duty, honor, and greater good. The crown itself was endangered, and England would fall with it. Their voices battered against him as waves against a cliff. It took hundreds if not thousands of years for those waves to carve away at the stone.

Cease your reflexive obstinacy, Livia snapped in his mind. Whether you will do as they ask or no, nothing’s harmed by saying yes.

He held up his hand, silencing the cabal. “If it will quiet your infernal nattering, then I agree.” His words were meant for the gathered men as well as Livia.

The men exhaled in a communal sigh of relief. The ghost, however, had some choice Latin curses for him.

“Come to my home tomorrow at ten in the evening,” said Maxwell. “We shall discuss your findings then.”

Bram mounted his horse. He looked down at these powerful men of England, their worn, weary faces, the lines of strain around their mouths. They dressed in the finest in tailoring, and their wigs were immaculately dressed. For all that, they were but a collection of bones and flesh, as vulnerable as a pauper begging for alms, subject to the same inevitability of death and obscurity. They controlled the fate of the nation, but there would come a time when every one of them would be laid out in a box of pine and lowered into the ground.

“When I decide I have something to recount,” he said to them, “I shall let you know. We’ll discuss it at a time and place of my choosing.” Before anyone could speak or argue, he urged his horse into motion.

What will you do? Livia asked as he rode away.

Dance on the edge of a blade, he answered. As I always do.

Books and papers lay in riotous profusion upon every available surface, including the floor. Maps draped over chairs, and the abundance of broken quills on the carpet resembled the massacre of flocks of birds. Unlike Bram’s study, John’s saw much use, and John himself unfolded from behind a massive desk as Bram entered the chamber.

A look of wariness passed briefly over John’s face when the footman announced Bram, but he smoothed it into a welcoming smile, his hand outstretched in greeting.

“A most agreeable surprise,” John murmured, shaking Bram’s hand.

“You seem well-engaged.” Bram released John’s grip and glanced at the mountains of paper on the desk.

“Never too occupied for an old friend and fellow Hellraiser.” Stepping back, he asked, “Can I offer you some tea? Wine?”

“Brandy.”

John’s brow rose, yet he picked his way through the stacks of books and debris toward the sideboard. He poured two glasses.

Bram. Livia spoke with tight urgency. His arms. His hands.

I see them.

For his work at home, John had discarded his coat, and the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled back. Markings of flame covered every inch of exposed skin. His forearms. His hands—from fingers to palm. Bram’s gaze rose higher. Without his stock, the neck of John’s shirt hung open. More flames wound around up from his chest, creeping up his neck like a choking weed.

It’s spread much faster on him than it did on any of the others, Livia said. Fertile ground.

John wended his way back to Bram, navigating the clutter and bearing two full glasses. “’Tis a veritable labyrinth in here. The fault is mine, not my servants, for I forbid any of them from cleaning.”

“And keep them out with a locked door when you aren’t around.” Bram took the offered glass.

John patted a pocket of his waistcoat. “At all times the key is on my person. There are so few who can be trusted.”

Livia snorted. How he enjoys this.

“Yet I can trust you, can I not?” John held Bram’s gaze with his own. Neither of them were fooled by his smile.

“As much as you can trust yourself,” answered Bram. He did not wait for John to offer a toast, but drank down his brandy in one swallow.

More leisurely, John sipped at his drink. “We ought to arrange an excursion, you and I. It has been far too long since we kept company. Perhaps an assembly, or the theater. You were ever an enthusiast of the theater.”

“Actresses and opera dancers,” Bram said. “The plays themselves bored me.”

Refined as always, sighed Livia.

“It was Edmund who actually watched the plays,” added Bram.

John studied the bottom of his glass as if it held a miniature marvel. “If not the theater, then some other diversion.”

“Of late, the city has become less diverting. Had to find other means of occupying myself.” After setting down his glass on a small table, Bram pulled folded pieces of paper from his coat’s inside pocket. Mutely, he held them out to John.

John took the papers, frowning, and unfolded them. His frown dissolved as he read their contents. “But this is marvelous.” He grinned. “I trust you received no trouble for your efforts.”

“None.”

In truth, the only trouble he had experienced came from that long-disused machine of his conscience. Rusty and corroded, it had groaned as he had used his Devil’s gift of persuasion to gain entrance into a minister’s home and private study. The papers were easily secured, just as easily spirited away, with Livia acting as sentinel.

He hadn’t wanted to pilfer the documents. Outright theft was not one of his many crimes. Only Livia had convinced him to act.

Sin is often required to ensure success, she had argued.

Ruthless, that’s what you are, he had answered.

In everything. There had been no shame in her voice. It verged on admirable, her merciless resolve. She would permit no obstacle to subvert her will.

Now he had handed over a packet of stolen documents to John. It seemed to have the desired effect.

John continued to scan the papers, his gaze sharp and rapacious. “With this information in my possession, I shall be much closer to my goal.” He glanced up at Bram. “You’ve my gratitude.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d want suitable compensations.”

This isn’t what we agreed upon, Livia interjected with alarm.

Rather than look hurt or angry at Bram’s demand, John smiled. He seemed to approve of Bram’s greed. “Name something you desire, and it shall be yours.”

Bram’s eyebrow arched. “Far-reaching claim.”

John held out his hands, brandishing the marks of flame on his skin. “It is a claim I can make with all assurance. If I can rely upon your support, the pleasures and privileges you have enjoyed will seem miniscule in comparison.”

With disinterest, Bram examined the title page of a nearby book. The frontispiece promised a long and phenomenally dull treatise on methods of governance, written by a gentleman with far too much education. He thumbed through the pages and found not a single illustration, only an abundance of long words and foreign phrases. Carelessly, he tossed the book over his shoulder. It landed with a thud and John winced.

“Give me your word,” Bram said, “that I shall have precisely what you promise.”

We were only going to draw him out, Livia protested, her voice turning strident.

“Give me yours,” came John’s immediate answer. “Betrayal is thick around us, and I’ve only use for those I can trust.”

“You have it,” Bram replied after a moment.

No! Livia’s shout echoed in Bram’s head, and he struggled to keep from scowling.

Still, John looked dubious.

With a sigh, Bram bent and pulled a poniard from his boot. John stepped back, yet a pistol suddenly appeared in his hand, retrieved from somewhere on the desk.

Livia’s cursing nearly drowned out Bram’s own thoughts. Her frustration at being powerless seethed through him.

“A gun’s damned prosaic for a man with the Devil’s mark on his flesh,” Bram drawled.

“The gifts he has bestowed upon me are elegant and subtle.”

“Elegant and subtle can’t rip a hole in a man’s chest. Thus, the pistol. But it’s unnecessary, at least where I’m concerned. If it’s a blood oath you require . . .” He drew the tip of the poniard across his hand. Bright crimson welled. “Here it is.”

Smiling, John tucked the pistol into the back waistband of his breeches. He took the offered blade from Bram and made a cut across his own palm. Their hands clasped.

Stop, stop, stop! This is the wrong choice! Did nothing penetrate your obstinate skull? We have to fight John, fight the Dark One! You cannot—

“There’s proof,” Bram said, and John started. Bram had not realized he had all but shouted his words, trying to drown out Livia’s excoriation.

Satisfied, John stepped away. He took a kerchief from a pocket in his waistcoat and wrapped it around his cut hand.

“The gesture is appreciated,” he murmured. “And if you knew my intent, you would understand such an action’s necessity.”

“I cannot know your intent unless you tell me. The reading of thoughts is your bailiwick.”

“That night outside Leo’s home, Mr. Holliday gave me another gift.” John’s words were laden with boasting. “I’ve but to look upon a man, or woman, and I know how they might benefit or harm me. As if a parchment scroll of their attributes appeared in my hands, visible only to me.”

“So this,” Bram raised his cut hand, “was unnecessary.”

John smiled, rueful. “As with my other gift, it does not apply to Hellraisers.” He narrowed his eyes. “What of you? Did not our patron bestow some further power to you that night?”

I stepped between you and the Dark One’s magic, Livia murmured. That may be why we are anchored to one another. His power had an unforeseen consequence—it bound us together.

But John didn’t know that. He had no idea about Livia’s whereabouts, particularly that she haunted Bram.

“All my falsehoods are believed,” Bram improvised.

“Like yours, this ability doesn’t extend to Hellraisers.”

“What a wondrous creature, is Mr. Holliday.” John’s smirk faded quickly. “Have you any word of Whit or Leo?”

“None.”

“That’s as it should be. I’ve made arrangements.”

Bram’s blood iced. “What sort of arrangements?”

“Nothing you need worry about. Even so, we’ll stay vigilant. I do not want them interfering with my plans.”

“The plans you still haven’t disclosed to me.”

“’Tis quite simple, truly. The key to supremacy in England is in Parliament.”

“I thought the king ruled the country.”

John scoffed. “He’s made too many concessions. Piece by piece, the royal authority has fallen away. The king is barely more than a figurehead. No, the cornerstone is Parliament.” He spoke like a scholar explaining a simple fact to a very dense pupil. “All that is required of me is to seize control of the entire body, and place myself in the central position of power.”

“Sounds difficult. And time consuming.”

“For an ordinary man. I am not ordinary.”

He’s the Dark One’s pawn, Livia spat. And now, so are you.

Bram clenched his hand into a fist, stemming the flow of blood, though it continued to well through his fingers. “To what end?”

“To every end. The country will belong to me. Every part of it will be mine, including its military.” Anticipation sharpened his words and his gaze. “I shall lay claim on other nations’ territories, their commodities. Russian timber. Hanoverian silver mines.”

“And if they protest these proposed acquisitions?”

John shrugged. “Then I shall make war upon them.”

Bram kept his posture loose, leaning back against a bookshelf and folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve been part of England’s military. We barely beat the French in the Colonies. What’s to say that these already overburdened and poorly paid soldiers and sailors could take on the armies and navies of France, the Hapsburgs, and everyone else?”

John’s face stretched into a grin. “There will be a wealth of assistance.”

“Given that you mean to make war upon the entire world, I doubt much support from other nations will be offered.”

“There is one realm whose collaboration is guaranteed.”

Goddesses and gods, Livia hissed. He cannot mean . . .

John’s gaze dropped to the ground. Then back up to Bram. His grin widened.

Numb cold crept through Bram’s chest and limbs. “The underworld.”

From a pile of books on his desk, John selected one large tome bound in black morocco. No decorations adorned its spine, nor its cover. The book seemed to draw in all the light in the chamber. John flipped through the pages until he stopped on one in particular. He held it up for Bram’s inspection.

It showed a cavern of fire, with wretched naked humans writhing in misery as their bodies endlessly burned. Hosts of misshapen creatures dwelt amidst the flames, some of them presiding eagerly over the suffering people. Set in the cavern’s stone ceiling was a gate. Directly above the gate stretched the surface of the mortal world, complete with houses and churches.

I recognize that image, Livia whispered. I saw an earlier version of it when I delved into summoning the Dark One.

“The boundary between the two realms is surprisingly slight,” John said. “One only needs a sufficient supply of power, and the gate that divides our world from Hell can be opened. Once it is opened . . .” John’s lips quirked. “Let us say that I shan’t want for soldiers.”

For a moment, Bram could only stare at John. The cut across his hand began to throb, a delayed pain that radiated up his arm.

“Demons,” he said at last. “Fighting for England.”

“Fighting for me,” John corrected. He closed the book and set it back on his desk. “And, Bram, when the time comes to lead this army, there is only one man I want in command.” He stared levelly at Bram.

Despite his intention to appear impassive, Bram couldn’t stop his startled frown. “Me? At the head of a demonic army?”

“Who better?” John spread his hands. “Your military skill is unparalleled. You’ve a surfeit of expertise—and there is no one I trust more.”

“I resigned from the army. I’m done with war.”

“Ah, but think,” John said, persuasive, insinuating, “this war will be fought under your command. Every wrong you saw on the Colonial battlefields, every error in judgment, every misguided order, you can correct them all. You shall have thousands, nay, millions of soldiers—human and demonic—at your command. Combining your ability with such might guarantees clean, unequivocal victory.”

The end, Livia whispered. The end of everything.

Bram said, “You promise me an army of demons, but that illustration is likely the work of a bedlamite. It can’t be taken literally. There’s no gate between Hell and our world.”

A condescending look crossed John’s face. “You do not know what I know, Bram.”

“And you know how to open this gate.”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

John narrowed his eyes. “That knowledge shall remain mine. For a while longer, at least.”

Bram felt his mouth thin. “I’m to be your general, but already we’ve reached the limits of your trust.”

“I simply do not want to confuse the issue.” John paced around his desk. “For now, I only want you to stay alert. Let me know if, in your nocturnal ramblings, you hear anyone speak of me. And if you can use your gifts of persuasion and dissembling to gain more information, all the better.”

Bracing his hands on the desk, John leaned forward. A sliver of afternoon light pierced the curtains, drawing a line down the middle of John’s face, burning white.

“There are only two real Hellraisers now, Bram. You and I. That means a greater share for each of us.”

“Share of what?”

John placed his hand upon the black book, as though taking an oath. “Everything.”

The sexton at St. Paul’s usually did not allow visitors in the upper galleries after dark, but Bram slipped him a shilling, and so by the light of a single taper, he made his solitary way upward. The stairs climbed ever higher, and he ascended like a fallen angel arduously trying to return home from banishment. He half expected to be barred entrance, a clap of thunder or streak of lightning hurling him the hundreds of feet down, to smash his body upon the checkered quire floor and stain the marble with his blood.

Livia continued in her silence. Not a word or thought from her since Bram had left John’s study. She said nothing, even as Bram wound his way into the soaring dome of the cathedral. Candles flickered far below, distant as dreams, but the stairs and upper galleries remained dark. She expressed no awe in the gold and white walls, nor in the towering height. Her silence felt like a constricting band of iron. Yet he forced himself upward, from the Whispering Gallery to the Stone Gallery encircling the dome. Until, at last, he reached the Golden Gallery at the very top.

Stepping out from the cupola, Bram walked to the railing. He blew out the candle and set it at his feet. There, spread out on all sides, was the whole of London.

“A god’s prospect,” he murmured.

Livia shimmered into view, the light of her form coalescing. She had been so long in his mind, to actually see her again produced a strange, resonant thrill. Though an icy wind blew, causing Bram’s coat to billow, her robes remained still and her hair kept its intricate arrangement. She stared out at the city, giving Bram the clean elegance of her Italianate profile.

Still, she remained mute. They looked at the city together, yet separate, choked in silence.

“I’ve been up here a few times.” He spoke into the darkness. “Always during the day. Hard to see much of anything at night.”

The shard of moon threw enough light to see the twisting, sluggish Thames snaking its way toward the sea. Tiled roofs reflected back the illumination, but the streets themselves were all in shadow, broken fitfully here and there by link and lamp. Despite the darkness, the city was not quiet. Shouts and screams rose up from all corners, harsh laughter and cries. A fire burned in Whitechapel. A clot of flame revealed a mob moving through the lanes of Smithfield. Only the distant hills of Hampstead were peaceful. Yet it wouldn’t be long before the madness infecting London spread outward and into the country.

Words spilled from him, as if he could build a barrier with them, holding back the rising flood. “I often thought it would be exciting to have a woman up here. She could grip the railing as I lifted her skirts. We’d see the entire city as we took our pleasure.”

“And if the height frightened her?”

He started. He hadn’t expected Livia to speak, or perhaps the first words from her would be a bitter condemnation.

He nodded toward the stone cupola behind them. “We’d make use of that wall. If she was very afraid, she could close her eyes.” He raised a brow. “Are you frightened by heights?”

“They mean nothing to me now.”

Again, smothering silence descended. Bram’s hand continued to pain him, though the wound was superficial. He glanced down at his palm. Within a few days, the cut would vanish, his body obliterating evidence of his actions.

“I’ve failed.” Her voice was flat, devoid of life. She still would not look at him. “For the first time, I did not accomplish what I set out to do. The others, Whit and Leo, and their women, they could not have defeated the Dark One without me. And this—turning you from him—was my most important task.”

“There’s been no failure.”

She gazed at his hand, where dried blood formed an arrow across his skin. “You have taken a blood oath. With him.”

“I cut myself. He cut himself. We shook hands. Nothing else happened.”

“How can you say that?” Disbelief edged her words. “The taking of a blood oath is sacred, inviolate—”

“Perhaps you’ve noticed,” he drawled, “that I don’t hold much respect for anything, especially the sacred and inviolate.”

She stared at him. “It was . . .”

“A ruse.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “John had to trust me. The meaningless spilling of blood seemed a ready means of gaining that trust.”

“And everything else, all the claims you made about joining his cause—more deceit?”

“John’s a chary bastard. He’d reveal nothing without securing my support.”

He thought she might smile, or sob her relief. Instead, her scowl was fierce, her gaze hot. “You said nothing! Played your part and kept me in ignorance!”

“Is that why you’re angry? Don’t like being in the dark?”

“Damn you,” she spat. “You might’ve given me the smallest hint what you were about.”

He shook his head. “John cannot read the minds of the Hellraisers, but he’s sodding perspicacious. If I let even a trace of duplicity enter my thoughts, he’d have read it on my face. So I kept quiet.” He stared at her. “You believed I meant everything I said to him.”

“Taking a blood oath is usually reserved for the sincere.”

“That, I am not.”

At last, her hands came up, covering her face. Her shoulders sank. He suppressed the urge to touch her, comfort her. She had no body to touch, and would rebuff his efforts, even had she flesh to touch. But her moment of vulnerability ended quickly.

“You are,” she said, lowering her hands, “a devious bastard.” She made this sound like a compliment.

“I wasn’t always so. Perhaps you’ve been influencing me.”

Bracing his forearms on the railing, he looked out over the rooftops of London. From this vantage, it was a collection of miniatures, tiny structures that could be scattered by a strong wind. Less than a hundred years earlier, half the city burned to the ground, and thousands of corpses littered the streets, felled by plague. It rose up again, but not much stronger. The city could burn once more. It did already.

His ride from John’s home to St. Paul’s had been fraught with horrors. More brawls, more destruction. Thrice he had beaten savagely men in the middle of assaulting women. Everywhere across the city, scenes were enacted. Atop the cathedral’s dome, he saw and heard all.

“In the Colonies,” he said, “I saw hell on earth. Acts of barbarism I never would’ve believed, had not I witnessed them with my own eyes. My father died of a fever whilst I was fighting, and all I could think was that he’d been given a clean, merciful death. Soon after I returned, my brother got a miniscule cut on his leg that turned septic. It killed him and I inherited a title I never thought to possess. All I sought to do with its privilege was staunch the memories with as much pleasure as I could grasp. Not precisely the heir my father had intended. But I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was ensuring I never experienced that hell again.”

Livia did not watch the city as it slithered toward pandemonium. Her dark gaze rested solely on him, and he felt it in every bone, every breath. He hadn’t known that a man could feel both ancient and restive, exhausted and spurred to action. The process of living, and nearly dying, brought him far more education than university ever could.

“But hell is here.” He gestured toward the spires and roofs. “You might have brought it forth originally, but the Hellraisers and I . . . we gave it fertile fields. Watered it with our sins. It grows, and if nothing is done, the harvest will be plentiful.”

“A reaper of souls, is the Dark One.”

“Including mine.” He rubbed at his shoulder, the markings’ phantom heat spreading out in waves. “For me, hell is a guarantee. Yet I can stop it from consuming the world.”

Livia straightened, then drifted closer, slowly, as if afraid he might bolt away like a stag flushed from the bracken. He thought he might feel numb, or fearful. Instead, tumblers within him clicked into place. Unlocking a certitude he hadn’t anticipated.

“Speak plainly,” Livia urged, “for there cannot be uncertainty. Not in this.”

He gazed at the moon, then at her. They shared a timeless radiance, and she worked her will upon the tides of his intention. Yet no one could make him do anything. He alone dictated his actions. When words formed on his lips, they were his words, fraught and unsparing.

“I’ve been in hiding, but I can hide no longer.” He inhaled, smoke from the burning city clouding his lungs, then breathed out. “The time to fight is now.”