by Archer, Zoe
Silently, he paid the boy holding the reins of his horse. The boy scurried off the moment the coin touched his palm.
Bram mounted his horse, secured her bundle of old clothes, then held out a hand for her. She seated herself behind him, struggling a little with the mass of her cumbersome gown, then clasped her arms around his waist. Warily vigilance tightened his body. The night held a venomous chill, as though it had been honed to a cutting edge.
“And now?” she asked, her words barely a whisper.
“We seek shelter where we can.” He pressed his heels into the horse’s side, setting it in motion. “But whatever safety we find won’t last.”
Bram seethed with frustration. None of the circumstances were as he wanted them. Here was Livia, no longer a spirit but a woman of flesh, and he wished to take her back to his home, settle her upon a fireside couch strewn with silk pillows, feed her scalloped oysters, sweetmeats, the tender leaves of artichokes glazed in butter. There would be glasses of full-bodied Chambertin gleaming like rubies. He wanted a soaking tub filled with warm water perfumed by jasmine blossoms. He desired gowns of crimson damask, emerald faille—bright, rich hues to flatter her olive skin. He would surround her in luxury, in comfort, in sensuous pleasure.
Instead, they crouched on a coarse woolen blanket on the dusty floor of an empty dockside warehouse, gnawing on stale bread and tough lumps of mutton, trading sips from a bottle of dubious wine—the only food he’d been able to procure.
Riverside chill seeped between the cracks in the walls. Noisome vapor, smelling of rot and sludge, curled amongst the few crates left behind from the last shipment. It was so quiet Bram heard the water slapping against the pilings. Yet the other sounds of river traffic and life, the ferrymen and mudlarks and stevedores loading and unloading ships, those were absent.
The whole of London seemed suspended, waiting, an animal crouched in anticipation of a coming attack.
But he was no toothless, shivering dog rolling onto its back. Watching Livia consume her first meal in over a thousand years, her expression carefully neutral though he knew the stale food was a disappointment, he vowed to fight whoever and whatever threatened. As soon as her strength was restored, she would cast a spell to release the other Hellraisers. And then the fight would truly begin.
Despite the middling quality of the food, Livia devoured everything. Bram gave her the remainder of his meal over her objections.
“It’ll do me good to get back to army rations,” he said. “A man with an overfull belly makes for a poor soldier. Besides,” he added, “my last meal was only hours ago. A whole millennium has passed since you ate.”
“Spiced wine,” she mused. “Oysters, partridge with figs and walnuts, boar in garum. Pears from my own villa’s orchard and honey from my apiary.”
“Not half as fine,” he said, glancing down at the remainder of the food, “but it’s all we have, and you need it far more than I.”
Before she could object further, he stood and moved through the warehouse. He had already made an initial reconnaissance, but there was no such thing as being too aware of one’s surroundings. The structure had a high ceiling, and was large enough to hold cargo from several ships. Aside from a few crates and a dusty bolt of cotton, the warehouse stood empty. A battered desk and three-legged stool huddled in the corner. Searching the desk drawers yielded only scraps of paper, the ink faded to nigh illegibility. Tucked into the very back of the top drawer, however, he found a slim-bladed knife, which he tucked into his boot.
Two large doors could be used for bringing goods in and out of the warehouse, but a stout padlock kept out all would-be thieves and squatters. He and Livia had gained entrance through a smaller door, also locked, but easily breached through her use of a quick spell.
The slight effort had cost her. She had moved listlessly into the warehouse, and sank down onto the blanket he had spread on the ground. It seemed the simple act of being within her body again took a toll. Thus, he gladly went without a full supper, no matter his own demanding appetite.
He gazed back through the gloom shading the warehouse. They had taken a small chance and brought the lantern purchased at the shop to dispel some of the darkness. In contrast to her surprisingly delicate shape, outlined against the lantern’s glow as she continued to eat, she radiated power. Despite everything that had taxed her, she remained an unstoppable storm.
I’m awed by her.
He expected an answer to his thoughts. She had been within his mind for, what, days? Weeks? Whatever the span of time, it now felt perfectly natural to have her thoughts interwoven with his own, her voice nestled into the recesses of his mind. Gone, now. They were separate entities once again.
He turned away to continue his patrol, primed pistol at the ready, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
She might no longer haunt him, yet he was aware of her at all times. The quiet rustle of her skirts as she shifted. Her very presence like an ember in the darkness.
His body tightened in response. It knew she had flesh now, that she could be touched, and both his heart and his body demanded the same thing—her.
Yet she was hungry, tired, overwhelmed by the world and the immensity of the enemy they faced. The curse barring the Hellraisers from coming to their aid needed to be broken. She had to cast the spell to break that curse. He had to keep a harsh rein on his needs, painful though it was.
She rose up from the blanket, took the lantern, and moved toward him. Her footsteps echoed softly through the warehouse, and this simple sound made his blood race as she approached.
The lamplight gilded her skin, the underside of her jaw, and nestled in the shadows of her hair. She had a rolling, sensuous walk, full-hipped.
Her gaze was troubled as she came to stand before him. “This place is ill-omened.”
“Not an amiable part of the city, Wapping. Sailors live here.”
“It’s not a mortal evil I sense.”
His sword was drawn before she finished speaking. He glared into the darkness. “Damn—thought we’d be safe here.”
“For now, we are,” she amended. “But our safety won’t last. The realm below is a kettle on the verge of boiling over, their world erupting into ours.”
“And John’s the bastard throwing fuel on the fire.” Bram sheathed his sword. “The time to move against him is now.”
“The time is soon,” she corrected. “When this”—she set the lantern upon the floor and twin spheres of light appeared in her palms, gleaming with power—“grows stronger.”
“I’ve weapons of my own.” He glanced at his sword and pistol.
“And more.” One of the spheres of light blinked away, and she touched the tips of her fingers to the center of his chest. Yet when she touched him, another gleam appeared—and he was its origin. Its warmth spread through him.
“How?” he wondered.
“Because I helped you unlock your magic.” She took her fingers away, and the light continued to shine. “Years of study and training were needed before I could truly access my power. For you, it’s merely the work of a few moments.”
“Never thought I was gifted with magic.”
“On your own—no. You had a benefit I did not.” She smiled at him. “Me.”
They both watched as the light slowly faded, a lambent warmth lingering within him.
She said, “Now you wield your power the way a priestess might.”
“A priest, not a priestess. And I refuse to take a vow of chastity.”
“I may as well ask the fire not to burn.” Her smile dimmed. “You and I aren’t enough to win this war.”
He saw what she meant to do. “You aren’t strong enough yet.”
“There isn’t time to wait. It must be done now. Tonight.”
“At what risk to you?”
“Impossible to know.”
“Damn it,” he growled, “I didn’t stick a blade into my own chest just to lose you again.”
Her dark gaze held his. “N
o one is more aware of what you sacrificed. This is the reason you made that choice. The peril is greater now. My magic is, too.”
She spoke the truth. He did not like it. “I’ll lend my power to yours.”
“All I ask of you is vigilance whilst I work the spell.”
He gave a clipped nod.
“Come back with me to the blanket,” she said, nodding toward their makeshift accommodations. “The spell requires I should kneel, and I’ve no desire to test the fortitude of my new flesh upon this . . .” She eyed the grimy floor. “. . . This surface.”
They returned to where the woolen blanket was spread upon the ground. She set the lantern down, then arranged several objects upon the blanket—things she’d gathered from the chandler’s. The feather, the stub of a candle, a pearl.
When she’d positioned them to her liking, she kicked off her slippers, revealing glimpses of slim feet and curved ankles. Need built as she knelt upon the blanket, her movements economical yet elegant, her skirts billowing around her like faded petals upon water.
“Have you a blade?”
Frowning, he handed her the knife he had found in the desk. His jaw clenched when she dragged the blade across her thumb, a bright line of crimson appearing in its wake.
She dripped blood upon the objects, staining the feather, candle and pearl with red. Then she trickled her blood on the ground, murmuring softly as she did so. It looked obscene, the red purity of her blood mixing with the filth coating the floor. A desecration of her body. Yet her expression remained composed, removed, as blood fell in ruby droplets.
His hand upon his sword, senses attuned to the slightest movement or sound, he watched her eyes close. Her dark lashes were lacy against the upper curve of her cheek. The arcane words she murmured grew in strength and volume. They seemed to fill the cavernous space of the warehouse with their intricacy, complex as labyrinths.
Light gathered around her, gold and lambent. It covered her, its radiance like a cascade sweeping across her in waves. An unseen wind pulled her hair from its pins so it blew about her shoulders. Though Bram remained alert to any signs of intrusion, he could not look away from her, shining like a goddess. Her magic turned the air electric. He could feel it in the reticulation of his veins and sponge of his lungs. When he breathed, he breathed her power.
The glow surrounding her grew, spreading outward until it formed a sphere that encompassed them both. Energy skittered across his skin.
The light abruptly flickered, dimming. Livia swayed and her voice weakened. She looked suddenly haggard. Alarmed, he darted forward. Something was awry. Yet before he could touch her, her eyes opened. They glowed. Her irises and pupils were no longer visible, replaced by more golden light.
He halted, his hand hovering over her shoulder. She stared directly at him, but did not see him at all. She chanted louder. With a flare, the glow surrounding her returned, stronger now, so that it stretched out in a radius that engulfed half the warehouse.
A gust of wind pushed Bram back. He struggled to keep standing as Livia’s voice increased in volume and the tempest battered at him.
The unknown language she spoke shifted, and she cried in English, “Return—there are no barriers! Hellraisers, the time to undo your wickedness is at hand. Revertimini! ”
The light around her flared, blinding him, and the warehouse shook. Small pieces of wood shook down from the ceiling and struck the floor. Abruptly, the wind died, the light was quenched, and stillness enfolded the building.
Bram blinked, clearing his vision from its dull red glow. He rushed forward when he saw Livia supine upon the blanket.
Falling to his knees, he gathered her up. She lay listless and unmoving in his arms. But for the slight rise and fall of her chest, she was utterly still. He stroked her hair, her cheeks, his heart pounding fierce enough to rip from the cage of his ribs. She felt altogether too slight, too fragile. Her cheeks were pale, the beat of her pulse barely fluttering against the fine skin of her throat.
He brushed his lips against hers. Light as thistledown, her breath, and shallow. He drew upon it, as though he could pull it from her and drag her back to consciousness.
“Livia, love,” he urged, his voice a rasp, “you aren’t to go anywhere. Is that understood?”
There was no response from her. Not a word spoken, nor even a flutter of an eyelash.
“I’m a wastrel,” he continued, “but I’m a soldier, and a bloody officer. I won’t be gainsaid. Disobeying me is a whipping offense. You obey me now, damn you.”
The softest movement of her lips. She struggled to form words.
His throat burned as it constricted. “What is it, love?”
“I obey . . .” She drew in a thready breath. “. . . No one.”
“Just this one time, do what you’re told.” His heart was a leaping animal when her eyes opened, dark and rich, and focused on him. He could not stop touching her face.
“Only this once,” she whispered. “I caution you, however . . . do not get . . . accustomed to such behavior.”
“I am duly warned.” He glanced down at the rough woolen blanket spread upon the ground. “Damn. You need to rest, but I don’t want you touching this coarse thing.”
She lifted her head enough to glance around the warehouse. “Take me to the desk.”
He gathered her up in his arms and carried her the distance. The feel of her nestled against him, her soft, sleek weight, coursed like fire.
She instructed, “Say the following.” She spoke series of words in a tongue he’d never heard before.
He repeated the words as best he could. Nothing happened.
“The second syllable of the fourth word needs to be drawn out,” she said, and repeated the spell.
He fought for patience. A damned linguistics lesson when she needed rest. But he mimicked her pronunciation of the words. To his surprise, a glow spread out from his chest. It flowed from him to surround the desk.
When light dissipated, the desk had transformed into a low, Roman-style couch. It had curved wooden legs, elaborately carved and gilded, and was covered by a long silk-wrapped cushion. More bright silk pillows were strewn about the couch, tasseled with gold. A small brazier at the foot of the couch sent spice-fragrant smoke curling up toward the beams of the ceiling.
“A useful spell,” he murmured. “We could’ve used this when first we arrived here.”
“The outcome of my spellcasting was unknown. I was uncertain if we would need your magic for something else. Healing, or retrieval. But now . . .”
Carefully, he arranged her on the couch. Her skirts rustled as she settled back, combining with her sigh in an intimate caress of sound.
After retrieving the bottle, he discovered a few swallows of wine left in the bottom. He put the bottle to her lips, and she took a sip. A droplet of wine clung to her bottom lip. Rather than lick it off, he drank from the bottle. It did nothing to quench his thirst, especially after the tip of her tongue darted out and caught the droplet.
“The spell is broken?” He needed to occupy his thoughts with the looming danger, or else he would stretch himself out beside her, or cover her body with his own, seeking out her hot and yielding places.
“The other Hellraisers may cross water now. I have summoned them to us. The matter of getting here, and how quickly, that is theirs to determine.” She let out a long exhale. “Bram?”
“What is it, love?”
“I feel strange.”
“How?”
“Heavy and lethargic, and my eyes keep trying to close.”
He leaned over her, running the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “You’re simply falling asleep. Nothing to give you concern.”
“I haven’t slept in so long. I don’t remember what it’s like.”
“It can be very pleasant. Peaceful. You may even have dreams.”
“What if . . .” She swallowed hard. “What if I do not wake up?”
“You will. I vow to you that you shall awake
n.” She still looked uncertain, rare vulnerability in her gaze. “I’ll watch over you.”
Already, her lashes fluttered as sleepiness overtook her, and her words faintly slurred as she said, “Thank you.”
“Rest now, love. I’m here. And I will be here when you wake.”
As he watched, she dozed off, her breath becoming even and slow. This was the first time he had ever seen her asleep, or anything other than vigilant and aware. Her beauty at all times pierced him, and in repose she had an unguarded softness, a pliancy.
An illusion. She was steel and fire, her will as indomitable as his own. Precisely as he desired. Yet in her weakened, sleeping state, she needed protecting. He would watch over her—for as long as she needed.
He kept his vigil, leaving her side in brief intervals to patrol the building. Restlessness gnawed at him, the need to move, to take action, yet there was little to do except wait.
Some hours later, as he made another sweep of the warehouse, he was alerted by the sound of her gown rustling. By the time she blinked open her eyes, he sat beside her, brushing loose strands of hair from her forehead.
“There, you see,” he murmured. “Still amongst the living.”
“And you are still at my side.”
“No sign of trouble while you rested,” he said. “We’re safe.”
“For now.”
He was well aware of the impermanent nature of their safety. “And how do you feel?”
“Restored.” She stretched, pulling her arms overhead and arching her back. The action had the effect of pressing her breasts tighter against her bodice. The gown’s previous owner must have been a woman with a smaller bosom, for Livia all but spilled from the neckline, a vision of dusky golden flesh. He inwardly groaned when he caught sight of the barest edge of her nipple, a lush tawny brown.
He gave a hoarse laugh.
She glanced at him questioningly.
“God, Livia.” He held up a hand. “This is what wanting you has done to me.”
