Devil’s Kiss

by Zoë Archer

  The ribbons had come away and she had peeled back the heavy paper. Then gasped aloud. Unable to contain herself any longer, she had lifted up the contents.

  A gown. Perhaps the most lovely gown Zora had ever seen. Certainly the most luscious she had ever touched. Golden silk, trimmed with deep coral-colored ribbons and rosettes. Heavy pleats fell from the shoulders; the fabric would trail and pool sumptuously behind the wearer. The vivid color would flatter her dusky skin, much more so than the pale, insipid hues many gorgies favored.

  Unable to resist the lure, Zora had torn into the other parcels.

  “God save me from such beauty,” she had whispered in the Romani tongue.

  More gowns, each of them glorious. Colors had dazzled eyes too familiar with the dark shades of the masculine game room. Sapphire, emerald, ruby. Dresses the colors of gems, of precious things one wanted to both flaunt and hoard. Adorned in ribbons, embroidered with minute, perfect stitches. Heavy and ethereal in her hands. More than gowns, there had been stomachers covered in embroidery and silk bows, whisper-thin chemises trimmed in lace, stockings, garters, nightgowns, back-laced corsets, petticoats. Two fans of ivory. Three pairs of slippers ornamented with glittering buckles that were not paste. The parcels had held everything a woman could ever desire.

  Everything a gorgie could desire. Zora was not a gorgie, but she had not been able to stop herself from holding the emerald-colored gown to her body. Her heart had sunk when she realized that the gown would fit her perfectly, even without the confining corset. Somehow, without Zora ever being measured, the seamstress had created a faultless wardrobe and of the precise range of colors that would complement Zora best.

  Zora had been glad there was no mirror in the gaming room. It would have been physically painful to see how well the gowns would flatter her, luring her into trying them on, knowing that she could not accept them.

  “Damn you, Whit,” she had muttered, then laughed mirthlessly. He had already damned himself. He didn’t need her to do it for him.

  She had reluctantly folded everything, though it had been beyond her strength to repack the clothing in its paper and retie the ribbons. Touching the gowns, the chemises, had been torment enough. The Rom lived fairly simple lives, the needs of staying mobile preventing any of them from acquiring all the possessions that gorgios seemed to think were required. Zora preferred her freedom to being weighed down by objects, clothing, property. But she was still human, still a woman, and sometimes craved beautiful things.

  She would be beautiful, too, in the gowns. What woman did not want to be beautiful? To have a man stare at her as if she contained the entire world, and he would do anything, anything to have her?

  Unfair of Whit to tempt her like this, when his kiss had been temptation enough. She would not fall, as he had done. And when he came to her that day, she would tell him exactly that.

  But he never did come. She remained alone in the gaming room.

  She ought to be grateful. This was peace, free from Whit and his handsome face and strong, lean body, his kiss promising her things she should not want, yet, Duvvel help her, she did.

  I want to touch you everywhere. I want my tongue in your mouth. I want my cock inside you. I want to make you come so many times, you forget your own name and know only mine.

  Just thinking of his words made her heart pound and heat gather between her legs. To remember his kiss made her long for his hard, hot body over her, beneath her. For the man he could be, for the potential of them—together. A potential that would go unmet. And this fueled her anger.

  She paced the gaming room, feeling like a wild horse in a narrow corral. What did he mean by staying away? Was he trying to show her how much she needed him? Was it an exercise of his power over her? Of a certain he must be angry with her for making him choose between her and the dark magic, for deliberately showing him everything that he missed because of his choice. But it was impossible to accept him as her lover—not under these circumstances. Surely he saw that.

  Logic meant nothing, not as long as he remained loyal to Wafodu guero. And that would never change. His face last night had convinced her. All but glowing with power, with feral joy after using his dark magic to win at gambling. They had kissed with blistering intensity, yet he would rather control the odds than allow the passion between them to flower.

  “Ten thousand pounds,” she said aloud. She could support not only her family, but her whole band, for the whole of their lives. A fortune. But the money was tainted by darkness. If she had accepted it, she would have damned herself and her family. Was that what he wanted? To drag her down with him?

  Zora picked up a ceramic vase perched on a side table, then flung it against a wall. The sound of shattering filled the room, and pieces of pottery fell to the floor in jagged shards.

  She didn’t feel any better. In fact, the bits of destroyed vase bothered her, and she knelt to collect the pieces. As she gathered them in her skirt, her finger caught on one of the sharp edges.

  Cursing, she held up her finger for inspection. A thin cut ran along the tip of her index finger. Blood welled, and a single crimson bead dropped on the floor.

  She ignored the cut and finished cleaning up the pieces of the vase. Unsure what to do with them, she put them in a little pile in a corner. One shard she kept, however, tucking it into the pocket of her apron. Anything that could serve as protection she would keep. She would just have to be careful not to cut herself while using her improvised weapon.

  Night fell in darkening waves. Sounds of the city changed. The working folk began to head for home, whilst the wealthy gorgios began to stir for their evening’s amusement.

  Whit would be going out, as well. He was a creature of night. Perhaps he had gone already. The thought was distressing, and the very fact that it was distressing bothered her even more.

  She had sought to tempt him with her kisses, yet she paid the price now, wanting him, wanting what could never be.

  Zora lit candles to counter the rising darkness, wondering how she would pass another night. How she would try not to dwell on his mouth or the feel of him against her, his very obvious arousal that stoked a fire within her. How she would resist the temptation of trying on the beautiful gowns. How else she could plot her escape. Magic held her here, and she possessed none. Days ago, she did not believe in magic. Now she fervently wished she had some of her own.

  She paced. Then stopped when she sensed something—someone—standing outside the door. The tread had been quiet, but she felt him near. A masculine presence, bold, powerful. Whit.

  Her body tensed as her heart began to pound in expectation. Yet the door to the gaming room remained closed.

  Slipping off her shoes, Zora noiselessly walked to the door. She could open it. Reveal him. She did not. Instead, she pressed her palm to the wood.

  He was just on the other side of the door. She could not leave, but he could come inside. She wondered what he wore this night, what splendid finery emphasized his strength, the male beauty of his form.

  They stood like that, her on one side of the door, he on the other.

  Come in. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to kiss you. I need to.

  Her heart pitched when, finally, she heard him move away. His steps retreated down the hallway. A door somewhere opened and closed. She thought she heard him speak to someone. And then ... he was gone.

  Disappointment speared her, made even worse by the fact that she shouldn’t be disappointed. He was her captor. Her tormentor. The cohort of the Devil.

  Zora pushed away from the door and paced to the window. She stared with burning eyes at the growing gloom outside. If ever she had doubted her resolve to escape, now she knew it for certain. There was no hope for him, for them. She needed to get away from this place and from Whit. The question was, how?

  So absorbed was she in her thoughts, she did not look at the blood she had dripped upon the floor, nor the flickering glow that now grew around it.

  It wou
ld be a bad night for gambling. Though Whit lived for the thrill of gaming, like any seasoned gambler, he knew that one needed to be calm and composed to win. Emotions clouded judgment, and one’s odds decreased as a result.

  Except he controlled the odds, no matter what tumult he might feel. He could stride into the club in the foulest of humors and still emerge a winner.

  He was due to meet Edmund, Bram, and John for supper. Leo had another engagement. Yet, when Whit marched down the steps of his town house, he growled up at his waiting coachman, “White’s.” Then he flung himself into the carriage and sat, brooding, as the footman closed the carriage door after him. The coachman clicked his tongue, flicked the reins, and they were off. Whit could just as easily have walked the distance from Berkeley Square to Chesterfield Street, but such were the privileges of wealth and birth that he could make use of his healthy, strong limbs only when he damn well felt like it.

  Whit didn’t care that he was abandoning his friends. He didn’t care that it was far too early for decent play at the gaming tables. All he needed was the comfort and pleasure that could be found in gambling. Using Mr. Holliday’s gift would ensure that Whit would win, and that would bring him relief. Relief from his anger, his confusion. His need for Zora, and the pain her deliberate manipulation caused. It was a blazing brand that hurt him far more than he ever could have anticipated.

  The elegant lanes of Mayfair rolled past him: gentry in their sedan chairs; wide, brightly lit streets. He saw none of this. Zora’s dark eyes haunted him, her lush mouth, the opiate of her kisses. Her cruel words kept scoring the raw flesh of his heart. One or the other. But not both.

  He slammed his fist against the side of the carriage. The vehicle immediately slowed.

  “Drive on,” he barked.

  The coachman quickly obeyed, and soon they were en route once more to the club.

  What bloody right did she have to make him choose? To show him what could be, and then ruthlessly steal it away? She could not judge him. He was a peer of the realm. She admitted to lying, to cheating. When he’d accepted Mr. Holliday’s gift, Zora had not been uppermost in Whit’s thoughts, but now that she was his, he would make use of his power to make her life a goddamn sodding paradise. If she’d let him.

  Clearly, she wasn’t going to take anything from him. He cursed her pride and strength, even as he marveled at and admired it. Pride he had in abundance, being an earl, but strength ... That quality eluded him. At least, when it came to denying himself the pleasures of gambling. Or denying himself anything.

  He’d been strong today, though. He had forced himself to sleep, to eat, to conduct matters of business, and to meet in the afternoon with Leo for coffee and intelligence. All this he had done and not gone to see Zora once, whilst his muscles and bones and heart demanded he do just that. To see her. Listen to her voice. Talk with her. And, God, to kiss her. Even as her kisses maddened him, she yet gave him a sense of peace and rightness he had not known ... perhaps ever.

  The carriage slowed, then stopped. A liveried footman opened the carriage door and murmured, “Welcome, my lord.” If the servant was surprised to see Whit so early, he gave no indication, just as a well-trained servant kept counsel.

  Saying nothing, Whit strode up the stairs and inside the club. He handed his cloak and hat to a waiting footman as the club’s manager walked up briskly, all smiles.

  “Greetings, my lord. Are you here for supper? We’ve a lovely cold collation, or I am certain I can prevail upon our cook to prepare a special—”

  “Hazard,” Whit said.

  The manager did not blink. He smiled wider and unclasped his hands. “Right this way, my lord.”

  Time lost its significance, as it always did when Whit immersed himself in the tide of gambling. He submerged in a deluge of odds and numbers, cards, dice, bet and losses. The dizzying, intoxicating kaleidoscope of probability that he now controlled. In his mind, the club itself vanished, the men in the club becoming fragments: hands, eyes, voices. Someone gave him a glass of wine. He supposed he drank it, because a moment later, the empty glass was taken. Perhaps he ate. He wasn’t certain. The mania had him. Nothing else mattered.

  Two thoughts consumed him: to gamble, and to put Zora from his thoughts. One was easily accomplished. The other proved as tenacious as a rose’s thorn digging into the twitching, angry muscle of his heart.

  I will level this club. I will raze London. It will be entirely mine. Then I shall make you choose, Lady Gypsy. Passion and prosperity with me. Or nothing at all.

  “Jesus, Whit, you look like hell.” Bram’s sardonic voice barely cut through the haze of risk and odds.

  Whit only grunted in response as he studied the cards in his hand. The game was Pope Joan, and permutations of probability swirled about the round staking board.

  “How long has he been here?” That was Edmund, sounding concerned.

  “Five hours, my lord,” said the club manager. “He goes from one game to another. We cannot prevail upon him to stop, not for a minute.”

  “Come, Whit,” said John, even-tempered and sensible. “Lord Abeldale is hosting a rout. His gatherings are always amusing. There may be cards.”

  “And willing women,” added Bram. “Not a Gypsy amongst them.”

  Whit played his ace card, winning the contents of the Intrigue compartment in the staking board. He did not have many cards remaining, and he rearranged the odds to ensure that he would play his last card before any of the other players, thus winning the game.

  “I don’t think he heard any of us,” Edmund said.

  “Whit.” Bram took hold of Whit’s arm, but Whit shook him off without ever letting his eyes leave the card table.

  “I heard you,” he growled. “Just don’t give a damn.”

  The voices of his friends continued to rise and fall around him. He paid no attention. The game was everything. At some point, his friends left, knowing that only outright bodily force could pry him from the table. His eyes were hot and sticky. Smoke from pipes and cheroots filled the club, yet he barely blinked as he sank deeper into his mania.

  This he could control. Here was where Whit commanded everything. Even the uncertainty of fortune bent to his will. No man could resist such a lure, and neither did he.

  A baron’s son bet and lost a prized racehorse to Whit. From a squire worth five thousand pounds a year he won a seaside cottage. Someone’s ruby stickpin now resided in Whit’s pocket, beside his pocket watch.

  He knew an inanimate object could not feel or think, yet somehow he sensed disapproval emanating from the pocket watch—the manifestation of his father and grandfather. They would not have condoned his actions this night. He told himself he did not care.

  After he had exhausted his interest in Pope Joan, the hazard table claimed him next. He had enough sense to deliberately lose his first and second casts, and, to make the display more convincing, bet decent-sized amounts. He was vaguely aware of the club manager sighing in relief before fading back to attend to other duties.

  Once the manager had gone, Whit decided it was time to dig back into the business of winning. He wagered a smaller amount on his next cast.

  “Eight,” he announced as he shook the dice in his hand.

  The dice tumbled from his palm. Wanting to prolong the play, Whit adjusted the patterns of probability so that the dice came up reading seven, enabling him to cast again. So he did. He would need to cast a seven this time in order to win.

  Clattering against each other like teeth, the ivory dice rolled. Whit delved into the protean eddies of probability. He manipulated chance, arranging it precisely as he needed.

  The dice stopped their tumble. He reached for his winnings, but the man running the table coughed politely.

  “Pardon, my lord,” he said, somewhat embarrassed. “But you cast a twelve. It is a throw-out.”

  Whit’s gaze moved from the dice to the man’s reddening face, then back again. He blinked to clear his eyes. Yet the markings on the dice
did not change. Two sixes. Not the three and four he needed. The numbers he had guaranteed would turn up in his cast.

  Whit stood dumbstruck, frozen in place, reaching out foolishly for a prize that was not his.

  He had lost.

  Something flickered in the window’s glass. A gleam. Zora thought at first it was only the reflection of a candle. No. The light actually grew. Was something on fire?

  She spun around, then stepped back, knocking into the wall behind her. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Instead, she could only gape.

  Silver light appeared as an orb as big as a billiard ball, hovering inches above the floor. Above the droplet of blood Zora had spilled earlier. As Zora stared, the orb of light grew larger, lengthened. No heat came from it, but its radiance filled the room, chasing shadows that lurked in corners.

  Zora gulped. Was this more of Wafodu guero’s dark magic? She had to defend herself, but how? Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the cutting shard of pottery. It was no match for the Devil’s power, yet she needed some sense of protection, no matter how illusory.

  The light steadily increased in size until it was almost as tall as Zora. She squinted, shielding her eyes, as a person’s figure coalesced within it. The light gathered, took shape, until it formed ...

  A woman.

  Zora actually found herself taking a step closer to get a better look, even as her mind shouted that she must be cautious. Yet she could not contain her curiosity.

  The woman wore one of those long, draped tunics Zora had seen on ancient statues and figures adorning fountains in public squares. Some of her dark brown hair was piled up in an elaborate style, a kind of fillet holding it back and up, while the rest hung in waves over her shoulders and down her back. She was beautiful, as elegant and lovely as those statues, and her gray eyes seemed to peer deep into time as she scanned the room.