by Zoë Archer
None of the courtier’s hypothetical questions carried an ounce of significance. Whit paced in the cramped, cluttered room, his mind feverishly working as he struggled to make sense of everything. The hidden defect in Mr. Holliday’s gift revealed a greater flaw, something cancerous eating Whit from the inside out.
Seeing that Whit was not paying him any mind, the courtier tsked. “See here. This very night I have truly gambled and won.” From an inside coat pocket, he plucked out a shining disk the size of an old five-guinea coin. The object was not made of gold, however, but a material Whit had never before seen. It literally glowed in the courtier’s hand—a soft, warm radiance that seemed out of place held between the courtier’s fingers, as if his touch sullied it somehow.
Whit knew what it was. Felt it deep within himself, an understanding that was the worst kind of knowledge.
A soul. A human soul. He could not believe that he looked upon such a thing, that it was at all possible, and yet here it was.
“Ah.” The courtier gloated. “Explanations are unnecessary. Mr. Holliday was right. You are indeed clever, my lord.”
Mouth dry, Whit asked, “What will become of that?” And what will become of the person who gambled and lost their soul?
The courtier held up the gleaming soul, then tucked it back into his pocket. A chill crept through the room, seeping deep into Whit’s flesh, and deeper still until he felt entombed in ice.
“Like any man of means,” answered the courtier, “Mr. Holliday safeguards his property. I, like my fellow gemini, maintain a vault where the tokens are kept. This ensures that when the original possessor of the token breathes their last, they become Mr. Holliday’s property, as well.”
He made it all sound like a neat, efficient transaction. It was anything but that.
Zora’s warnings sounded louder than ever. Whit had been blind—by vanity, by greed—but she had seen. Reject his gifts. Save yourself. But he had not. He’d reveled in those gifts, until not but a few minutes ago.
She knew. Somehow she knew.
Whit and the other Hellraisers had made a terrible mistake. A mistake that cost them everything, and for which—he saw now—they would pay. Eternally.
How could he have been so blind? So arrogant? But he had been drunk on possibility and power, too intoxicated with potential to remember the experienced gambler’s axiom: You can never beat the house at its own game.
“Good God,” Whit muttered thickly.
“He has nothing to do with this,” said the courtier, very pleasant, “and nothing to do with you. As of a few days prior, Lord Whitney, you and your friends belong to us.”
Ravaged, Whit looked up at the courtier. A curse broke from his lips and his heart stopped in the midst of a beat as he finally saw the face of the Devil’s minion.
It looked exactly like Whit.
Chapter 7
Zora stared at the priestess’s ghost, hardly believing what she had just heard.
“You truly are mad,” she said. “Wafodu guero is the greatest evil. Defeating him isn’t possible.”
The specter laughed, as if the fragile tether of her sanity broke. “The bird hunts the tiger. Water burns and fire quenches. The impossible is possible.” She laughed harder.
Zora cast a nervous glance toward the door, cursing the magic that kept her imprisoned in this room with a mad ghost. She had no idea what a deranged phantom might do.
The ghost’s laughter abruptly stopped, and she narrowed her eyes. “Tell me your name.”
Zora hesitated. Giving one’s name surrendered power, so all the old tales said.
The priestess muttered irritably. “I have told her mine. Valeria Livia Corva. Livia. She gives me nothing.”
“Zora,” she said after a moment.
“A good name,” the ghost whispered to herself. “Strength in it. I will need strength if this is to be done. Give her power. Can I?” She cupped her hands and began muttering under her breath, her words strange, the language she spoke even stranger. As she did this, light gathered in a ball between her hands, colors swirling over its surface like oil upon water.
Zora’s heart pounded as she edged as far as she could from Livia. Though the priestess seemed to have no physical body, she possessed magic—magic that could hurt Zora. Was there nothing she could do to protect herself? Damn Whit for trapping her here, with no means of escape.
“Keep that away from me,” she warned, but there was nothing with which she could threaten the ghost.
“Allies. The warm girl and I. Zora and I against the Dark One.” Livia hovered closer, her expression determined. The ball of light collapsed, winking out, and the ghost glowered down at the space where it had been. “Come back to me.” She stared up at Zora. “For your own good. For everyone’s good.”
Zora tried to dart away, but no matter where in the room she went, nothing held the priestess back. The spirit glided through furniture as if it weren’t there.
“Wasting time,” Livia growled. “There had been so much time, spilling everywhere, but now it is precious. Every moment lost. The Dark One’s power grows.”
“I can’t fight him!” cried Zora. The last time she had faced Wafodu guero, her meager attempts to combat him did nothing. The Devil had bound her with his magic, and she had no means of stopping him.
“Stop evil from blighting the world,” said Livia.
“I’m powerless. I cannot do anything.”
“She is frightened,” Livia snarled to herself. “Timid girl.”
No one had ever accused Zora of being timid. But she had gone against the Devil once before and lost. All she had were useless crusts of bread and harmless knives. Another round against Wafodu guero would likely see her dead, or worse.
Livia stopped her pursuit and narrowed her gaze. Her expression sharpened, becoming clearer. Calculating. This frightened Zora even more.
“She will not be courageous for the world, then. But what of her handsome friend?”
This stopped Zora’s flight like a hand pinning down a fluttering ribbon. “Whit?”
Livia smiled shrewdly. “The heart gives pause.”
“What about Whit?” demanded Zora.
“He casts the dice. He is lost. Perhaps he is not lost. Perhaps the girl may make her wagers and win him back.”
Zora’s already racing pulse sped faster. Her mind worked, sorting through possibilities. Saving herself and Whit. He didn’t believe he required saving, but Zora knew differently. The man he truly was still existed within him; their kiss had proven that. He needed to be rescued from himself—if it was not too late.
“You may be mad,” she muttered at the ghost, “but you’re cunning.”
This pleased Livia, and she preened. Under other circumstances, Zora might admire the priestess’s guile, but she did not appreciate her role as the one being manipulated.
The problem with manipulation was that it worked.
“Even if I wanted to help,” Zora said, “I’ve nothing that can stand against Wafodu guero. The ‘magic’ I use for dukkering isn’t real.”
The priestess suppressed a flare of triumph in her gaze. “Draw it forth. Bring it into being.” She closed her eyes, drawing into herself, then reached out one hand toward a burning candle on the other side of the room. The flame bent to her, flickering.
Zora watched, stunned, as the flame lengthened, stretching from the candle across the length of the room all the way to the tips of Livia’s fingers. The flame actually went into the ghost’s body, as though Livia drew the fire into herself. She murmured words in an ancient tongue, her transparent body glowing brighter as the flame suffused her. The ghost was some kind of conduit, channeling not water but fire.
Chanting louder, Livia opened her eyes. They literally burned. She turned her fiery gaze to Zora, who edged back against the wall.
What have I done?
The ghost held up her other hand and pointed it at Zora. A streak of fire leapt from Livia’s hand—right toward Zora.
Zora did not scream, but she turned and pressed herself to the wall, seeking shelter. The fire covered her in heat. She braced herself for pain. Yet it did not come. There was intense warmth, but her skin did not burn, did not blister. Her clothing did not catch to drift in scorched flakes. Pulling back slightly, she gazed down at herself and gasped. The fire was going into her. Just as it had with Livia. Her body drew in the flame, suffusing her with heat, and she felt it illuminate her veins, her breath and being.
It felt ... incredible.
Livia’s chanting reached a peak as the fire permeated Zora. The priestess shouted one final word, “Incendium! ” and the fire vanished into Zora.
For a moment, Zora could only stand there, panting, staring down at herself. Bright power coursed invisibly through her. Slowly, eyes wide, she turned around to face Livia.
The ghost seemed paler, drained by channeling magic. She flickered much as the candle flame had flickered.
Zora held up her shaking hands, but they shook not with fear, but with energy. Flames suddenly danced on her fingertips. Reacting instinctually, Zora flung one hand away, trying to shake the fire out. But the flames did not die. They leapt from her fingers onto a nearby curtain. The fabric quickly began to burn.
Not wishing to set the whole house ablaze, Zora grabbed a pitcher of water and dashed its contents over the burning curtain. The flames went out, leaving behind singed, wet fabric.
Zora dropped the pitcher. She could not believe that she had just set fire to something using magic from within herself.
She whirled to face Livia. “What manner of evil is this?”
“Not evil,” the spirit answered, her voice somewhat faint. “Fire quenches the darkness.” Then the ghost disappeared, as if she could not sustain herself after using so much energy.
Zora was alone again. With a new power. If this was, in fact, sinister magic, it hid its darkness well. She felt strong, capable of anything, alight with her own power like a torch in the depths of night. Was this how Whit felt? Potent and alive? If so, she had not given enough credence to how difficult rejecting such power would be.
She stared down at her hands, and flames again appeared on her fingertips. She could master this. She had the strength. Her whole tribe lived on the strength of the fire that burned in the middle of their encampment. Fire fed them, kept them warm, beat back the darkness. It ran within her, veins of fire, giving life.
Glancing around the room, she spotted a discarded newspaper tucked beneath a chair. She reached one hand toward the newspaper, concentrating. Fire stretched between her fingers and the periodical. She cried out with surprised triumph when the newspaper’s edges blackened, and then the whole of the paper caught. It burned so quickly, it turned to harmless ash before it could set anything else aflame.
She turned in place, taking in the details of the gaming room. Her prison for the past few days, and a place she had come to hate. A roof over her head, blocking out the life-giving sky. Heavy walls that penned her. The trappings of gorgio life that were alien and unwanted, forced upon her. Surges of energy filled her, demanding an outlet. She wanted to set fire to the whole room. Burn the house down. Wipe clean the slate of wickedness.
Yes, destroy everything.
She shook away that insidious voice. As much as she disliked Whit’s servants, she had no wish to kill them and was no murderer. There was no proof that if she set fire to the gaming room she would not burn with it. She went and opened the window, then tried to stick her hand outside. She met with the same resistance she always did from the invisible barrier.
This place was still her prison. Whit had not released her.
She strode to the fireplace and stared at the mantel. One object commanded her attention. The playing card. The object that kept her anchored, unable to break free.
Zora picked up the card, stared at it. Nothing, up to that point, had been able to destroy it.
Flames curled up her fingers. The fire felt clean, pure. With bone-deep understanding, she knew this magic was not evil, but gave her the power to combat wickedness. And she would fight, now that she had the means.
The playing card burned.
Whit reared back, slamming into a table. Something atop the table fell and shattered. The noise of breaking glass filled the tiny room, but to Whit, the sound was far away. He heard only the roar of blood in his ears as he stared at his exact duplicate. From the color of his hair to the breadth of his shoulders to the minute scars left behind after a youthful bout of smallpox, the courtier was identical to Whit.
His twin.
Geminus.
It stared back at him with a mild, vaguely patronizing smile. God, to be smiled at by a creature that wore his face—the experience went beyond uncanny into the realm of the ghastly. He vaguely remembered some old tale told to him by the groundskeeper at his family estate. Beware the fetch, the groundskeeper had said. To see one’s double was a sign of approaching death.
He’d laughed then, believing himself too old to be frightened by superstition.
“Come, my lord, there is still much gambling to be done this night.” The geminus gestured toward the door. “Now that you know the parameters of Mr. Holliday’s gift, it shall be easily managed.” It took a step in Whit’s direction.
With a sound like a cornered tiger, Whit surged. He slammed his shoulder into the advancing geminus. The double staggered, falling back into a collection of chairs with a grunt. Whit tore open the door and ran down the hallway.
Shocked exclamations burst from men he passed as he ran. He paid no heed, not to them, not to the alarmed servants. His throat was dry, his pulse racing. Footmen barely had time to open the front doors of the club before Whit rushed through them. After the heat of the club, the night air bit against his flushed cheeks. His cloak and hat were still inside.
He didn’t care. He did not wait for his coach. For the first time in years he ran, full out, tearing through the streets of Mayfair. Only one thought coursed through his mind: Get to Zora.
He needed her. Her guidance, her strength. Somehow, she had seen the danger he had not. She would know what to do, how to fight his way free.
A cold, sticky sweat filmed his body by the time he reached his home. He vaulted up the stairs, taking three at a time. Shouldering past a surprised footman, Whit sped toward the back of his house. Toward the gaming room.
His steps faltered as he noticed the gaming room door wide open. Zora always kept it closed. More icy fear scraped down his neck. He surged into the room, then stood there, stunned.
The room was empty.
“Zora,” he said. Then again, louder. “Zora!”
No answer. Though the room was small, he tore through it like a tempest: knocking over the card table, pawing through the pallet she had devised beneath the table, kicking aside the folding screen. Yet everything proved his greatest fear; she was gone. Nothing of her remained. The parcels of new clothes had been opened but left behind.
Holy God, has something happened to her? Has Mr. Holliday taken her? Hurt her?
Rage filled him, the likes of which Whit had never experienced, all but paralyzing in its intensity. If any harm befell her, nothing would stop him from exacting vengeance. He didn’t care if he faced the flames of Hell itself. Nothing and no one hurt Zora. And God help anything and anyone who did.
Whit grabbed a chair and, with a roar, threw it against a wall. It broke apart into splinters.
He spun, seeking some other outlet for his fury, and that’s when he noticed it. The empty mantel. The playing card—Zora’s card—was gone.
In two strides, he stood at the mantel. His fingers rubbed against the stone and came away smudged with ash.
“My lord?”
Scowling, ferocious, Whit pivoted at the sound of his valet’s terrified voice. Kitson stood in the doorway, pale and shaken. If the unflappable valet showed this much fear, Whit must have been a truly terrifying spectacle.
“Did you see her?” Whit demanded.
“N-no, my lord,” stuttered Kitson. “But some of the footmen did. A Gypsy girl ... She bolted from the room. Ran out the front door without saying a word. No one saw her come in, my lord. I searched the room. Nothing was stolen, so she did not break in. Not for that purpose.”
Whit’s hand strayed to the hollow of his throat, where Zora’s ring nestled against his skin. Having this small token of her brought him a fragment of peace, but it was not enough.
“Wake the grooms. Have them saddle the fastest horse in the stable.” When Kitson hesitated, Whit roared, “Now, damn it!”
The valet bolted.
The moment Kitson left, Whit slammed from the gaming room and up the stairs to his private chambers, casting off his expensive garments heedlessly. Refined silk and gentlemen’s buckled shoes would not serve his purpose. He needed doeskin breeches, stout boots. His hunting clothes.
“By Hell’s fire,” he snarled to himself, “I will find her.”
The strange city loomed all around Zora, huge, dark, ravenous. She did not know where she was, only that she must run fast. No time even for joy at being, at last, free. This was London. Coal smoke and river stench choked the air and blocked the stars. The sky gave her no guidance.
Where was she? Massive homes towered on all sides, as large as palaces. Not the London she knew, the horse fairs and markets at the edges of the city. As she ran, she passed a few linkboys with their smoldering torches guiding sedan chairs, and one watchman made a halfhearted attempt to grab her. Otherwise, the streets were empty and silent, save for the sounds of her feet on the pavement. Nothing looked familiar. She found herself caught in a nightmare of wrong turns, dead ends, giant squares, and fenced parks. After days inside, her eyes still would not be able to make sense of the darkness. She ran like a fox searching for a place to make a stand.
Lord save her, this city was a maze from which she could not escape. Instinct guided her. London was Wafodu guero’s pleasure garden. It reeked of vice, of wickedness, the faces of the buildings streaked and grimy, as if sin itself ran down the brick and plaster. She could not face the Devil here, where he had so many possible allies. She needed open spaces, clean air, not a sky choked with smoke.
