by Zoë Archer
The best thing was to run, and run fast. But where?
Think, Zora. Her family had often approached London from the south, their caravan moving through tracts of open land before buildings began to crowd in. South, then.
A giant river confounded her progress. Fortunately, she could swim, but she did not trust the stinking, black water. Up to the northeast, she saw a bridge.
By the time she reached the bridge, she was too tired to marvel at its size, its stately arches or high walls. She ran across it, dodging people still going in and out of the shops lining the bridge. With every step closer to the opposite bank, Zora felt her heart throb. It was too far to open space. She hadn’t even left London, yet.
Not impossible. She must push herself to the limits of her endurance, even as her body ached from weariness. Too long had she been trapped, immobile. Powerless. Not any longer.
A fresh surge of energy washed through her as she reached the southern bank of the river. She sped on through suburban developments, houses and other buildings coming less frequently. Before her, a large field opened up. It stretched wide and dark around her. Up ahead lay a crossroads.
“Zora!”
She spun around at the sound of Whit’s voice. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, so she saw him plainly. On horseback, thundering toward her, he seemed a figure of ancient myth and fevered intent. Even across the field, even in this darkness, she felt his gaze on her, pulling on her, as though he had loosed an arrow and it plunged straight into her chest.
Zora could not move as he rode closer. His presence stunned her into immobility, but her traitorous heart leapt with a complicated joy.
He pulled up hard on the reins, his horse dancing and snorting around her. Before the animal came to a total stop, Whit leapt down from the saddle and strode to her. His gaze was hard, tense. Yet not angry. He seemed both relieved to find her and, strangely, afraid. She resisted the urge to throw her arms around him, though it took far more strength to hold herself back than she liked.
He was armed. Not with a gentleman’s dress sword, but with a dangerous curved sword the likes of which she had never seen. A pistol also bulged in his coat pocket. He must believe she would put up a tremendous fight, to arm himself thus.
They spoke, their voices overlapping.
“How did you find me?”
“How did you break the spell?”
“Something has happened.” He reached for her. “I need—”
A chorus of male voices shouted from the other side of the field, calling Whit’s name.
Both Zora and Whit turned to face the newcomers. A new current of fear flooded her as she saw Whit’s four friends, all on horseback, all riding straight toward them. Bringers of the end of the world.
And bringers of the end of her brief freedom, as well as the possibility of her stand against the Devil. She whirled to Whit as she felt the cut of betrayal. She had thought him better than this—but perhaps his kiss had been false. “Needed reinforcements to steal back your prize?”
He scowled at his approaching friends. “You do not understand.”
Before she could demand an explanation, the men were upon them. Like Whit, they, too, jumped down from their horses. They formed a ring around Whit and Zora, a shadowed, confining circle whose presence stole the very breath from Zora’s lungs. Four men, each exuding sinister power. Whit moved closer to her, shoulders squaring, almost as if trying to protect her.
Why would he protect her when he had enlisted his friends to drag her back to captivity?
“The hell, Whit?” the dark, scarred one asked hotly.
“I ask you the same damned question,” Whit shot back.
“We were told we had to find you,” said a younger blond man. “That you were in peril.”
“Told by whom?”
The dark one jerked his head toward a mounted figure that Zora had not seen. When the figure drew nearer, sedately walking his horse forward, Zora gasped. She could not believe it.
The mounted figure was Whit. Yet it wasn’t. Whit stood beside her, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Her gaze flew back and forth between the two Whits. The one next to her wore serviceable hunting clothes, while the other Whit had on evening finery. Save for the manner of dress, the men were identical.
“God protect me.” She gulped.
“You see it, too?” the Whit standing beside her demanded.
“Your brother?” she tried to guess.
He shook his head. “None of my brothers survived childhood.”
Yet when the mounted man spoke, it had Whit’s voice. “If you continue on this path, Mr. Holliday will be extremely displeased.”
“We have his gifts,” said Whit’s scholarly friend, placating. “There is no need to earn Mr. Holliday’s disfavor.”
“Look at him,” Whit growled, pointing at his elegantly dressed double.
The four friends glanced at the Whit on horseback, then back at the Whit standing next to Zora.
“What of him?” The dark man frowned. “He found us, told us you were in danger.”
“He is the danger,” answered Whit.
The double merely sighed as Whit’s friends looked plainly baffled.
Realization hit Zora. “They cannot see,” she murmured. For some reason, Whit’s friends did not perceive that the man on horseback looked, and sounded, exactly like Whit.
When she spoke, the double turned its gaze on her, then narrowed its eyes. Cold, calculated hatred. Instinctively, Zora edged closer to the Whit beside her.
She remembered, belatedly, that she had power of her own. Yet when she reached for the magic that Livia had given her, she found ... nothing. Just cold ashes where brightness had once been. Perhaps the priestess’s own magic had been too weak to grant Zora anything lasting.
Damn. Zora would find more comfort in knowing she could set someone on fire.
“She is the threat,” the double said, as if reading her thoughts. “She leads Lord Whitney astray, jeopardizing not only him, but all of you.”
“The Gypsy girl?” asked the young blond man. A puzzled frown appeared between his brows. “She has influenced him with her feminine ways.”
“Now she has a power far greater than a woman’s wiles,” corrected the double.
Zora almost corrected him, since she had no magic anymore. But it was better for an enemy to think her more powerful than she truly was.
So the double must have believed, for it continued, “And she means you all great harm.” It added with icy menace, “Unless you destroy her.”
“Wait—” cried Zora.
A hiss resounded loudly in the field. Whit unsheathed his sword. He took up a ready, fighting stance.
The sight astounded Zora. He was defending her. Skillfully. For a gentleman and man of leisure, he made a remarkably convincing warrior.
“No one bloody touches her,” he warned, his voice low and edged.
Shocked silence followed. Whit’s friends stared at him as though he had suddenly grown claws and fangs. Zora, too, could not believe that Whit had actually drawn his sword against his friends. It was clear that they cared about one another with the fierce friendship that men cultivated over many years. It was also clear that no one ever expected Whit to position himself against them.
But he had. To protect her.
“Whit ...” The dark man was stunned, uncomprehending.
“He’s been beguiled,” the double snapped. “He knows not what he does. Disarm him before he hurts someone. Before he hurts himself. Now.”
Whit’s friends reluctantly obeyed the double’s command. They slowly advanced on Whit, hands upraised, as if approaching a cornered animal. One of them said soothingly, “Be at ease, Whit. We only seek to help you.”
“Step no closer,” Whit warned. Yet he hesitated, plainly reluctant to lash out against his friends.
God above, Zora thought, if only I had the fire magic given to me by that damned ghost!
Fire ... A fire always
burned in the middle of her band’s encampment. Images of the campfire flickered in her mind, warming her. She had thought of her band’s fire at the moment when Livia had first given her this magic, felt that fire burning within her. The strength of her people.
Yes ... she understood now. She needed a font for her magic, something from which she could draw power. If she could reach her band’s campfire, her power would be restored, fortified. She would have a way to fight Wafodu guero and his minions. Fight for herself. And Whit. He defended her against his friends and his double.
She had been right about him all along. Even though she could not trust him, he was worth saving from the Devil.
Now! her mind shouted. While everyone, including the double, was distracted. She hated leaving Whit, but if she reached the campfire, she could return to help him. She could not voice her plans, lest the double or his friends hear.
Fast as a thrown knife, she bolted between two of the men, evading their outreached hands. She ran toward the waiting horses. Shouts sounded behind her, but she would not allow herself to turn, to see. Instead, she leapt onto one of the horses in a flurry of skirts. Someone, she could not tell who, made a grab for the reins, but she pulled them away and blindly kicked out. Her heel connected with a solid torso, and there was a gasped oath. It wasn’t Whit’s voice. There were sounds of struggle, of men grappling.
The horse impatiently danced beneath her. For a moment, Zora wavered. She did not want to leave Whit, not like this, but then she heard the other Whit, the double. It shouted orders to Whit’s friends, commanding them to stop her.
One of the men—the dark one with the scar—ran up beside her horse. He reached out and grabbed one of the reins. Trapping her in place. She pulled hard, trying to break his hold, but his grip was like iron.
Whit appeared, his face a mask of fury. His sword made a bright arc as he swung it. Zora braced herself, waiting for his friend’s scream of pain as the sword hacked into flesh.
It never came. Instead her horse danced backward. Looking down, Zora saw she held only one taut rein. Whit had cut the other, freeing her.
For a moment, no one moved, no one spoke. Whit had come within a hairsbreadth of severing his friend’s hand. Though he hadn’t, the action spoke clearly. I will cut you down if I must.
It had to be now. Zora dug her heels into the horse’s side and galloped off into the darkness.
Whit watched Zora clear the edge of St. George’s Fields. The night swallowed her retreating figure.
He swore, then started toward his horse.
“Good God, Whit.” Bram clamped a hand around Whit’s arm. Only a moment ago, Whit had raised a sword against his friend, had nearly cut off the same hand that held him now. His closest friend. But Bram had threatened Zora. That would not stand.
“No time for this,” Whit said through clenched teeth. Though his friend had strength in abundance, Whit shook him off.
“If she’s a poisonous influence,” said Leo, “you are well to be rid of her. You raised steel against us. For her.”
“She stole my horse,” John said, staring angrily at the place where Zora had vanished.
“Zora isn’t poison,” Whit growled. “She’s the antidote.”
“That’s not what he said,” noted Edmund, and pointed at the geminus.
Whit could not control the hard pound of his heart, nor the comingled rage and fear that turned everything hazy. The world was chaos, and he swept up in its madness.
His friends could not see it. They had not the means to recognize the geminus for what it was.
“There is not one word from that thing’s mouth you should believe,” he spat.
The geminus tutted, as though mildly disappointed, but Whit could see the enmity and determination in its gaze. God, he stared into a warped mirror to look upon himself, but not himself, and the sinister gleam in its—his own—eyes.
“You are overwrought, and misled,” the geminus reproved.
“More falsehood,” said Whit. He kept his saber drawn. The blade he had won in a game of piquet ages ago from a Prussian hussar. Before setting off in pursuit of Zora tonight, Whit had grabbed it rather than his rapier, knowing he would need a far more brutal and effective weapon for whatever he might confront in the night. He had never once believed he would ever use it against his friends. He never thought he would do anything in opposition to them. It was difficult to believe that he did at this very moment.
A week ago, he would have laughed and said it impossible. Now he understood that impossible meant nothing. A world lay within impossible.
“The gifts Mr. Holliday gave us are flawed,” he said. “Everything is flawed, and we are damned.”
His friends—Bram, Leo, Edmund, and John—stared at him in bafflement, still mired in shock that not only did Whit have his steel drawn against them, but that they had scuffled in earnest. Tension hummed through all of them, like a sword beaten too long upon the anvil and ready to break.
“Explain,” demanded Leo.
Whit feinted with his saber. His friends leapt out of the way. He took advantage of the path opened up to him and moved cautiously but quickly to his horse, keeping his friends at a distance with his brandished sword. Even as he did this, he was conscious the entire time of Zora getting farther and farther away. Knowledge of London and his control of probability had allowed him to find her once, but he feared if she disappeared into the countryside, he would never see her again. He could not allow that to happen.
“I’d say that you should ask that,” Whit said, swinging up into the saddle, “but he cannot be trusted. None of us can be trusted.” Not even himself.
“Goddamn you,” snarled Bram. “Tell us what you mean.”
“I am losing time. We are all losing time.” He directed the point of his saber in the direction of the geminus. “Don’t listen to that creature. All of our souls are imperiled, and we’ve only ourselves to fault.”
“Lord Whitney is clearly misguided,” drawled the geminus.
“But—”
Whit cut off Edmund. “We must each find a way, any way, toward salvation. I only pray that we are not too late.” He glanced down at his friends, the four men he trusted more than any other, men he loved like brothers—better than brothers, for they did not have the weight of blood or familial expectation and disappointment—and with whom he had done everything. Including damnation. Could any of them be saved?
“Farewell, lads,” he said. Ironic, the words of polite leave-taking, with his sword still drawn. He did not trust any of them. Not anymore.
Before any of the Hellraisers could move, Whit kicked his horse into a full gallop. He might never see his friends again. Or, if he did, they might meet as true adversaries. The pain of tearing himself from them hurt worse than any bullet or slash of a blade, yet he had to. He needed to find Zora, for he understood intuitively that she held not merely answers, but salvation.
Zora strained to hear the sounds of pursuit over her horse’s hoofbeats. Nothing. Yet she remained vigilant. Hours she had been riding, through sleeping villages and farms, skirting around larger towns. The more she rode, the more she recognized, and that gave her some cheer to know she neared her family and would see them soon. True, she would not be able to linger with them, but after days apart from her kin, even a few moments might serve as a balm. And then she must turn around and take up the fight for Whit’s soul.
He had followed her, defended her, but perhaps he had been motivated by greed, not sentiment. Men often grew jealous over their possessions, hoarding them. She could be simply an object to him, an object he would not share. He had freed her, too. Took up a sword against his friend in defense of her.
He had not looked at her like a thing. When he found her at the field, more than covetousness heated his gaze. He had been very happy to see her again. But there had been more in his eyes, in the tension shimmering through his body. He’d been afraid. Truly afraid. Not merely for the loss of her, but something else. What?
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Questions fled as the familiar shapes of her band’s tents came into view. Her eyes heated and grew watery. She had not been certain she would ever see them again. Zora neared, and what she saw made her heart leap: the fire in the middle of the encampment. It cast flickering light over the face of the man tending the flames. He was alone. It was Oseri, her cousin.
He jumped to his feet as Zora rode into the camp. Shocked at her sudden appearance, he only stood there as she flung her arms around him. They had never been close, Zora and Oseri, but at that moment she did not care. Only that he was familiar and she was back—for now.
“Vitsa,” she said, clutching him tight. He smelled of smoke and horse. Smells of home.
“My God, Zora.” Slowly, Oseri’s arms came up to hold her awkwardly. “We all thought ... We did not know what to think. The gorgios were here, and then you went after them, and then you disappeared.” He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away to stare into her face. “Your father and every man in the band has been searching for you. They looked all over.”
She could just picture her father tromping across the countryside torch in hand. A bullish, determined man, not unlike his daughter.
Without taking his eyes from Zora, Oseri yelled, “Wake! Everyone wake! Zora has returned!”
She looked to the fire, and felt it: a surge of primal power. Yet before she could explore it further, the peace of the camp shattered as men, women, and children came tumbling out of their tents, blinking, confused. People swarmed around Zora, everyone talking at top volume, shouting praise and exclaiming in wonderment. It had been so long since Zora had heard the Romani tongue, and it sounded like the finest music. Perhaps not sweet, nor melodic, not with dozens of Rom speaking at once, but lovely and welcome just the same. Heedless of taboos surrounding the touching of women, hands came up to pat, pinch, and pet her in welcome. All the familiar faces ... all the sounds and sights of home ... it overwhelmed her.
