Devil’s Kiss

by Zoë Archer

  Wanting to be well and getting well were very different. Especially when one wasn’t recovering from a bout of catarrh but rather poison from the scales of a demon. Zora could not use horehound tea to cure herself of a venom born from Hell.

  Her strength grew moment to moment, the pain receding in tiny increments, yet she couldn’t sit up unassisted, let alone stand or ride a horse. But they needed to move, and soon, for already two days had passed and the geminus was out there, somewhere, wreaking chaos.

  “Doctoring wasn’t covered in my ‘gentleman’s education. ’” Whit sat beside her as she lay upon her cloak on the ground, giving her sips of cold spring water. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the nave windows, gilding his face. With his hair unbound, his clothing disheveled, and several days’ worth of stubble darkening his jaw, he looked rough and untamed. Yet she suspected that this was more his true face than the one of the polished gorgio who haunted the gaming clubs of London.

  “Drinking, gambling, idleness, and indulgence,” he continued. “That’s all I ever learned at Oxford. And even if I had bothered to study, Cicero and Heraclitus wouldn’t help us now. Long-dead chatterers. Prattling on about things that have no relevance in the modern eighteenth century.” He smiled wryly. “Though maybe my callow boy’s brain hadn’t the means to make sense of their wisdom. Heraclitus believed that we never step in the same river twice, for the river constantly changes, and so do we.”

  That seemed sensible. “Maybe schooling is wasted on the young.”

  “Maybe everything is wasted on the young. For they never place value where it’s most required.” He spoke as if from experience. A man who had transformed utterly from the boy he had been. A man who was not the same as he’d been only a few weeks earlier.

  His gaze grew pensive, and she watched the play of thought across his face.

  “Fire,” he said, breaking his musing. “What Heraclitus thought was the origin of all other elements. Through fire, everything comes into being or expires.”

  “Fire changes things.” She knew this well. Fire had changed her profoundly.

  “It’s the symbol of constant change. Transforms one thing into another. Burns away its old form.”

  Understanding hit them both at the same time. Their gazes held, alight with possibility.

  “Can you do it?” he asked.

  “If it makes me recover faster so I may tear that geminus into rags, I’ll do anything.”

  His expression darkened. “Should anything go awry, you must stop at once.”

  “I will.” Yet she wasn’t certain if, once she’d begun the process, it could be stopped. She kept silent about her concern, knowing that he would attempt to prevent her from trying. As much as anyone could prevent her from doing anything.

  She was resolved. He had risked himself for her. She would do the same for him.

  “Tell me what to do,” he said.

  “Stay close.” When he took her hand, she added, “But I wouldn’t do that.” Much as she savored his touch, she might hurt him unwittingly. “These need to come off, too.” She glanced down at her clothing. Flammable.

  He raised a brow. “Presenting me with a hell of a lot of temptation.”

  “Thank the heavens you’ve a strong will.”

  “Not where you are concerned.” He brushed his lips across hers, and even weakened as she was, heat and need sped through her. “Irresistible.”

  She wanted nothing more than to thread her fingers into his hair and pull him close, taste him, feel him. But she couldn’t, not in her current condition. Which made her break the kiss—reluctantly.

  “Please,” she said. “I need your help to ... undress.”

  His eyes blazed. “One condition. You make the same request again when I can truly take advantage of the situation.”

  “We’ll take advantage of each other,” she vowed. She would enjoy that. Very much. She knew now how it was between them, the soul-shattering ecstasy they created. “For now ...” Her hands shaky, she pulled at the lacings of her bodice.

  Quickly, with a minimum of lingering caresses, he helped her disrobe. It felt strange to be so exposed, baring her flesh in this ruined house of worship, and Whit fully dressed. The late afternoon air held autumnal chill. Bumps stippled her skin.

  When they were done, she lay naked and exhausted. His breath came quickly, and his jaw was tight.

  “You look like a pagan offering,” he rumbled. His gaze traveled over her, possessive and hungry. “Nude upon an altar. Yet I’d rather worship you, not sacrifice you.”

  “Worship me.” She said this with far more liveliness than she felt, for the effort of removing her clothes as well as concerns about what she was about to do left her drained. “Later. Now I just need silence. And whatever happens, don’t touch me.”

  “You might need me.”

  She shook her head. “To fight the geminus, you must be as powerful as possible. No injuries, no wounds. The creature is strong, but you need to be stronger. Promise, Whit. Promise not to touch me.”

  After a long, tense moment, he gritted, “I promise.” Though he kept his word and did not touch her, he kept as close as possible, understanding instinctively that she would need his strength—not to use, but simply to know it was there.

  On a deep breath, she closed her eyes. Drew into herself. The process wasn’t easy, for distractions abounded. The cold air on her shivering skin. Trees rustling in the wind. Even Whit, a source of power, yet so compelling it was all she could do to keep focused on the task at hand. For him, she did this. And for herself.

  She found the poison within her body. Not difficult to do. It seeped through her in black, noxious tendrils, sapping her, stealing from her and replacing her strength with pain. But this poison was not her; it was foreign and unwelcome. The truth of her lay deeper, centered within the terrain of her soul, her heart. There. Bright and burning. Fire.

  This was her and hers. Livia had brought it to the fore, but Zora knew it had always been within her. She had been named for the dawn, the rising sun breaking through the darkness, born at first light just like the day. Now it was time to draw upon that fire and use it not simply as a weapon, but as a way of reclaiming herself from the evil that sought to destroy her. She did not need another fire’s power to feed her own. She could summon it now as she willed, hers alone.

  She fanned the flames, summoning the fire. At first, the fire responded as it had in the past, flowing to her hands in preparation for battle. She channeled it back into herself. The battle was within. She guided the flames through her body, through her veins, where the poison seethed.

  Fire met venom. A brutal clash. The poison hissed and raged as the flames attacked, heating her blood to burn away sickness. Agony tore through her—the demons’ venom fought back. Hazily, she heard her voice cry out in pain, felt her body arch up from the ground.

  She wanted to give in. It was too much. As the fire battled the poison, venomous thoughts seeped into her mind. This is just a small sampling, a taste of what’s to come. You cannot imagine the suffering. You cannot fight something with our strength. This struggle is useless.

  The thoughts were right. She couldn’t endure the agony any longer. Or know why she fought so hard in the face of such overwhelming odds. Maybe she could simply surrender, sink into the wave of darkness and let oblivion take her. Then the pain would be over.

  Nothing is worth this torment, the voices whispered.

  The voices were wrong. She never heeded anyone’s foolish counsel before.

  I am worth this, she fired back. Whit is worth this. For us both, I’ll do anything.

  She pushed back against the poison, urging the fire higher, stronger. Her blood sizzled. She could not imagine what the battle must look like from outside her body, but within, it felt as if each and every vein and vessel glowed white hot, searing her.

  Burn it away. Every last drop.

  She became a cauldron, a crucible. And felt the poison melt away in minute t
races. Slowly, slowly. Time dissolved like a pearl in vinegar. All she knew was this—the battleground of her body, fire and poison locked in combat, and she the general that rallied her troops to beat back the invader. Reclaiming herself.

  Then, suddenly, it was gone. Fled. The fire had cleansed her, leaving her free from sickness, from poison.

  Her eyes opened. And there was Whit, waiting for her.

  “Can I touch you now?” His voice was a harsh rasp.

  Turning her head, she saw a pattern of scorched earth surrounding her, shaped like her body. She flexed her hands, tested the temperature of her skin and found it to be normal.

  “I want you to,” she said.

  No sooner were the words past her lips than she found herself held in the power of Whit’s arms, pressed close and tight to him. Her own arms were strong as they came up to wrap around his shoulders. For long moments, they simply held one another. The wind was cold on her bare skin, yet she knew the warmth of him, and she knew her restored strength.

  No matter what was to come, the dangers ahead and very real possibility of defeat, this victory was theirs.

  Chapter 17

  “It’s stopped.”

  Zora looked up from packing her bag to see Whit staring fixedly north.

  “The geminus is gone?”

  “Stopped moving.” His gaze lingered on an unseen point beyond the church’s walls. Dusk was falling, and the stars were on the verge of appearing in the deepening sky. The borderlands between day and night. “It’s found a good place to dig in. Abundant prey.”

  The word sent a chill along the curve of her spine. Not so much the word, but the way Whit said it, as if savoring the taste of stalking and claiming victims. No matter what deeds he had performed in her service, he still fought against the darkness within himself.

  And that made her all the more determined to find the geminus and reclaim Whit’s soul.

  “Gives us time to catch up.” Bloodlust clamored through her, an unfamiliar sensation. Yet one she now embraced. She wanted to make the damned thing pay. “Where is it?”

  “A city. North of here.” He shook his head as if coming out of a trance, but his expression was shadowed. “If I try to get too far into its mind, its heart, I’m not certain I can come back into my own.”

  She crossed to him and took his hand. “Stay with me.”

  “I’ve no wish to be anywhere else.” Yet in the dusk, his eyes were haunted. He attempted a smile. “How disappointing to have you clothed again.”

  “Naked horseback riding is much less appealing than it sounds.” She searched his face. “Have we enough to track the geminus?”

  “It’s feeding often. Growing stronger.”

  Which meant that, even without deliberately trying to reach the geminus, its link to Whit also grew stronger. She saw it now in the crystal darkness of his gaze, the hard beat of the pulse in his throat.

  They had not a minute to lose, for every moment meant a little more of Whit was lost. Zora gave his hand a squeeze before hefting up her bag and striding out of the church to her horse waiting outside. She untied its reins from a makeshift post and lifted up into the saddle.

  Whit came out of the church and placed his hand on her calf. His gaze was hard, focused, as he stared up at her. Atop her horse, she might be higher up than he, but his potency did not diminish. “You need to heed your own advice.”

  “I give a large amount of advice.”

  “To face the geminus, both of us need to be as powerful as we can be. No injuries. No wounds. No lingering illness.”

  “I’ve never felt stronger.” She spoke truly. Something had happened to her, changed her, when she used her fire magic to cleanse herself of the demons’ poison. Like a sword forged in flame, she had a cutting edge, ready to carve the world apart. Gleaming and deadly.

  Whit looked at her for a moment, then reached up and cupped his hand around the back of her neck. He was a tall man, so there was no awkwardness when she bent at his touch, bringing her mouth close to his, nor did he rise up onto the balls of his feet. He simply claimed her mouth as she demanded his.

  The kiss was hard and hot. His tongue swept into her mouth and she sucked on it, wanting to feast on him, to consume him. She knew his taste now, sultry and masculine. Craved that taste with every part of her, not merely her body’s needs but her heart’s wants, as well.

  He broke the kiss first. An animal growl sounded low in his throat. Grimacing as if in pain, he released the back of her neck and stepped away. She tightened her grip on the reins to keep from reaching for him. Distractions came all too easily when he touched her.

  Soon, they were back on the road, riding hard for a northern city. She hoped that this time, as they tracked the geminus, they were no longer the prey but the hunters.

  Zora had never been this far north. Other Rom bands wandered these lands, but hers had always held close to the south, its towns and villages, fairs and markets. Whit, however, knew these roads, and as she traveled beside him, she used his confident posture and alert gaze as her means of guidance. The geminus pulled them forward, yet Whit led the way.

  In the hours before dawn, they reached the outskirts of a city. Smaller than London, and not as dignified as Oxford, yet still impressive to her outsider’s eyes. Rows and rows of stone buildings lined the avenues, and a broad, grand street led to a towering church. Though the lamps were dark and everyone was still in bed, Zora could still make out a fine white fluff hazing the cobbled streets. It couldn’t be snow, for the weather held far too much warmth, and no clouds filmed the sky.

  “Cotton,” Whit said, seeing her curious gaze. “Manchester’s newest trade.”

  She saw now that many of the buildings were new, as yet unmarked by coal smoke.

  “Then there’s money in this place,” she said.

  “Where money dwells, gambling follows.” He spoke from experience.

  They rode through the quiet streets, passing a few costermongers and masons with their long-handled brick hods on their shoulders, readying to raise more new structures. Despite the stillness, Zora sensed a peculiar tension in the air and humming along the surface of her skin. Through shuttered windows came the sounds of voices, muttering and low, agitated.

  “The geminus is here,” she murmured.

  “It’s like a second pulse beside my own.” Whit’s lips compressed into a hard line.

  At that moment, a finely dressed man rounded a corner and drew up sharply in front of their horses. Drink or drowsiness made him sway, fighting for balance. He adjusted his crooked wig as he stared up at Whit in surprise.

  “How’d you get here so quick?” the man demanded.

  “Took a shortcut,” answered Whit. “But I left something of mine behind, and I’ve forgotten my way back.”

  The man snorted. “Going back to drain other coffers, more like.”

  “That shouldn’t matter to you. Not with yours already empty.”

  Removing his wig, the man scratched at his shaved head. “I’d like to see you clean out Mundy and Coburn. They wouldn’t be so damned smug with nary a ha’penny in their pockets.”

  “Point us in the right direction,” said Zora, “and he will.”

  “Down this street, next left, another left, and then it’s on your right.” He gestured his words, tired lace drooping over his hand. His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Mind, if you do clean out Mundy and Coburn, I want a share for leading you to ’em.”

  “You’ll get nothing,” Whit said. “Go home and lose consciousness.”

  Whit’s voice was as cold as steel and just as hard. It shocked her to hear him speak so callously, for though he sometimes had a wealthy man’s reserve, he was never cruel. It had to be the geminus’s influence, this heartlessness that sprang up so readily.

  Whit’s words affected the drunken man even more. He clapped his wig back onto his head and tottered away as quickly as his unsteady legs could allow.

  Wordlessly, she and Whit followed their informa
nt’s directions. Their path took them off the wide streets, into the narrower, winding avenues. Here, the cotton fluff had mixed with dank residues and muck, creating a gray paste that smeared the ground. A clammy wind shuddered down the lane. It smelled like a burial shroud.

  She and Whit passed men as they rode. Walking singly or in small groups, most of them were drunk, and all of them were angry, muttering about losses and throws of the dice and how they’d return again on the morrow to win back what they had lost.

  Whit stopped his horse. He silently dismounted, and Zora did the same. They both peered around the corner. Whit’s hand lingered above the hilt of his sword.

  A house faced a small courtyard, its windows shut up tight. It seemed a perfectly ordinary gorgio house, if a little shabby, with paint peeling off the shutters and weeds choking the flower boxes. From within, masculine voices rose and fell in a muted din.

  As she and Whit watched, the door opened. Glaring yellow light spilled out as a man stormed down the stairs. He turned and shouted something toward the house. A giant filled the doorway, blocking the light. Though the big man said nothing, the irate shouting stopped abruptly, and the shouter hurried away. The door slowly shut.

  “There. Where I must go.” Whit’s voice was only a whisper, yet tense and grim. “Hell.”

  Zora frowned as she stared at the building. “I thought Hell would be surrounded by demons and three-headed dogs. I don’t see any demons, and that”—she pointed to a cur slinking across the street—“has just one head.”

  Whit almost smiled, even as he fought against the rising tide of darkness within him. Trust her to discern the truth. “Not Hell itself. A gaming hell.”

  “It should be called a gaming heaven. Attract more customers.”

  “Nothing heavenly about it. Gaming hells earn their names.” He’d been in far too many, and whether they had crystal chandeliers and French wall hangings or guttering rushlights and warped walls, they were essentially the same. Places where bored or desperate men frantically grabbed at meaning. He had been no different. Even now, the hunger rose up in him, demanding he cross the filthy courtyard, walk up the short flight of steps, and enter the building. The familiar, tempting peril of gambling, made all the more enticing by his power over probability. He could have anything he wanted....