Sinner's Heart

“When I decide I have something to recount,” he said to them, “I shall let you know. We’ll discuss it at a time and place of my choosing.” Before anyone could speak or argue, he urged his horse into motion.

What will you do? Livia asked as he rode away.

Dance on the edge of a blade, he answered. As I always do.

Books and papers lay in riotous profusion upon every available surface, including the floor. Maps draped over chairs, and the abundance of broken quills on the carpet resembled the massacre of flocks of birds. Unlike Bram’s study, John’s saw much use, and John himself unfolded from behind a massive desk as Bram entered the chamber.

A look of wariness passed briefly over John’s face when the footman announced Bram, but he smoothed it into a welcoming smile, his hand outstretched in greeting.

“A most agreeable surprise,” John murmured, shaking Bram’s hand.

“You seem well-engaged.” Bram released John’s grip and glanced at the mountains of paper on the desk.

“Never too occupied for an old friend and fellow Hellraiser.” Stepping back, he asked, “Can I offer you some tea? Wine?”

“Brandy.”

John’s brow rose, yet he picked his way through the stacks of books and debris toward the sideboard. He poured two glasses.

Bram. Livia spoke with tight urgency. His arms. His hands.

I see them.

For his work at home, John had discarded his coat, and the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled back. Markings of flame covered every inch of exposed skin. His forearms. His hands—from fingers to palm. Bram’s gaze rose higher. Without his stock, the neck of John’s shirt hung open. More flames wound around up from his chest, creeping up his neck like a choking weed.

It’s spread much faster on him than it did on any of the others, Livia said. Fertile ground.

John wended his way back to Bram, navigating the clutter and bearing two full glasses. “’Tis a veritable labyrinth in here. The fault is mine, not my servants, for I forbid any of them from cleaning.”

“And keep them out with a locked door when you aren’t around.” Bram took the offered glass.

John patted a pocket of his waistcoat. “At all times the key is on my person. There are so few who can be trusted.”

Livia snorted. How he enjoys this.

“Yet I can trust you, can I not?” John held Bram’s gaze with his own. Neither of them were fooled by his smile.

“As much as you can trust yourself,” answered Bram. He did not wait for John to offer a toast, but drank down his brandy in one swallow.

More leisurely, John sipped at his drink. “We ought to arrange an excursion, you and I. It has been far too long since we kept company. Perhaps an assembly, or the theater. You were ever an enthusiast of the theater.”

“Actresses and opera dancers,” Bram said. “The plays themselves bored me.”

Refined as always, sighed Livia.

“It was Edmund who actually watched the plays,” added Bram.

John studied the bottom of his glass as if it held a miniature marvel. “If not the theater, then some other diversion.”

“Of late, the city has become less diverting. Had to find other means of occupying myself.” After setting down his glass on a small table, Bram pulled folded pieces of paper from his coat’s inside pocket. Mutely, he held them out to John.

John took the papers, frowning, and unfolded them. His frown dissolved as he read their contents. “But this is marvelous.” He grinned. “I trust you received no trouble for your efforts.”

“None.”

In truth, the only trouble he had experienced came from that long-disused machine of his conscience. Rusty and corroded, it had groaned as he had used his Devil’s gift of persuasion to gain entrance into a minister’s home and private study. The papers were easily secured, just as easily spirited away, with Livia acting as sentinel.

He hadn’t wanted to pilfer the documents. Outright theft was not one of his many crimes. Only Livia had convinced him to act.

Sin is often required to ensure success, she had argued.

Ruthless, that’s what you are, he had answered.

In everything. There had been no shame in her voice. It verged on admirable, her merciless resolve. She would permit no obstacle to subvert her will.

Now he had handed over a packet of stolen documents to John. It seemed to have the desired effect.

John continued to scan the papers, his gaze sharp and rapacious. “With this information in my possession, I shall be much closer to my goal.” He glanced up at Bram. “You’ve my gratitude.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d want suitable compensations.”

This isn’t what we agreed upon, Livia interjected with alarm.

Rather than look hurt or angry at Bram’s demand, John smiled. He seemed to approve of Bram’s greed. “Name something you desire, and it shall be yours.”

Bram’s eyebrow arched. “Far-reaching claim.”

John held out his hands, brandishing the marks of flame on his skin. “It is a claim I can make with all assurance. If I can rely upon your support, the pleasures and privileges you have enjoyed will seem miniscule in comparison.”

With disinterest, Bram examined the title page of a nearby book. The frontispiece promised a long and phenomenally dull treatise on methods of governance, written by a gentleman with far too much education. He thumbed through the pages and found not a single illustration, only an abundance of long words and foreign phrases. Carelessly, he tossed the book over his shoulder. It landed with a thud and John winced.

“Give me your word,” Bram said, “that I shall have precisely what you promise.”

We were only going to draw him out, Livia protested, her voice turning strident.

“Give me yours,” came John’s immediate answer. “Betrayal is thick around us, and I’ve only use for those I can trust.”

“You have it,” Bram replied after a moment.

No! Livia’s shout echoed in Bram’s head, and he struggled to keep from scowling.

Still, John looked dubious.

With a sigh, Bram bent and pulled a poniard from his boot. John stepped back, yet a pistol suddenly appeared in his hand, retrieved from somewhere on the desk.

Livia’s cursing nearly drowned out Bram’s own thoughts. Her frustration at being powerless seethed through him.

“A gun’s damned prosaic for a man with the Devil’s mark on his flesh,” Bram drawled.

“The gifts he has bestowed upon me are elegant and subtle.”

“Elegant and subtle can’t rip a hole in a man’s chest. Thus, the pistol. But it’s unnecessary, at least where I’m concerned. If it’s a blood oath you require . . .” He drew the tip of the poniard across his hand. Bright crimson welled. “Here it is.”

Smiling, John tucked the pistol into the back waistband of his breeches. He took the offered blade from Bram