amongst the few crates left behind from the last shipment. It was so quiet Bram heard the water slapping against the pilings. Yet the other sounds of river traffic and life, the ferrymen and mudlarks and stevedores loading and unloading ships, those were absent.
The whole of London seemed suspended, waiting, an animal crouched in anticipation of a coming attack.
But he was no toothless, shivering dog rolling onto its back. Watching Livia consume her first meal in over a thousand years, her expression carefully neutral though he knew the stale food was a disappointment, he vowed to fight whoever and whatever threatened. As soon as her strength was restored, she would cast a spell to release the other Hellraisers. And then the fight would truly begin.
Despite the middling quality of the food, Livia devoured everything. Bram gave her the remainder of his meal over her objections.
“It’ll do me good to get back to army rations,” he said. “A man with an overfull belly makes for a poor soldier. Besides,” he added, “my last meal was only hours ago. A whole millennium has passed since you ate.”
“Spiced wine,” she mused. “Oysters, partridge with figs and walnuts, boar in
“Not half as fine,” he said, glancing down at the remainder of the food, “but it’s all we have, and you need it far more than I.”
Before she could object further, he stood and moved through the warehouse. He had already made an initial reconnaissance, but there was no such thing as being too aware of one’s surroundings. The structure had a high ceiling, and was large enough to hold cargo from several ships. Aside from a few crates and a dusty bolt of cotton, the warehouse stood empty. A battered desk and three-legged stool huddled in the corner. Searching the desk drawers yielded only scraps of paper, the ink faded to nigh illegibility. Tucked into the very back of the top drawer, however, he found a slim-bladed knife, which he tucked into his boot.
Two large doors could be used for bringing goods in and out of the warehouse, but a stout padlock kept out all would-be thieves and squatters. He and Livia had gained entrance through a smaller door, also locked, but easily breached through her use of a quick spell.
The slight effort had cost her. She had moved listlessly into the warehouse, and sank down onto the blanket he had spread on the ground. It seemed the simple act of being within her body again took a toll. Thus, he gladly went without a full supper, no matter his own demanding appetite.
He gazed back through the gloom shading the warehouse. They had taken a small chance and brought the lantern purchased at the shop to dispel some of the darkness. In contrast to her surprisingly delicate shape, outlined against the lantern’s glow as she continued to eat, she radiated power. Despite everything that had taxed her, she remained an unstoppable storm.
He expected an answer to his thoughts. She had been within his mind for, what, days? Weeks? Whatever the span of time, it now felt perfectly natural to have her thoughts interwoven with his own, her voice nestled into the recesses of his mind. Gone, now. They were separate entities once again.
He turned away to continue his patrol, primed pistol at the ready, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
She might no longer haunt him, yet he was aware of her at all times. The quiet rustle of her skirts as she shifted. Her very presence like an ember in the darkness.
His body tightened in response. It knew she had flesh now, that she could be touched, and both his heart and his body demanded the same thing—her.
Yet she was hungry, tired, overwhelmed by the world and the immensity of the enemy they faced. The curse barring the Hellraisers from coming to their aid needed to be broken. She had to cast the spell to break that curse. He had to keep a harsh rein on his needs, painful though it was.
She rose up from the blanket, took the lantern, and moved toward him. Her footsteps echoed softly through the warehouse, and this simple sound made his blood race as she approached.
The lamplight gilded her skin, the underside of her jaw, and nestled in the shadows of her hair. She had a rolling, sensuous walk, full-hipped.
Her gaze was troubled as she came to stand before him. “This place is ill-omened.”
“Not an amiable part of the city, Wapping. Sailors live here.”
“It’s not a mortal evil I sense.”
His sword was drawn before she finished speaking. He glared into the darkness. “Damn—thought we’d be safe here.”
“For now, we are,” she amended. “But our safety won’t last. The realm below is a kettle on the verge of boiling over, their world erupting into ours.”
“And John’s the bastard throwing fuel on the fire.” Bram sheathed his sword. “The time to move against him is now.”
“The time is
“I’ve weapons of my own.” He glanced at his sword and pistol.
“And more.” One of the spheres of light blinked away, and she touched the tips of her fingers to the center of his chest. Yet when she touched him, another gleam appeared—and he was its origin. Its warmth spread through him.
“How?” he wondered.
“Because I helped you unlock your magic.” She took her fingers away, and the light continued to shine. “Years of study and training were needed before I could truly access my power. For you, it’s merely the work of a few moments.”
“Never thought I was gifted with magic.”
“On your own—no. You had a benefit I did not.” She smiled at him. “Me.”
They both watched as the light slowly faded, a lambent warmth lingering within him.
She said, “Now you wield your power the way a priestess might.”
“A priest, not a priestess. And I refuse to take a vow of chastity.”
“I may as well ask the fire not to burn.” Her smile dimmed. “You and I aren’t enough to win this war.”
He saw what she meant to do. “You aren’t strong enough yet.”
“There isn’t time to wait. It must be done now. Tonight.”
“At what risk to you?”
“Impossible to know.”
“Damn it,” he growled, “I didn’t stick a blade into my own chest just to lose you again.”
Her dark gaze held his. “No one is more aware of what you sacrificed. This is the reason you made that choice. The peril is greater now. My magic is, too.”
She spoke the truth. He did not like it. “I’ll lend my power to yours.”
“All I ask of you is vigilance whilst I work the spell.”
He gave a clipped nod.
“Come back with me to the blanket,” she said, nodding toward their makeshift accommodations. “The spell requires I should kneel, and I’ve no desire to test the fortitude of my new flesh upon this . . .” She eyed the grimy floor. “. . . This surface.”
They returned to where the woolen blanket was spread upon the ground. She set the lantern down, then arranged several objects upon the blanket—things she’d gathered from the chandler’s. The feather, the stub of a candle, a pearl.
When she’d positioned them to her liking, she kicked off her slippers, revealing glimpses of slim feet and curved ankles. Need built as she knelt upon the blanket, her movements economical yet elegant, her skirts billowing around her like faded petals upon water.
“Have you a blade?”
Frowning, he handed her the knife he had found in the desk. His jaw clenched when she dragged the blade across her thumb, a bright line of crimson appearing in its wake.
She dripped blood upon the objects, staining the feather, candle and pearl with red. Then she trickled her blood on the ground, murmuring softly as she did so. It looked obscene, the red purity of her blood mixing with the filth coating the floor. A desecration of her body. Yet her expression remained composed, removed, as blood fell in
