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Authors: Zoe Archer

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BOOK: Demon's Bride
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Yet he did not release her, and of their own volition, her arms came up to wrap around his hard, wide shoulders. She leaned against him, raging at herself for allowing this moment of peace. For letting him comfort her. He was the source of her torment, not her solace. Yet the past few hours and the horror of what she had just witnessed left her shaken and stunned.
My God, the things I have done.
“You fought well,” he said, his lips against the crown of her head.
“I did not know ... I could do any of that.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Surprised myself.”
“And me.”
Yet she did not like the warm humor in his voice. He had no right to it, to the intimacy of such tone and words. For it felt like a blade of ice through her heart. She pushed away again. This time, he let her go.
Even in the darkness, she saw his wounded, wary gaze. But he did not reach for her as she stepped back.
“There will be more.” He glanced at the demons’ bodies. “This was a test. To know what kind of enemy I am to the Devil.”
“
Are
you his enemy?”
His hand brushed against the tears in his coat, revealing deep gouges in his flesh, and the wetness that gleamed darkly on his fingers was both the blood of the demons and his own blood. Her heart contracted painfully to see him hurt.
“This proves that I am.” He clenched his hand. “I’ve forsaken the Devil. He has nothing for me, nothing I want.”
“What
do
you want?”
His gaze was level as it met hers. “You.”
A throb of longing pulsed through her. She saw how he wanted it to be. He wanted her to run to him. To throw her arms around him and declare that all was forgiven, and they could return to how it had been between them, two strangers finding an unexpected bond.
She wanted the same. But it could not happen. Not in the span of a few hours—if ever.
“It’s not so simple.”
“Tell me what I have to do. I’ll do it.” His words were forceful, not a plea but a statement of intent. She almost smiled at this. Leo never saw obstacles—only ways over or around them.
She answered him with the truth. “I do not know.”
His jaw tightened, but he did not press her harder. “Where were you going?” When she hesitated, he added on a growl, “I’ve just killed five demons. That should give you
some
measure of trust.”
“Four,” she said. “You killed four.
I
killed the fifth.” She could hardly believe that she, a woman of genteel birth, who’d never known bloodshed beyond an occasional reading of the
Newgate Calendar
, had not only fought against demons, but actually slew one—and happily.
Leo’s mouth tugged into a small smile. “That you did.”
“To the Black Lion Inn,” she said at last. “In Richmond. Lord Whitney is there. He said ... he could help, when I was ready.”
She waited for Leo’s outburst of anger. It did not come. Instead, he nodded tightly. “Whit severed his tie to the Devil. He’ll have answers.”
“I am glad someone does,” she said, weary, “for I’ve none of my own.”
Glancing around, Leo frowned. “Damn horse got spooked and ran off.” He planted his hands on his hips. “I’ve been to the Black Lion. It’s less than a mile from here. Have you the strength to walk the rest of the journey?”
She had never known such exhaustion, her limbs made of lead, her head thick and shoulders aching. Yet this was nothing compared to the weight in her chest, a heaviness so profound that she felt as though she observed the whole world from beneath miles of granite. She wanted only to run away and hide, to throw her arms over her head and surrender.
Instead, she took in a breath of cold night air. Straightened her shoulders.
“I am strong enough,” she said.
Chapter 15
 
Cold morning mist lay chill upon the ground and draped the tree branches as Leo and Anne trudged along the road toward the inn. Difficult not to see this mist as a winding cloth, wrapped around the world as it was made ready for burial.
Leo was not a man given to flights of imaginative fancy. He dwelt in the real, the possible. Even when he used his visions of the future, he sought out truths that he might gain more profit, more power. He had never been a poet, nor aspired to be one. Pretty words and fanciful images meant nothing in Exchange Alley. And when he had spoken tender words to Anne, he had been plain, blunt. He could offer only that.
Yet now he saw the frigid morning fog as a shroud, and the thought could not be dislodged.
As he and Anne walked, they passed farmers with carts heading into the city, their wagons loaded with carrots, turnips, chickens, to be sold in Covent Garden or Fleet Market. The farmers looked askance at two obviously well-dressed but filthy strangers plodding wearily down the road. Clicking their tongues at sway-backed jades, the farmers moved past Leo and Anne quickly.
The sun continued to rise, but it offered no warmth. Anne shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.
He held out his arm. “Come. I’ll keep you warm.”
She shook her head. “I am well.”
“Your lips are blue.” When she still refused to come nearer, he cursed and, after removing his brace of pistols and musket, whipped off his coat. The movement pulled hot lines of pain through him, his wounds crisscrossing his body, but he ignored this. Instead, after replacing his weapons, he stalked over to Anne and settled his coat over her shoulders. It was dirty and torn, but better than nothing.
She did not thank him, yet at least she kept the coat on, clutching the lapels close. On her, the garment was huge, sleeves hanging down past her knees. She looked so damned fragile, shrunken. Appearances deceived, however. Anne’s resilience and courage were an inevitable surprise. He should have known that his genteel bride was so much more than a dainty ornament, or a means of entry into the world of the elite.
He said none of this. Anything he offered her now would be rejected. Yet that did not mean he had given up. Resolve burned hotter and brighter than ever. Someway, somehow, he would make her his again. Even if it took the rest of his life.
Which might not be much longer. The Devil’s methods remained cloudy to him, yet he knew with hard-edged certainty that the attack in Kew Gardens was merely the beginning.
He had to find a way to end this.
With that in mind, he resumed his walk toward the inn, though he kept his pace slower, to accommodate Anne’s exhaustion and shorter stride.
At last, a two-story building appeared, a painted sign of a black lion swinging over its door. A boy slept in front of the door, waiting to receive travelers’ horses. Leo stepped over him and Anne did the same as they went inside.
A man smoking a long-stemmed pipe sat by the fire in the taproom. At his feet curled a large orange cat, slumbering luxuriously. The man raised his brows at Leo and Anne’s appearance.
“Lord Whitney,” Leo said.
The man appeared as though he might protest divulging this information to such nefarious-looking characters.
Leo set a bag of coins on a nearby table. It jingled heavily.
The man took out his pipe and pointed its stem upward. “Third door on your left.”
Leo took the lead as he climbed the creaking stairs, Anne close behind him. They reached the first floor and crept down the corridor, as silently as the aged, protesting floorboards allowed. From behind one door, someone snored. From behind another came the sound of a mattress creaking against the ropes, its rhythm unmistakable.
Anne deliberately did not meet Leo’s gaze.
He moved past that door, until he found the one he wanted. Testing the doorknob, he found it locked. Impatient, he wanted to pound the door down, but he also did not want to awaken the entire house. He was just about to knock lightly when the door opened. Just wide enough for a saber blade to jut out, its point touching his throat.
“And a good morning to you, Whit.”
The saber lowered. “Step inside. Quickly.”
Leo and Anne slipped inside. The door shut and locked behind them. They found themselves in a snug bedchamber, gray in the morning light. Whit stood in the center of the room, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of breeches. No doubt about it, Whit
had
grown thinner these past months, his muscles standing out in stark relief. As if the apathy that had once imbued him had burned away, leaving behind a man lean with purpose.
Movement by the bed drew his attention. Leo had a fleeting impression of white cambric, dark, sleek limbs, and then Zora stood beside her lover. Her black hair lay in thick waves around her shoulders, and her eyes were darker still. And full of fire. She stared at him and Anne warily.
“Can we trust him?” the Gypsy woman asked. As she spoke, small tongues of fire engulfed her hands, throwing light and shadow.
Anne gasped, and even though Leo had seen a display of Zora’s power once before, it still made him start, witnessing it again.
Gazing at the lacerations on Leo’s body, the bloodstains on his skin and clothes, Whit answered, “Now we can.”
 
 
The innkeeper fetched coffee and rolls, and his wife brought a basin, a water-filled ewer, and linen towels, all of which were placed upon a table in front of a looking glass. Then, with more coin lining their pockets, the couple scurried out to leave their guests in private.
Zora bandaged the cut on Anne’s arm, a task Leo wanted for himself, but his wife’s wary gaze held him back. He watched Anne splash water on her hands and face. A simple, domestic act, and one he had witnessed many times at home. But home was far away, and the life they had shared there lost.
For now
.
The water was only slightly dirty when it was Leo’s turn to bathe. Soon, it turned dark with blood—the red of his own, and the sticky blackness of the demons’ blood. He needed to clean the wounds on his body, so he shucked his waistcoat and then his shirt, letting them drop to the floor as he stood at the table.
Anne gasped. He met her gaze in the mirror, saw the horror on her face as she beheld for the first time the markings of flame upon his back.
Shame crawled over him, hot and viscous. An unfamiliar emotion.
“That answers my first question,” drawled Whit, leaning against the wall. He had thrown on a shirt, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Your soul still belongs to the Devil.”
“How do you know this?” asked Anne. Her voice was thin, tight.
“He had marks much the same on his body.” This, from the Gypsy woman. She strolled to Whit and ran a hand over his shoulder, then down his arm. Possessive, her touch, as if laying claim to Whit and his body, and speaking of deepest intimacy. Judging from the flare of heat in Whit’s gaze, he welcomed his woman’s proprietary touch. “Here, and here.”
Leo’s gut twisted with want. Not so long ago, he and Anne had touched each other the same way. After the fight in Kew Gardens, he desired nothing more than to hold her tightly, wanted that now, confirming that they had both emerged from the battle alive and sound. He couldn’t—not without her fighting him.
“The marks have grown,” Whit said. “And they’ll do so until you are covered by them.”
“What happens then?” Anne pressed.
Leo already knew the answer. “Then I’m his entirely. Irredeemable.”
Anne pressed her fingertips to her mouth, her face growing paler still in the watery morning light. Her gaze moved over the markings, and Leo forced himself to hold steady and motionless beneath her perusal.
“There is but one way to prevent that,” continued Whit. “To remove the markings completely. You must reclaim your soul.”
Bracing his hands on the table, Leo felt tension knotting his muscles, all along his arms and across his back. “I’ve already renounced the Devil.”
Whit studied Leo’s wounds critically. “That I can see. But it isn’t enough. A man may say a thousand words, make a thousand vows, yet none of it matters in the face of deeds.”
“That much, I know.” Rather than continue to feel Anne’s hurt gaze, Leo busied himself with cleaning and dressing his wounds. He washed them ruthlessly, not sparing himself any discomfort as he scrubbed. Yet he made a poor martyr, for physical pain meant nothing in comparison to the bleeding ache within.
He could not fully reach the lacerations on his back, and struggled to clean them. When Anne approached and plucked the cloth from his hand, he held himself very still. She refused to meet his gaze. But she was gentler than he had been, dabbing at the cuts, and then finally taking strips of linen and wrapping them around his chest and back.
He remained motionless, soaking up her touch, her care. It did not matter that Whit and Zora were in the room, as well. He was aware of only Anne. Her hands, her breath across his skin, the small crease between her brows as she secured his bandages. She felt as close as another mortal being could be, yet impossibly far away. He knew her so well. He knew her not at all.
Turning his head slightly, he saw Whit and Zora watching this small scene. Both wore expressions of pity.
Pity was an emotion he always refused. It was for weakness and those who lacked resolve. Not once in his life had he turned away when the challenge seemed too great. This would be no different.
“Tell me how to reclaim my soul,” he said.
“Each
geminus
maintains a vault of souls,” began Whit. “Souls it has acquired through nefarious means.”
Leo’s gut clenched. Robbins had thought he’d seen Leo at Exchange Alley—working late, Robbins had believed. It hadn’t been Leo, but his
geminus
. Little did those men of business know that they had, in fact, traded their souls to the Devil. Damning themselves without realizing it.
“
Geminus
,” said Anne. Finished with her tasks, she moved away—though he wanted to grab hold of her, he kept his hands ruthlessly at his sides—and perched on the edge of the bed. “That ... other Leo.”
“The dark part of himself created when first the Hellraisers made our pact with Mr. Holliday,” answered Whit. He gave a wry smile. “That’s what the Devil likes to be called. The
geminus
serves Mr. Holliday, and holds Leo’s soul for its master.”
“Then we kill the
geminus
,” said Anne.
“Killing the
geminus
means killing Leo,” said Whit. “So long as it remains in possession of Leo’s soul, any injury or wound it sustains,
he
is hurt, as well.”
The memory of pain throbbed through Leo, recalling how he had tried to throttle the creature and nearly choked himself to death. And the injuries the
geminus
incurred when Anne had thrown Leo into the bookcase. Bruises covered his torso, ugly purple beneath the white bandages.
His hurt body only emphasized how gravely, dangerously wrong he had been, and yes, his pride suffered.
Damned fool
, each laceration and bruise accused.
Blind, arrogant imbecile.
He held up his shirt, intending to put it back on, but it was tattered and stained. Whit rummaged through a valise until he found a fresh shirt, and tossed it to Leo. Fortunately, they were of a size, and the shirt fit well enough. It provided some cover, yet now that Anne had seen his markings, it felt as though nothing could ever hide the evidence of his hubris, the spectacular failure of his judgment.
“So we cannot kill the bloody thing,” Leo bit out. “There must be another way to get my soul back.”
“If your
geminus
operates as mine did,” said Whit, “then there may be a means of doing so. Within its vault is
your
soul. Should you get into that vault, you can reclaim your soul and the curse is lifted.”
“Sounds simple enough,” Anne said.
Zora made a huff of sardonic amusement. “
Nothing
is simple, where
Wafodu guero
is concerned.”
“For one thing,” added Whit, “the vault is not fixed in its location. Zora and I discovered this the hard way in a tavern in Oxford. The vault lies behind any door the
geminus
so chooses. And only the
geminus
may access it. It may open a door, any door, to get inside the vault, but if you try to open the same door, all you will find is an ordinary room.”
“But I could force the
geminus
to open the door,” said Leo, “then enter right behind it, without the door closing.”
“Even if you could force the
geminus
to do that, it has power to keep you from going inside. You will find it impossible to enter.”

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