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“I do.” The realization scoured him.
“Then if you won’t fight for yourself, fight for her.” Shouting by the docks drew Whit’s attention. He glanced around, wary. “London is not safe. And the Hellraisers are to blame.”
“Mankind has always been treacherous. That isn’t the fault of the Hellraisers.”
“The Hellraisers have worsened a chronic illness,” said Whit. “Hastening society toward early collapse. And one of the first casualties will be your marriage.”
Leo inhaled sharply. “If that is true ...” His jaw tightened. “I have to find a cure.”
Whit backed toward an alley. “I ca
“Whit, damn it—”
“Hurry,” was all Whit said, and then ducked into the alley.
Leo ran after him, but there was no one in the passageway. He stood alone.
Chapter 13
She did not go straight home. Thinking about returning there, with its hollow chambers and shadowed corners, reminded A
At one point, the carriage drove past her parents’ townhome on Portland Street. A faded little building tucked between grander structures, an impoverished relative at an elegant di
Leo ca
Yet her faith in the world as she knew it crumbled away, with each day, with each hour.
The carriage drove on.
Everything spun out of control. She watched the streets roll past—Saint Martin’s Lane, Oxford Street, the Knightsbridge Turnpike as they headed west and out toward the new development of Kensington—seeing only a world off its axis, and her unable to right it, to stop the mad whirl.
“Sun’s going down, madam,” the coachman called from his seat. “Don’t think the master would want you out after dark.”
There was nowhere to go but home. It wasn’t home, in truth, but a house she occupied. “Very well.”
By the time she reached Bloomsbury, dusk lay in hazy folds, and the few lamps that had been lit threw flickering shadows across the streets.
Inside, the house held light, but little warmth.
She handed her cloak to a nearby footman. “Is my husband home?”
“Not yet, madam. Di
She had no appetite. “Excellent. Tell him to serve as soon as my husband returns.”
The footman bowed. “Very good, madam.”
Inwardly, she cringed. Making di
She could not sit in a parlor and occupy herself with a book or pore over her trove of maps and globes. She could not spend a moment within these ornate walls. Yet she could not go out. Only one place offered a degree of relief.
Her footsteps took her out into the garden. The time of year was still too early for any growth, everything remained barren and bare, but at the least she had no walls around her, no roof threatening to crush her. She paced quickly up and down the paths, feeling like an animal in a menagerie.
She pressed back farther into the recesses of the garden, where the shadows deepened in the twilight gloom. A small arbor formed a dark cove, hidden from view, and she sat down upon a stone bench tucked within it, determined to gather her thoughts.
She stared at the thorned branches of what would be roses. Nothing could coalesce in her mind, for every time she sought to understand what was truly happening, staunch reason tried to assert itself. All that remained were fleeting impressions, half-glimpsed truths, and thwarted hopes. With a violent intensity, she wished she and Leo could go back to those days leading up to and just after the consummation of their marriage. For she saw what they could be together—were it not for the darkness that gathered around him like a mantle.
A shimmering radiance drew her attention. It appeared as no more than a flicker of light beside the empty flower bed. And then grew larger, like a spark becoming a flame.
A
Yet as she took her hands from her eyes, the light remained. Grew even larger. Until it was the height of a person. It coalesced from a nebulous radiance into ... a woman’s hazy form.
A
“Oh, God,” A
The same woman from her dream.
A
Which meant that everything else—Lord Whitney’s accusations, the existence of the Devil, Leo’s use of magic—all of it was real, too.
“You believe now.” The specter’s words sounded as though they came from a great distance. The ghost was talking. “At last you believe.”
“Who ... are you?” A
“Valeria Livia Corva,” said the specter, killing A
A
The ghost frowned. “What is this delay? The battle is nigh, I have given you the weapons you need. We must act. Now.”
“None of this makes sense.” Moving farther back, A
Livia scowled. “Are you his, then?”
“I’m no one’s.”
“There is no neutrality. A side must be chosen.” Her hands made patterns in the air, and A
She stared at the image, eyes wide. There stood Leo, and all of the Hellraisers, in the same temple of which A
“Reckless men.” Livia’s mouth twisted. “They transformed themselves from merely debauched to truly wicked, the enemies of virtue and honor. Gained magic, yet lost their souls.”
The same magic of which Lord Whitney spoke.
“The pact is written upon your husband’s flesh,” said the ghost.
“Leo keeps his skin covered.” She had foolishly thought the cause was discomfiture over birthmarks or disfigurement.
Livia’s smile was pitiless. “Hiding evidence of his crime.”
A