Текст книги "Demon's Bride"
Автор книги: Zoë Archer
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Anne kept her gaze fixed on her husband’s tawny head, and his wide shoulders. His back was to the door, so he did not see her approach. The men seated with him did, and one by one, they fell silent and stared as she neared.
Leo turned, frowning. His expression shifted to one of pleasure. Followed by fierce concern. He rose in a single, sinuous motion and stepped close.
“Something has happened,” he said. “Are you ill? Hurt?”
She shook her head, though she did feel both ill and injured. “We must speak.”
“Not here.” He took her hand and led her from the coffee house, without saying a word of farewell to the men with whom he had been conversing. “There’s a tea shop not far.” His stride long, he strode down the alley, Anne hurrying to keep up.
They left the close alleys and coffee houses, and walked on until he guided her into a shop with a clean bow window. Here, the air smelled of congou and butter, and framed prints of pastoral bridges adorned the walls. Though the hour was still early for ladies of fashion, there were yet a few women gathered at the tables, their calico gowns of good but not exceptional quality, their hair and hats artfully arranged by an unseen maid. The wives of the merchants who worked a few streets away.
She and Leo took the table in the corner. Dishes of tea appeared before them, served by a rosy-cheeked girl. Anne watched the leaves swirl within her cup, caught in miniature vortices.
“I’m half sick with worry,” Leo said. “And you’re pale as frost. Tell me what has upset you.”
To give herself a moment to compose herself, she took a sip of tea. “The mine,” she said at last.
Leo’s expression tightened. He leaned back. “Your father’s investment is safe.”
“I don’t give a damn about the investment.”
Several feminine gasps sounded in the quiet of the tea shop.
Lowering her voice, Anne said, “There was a collapse at the iron mine in Gloucestershire.”
“Word circulated this morning.” His gaze was shuttered. “Three men died. How did you learn of it?”
She would not look away from his storm gray eyes. “I had one of the footmen making inquiries, keeping me abreast of any developments.”
“Then you and I know the same things.”
“You know far more than I do.” She leaned over the table. “Such as: the cave-in at the mine.”
Cold sickness spread through her when he did not deny this. He looked away, his jaw tight.
“How? How could you know? Unless ...” She swallowed. “It was planned. Deliberate sabotage.”
His gaze snapped back to hers, angry. “Not deliberate. Simply ... an act of God.” A bitter laugh escaped him.
“Men were killed. Somehow you knew. And did not try to stop it.”
“I tried. But couldn’t.” Self-recrimination roughened his voice.
“How, Leo? How did you know?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She stared at him. “I cannot believe you would say that. To me, out of everyone.”
The agony in his eyes carved her apart. “It has to be this way.”
“You’ve shown me that we can shape the world as we see fit, make it bend to our will. Whatever secrets you keep, you do so for your own benefit.” Eyes hot, she pushed back from the table and headed for the door, ignoring the stares of the tea shop patrons.
Leo’s hand formed an iron band around her upper arm as he stood next to her. “Stay here,” he bit out to the footman.
Anne had no idea where they walked, until they emerged on the embankment. A dank, thick scent rose up from the dark Thames, and close by came the din of London Bridge. Vessels plied the water, tall-masted ships at anchor, and small rowboats ferrying people through the dangerous currents beneath the bridge.
She felt a choking sensation in her throat, as she and Leo faced each other. The treacherous river was to his back.
What Lord Whitney had said, it could not be true. It could not, for if he did speak the truth, it meant that the Devil was real, that there was actual magic in the world, and wickedness embodied. It meant that not only was there genuine evil, but her husband had willingly bargained with it.
Her heart and mind reared back.
“I swear to you, Anne,” he said now. “Nothing between us is any different.”
“You’ve no idea how much I want to believe that.”
He reached out and ran the back of his fingers over her cheek. His gaze was bleak. “We can make it so.”
His fingers drifted up from her cheek to wind through her hair. Oh, she loved his hands, broad and rough. She loved the strength of him, and how, when he touched her, his eyes flashed silver. Seeing her, seeing into her. A simple touch, yet with it, she felt the chaos of the city retreat, the perilous river recede.
A curl tumbled down as he tugged a ribbon free. He stroked the coil of hair, longing in his eyes, but then his gaze turned distracted as he wound the ribbon around his finger.
He seemed to visibly withdraw. His body remained precisely as it was, but his mind went elsewhere.
She recognized the look. He had appeared much the same when her father had brought him a coin. Right before Leo told her father he would not invest in the mine.
“What do you see?” she asked.
His focus returned, a sudden sharpening of awareness. He became wary, guarded—of her. As though she concealed a dagger in the folds of her skirt.
“I see my wife.” Yet he dropped his hand and the ribbon slid from his fingers. It gleamed in a satiny curve as it fell to the ground, where it lay in the mud.
“That is exactly what I am, Leo. Your wife.” She stared up at him. “The one person you should trust above all others.” Tell me, she willed him with her gaze. Whatever it is, I must know. Yet she feared his honesty.
He took several paces away from her. Then turned, and cautiously approached, as if uncertain whether or not she would bolt away. She stood her ground. They faced each other, scarce inches between them, testing each other, testing themselves. His hand came up to cup the back of her head. She tilted her face up. In slow, slow degrees, he brought his mouth to hers. With the sound of the surging river enveloping them, she felt herself slide beneath a tide of yearning, wishing life could be as simple as a kiss.
They held tight to each other, until someone shouted lewd encouragements.
“Go to Hell,” Leo snarled to the waterman on his skiff.
“Ain’t you heard, guv’nor?” The waterman chortled. “We’re all goin’ to Hell.” He poled his flat-bottomed boat on, chuckling all the while.
Leo said nothing, but it was clear that if the waterman had been within reach, Leo would have made him suffer. Her husband stared at the Thames—the boats and ships upon it, bringing his cargo and wealth, the swarms of people skimming across the surface of the water like insects, and the buildings and warehouses crouched on the banks. He gazed at it all as if he could burn everything down with only a look. Anne half expected to see flames burst to life along the masts bobbing at anchor.
He faced her. “Everything will be all right.”
Yet it was clear that even he did not believe his hollow words.
He ensconced himself in a dockside tavern, having lost his taste for commerce on this day. She had gone home—or so he imagined, for they had talked little as they returned her to the waiting carriage. Her hand had been light on his arm as they had walked, her gaze abstracted. Vast troves of unspoken words lay between them. As he had handed her into the carriage, she had slipped from his grasp like smoke. He’d watched her drive away, though he wanted to shout after her, Stay.
Now he stared at the empty tankard before him. Two men diced by the fire. Another whittled what appeared to be a piece of bone, peering at his handiwork through one eye.
“Another drink, sir?”
He waved the tapster off, but tossed him a coin for good measure. Drink would not straighten his head. Answers came scarce at the bottom of a tankard.
The geminus had spoken true. Any object now gave him access to what would be—including a ribbon belonging to his wife. Until then, he had only looked into the futures of those he sought to undermine or exploit. No longer being beholden to coins gave him an even greater advantage. And a yet larger hunger for more. He could not find satiety. A profit of a thousand pounds meant nothing. His demand refused appeasement, as though a monstrous serpent lived within him, consuming everything, including himself.
Her ribbon lay in the mud. It had shown him a future he did not want to see. Anne, speaking with the Roman ghost. The ally of Whit, and enemy of the Hellraisers. There was nothing Leo could do to stop this future from happening. He could not warn his wife. His only option was to wait, and he despised waiting.
A shadow darkened his table. Without looking up, Leo knew exactly who cast it. His body tensed.
“You aren’t impervious to bullets,” he said, “for all your Gypsy’s magic.”
He did glance up then to see the man he’d once called friend. It had been months since last he had seen him. Whit looked a little thinner, but not haggard. Far from it. When Leo had known Whit, he’d been indolent, indulged by birth and circumstance, finding his one real spark at the gaming tables. Now, he was sharp as vengeance, his gaze alert to everything around him.
“Nor can your gift of prophecy deflect a blade.” Whit’s hand rest lightly on the pommel of his saber, his nobleman’s privilege. “Prior history has proven so.”
Leo resisted the urge to rub the scar on his shoulder. When Whit had turned his back on the Hellraisers, there had been a fight in Oxford. The rapier that had wounded Leo had, in fact, belonged to Bram, but Whit had manipulated luck to cause the injury.
“Both of us could mortally wound the other,” said Leo softly. “But who will be first? Shall we wager on it?”
“I came to warn you,” Whit replied, resisting the lure, “not kill you.”
Leo’s chuckle was low and rueful. “Assuming that you’re faster with your sword than I am with my pistol.”
“The danger to you and your wife grows hourly, and yet you waste time with braggadocio.”
Leo shot to his feet and grabbed Whit’s neck cloth. The tavern fell silent. “Threaten her, and I will kill you.”
“Goddamn it, Leo, you are the one who threatens her, not me.” Whit shoved against him, but Leo would not release his hold.
Whit spoke, low and quick. “What the hell do you think the price of your gift was? What do you think we all bargained in exchange for that magic? Our souls.”
Leo narrowed his eyes and released Whit. “I still have a soul.” He could feel it within himself, and its bright aching resonance whenever he was near Anne.
“Every day, you lose more and more of it.” When he saw that Leo meant to contradict him, Whit continued. “The markings that appeared after we made our bargain—they are growing. From one night to the next, they spread across your skin. The more they grow, the more of you they cover, the more your soul is taken. Until there is nothing left. Until you belong to the Devil completely, and you are damned.”
The marking of flame on his calf was growing daily, and now it reached almost up to the back of his knee.
His legs urged him to move. Leo shouldered past Whit and went out into the street. Whit followed. Leo did not know where he headed, only that he must keep moving.
Whit kept pace as Leo walked, his stride equally long. “You feel it. The Devil’s hunger, constantly craving the destruction of others. As the markings grow, so does his hold on you. You will become his puppet, his minion. I know this, because it happened to me, as well. As it is happening to all of the Hellraisers.”
“Don’t know why I should trust you,” Leo said on a growl. “You’ve proven yourself a traitor already.”
They dodged heavy drays rattling down to the wharf, and dogs nosing in the heaps of rubbish.
“If not for the sake of your soul,” Whit said, “then for the sake of your wife.”
“Leave her out of this,” snarled Leo. Simply hearing Whit speak of Anne set Leo into a killing humor.
“It is you who have involved her.” Whit grabbed Leo’s shoulder and swung him around so they faced each other. “For I tell you truly, Leo, you aren’t merely losing your soul, you are losing her.”
Leo shook himself out of Whit’s grasp, but he felt as if he’d been stabbed through. He glanced down, just to be certain that he hadn’t. It wasn’t Whit’s blade that wounded him, but his words.
“This association with the Devil will cost you everything,” continued Whit. “Your life, your fortune, your soul. Your love.” He peered closer. “You do love your wife, don’t you?”
Leo stood utterly still. His heart beat thickly in his chest.
“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 cannot stay longer. But when you are ready, you will find me.”
“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 Anne too much of the emptiness of her marriage. What could have been a warm, welcoming place became instead an unfulfilled promise. So she asked the coachman to drive around London, circling aimlessly.
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 dinner. She immediately discarded the idea of going to see her mother and father, taking shelter with them from the chaos of her life. They could offer no solace, no haven. Even if she did go in and confess everything—her fears, her frantic, dying hope—they would never believe her. She, herself, could not believe the thoughts she now entertained.
Leo cannot be in league with the Devil. The Devil is not real. Magic is not real.
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. Dinner is nearly ready, so Cook tells me.”
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 dinner plans, as though she and Leo could sit together at table and converse over Whitstable oysters and seed cakes like any married couple. The thought of the plates, the cutlery, the meaningless exchanges she and Leo would make when the weight of greater questions bore down with a relentless, killing force—it made something inside her curl up and shudder.
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.
Anne dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. She must be tired, having slept hardly at all these past nights, and her vision played her false.
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.
Anne shot to her feet. Her heart thudded in her chest. Yet she could not run. She simply gaped as the woman sharpened, grew focused, her limbs and facial features emerging from the light.
“Oh, God,” Anne rasped. For the woman wore ancient Roman clothing. She had proud, aristocratic features and cunning dark eyes. And she stared directly at Anne.
The same woman from her dream.
Anne dug her nails into her palms, and fissures of pain threaded up her arms. She was truly awake. The ghostly woman who shimmered in the garden was real.
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?” Anne hoped that the ghost would not answer, for that meant it was not sentient, and did not truly converse with her.
“Valeria Livia Corva,” said the specter, killing Anne’s hope. “Livia, as I am known. We have met before, as well you know. Now my strength has grown. Thus, I appear before you—though time is fleeting.” She took a step—or rather, floated—closer. “Come, there is much to do.”
Anne edged backward. “Leave. Go away. I don’t want you here.”
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, Anne felt the edge of the stone bench against her legs. It was all so similar to her dream, but she was assuredly not asleep, much as she wished that to be so. “Whatever it is you want of me, I won’t do it.”
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 Anne bit back a yelp of surprise when a glowing image appeared, hovering in the space between her and the ghost.
She stared at the image, eyes wide. There stood Leo, and all of the Hellraisers, in the same temple of which Anne had dreamt. And there was the elegant, diamond-eyed man, receiving small objects from each of the men, including her husband.
“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.”
Anne assembled the pieces: Leo’s infallibility with investments, everything that had transpired with her father. His refusal to let her see his bare skin. She felt ill. More than an illness of her body, but a sickness down to the depths of her soul. The only man she ever loved was a fiend.
“Leo is ... damned?”
The ghost spoke brutally, coldly. “The world is damned with him. Gaining souls, the Dark One’s power strengthens. His influence spreads like plague.”
“The riot,” Anne murmured to herself. She had seen creatures in the theater, demonic beasts. Leo must have seen them, too, for he had tried to get them out of the theater before the creatures could strike. He knew. He knew. He was part of that madness, perhaps even the engineer.
“A foretaste of what is to come,” answered Livia. The image of the Hellraisers shifted, becoming a hellish landscape of flame and destruction. It was London. Fire engulfed the city, consuming Saint Paul’s Cathedral, Buckingham House, Westminster Bridge. People ran to flee the inferno, whilst others looted and committed horrible acts. And demonic creatures swarmed the streets and skies, turning London into a true hell on earth.
Leo would make that happen.
The specter waved a hand, and the images of a destroyed London mercifully vanished. “Our magic is the fortification, but we must take up arms at once. I have given you the power once belonging to the Druid sorceress. Her magic I stole for my own selfish use, but it is yours now.”
Anne did not know anything of Druid sorceresses. Shaking her head, she said, “I’ve no magic.”
Livia’s mouth curved. “You make this assertion? Daily, you have seen evidence.”
“The candles,” Anne whispered. “The fire.” It had begun the morning after her dream. When alone, she could not keep a fire lit. Candles guttered and went out. Because ... she possessed magic. She stared down at her hands.
Power within her? Magic. She reached into herself, searching. Surely she could feel it, if magic imbued her body.
She gasped, for there, faint but true, came the flutter of power in her veins, tucked into the secret corners of herself. A cool, blue energy swirled like currents of wind.
“Such a spell comes with a cost. Not until this moment could I appear before you and summon you to battle. Yet I am here now, and you are ready.” The ghost hovered nearer, her expression determined, merciless.
Anne’s pulse beat thickly in her throat, and she could barely speak. “I do not ... how can I ...”
“I have armed you, and yet you still require me to devise the battle’s plan? Can you not formulate your own attack?”
Anne felt the blood leach from her face. “I won’t harm Leo.”
“The greater good demands—”
“No.” The ground beneath Anne shifted as her head spun. Her life had become a nightmare. The Devil. Magic. Doom. “I chose none of this.”
“It has chosen you, fragile mortal.” Livia scoffed. “This female has none of the strength of the other, the girl of flame. Oh, for a better ally.”
“I am not your ally. I am nothing.”
“That is of a certain, should you continue on with your mewling protests. As the world collapses, you shall be burnt alive. And the man you call husband will watch and laugh. The crisis point is here. Either you are my ally, or my enemy. Make your decision now.”
Anne choked, bile rising in her throat. She staggered forward, then ran toward the house, seeking safety yet knowing that none was to be found.
He raced into the entryway of the house, the cold of early evening spreading an ache through his bones. As Leo handed his greatcoat and hat to the footman, Anne ran into the foyer. She skidded to a stop when she saw him, her face ashen, eyes wide and dark.
Leo understood at once. Wordlessly, he stepped forward and took hold of her wrist, then strode up the stairs, pulling her behind him.
She did not speak, either, not until they reached the bedchamber. He closed and locked the door behind them.
The candles sputtered. Went out. Likewise the fire. Darkness enveloped the room, the only light coming from the last remnants of a dying sun.
In her pearl-gray gown, Anne made a pale shape, a ghost of herself. She kept nearly the whole of the chamber between them, as if holding herself out of striking distance.
“The Roman priestess,” he said, toneless, “she spoke with you.”
A choked sob broke from her. “Then it’s true.” She turned away, pressing her hands and forehead against the wall behind her. “I kept hoping, wishing. God, this cannot be happening.”
He stared at the slim, straight lines of her back, his gaze tracing down the heavy pleat of fabric that ran from her shoulders to the floor. “It began long before we ever met.”
She made another strangled, wounded sound, and it pierced him straight through. “The whole time you courted me,” she said, “knowing I was to be your wife. Knowing you would bring me into this. Leo, what have you done?”
“You don’t understand.” Now that this moment was at hand, he felt hollow, bereft. A man facing the ruination and loss of everything. It slipped from his grasp, no matter how tight he clutched at it. He wanted to crush her to him, bind her close.
She whirled to face him. “Make me understand.”
A tap sounded on the door.
“Get the hell out of here,” Leo roared.
“Sir,” said the footman on the other side of the door, “I’m sorry, he said it was urgent and must speak with you immediately.”
Leo stalked to the door and threw it open. “Send the bastard away, whoever he is. And if you disrupt me and my wife again, I will throw you out of my damned house.”
“Yes, sir.” The servant gulped. “Only ... he said I was to give you this.” He held out his hand. A ribbon encrusted with dried mud lay curled in his palm.
Anne’s ribbon. From the riverbank earlier that day.
Leo stared at it for a moment. “Where is he?” he asked tightly, pocketing the ribbon.
“He told me he’d wait in your study, sir.”
Leo drew a breath. He could not leave Anne now, but this had to be attended to. “Tell him I’ll be down presently.”
The footman nodded, looking relieved that his job was not at risk, and hurried away.
Turning back to face the darkness of the bedchamber, Leo looked for Anne. She was pressed into the corner of the room, preserving the distance between them.
“I’ll return,” he said. “A few minutes only.”
“You cannot leave.” Her voice was thin, strained. “Not now.”
“This is important.”
She made a disbelieving laugh. “So is this.”
He was racked between necessity and longing, wanting to stay, yet knowing that he could not. “I have to go.”
“Leo—”
Before she could convince him otherwise, he turned and strode from the bedchamber. He hastened down the stairs, then along the corridor, until he reached his study. Leo opened the door.
Waiting for him was not Whit, as he had expected. The man who stood before the fire, glowering at him, was him. Save for the clothing he wore, the man was identical to Leo in every way, from his size, face, hair and eye color, to the way he stood, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet as if readying for an attack. Leo’s double.
“My master is extremely displeased,” the man snapped.
He wasn’t a man at all. It was his geminus.
Everything made a terrible sense now. Everything became clear. He understood what he must do.
Leo stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“The situation is intolerable.” The geminus strode toward him, its face contorted with anger.
But its face was Leo’s face, and he knew in that moment how it must feel to be on the receiving end of his rage. Torn between fascination and horror, he stood his ground as the creature who was his exact likeness paced nearer. No wonder so few ever opposed him—in the full of his anger, he appeared utterly merciless.
And so he had been. In almost all aspects of his life. Anne remained the lone exception.
Thoughts of her spurred him on now.
“The situation isn’t intolerable,” he said, his voice cutting. “It’s ending.”
The geminus halted its advance. Its mouth twisted. “You made a bargain, and you will honor that bargain.”
“Honor? Poor choice of words, coming from you.”
The geminus glowered. “And a word of which you are unfamiliar. Have you not profited, and well, from the advantage my master bestowed upon you? Is not all of this”—it waved its hands at the study, the shelves of books, the expensive carpets, the heavy desk of imported wood—“the culmination of your power?”
“I don’t need the Devil’s magic to succeed.” Nearly everything in the house, and the house itself, had been purchased before Leo had received his gift.
“Mark me well, mortal,” the geminus spat, “it is a small matter to my master to take all of this away from you. Everything can be taken away.”
Leo tensed. “What the hell are you threatening?”
“Precisely. Hell.” Seeing that it had Leo’s complete attention, the creature smirked. “My master does not tolerate sedition within his ranks. Sever ties with Lord Whitney. Should you see him again, kill him. And bring your wife to heel. You are her lord and master. Bend her to your will.”
Leo hated having anyone tell him what to do. Yet fury warred with fear. “If I don’t?”
The geminus moved to the fire, then reached into the flames. Leo hissed as searing pain blazed up his left hand and arm, and as he stared at his hand, the skin reddened and blistered. Turning back to face him, the geminus held a tongue of flame in its palm.
Leo stared as the flame grew larger, hovering above the geminus’s hand. The flames shifted, forming shapes out of fire. Figures emerged. His house appeared, only to tumble down into a smoking ruin. Yet he did not truly feel terror until Anne’s likeness appeared in the flames. A host of demonic creatures attacked, and he could do nothing but watch as the beasts dragged her away toward a ravenous abyss.
“Goddamn you.” He snarled, striding nearer.
The flame and images vanished from the geminus’s grasp. Pain receded by bare degrees from Leo’s hand, but rage and horror sank talons into him.
“Damn you,” the geminus corrected. “That is a given. Yet you shall damn her, as well, if my master’s will is disobeyed.”
