Текст книги "Demon's Bride"
Автор книги: Zoë Archer
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Anne fought to summon this power as the demons flew toward her and Leo. She grasped at it, but it was strange and new, slipping from her hold.
One of the creatures dove down, raking Leo’s chest with its claws. He grunted in pain and staggered back. The other two, scenting blood, swept low to join the fray.
Fury scoured Anne. And suddenly there it was, the power, potent as a storm.
She flung up her hands. Waves of energy poured from her in an arctic blast of air. She muscled for command, her body aching as she fought for control over the magic. It threatened to overwhelm her.
No. She had been powerless before, in so many ways. But no longer.
Gritting her teeth, Anne directed the energy toward the attacking demons. They roared as squalls pushed them back, their wings beating against the ferocious gale. Anne shoved them away from Leo, gaining him distance.
He glanced over at her, brow lifted in surprise. Clearly, he did not expect her to come to his aid.
She could not examine her motivations now. Her heart still bled. But this was a battle they must fight together.
Clenching her teeth, she sent another surge of energy through her body. One of the demons went careening backward into the branches of a nearby tree. Boughs splintered and snapped. A thrill of bloodlust shivered through her. She wanted to hurt these beasts, cause them pain.
Leo bent to load his musket, but he had only gotten as far as pouring powder into the barrel when a demon attacked. Anne moved to push it back with her power, yet Leo acted faster. He gripped the musket’s barrel and swung out. The stock slammed into the demon’s leg, and the crack of shattering bone echoed over the manicured grass. Whatever foul magic had created these beasts, they still possessed corporeal bodies—muscle and bone. They could still be hurt.
She readied herself to hurl more energy at the demons. Then she fell backward, thrown to the ground by Leo. His body covered hers. A loud crash rang out.
Peering up from beneath the heavy shelter of Leo’s body, she saw a thick, jagged tree branch on the ground behind her. The demon she had pitched back into the tree shrieked in frustration as it hovered nearby. Anne glanced back and forth between the branch and the demon. It had hurled it like a spear, intending to hit her. And would have, had Leo not flung her down and shielded her.
It would not have been a scratch, the damage from the thrown bough. The jagged branch would have pierced her chest. Killed her.
Leo rose up onto his elbows, his body a lean weight atop hers. “Hurt?”
She shook her head.
The outraged demons howled. Anne already knew the sound. It meant they planned to strike again. Leo also seemed to recognize the creatures’ noises. He rolled off Anne, then helped her to stand.
Shoulder to shoulder, they readied themselves for the next attack.
The three beasts dove down. Anne summoned her magic to push them back. Two could not withstand the force of her energy, flapping hard against the tempest but still finding themselves shoved away. The third was bigger, stronger. She could not hold him back. It swooped close, a terrifying winged force of claw and tooth.
Leo swung at it with his musket, but the demon flew out of reach. They were locked in this dance, back and forth, the demon lunging near, Leo pushing it away as he brandished his weapon.
Anne’s glance fell on the gravel path beneath her feet. Her answer.
Swirling her magic, she used the energy’s force to scoop up gravel. Then she flung it with all her strength toward the demon. It shielded itself from the onslaught, throwing up its arms to cover its face. But its wings were spread wide. Unprotected.
Gravel tore through its leathery wings. It gave a scream of pain and anger as membranes perforated. It could no longer keep itself aloft. It spun as it crashed to the ground.
Leo wasted no time. He ran to the creature and clubbed it with his musket stock. Over and over. This time, Anne did watch as Leo turned the demon’s head into a mass of sticky pulp. The creature twitched, then was still.
Infuriated, the final two remaining demons charged. Anne hurled the force of her tempest at them, but the maddened creatures plunged forward. She crouched low as one dipped down, reaching with its taloned feet, and the stink of the thing as it swooped close nearly made her gag. She came out of her crouch to see Leo holding back the other demon, swinging with both his fists and his musket.
The first demon charged her again, and she bit back a hiss of pain as it cut her arm. Leo saw this. His face twisted in fury. He ran toward her, but the other demon held him back, its wings beating at the air, claws slashing.
Terror, exhaustion, and anger all seethed within her. This nightmare world—she wanted nothing more to do with it. Energy coalesced through her limbs, the force of a hundred storms. When the first demon rushed her once more, she let out a primal, furious scream, a battle cry, as she flung out her hands and unleashed the tempest inside.
“I have been lied to, manipulated, betrayed,” she said through clenched teeth. “Made fearful. No more.”
The beast made a frantic, enraged sound as it fought against the gale. But Anne’s wrath could not be contained. She let everything run riot, letting slip any control she might have possessed. The demon struggled, and then, with a shriek, it was caught on the storm she had created. Like a leaf, it spun on the wind backward. Higher. It clawed uselessly at the air to stop its mad flight. She was unrelenting.
Anne continued to blast the creature with the force of her magic, and it tumbled back through the sky. Toward the nearby towering Pagoda that rose ten stories above the ground. The demon tried to stop its ascent by clinging to a gilded dragon on the corner of one of the Pagoda’s roofs. The ornament snapped away, and the demon was flung high, higher. Until it reached the very top of the Pagoda.
It saw Anne’s intent and let out one final scream of outrage. She refused to yield. Manipulating her magic, she brought the demon up, then dropped it—directly onto the Pagoda’s spire. Skewering the demon. The spire stabbed through its chest, and the creature’s dying howl rose up to the dark night sky before trailing away into silence.
The last remaining demon looked to where its compatriot lay dead. It turned panicked eyes to Anne, then to Leo. She reveled in seeing the creature’s fear.
With a frightened yelp, it spun around and flew away. Its wings beating against the air, it disappeared into the darkness like the last vestiges of a bad dream.
The dream, however, was quite real. Demons’ bodies lay strewn about, becoming only carrion, their inky blood spread on the ground and splattered on Leo’s clothing, his face and hands.
In the aftermath of violence, the silence became its own war. Anne felt the magic within her recede, its blue energy a quieting storm, and as it ebbed, she was left shuddering and dizzy. The ground rushed to meet her.
Strong arms wrapped around her, holding her steady. She caught the metallic scent of blood, the warmth of Leo’s body, the fierce beat of his heart.
“I have you,” he murmured. “I have you.”
She struggled to push away from him.
“Stop fighting me. You haven’t the strength to stand on your own.”
“Give me time, and I will.”
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.”
“Goddamn it.” Leo paced, frustrated. “There must be a way to get into that vault.” He whirled to face Whit. “How did you get inside?”
“I didn’t. Zora did.”
“And only then through the use of Valeria Livia Corva’s magic,” added the Gypsy woman.
Anne straightened. “The ghost?”
“A powerful sorceress, as well,” said Whit.
“It was she who gave me this.” Zora held up her hands, and flames suddenly danced along her fingertips. She smiled wickedly. “Very useful when fighting the Devil.”
“She gave me something, as well.” A fast, hard current of cold air gusted from Anne’s raised hands. The flames surrounding Zora’s fingers guttered and dimmed.
Leo and Whit exchanged glances. “Extraordinary women,” Leo murmured.
“The finest that walk this earth.” Whit smiled then, his old gambler’s smile, full of rakish charm, only now he sought only the favor of his woman, not the cards.
Damned strange to see Anne—quiet, studious Anne who loved maps and known truths—the possessor of magic. Yet fitting, somehow, for it showed outwardly the strength he knew she possessed within. Seeing her fight the demons using her power ... if he hadn’t been battling for his life, and hers, he would have found the sight thrilling.
Even now, it made his pulse race faster, his breath catch. He was awed by her.
As she lowered her hands and the summoned wind died down, her gaze met his. She had to see the pride in his eyes, the fullness of his heart, for she gave him the smallest of smiles, and he smiled in return. As though they shared a secret pleasure, a gift only they could truly appreciate.
A filament of pleasure gleamed within him. All was not lost. She could be his again.
Then she seemed to remember precisely why she had been given this power, and her smile faltered.
It was enough. For the moment. He’d capture any hope. What he needed now was a means of reclaiming his soul. The rest he would seize later.
“Then we require the ghost,” he said, turning back to Whit. “Livia. She needs to be here.”
Yet Whit shook his head. “She has not appeared to us, not since yesterday. If she showed herself to you recently, it must have tapped her power.”
“How long does it take for her to regain her strength?” asked Anne.
Zora shrugged. “A day, two days. When it involves magic, rules and time mean nothing.”
Another impediment. Leo took up his pacing. Anne’s smile offered him the slenderest of hopes, and he refused to let anything stand in his way. “If she’s been fighting against the Devil all this time, she alone holds the most information, the most power. Proceeding without her would be a mistake.”
“So, we must wait,” said Anne.
Leo forced down a growl. He did not want to wait. Impatience burned him, hotter than any fire. “I want to summon the bloody geminus and get this over with.”
“The moment you do,” warned Whit, “a horde of demons will descend, and that”—he nodded toward the pale strips of bandages that showed beneath the shirt Leo wore—“will appear nothing more than kitten scratches in comparison.”
Snarling in frustration, Leo slammed his fist into the wall. Fissures in the plaster spread out in jagged lines, and a satisfying pain radiated up his arm, but it did little to ease his anger. He pulled his arm back, ready to strike again.
A strong hand clasped his wrist, stopping him. Whit’s hand, with its long gamester’s fingers, and the gleaming signet ring that proclaimed him a peer of the realm. Leo wore no such ring, and never would. Yet it did not matter to him anymore. Distinctions such as nobleman and commoner ... what did they mean in the face not only of eternal damnation, but the loss of the only love he had ever known?
He stared at Whit, this man who had once been a close friend, then an enemy and now ... an ally.
“You aren’t alone in your sentiment,” Whit said, empathy in his gaze. “Not long ago, I felt the same way. But battering yourself to jelly solves remarkably little, I have discovered.”
“Not that you didn’t try,” said Zora.
Whit added in a voice low enough to be heard only by Leo, “And such displays can be rather ... unsettling to those who care about us.” He glanced meaningfully toward Anne.
Leo followed Whit’s gaze to Anne. She stood beside the bed, her hands clenched, her mouth drawn into a taut line. Concern darkened her eyes and paled her cheeks as she stared at him.
He had done enough to cause her fear. Slowly, he lowered his fist. Whit released his hold, and a sigh seemed to move through the room.
“A wise investor knows when to bide his time,” Leo said, gathering calm. “Act too soon, and what could’ve been a promising venture becomes far too costly. Disastrous, even.”
“No help for it, then,” said Anne. “Until the ghost, Livia, returns, we’ve got to wait to make our plan.”
Words such as we and our kindled fresh fires of hope within him. That was all he needed. The slimmest chance, the faintest possibility. He had built empires for himself upon grains of sand. With a few words from his wife’s mouth, he had enough to sustain him for the long battle ahead.
Anne lay atop the covers in only her shift, staring at the low-beamed ceiling. Ashen morning light filtered through worn curtains, cracks in the ceiling and the unmistakable gouges from rats in the timbers. Despite her exhaustion, sleep refused to come, so she counted the fissures in the plaster, hoping to lull herself into, if not slumber, then perhaps a stupor.
Yet her mind would not quiet.
After the conclusion had been reached that they must await the reappearance of the ghost, it had been decided that what Anne and Leo next needed most was rest. She had been swaying on her feet, her eyes hot, her body aching. Zora, a woman she knew not at all, had immediately gone to find her a room of her own. And when the Gypsy returned to lead her away, Leo had stared at her hungrily. But he let her go.
Anne was glad of that. She had boiled away the last of her strength, leaving an empty urn, and though her mind demanded that she keep him at a distance, her heart and body craved him—even now.
Rolling onto her side, she watched a fly form obscure shapes in the air as it buzzed across the room. Zora sat on the floor by the window, her legs tucked beneath her. She frowned over what appeared to be a child’s primer, and her lips silently, slowly formed the shapes of words.
Anne looked away. The day crept toward its zenith, and sounds of life penetrated the walls. Voices in the taproom. Horses outside. A carriage, a child’s cry. They seemed near, and yet distant, echoes from dreams of other lives.
What would the men in the taproom say, were she to hurry downstairs and proclaim that the Devil was real, that magic was real, and she herself possessed it? They would call her mad. And if she demonstrated her new power, they would run away in terror, or perhaps revive the custom of burning witches.
