“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.