She’d always had a fondness for soldiers and gladiators. They made for very good company in bed. Their calloused hands, their uncomplicated need. Subtle and nuanced? No. But she seldom wanted subtlety in lovemaking. Had wanted. Never again would she feel the sweat of a lover’s body on her own skin, or the vibrations of their groans against her flesh.

She must stop thinking these tormenting thoughts. Yet it was difficult when surrounded by young, hale men in their prime, all gleaming with perspiration as they vigorously used their bodies.

The tie that bound her to Bram drew her through the chamber and close to where he and Worton stood. They each took a few practice swings through the air, loosening their muscles, until, satisfied, they faced one another. After a terse bow, they took up ready stances, swords upraised.

Worton swung. His blade only tapped Bram’s sword. Once, twice. Getting a sense of Bram’s readiness. Bram held his position, not allowing Worton to drive him back. Yet he wasn’t content to let his opponent do all the testing. He, too, took a handful of investigative swings, as though sounding the depths of a shore. The men held themselves loosely, but the casualness belied a tension even Livia could sense.

Bram and Worton circled one another. Their strikes grew harder, more direct. A swing, a block.

The tension suddenly broke as Worton lunged. Bram countered with quick, fluid motion. And then the fight truly began.

She had seen combat. In the gladiatorial ring. In a few skirmishes as she had journeyed from Rome to Britannia. Like any good Roman, she admired fine fighting skill, for it revealed not merely a strong body, but also a quick mind. She could claim no expertise in the techniques of armed battle, only knowing talent when she saw it.

Her gaze held fast to Bram. She could not look away even if the Dark One appeared right beside her. This—Bram in combat—this was beautiful.

Bram and Worton traded strikes. They circled, struck, lunged and darted back. Worton had the advantage of height and reach, yet Bram had speed and vicious accuracy. Their swords rang as they exchanged blows. A furious exchange.

She was rapt. This was not a genteel sparring exercise. These men seemed gripped by a need to hurt one another. They grunted as their padded jackets absorbed the sword point’s force—though the points were dulled, the strikes still would have wounded were it not for the jackets’ protection. Worton fought hard, relentlessly, yet he could not match Bram for ability.

In truth, Bram seemed made for this. He had a fluidity of motion that enthralled her. Each strike from Worton he blocked with the speed of a serpent, and his own attacks were brutally, savagely beguiling. She had seen him practice his combat, but with a true opponent, he transformed into another man. A man well-versed in the art of killing.

Had he been this adept, or did soldiering shape him into an expert fighter? Whatever the origin, it came to full fruition here. Men would gladly lose years off their lives if they could wield a blade with half of Bram’s ability.

Murmurs distracted her enough to pull her gaze away from Bram for a moment. The other swordsmen had stopped their practice in order to watch Bram and Worton fight, as though drawn by the force of Bram’s skill.

“A guinea says Rothwell takes it,” someone said.

“Only a damned fool would bet against him,” came the answer.

Worton must have heard this pronouncement, for his attacks increased, growing stronger, more aggressive. Yet Bram continually beat him back. He fought with targeted hostility, as though far more than a gentleman’s reputation with the sword was at stake. She wondered if, when Bram looked upon Worton, he saw someone else, something else. The Hellraisers? The Dark One? Perhaps even himself?

The light of fury rose in Bram’s eyes. Sweat glossed his forehead. As soon as Worton began his retreat, Bram pressed forward, giving no quarter. Worton backed away, until he couldn’t go any further, the wall behind him. He tried to block a strike—too late. The point of Bram’s sword struck him right in the heart. A fatal blow without the padded jacket and dulled tip.

Worton lowered his blade. “I yield,” he panted.

Yet Bram advanced, his expression hard and merciless. His sword point hovered close to Worton’s right eye. The bigger man sucked in a breath as he pressed against the wall. He dropped his sword, and the sound reverberated metallically through the chamber.

Would Bram actually drive his blade into Worton’s skull? He truly might. Even with the tip of the sword blunted, it could pierce an eye—and, wielded with strength, go even further.

“I say, Rothwell,” someone called. “The man’s yielded.”

“My lord,” added Tranmere nervously, hovering near, “you’ve won.”

Bram showed no signs of hearing them. A demand to kill seemed to have him, unrelenting. He kept his sword close to Worton’s eye. The bigger man screwed his eyes shut, as though something as flimsy as an eyelid could stop a blade.

This must not happen.

She drifted close, keeping herself unseen, and spoke directly into Bram’s thoughts.

Fine warrior you are, to slay an unarmed man.

He’s the enemy, Bram answered.

Of what? Hygiene? I’m sure the sweat of his fear stinks like rancid meat.

I have to kill him.

Go ahead. Yet it takes a special variety of coward to kill a man with no weapon.

I’m not a damned coward!

Then put your sword down.

Bram blinked, as though awakening from a daze. He stared at the cringing Worton, then down at the blade in his hand. Slowly, he looked around at the faces of the gathered men, their eyes wide and expressions cautious.

“My lord?” Tranmere took a wary step forward.

The tip of Bram’s sword lowered, then he dropped his hand, so the point scraped against the floor. Worton and everyone else within the chamber exhaled. Even Livia, who had no need of breath, eased out a sigh.

Bram glared around the room, almost in challenge. No one accepted. Without a word, he strode from the room.

He stormed down the winding, narrow stairwell. Men ascending the stairs pressed into the wall, careful to avoid his gaze and angry scowl. Bound as she was to him, Livia hovered at his side, his rage and confusion twisting beneath the surface of her own phantasmal skin.

This has happened before, she said.

Not to me. His voice in her mind was a snarl. Not since I left soldiering.

When I freed the Dark One, she amended. A madness gripped everyone, a need for blood. I saw a respected citizen, a merchant, stab the proprietor of a bathhouse for having the water too hot. There were riots in the marketplace. The army mutinied.

So I’m a symptom of a greater illness, he answered.

Not an illness. A plague.

She and Bram reached the street. Clouds obscured the sun, throwing the remaining daylight into early shadow. A servant hurried to open the door to the waiting carriage, but Bram was faster, and he threw the door open himself. He flung himself into the vehicle. It rocked with the force of his body against the upholstered seat.

“Home,” he snapped to the servant.

The servant closed the door and hopped onto the back of the carriage.

She hovered at the sidewalk, invisible, watching the carriage drive away. A woman crouched by the side of the street, a child in the crook of her arm. The woman stretched her hand out to all the fine gentlemen walking past. No one threw her any coin. The child—girl or boy, Livia could not tell—stared directly at Livia.

“Strange lady,” it chirped. Yet its mother paid no attention, busy wheedling and beseeching the passersby.

Someone walking quickly knocked the woman to the ground. They did not stop to help her up. Nobody did, and the child began to cry.

A sharp tug yanked Livia from where she hovered. She was dragged behind Bram’s carriage like a tattered ribbon. Helpless to stop herself, she could only follow, unseen by everyone she passed. She had never felt so alone.

Not quite alone. Down the length of the connection binding her to Bram, she heard his thoughts.

I don’t know myself anymore. I don’t know a damned thing. I’m lost.

She had been lost too, not so long ago. Yet Bram had an advantage that she had not: a guide. Would he accept her guidance, or continue to fall headlong into the dark unknown? Once, she might have cast an augury spell taken from the arcane wisdom of the Etruscans. Her magic had been split apart since then, and as to what the future held, in that she was as lost as Bram.


In the glass, Bram surveyed his appearance, a soldier readying himself for battle. The night and its pleasures were a battle, one from which he always emerged victorious. Nothing would change that.

He studied his reflection as his valet made final adjustments to his ensemble. The deep red velvet of his slim coat appeared almost black until candlelight turned it the hue of spilled blood. Complex embroidery worked its way down the front of his bronze satin waistcoat and at the very cuff of his matching breeches. The black silk solitaire around his neck could not fully hide his scar—nothing did. He’d grown almost used to the fact by now.

With his hair pulled back into a simple queue and bagged in silk, his stockings faultlessly white, his buckled shoes gleaming, and the jeweled shortsword at his side, he appeared every inch the aristocrat, a man who expected and would receive entrance anywhere he chose. No one would suspect that only hours earlier, he’d nearly killed a man for no reason. All that had prevented him from taking Worton’s eye—and life—had been the scornful words of a ghost.