I recognize that image, Livia whispered. I saw an earlier version of it when I delved into summoning the Dark One.

“The boundary between the two realms is surprisingly slight,” John said. “One only needs a sufficient supply of power, and the gate that divides our world from Hell can be opened. Once it is opened . . .” John’s lips quirked. “Let us say that I shan’t want for soldiers.”

For a moment, Bram could only stare at John. The cut across his hand began to throb, a delayed pain that radiated up his arm.

“Demons,” he said at last. “Fighting for England.”

“Fighting for me,” John corrected. He closed the book and set it back on his desk. “And, Bram, when the time comes to lead this army, there is only one man I want in command.” He stared levelly at Bram.

Despite his intention to appear impassive, Bram couldn’t stop his startled frown. “Me? At the head of a demonic army?”

“Who better?” John spread his hands. “Your military skill is unparalleled. You’ve a surfeit of expertise—and there is no one I trust more.”

“I resigned from the army. I’m done with war.”

“Ah, but think,” John said, persuasive, insinuating, “this war will be fought under your command. Every wrong you saw on the Colonial battlefields, every error in judgment, every misguided order, you can correct them all. You shall have thousands, nay, millions of soldiers—human and demonic—at your command. Combining your ability with such might guarantees clean, unequivocal victory.”

The end, Livia whispered. The end of everything.

Bram said, “You promise me an army of demons, but that illustration is likely the work of a bedlamite. It can’t be taken literally. There’s no gate between Hell and our world.”

A condescending look crossed John’s face. “You do not know what I know, Bram.”

“And you know how to open this gate.”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

John narrowed his eyes. “That knowledge shall remain mine. For a while longer, at least.”

Bram felt his mouth thin. “I’m to be your general, but already we’ve reached the limits of your trust.”

“I simply do not want to confuse the issue.” John paced around his desk. “For now, I only want you to stay alert. Let me know if, in your nocturnal ramblings, you hear anyone speak of me. And if you can use your gifts of persuasion and dissembling to gain more information, all the better.”

Bracing his hands on the desk, John leaned forward. A sliver of afternoon light pierced the curtains, drawing a line down the middle of John’s face, burning white.

“There are only two real Hellraisers now, Bram. You and I. That means a greater share for each of us.”

“Share of what?”

John placed his hand upon the black book, as though taking an oath. “Everything.”


The sexton at St. Paul’s usually did not allow visitors in the upper galleries after dark, but Bram slipped him a shilling, and so by the light of a single taper, he made his solitary way upward. The stairs climbed ever higher, and he ascended like a fallen angel arduously trying to return home from banishment. He half expected to be barred entrance, a clap of thunder or streak of lightning hurling him the hundreds of feet down, to smash his body upon the checkered quire floor and stain the marble with his blood.

Livia continued in her silence. Not a word or thought from her since Bram had left John’s study. She said nothing, even as Bram wound his way into the soaring dome of the cathedral. Candles flickered far below, distant as dreams, but the stairs and upper galleries remained dark. She expressed no awe in the gold and white walls, nor in the towering height. Her silence felt like a constricting band of iron. Yet he forced himself upward, from the Whispering Gallery to the Stone Gallery encircling the dome. Until, at last, he reached the Golden Gallery at the very top.

Stepping out from the cupola, Bram walked to the railing. He blew out the candle and set it at his feet. There, spread out on all sides, was the whole of London.

“A god’s prospect,” he murmured.

Livia shimmered into view, the light of her form coalescing. She had been so long in his mind, to actually see her again produced a strange, resonant thrill. Though an icy wind blew, causing Bram’s coat to billow, her robes remained still and her hair kept its intricate arrangement. She stared out at the city, giving Bram the clean elegance of her Italianate profile.

Still, she remained mute. They looked at the city together, yet separate, choked in silence.

“I’ve been up here a few times.” He spoke into the darkness. “Always during the day. Hard to see much of anything at night.”

The shard of moon threw enough light to see the twisting, sluggish Thames snaking its way toward the sea. Tiled roofs reflected back the illumination, but the streets themselves were all in shadow, broken fitfully here and there by link and lamp. Despite the darkness, the city was not quiet. Shouts and screams rose up from all corners, harsh laughter and cries. A fire burned in Whitechapel. A clot of flame revealed a mob moving through the lanes of Smithfield. Only the distant hills of Hampstead were peaceful. Yet it wouldn’t be long before the madness infecting London spread outward and into the country.

Words spilled from him, as if he could build a barrier with them, holding back the rising flood. “I often thought it would be exciting to have a woman up here. She could grip the railing as I lifted her skirts. We’d see the entire city as we took our pleasure.”

“And if the height frightened her?”

He started. He hadn’t expected Livia to speak, or perhaps the first words from her would be a bitter condemnation.

He nodded toward the stone cupola behind them. “We’d make use of that wall. If she was very afraid, she could close her eyes.” He raised a brow. “Are you frightened by heights?”

“They mean nothing to me now.”

Again, smothering silence descended. Bram’s hand continued to pain him, though the wound was superficial. He glanced down at his palm. Within a few days, the cut would vanish, his body obliterating evidence of his actions.

“I’ve failed.” Her voice was flat, devoid of life. She still would not look at him. “For the first time, I did not accomplish what I set out to do. The others, Whit and Leo, and their women, they could not have defeated the Dark One without me. And this—turning you from him—was my most important task.”

“There’s been no failure.”

She gazed at his hand, where dried blood formed an arrow across his skin. “You have taken a blood oath. With him.”

“I cut myself. He cut himself. We shook hands. Nothing else happened.”

“How can you say that?” Disbelief edged her words. “The taking of a blood oath is sacred, inviolate—”

“Perhaps you’ve noticed,” he drawled, “that I don’t hold much respect for anything, especially the sacred and inviolate.”

She stared at him. “It was . . .”

“A ruse.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “John had to trust me. The meaningless spilling of blood seemed a ready means of gaining that trust.”

“And everything else, all the claims you made about joining his cause—more deceit?”

“John’s a chary bastard. He’d reveal nothing without securing my support.”

He thought she might smile, or sob her relief. Instead, her scowl was fierce, her gaze hot. “You said nothing! Played your part and kept me in ignorance!”

“Is that why you’re angry? Don’t like being in the dark?”

“Damn you,” she spat. “You might’ve given me the smallest hint what you were about.”

He shook his head. “John cannot read the minds of the Hellraisers, but he’s sodding perspicacious. If I let even a trace of duplicity enter my thoughts, he’d have read it on my face. So I kept quiet.” He stared at her. “You believed I meant everything I said to him.”

“Taking a blood oath is usually reserved for the sincere.”

“That, I am not.”

At last, her hands came up, covering her face. Her shoulders sank. He suppressed the urge to touch her, comfort her. She had no body to touch, and would rebuff his efforts, even had she flesh to touch. But her moment of vulnerability ended quickly.

“You are,” she said, lowering her hands, “a devious bastard.” She made this sound like a compliment.

“I wasn’t always so. Perhaps you’ve been influencing me.”

Bracing his forearms on the railing, he looked out over the rooftops of London. From this vantage, it was a collection of miniatures, tiny structures that could be scattered by a strong wind. Less than a hundred years earlier, half the city burned to the ground, and thousands of corpses littered the streets, felled by plague. It rose up again, but not much stronger. The city could burn once more. It did already.

His ride from John’s home to St. Paul’s had been fraught with horrors. More brawls, more destruction. Thrice he had beaten savagely men in the middle of assaulting women. Everywhere across the city, scenes were enacted. Atop the cathedral’s dome, he saw and heard all.

“In the Colonies,” he said, “I saw hell on earth. Acts of barbarism I never would’ve believed, had not I witnessed them with my own eyes. My father died of a fever whilst I was fighting, and all I could think was that he’d been given a clean, merciful death. Soon after I returned, my brother got a miniscule cut on his leg that turned septic. It killed him and I inherited a title I never thought to possess. All I sought to do with its privilege was staunch the memories with as much pleasure as I could grasp. Not precisely the heir my father had intended. But I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was ensuring I never experienced that hell again.”