Zoe Archer - Sinner’s Heart

Livia did not watch the city as it slithered toward pandemonium. Her dark gaze rested solely on him, and he felt it in every bone, every breath. He hadn’t known that a man could feel both ancient and restive, exhausted and spurred to action. The process of living, and nearly dying, brought him far more education than university ever could.

“But hell is here.” He gestured toward the spires and roofs. “You might have brought it forth originally, but the Hellraisers and I . . . we gave it fertile fields. Watered it with our sins. It grows, and if nothing is done, the harvest will be plentiful.”

“A reaper of souls, is the Dark One.”

“Including mine.” He rubbed at his shoulder, the markings’ phantom heat spreading out in waves. “For me, hell is a guarantee. Yet I can stop it from consuming the world.”

Livia straightened, then drifted closer, slowly, as if afraid he might bolt away like a stag flushed from the bracken. He thought he might feel numb, or fearful. Instead, tumblers within him clicked into place. Unlocking a certitude he hadn’t anticipated.

“Speak plainly,” Livia urged, “for there cannot be uncertainty. Not in this.”

He gazed at the moon, then at her. They shared a timeless radiance, and she worked her will upon the tides of his intention. Yet no one could make him do anything. He alone dictated his actions. When words formed on his lips, they were his words, fraught and unsparing.

“I’ve been in hiding, but I can hide no longer.” He inhaled, smoke from the burning city clouding his lungs, then breathed out. “The time to fight is now.”

It was an odd sensation—wanting something for so long, and then finally gaining the objective you desired. The feeling mystified Livia. She merely stared at Bram as they stood high above the city atop this immense building, aware of the vast blanket of night and the rooftops and the river and a thousand other things. Yet she was hardly able to understand the meaning of his words.

“I refuse to be toyed with,” she said. “I must know where you stand.”

“I’ve stood in shadow,” he answered, his voice low but resolved. “I won’t be accepted into the light—I’m too far gone for that—but I won’t turn away, either.” He rested his broad hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Since I’ve come back from war, I’ve done nothing with this blade but practice or battle imagined foes. But my strength is in the fight. In the killing of my enemies. That’s my true purpose.” His gaze burned in the darkness. “I’ll fight at your side.”

This thing welling inside of her . . . she struggled to identify it. A hard, luminous rising. She pressed her hand between her breasts, though she could feel no heartbeat, no flesh beneath her palm. Something was there, however, alive and emergent. The feeling grew the more she looked upon him.

The radiance from her spectral form cast silver light upon him, illuminating the sharp contours of his face and the gem-bright blue of his eyes. The veil of apathy had fallen away. Here was the man who had been a soldier. Was a soldier once more.

She moved closer, lifting her hands. He held himself still as she neared. The moment was fraught, an infinity of time within the span of a second. Once, he had looked at her with hatred. Now, tense anticipation honed his expression, as though he wanted her touch.

He would be solid beneath her hands, a powerful weapon of a man, taut with muscle. The beat of his heart would resonate against her. He was purpose and intent. She would feel all this in only a touch, and craved it as a bird craved flight.

When she placed her palms on his chest, disappointment stabbed her. She felt nothing. Her hands actually moved through him.

They both looked down at the sight. Until she pulled away. Her insubstantial body served as reminder—she could never again have the comfort and pleasure of touch. Especially not his.

This was not the moment for thinking of what she had lost. There were greater battles ahead.

Her thwarted touch seemed to turn the heat in his gaze to something harder, shadowed, as though a bonfire could be made of darkness rather than light.

“I’ll cut them down,” he said, jaw tight. “John and Mr. Holliday might know the way of magic, but I know war.”

At that moment, standing high above the city, sword at the ready and eyes ablaze, he was war. Merciless and inexorable. It stirred a primal fear and fascination within her, and she could not look away.

“You’re a different soldier now,” she said.

“Stronger.”

“In body, yes. In humanity, as well.”

His mouth twisted. “I’ve none of that.” He tilted his head back, showing her the length of his throat and the scar that ran along it. “The pulse you see there beating quickly—it’s not the chance to do good that speeds my heart. I want to feel the bite of flesh against my steel. I want to smell blood again.” He lowered his chin. “It’s the fight I hunger for. Humanity has been ripped from me.”

“You say that to convince yourself,” she answered. “I know differently. The Dark One may have your soul, but it exists. And we shall reclaim it, no matter the challenge.”

“We can’t.”

“There are vaults, all gemini keep them. The souls of their prey are kept there. The vaults weren’t as impregnable as the Dark One and his minions believed.” She smiled cruelly. “That was my doing. Two Hellraisers’ souls I’ve helped to free. Doubtless your Mr. Holliday has learned hard lessons, and the vault where your soul is kept is surely more protected than the others, but heed me, we will find a means of stealing back your soul.”

He pressed his knuckles against his chest. “Doing so would reveal to Mr. Holliday and John that I’m no longer their ally. No, the tactical thing to do is leave my blighted soul exactly where it is—in the Devil’s possession.”

“Simply abandon it?” She scowled. “That leaves you imperiled. If you should die before we retrieve your soul, your eternity shall be torment and suffering, like all the other damned.”

“If I die and am sent to Hell, it’s what I deserve.” He spoke over her objections. “We cannot let either Mr. Holliday or John know that I’m not of their number. My soul has to stay where it is. For now.”

Curse him, he was right. Yet, the thought of him trapped in eternal agony was a cage of burning iron around her heart. “When the time is right, your soul shall be liberated.”

He seemed disinterested, as though they discussed the retrieval of a pair of boots. “Issues of my withered soul aside, I own that I’m unfamiliar with battling the Devil. Military strategies won’t apply when facing demons and the powers of hell.”

“Not so. For the first matter of business is assessing strengths and weaknesses, and gathering allies.”

“Whit and Leo,” he said. “And their women, the Gypsy and the lady.”

“I’ve no way to use my own magic now, but the women can, and their men are strong.” She nodded. “We need them here.”

“The last I saw of them was outside Leo’s home, weeks ago. Just after—” His jaw tightened; he had to be thinking of his friend’s death. “They’ve likely made a temporary retreat from London as they regroup.”

“They must be found, and summoned back.”

He made a soft scoffing noise. “Neither Whit nor Leo are the kind of men who take well to summoning.”

Tilting up her chin, she answered, “Their masculine pride must suffer in these circumstances.” She had fought beside them before. Both men had proven themselves as willing and capable warriors. As had their women.

“We weren’t on affable terms when we parted.” His laughter was hollow, resonant with loss. “They’ll do nothing to aid me, and with good cause.”

“Much has altered between then and now,” she said. “That won’t escape them.”

“They need to be found before any of this can be tested. Once we lived in each others’ pockets. Now I’ve no idea where they are. Dozens or hundreds of miles could separate us. Nowhere to send a letter, and even if I had their direction, it could take weeks for any communication to reach them.”

Now it was her turn to scoff. “Your thoughts are too prosaic. Magic can shorten the distance between us.”

“At one time, yours might have. Conditions have changed since then.” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

“That fact is never forgotten.” She felt like a sculptor whose hands had been chopped off.

Hot anger constricted her throat. She had crossed the boundary between the living and the dead, exhausted herself time and again channeling magic into mortals and using her own power to fight. And the last, strongest Hellraiser had finally stepped into the fray. She could not allow herself to fall short, not now.

“If you had all of your magic,” he said, “would such a thing be possible? Locating Whit and Leo, mustering them to London?”

“Yes. The work of a few minutes.”

“Then we’ll make use of that magic.”

She scowled. “Already you’ve forgotten that I possess no magic.”

“You have half. The other half resides . . . in me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “The two of us, working magic together.” She could hardly believe him. “You said you would not attempt such a thing.”

“The last time you made that request, you were attempting to kill me with your magic. The poles have shifted since then.”

The wind gathered in strength, his long coat catching against his legs and billowing behind him. Strands of his hair came loose from his queue. A fierce living energy radiated from him, as though he had emerged from dormancy, his strength greater than before.