“This isn’t gentlemanly, either,” said Bram, and he lunged with his sword at the Dark One.

The Devil merely waved his hand, and the sword in Bram’s grip transformed into a snake. Instead of stabbing the Dark One, the serpent reared back, hissing. Bram threw the snake across the chamber before it could strike him. It coiled in the corner.

“Don’t need a blade to make you hurt,” Bram growled. In a blur of movement, he darted forward, fists swinging.

The Dark One merely waved his hand again, and Bram flew backward, slamming into the wall. Chunks of plaster rained down as he groaned and slid to the ground, conscious but dazed.

Red-limned fury boiled through Livia. She sensed her magic within her, whole now. Yet difficult to wield—this physical body of hers felt ungainly after the lightness of being a phantom.

She imagined the shapes of ancient symbols, simplest writing from the earliest time of desert and flood. With them called forth the most powerful spell she knew, a killing curse. Burning power poured through her, singeing her within—she had forgotten how visceral magic could be. It fed her rage. With a snarl, she flung the spell at the Dark One, and it shot from her hands like lightning.

Smirking, the Devil simply flicked his fingers, and the spell turned to a clot of harmless black flies. They flitted away into the dust of the house.

“Truly, Valeria Livia Corva,” he sniffed, “have you learned nothing from our long association? None of your magic, nor your flimsy mortal weapons, can harm me.”

Livia only glared at him as she hurried to Bram’s side. He was already rising to his feet, despite the hard blow he’d been given. Still, he looked a little unsteady, and she wrapped her arm around his waist, supporting him as he stood.

Despite the Dark One’s presence, she yet marveled at the feel of Bram, at her own solidity and the heat and sensation of his body.

“You’ve cost me a great many souls,” the Devil continued. He held up Bram’s soul, admiring it the way one would a prized bauble. “This one I shall keep.” He turned his pale, cold gaze on Bram. “The promise you held—all wasted.”

“If I get to slice that smirk off your face,” Bram answered, “then nothing’s wasted.”

The Dark One pressed his lips together into a white line. “Your mistake is a costly one. There shall be no safety. No peace. Killing you will be merely the commencement of your suffering.”

He did not snap his fingers nor wave his hand. The Devil simply disappeared like a candle winking out. Yet he left behind a miasma of evil, choking the air with its malevolence. Livia’s stomach roiled from it—and she started at the unfamiliar sensation.

Rage followed on its heels. “If I could rip him into bloody scraps, I’d do it.”

Bram laughed humorlessly. “Damned once more.”

“We’ll get it back,” she said, heated.

“Love, I never thought to get my soul back at all.”

She stared at him, and her throat tightened. “If the Dark One hadn’t already done so, I’d curse you a thousand times.” The urge to strike out was so strong, she clenched her hands into fists.

He raised his brows. “You’ve an odd way to show gratitude.”

“Gratitude!” She stalked to him. “How am I to feel grateful to you for killing yourself? With my own eyes I watched your blood pool on the floor, I saw the life leave your body.” Her voice was a rough rasp. “And there was nothing, not one accursed thing, I could do to help.”

His gaze darkened. “I’d never willingly pain you. I wish it hadn’t been so, but there it is.”

“So insouciant about your own death. Knowing that you were to face eternal suffering. Why? Why would do such a thing?”

Quietly he said, “You know why.”

Her breath left her in a hiss. A shock to feel her eyes heat.

“In war, there were so many I couldn’t save,” he said. “Even my death couldn’t have helped them. Yet I had a chance to save you, and, by hell’s fire, I had to take it.”

“I’ll not allow you to make such a sacrifice again.”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “Allow? Last I noted, my will was my own.”

“And almost suffered everlasting agony as a result.”

“No—you kept that from happening. Were it not for you, at this moment some demon would be ripping out my entrails. You risked your own eternity for me. So, enough of your rebuke.”

“Swear that you will not take such a chance again,” she insisted.

“Like hell. I’ll do it over and over if I have to. And you’d do the same.”

She could not deny it. Gods, he knew her too well. A terrifying, humbling feeling. “We cannot linger here.” She looked at the snake in the corner. Its jet eyes watching her and Bram, it uncoiled and slithered into a gap in the baseboard. “The Dark One’s power is flawed. He needs others to complete his work. Either he will send demons, or tell John where we are, and finish the job.”

“A shame my father only kept one mistress.” Despite the nonchalance of his words, Bram’s voice was tight with pain as he rubbed the back of his head. “Running out of places to take shelter.” He looked down at her, and his eyes blazed vivid blue. “My God, look at you.” His fingers stroked along her throat, lingering on the flutter of her pulse. “I can touch you. Wherever I want. As long as I want.”

She fought to keep her eyes open, but it was a struggle. She wanted nothing more than to sink into his touch, into this new realm of sensation. Yet—“We must leave,” she said, regretful. “Time runs away from us, and we’re in poor condition to fight.”

He took his hand away, though his movement was reluctant. “There’s a warehouse not far from here, in Wapping. It belongs to Leo. Should be empty.”

“Does John know of it?”

“Unlikely. He had little concern for Leo’s financial endeavors. And I only know of it because Leo tricked me into going. Said there’d be some female company to meet us, yet there wasn’t anything but a shipment of India cotton he wanted to gloat over. I left right away. Found it dull as church.”

Of course he did. “Can you walk?”

He straightened, testing the strength of his legs. “Enough to get to the stable out back.”

“Let us hence,” she said. The corporeal weight of her body felt heavy, and her magic dimmed with her exhaustion. Each moment they tarried in this house meant John or some other demonic creature could be drawing closer, and with them, bringing a fight that neither she nor Bram could win. Not now.

Together, his arm around her shoulders and hers clasped around his waist, they made their way back through the house. They did not get far out of the chamber and into the corridor before he halted their progress.

“Careful,” he said, “there’s broken glass all over the floor.” He frowned at the empty windows. “The Devil’s doing, I’d gather.”

“Mine.” When he glanced down at her questioningly, she explained, “Your . . . death. Distressed me.” Even speaking of it now, when he was beside her and clearly not dead, felt like a fresh wound.

His arm still around her shoulders, Bram turned her to face him. His face seemed carved from stone, harsh and beautiful. The heat of his gaze scorched her, alight with hunger. She had seen his face many times, of course, in memory and in truth. Yet now she gazed upon him with mortal eyes, from within a mortal body, and the difference was potent, both drugging and quickening. She could feel the waves of need coming from him, and the answering demands of her own body.

He released his hold on her shoulder, moving his hands to cup the back of her head. The sensation of his rough fingertips sliding through her hair and against her scalp traveled the length of her body. He walked them backward until she met the wall. It felt as solid and hard as Bram himself. The whole while, his gaze never left hers.

Both weakness and strength surged through her. What he had willingly surrendered, for her . . . she could hardly comprehend it. And to have all of him, solid and true, pressed to her, to have sensation after so long without—it was too much, and she wanted more.

“Your hair, your skin,” he growled. “Everything. I tried so damned hard to imagine what you’d feel like.”

“Have I surpassed your imagining?”

“The difference between a candle and a conflagration. You demolish me.”

Her heart was laid bare. The things she had seen and done in her life, and the centuries that followed, wicked and cruel woman that she was, she’d thought herself inured to emotions such as these. Feelings were for the young and credulous, those who hadn’t gained experience or sense to protect themselves. Here she was, past youth, past innocence, and with his words and gaze and touch, she felt as raw and open as if she had been torn, squalling, from the flesh of the world.

She wanted to touch him everywhere, run her hands over his body, his face. Draw him into her completely. She stretched up on her toes. As she did, her hands and breasts slid along his chest, and she moaned at the contact. The need she felt for him was a palpable thing, an ache.

He tipped her head back. His mouth lowered to hers.

Her breath caught, anticipatory. Their lips touched. She exhaled.

The gods protect her. His kiss . . .

He knew this art. He knew her. But they had never done this together. And it was the dawning of everything.

His lips were firm against hers, yet supple. They traced her mouth, learning the shape and feel in measured exploration. Control did not last—for either of them. For with only a few touches of lips to lips, hunger erupted from its cage, tearing through her. She opened her mouth and stroked her tongue against his.