An animal sound rumbled deep within him. His tongue met hers, and they loosed themselves upon each other. A greedy consuming. He tasted of autumn apples and masculine spice. The first thing she had tasted since made flesh. Over a thousand years, she had known no flavor, and now—him. If she tasted nothing else for the rest of her days, she would be content.

He pressed her tight between the wall and his body. She pushed back into him, straining. She felt his kiss everywhere. She learned her own body all over again, discovering it as his kiss drew awareness from her and filled her with sensation. It was a revelation of the soft and needy places in her body, in the thick beat of her heart. Her hands drifted from his chest to roam all over him, at last knowing the hewn hardness of his form, taut and muscled and living.

She gasped against his mouth when he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the wall.

“The final thread of my sanity will snap if you keep touching me,” he rumbled.

“I’ve been mad,” she said, breathless. “We can lose our minds together.”

Yet he did not release her. Finally she knew his true strength, unrelenting, as he held her fast to the wall. He trailed his mouth along her jaw, then lower, down the curve of her neck, until he reached the hollow at the base of her throat. He licked her there, and made a growling sound of appreciation.

“Succulent,” he murmured. “All of you.”

Her body had fully wakened. She knew what she was capable of, and wanted it with him. “Kiss me again,” she demanded. “Just one.”

Yet he stepped back. “We both know it can’t stop at one kiss. And we both know that we have to get the hell out of here. Now.”

Every part of her protested. She also knew he spoke the truth, much as it pained her.

She pushed away from the wall. “How far is it to this . . . Wapping?”

His gaze raked her. “Too far.” Yet he held out his hand to her.

After drawing a shuddering breath, she laced her fingers with his.

He moved to rest his free hand on the hilt of his sword, then scowled when he discovered there was no sword. “I’ve a bloody armory at home. But home isn’t a possibility.”

With a quick incantation, she conjured up a small crackle of lightning that sparked from the tips of her fingers. “We aren’t entirely without defense.” Her magic, however, hadn’t its normal strength, tapped as it was by the trying events of the day.

Bram walked along the corridor and down the stairs leading to the basement, towing Livia behind him. They passed through the kitchen, and then stepped out into ashen day. Pale as the sunlight was, she still blinked and squinted, adjusting herself to the new phenomenon.

He glanced at her, and she knew he saw her for the first time in true daylight. She even cast a small shadow, watery though it was in the weak, diffused sunshine.

“A force beyond nature, that’s what you are. Yet you’re mortal, too.” He stared at the place in her wrist where her pulse beat. “Vulnerable. The Devil knows it. And to hurt you, he’ll go to any lengths.”

“I won’t hide. You voyaged to the realm of the dead to ensure I’d fight.”

“So I did. And I wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for you. We fight together.” He placed a fingertip beneath her chin. “I’ll arm myself. Then God help who or whatever stands against us.”

She said nothing. Brave, his words were, but the Dark One was an enemy few could defeat. Whatever had enabled her to trap him once before, she doubted such miracles occurred twice in a lifetime.

Chapter 12

Though the streets were nearly empty, Livia felt herself ablaze with awareness and power. She perceived everything—the wash of light over the cobbles, the feel of clammy air rippling over her skin, the stink of refuse rotting in the gutter. Voices and sounds were louder, sharper, and she drew everything into herself, feeding upon sensation.

Bram rode through the city, with her sitting behind him, her arms clasped about his waist. She held onto him as a means to restrain herself. Now that she possessed form and flesh, she wanted to devastate, to devour everything. The greed she had felt once was miniscule by comparison. She had been denied for a millennium. No longer. Magic and power hummed through her veins. She felt herself capable of anything.

Valeria Livia Corva had returned.

Pushing down her avarice taxed her. It felt as though she struggled to chain a starved lioness. And everywhere was meat, fresh and bloody.

Bram drew up beside a shop and dismounted. After helping her down, they went inside, his hand a continual assuring presence as it clasped hers.

A bell rang when they entered. Merchandise of every description filled the small shop—chairs and desks, baskets brimming with clothing, porcelain, framed paintings, even stringed musical instruments. Light barely penetrated the crowded window.

A dark-haired woman emerged from the dusty shadows. Livia whirled to face her, then saw herself. She stared at her reflection in a mirror. Tentative, she approached, studying herself. She had not truly seen herself in over a thousand years. The mirrors of this era were far better than the ones of her time, revealing every nuance and detail in their polished surfaces.

“How may I be of assistance, my lord?” A shopkeeper appeared, her gray hair pinned beneath a cap. She paused when she saw the bloodstains on Bram’s clothing.

“I’ve need of several items,” answered Bram.

The shopkeeper recovered. “There is nothing you cannot find in my establishment.”

“Swords.”

“I keep them in the back,” she replied.

“Bring them out. Quickly, for we’ve not much time.”

“Yes, my lord.” There came a soft clatter as the woman picked her way to the back of her shop.

Livia barely heard their conversation. Her attention held on the image of herself in the mirror. There—she could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and she could just make out the faintest crease in the corner of each eye. And a few silver strands interwove with her dark hair. At the time of her death, she had not been a girl, but a woman grown. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

Bram’s image appeared behind hers in the mirror. Dark, lean, his jaw and cheeks covered with stubble but his eyes sharp as cut sapphires, he was as feral as she.

“Are you as you remembered yourself?” he asked.

“That woman was greedy and vain.” She traced her finger around the outline of her face in the glass. “A wicked creature.”

“Transformation is better than reformation.”

She exhaled a small laugh. “If I’m to keep myself in check, you’ll need to offer me more restraint than that.”

“The last thing I can offer you is restraint.” Raw hunger gleamed in his eyes.

A throb of need resounded low in her belly. What they had started back in the abandoned house truly was the beginning of something ravenous, something that could consume them both in its heat and immensity.

They both seemed to understand that they hadn’t the luxury of time to explore their desire. Their gazes broke apart, an act of mutual self-preservation.

“Here you are, sir,” the shopkeeper said, returning. She cleared off a section of the cluttered counter and set several long wooden cases atop it. “All legitimately acquired, I can assure you. From gentlemen who have found themselves in impecunious circumstances.”

Both Livia and Bram turned to examine the cases as the shopkeeper opened the lids. Rust-colored velvet cradled half a dozen swords of different sizes and shapes, some thin-bladed, others heavier and curved. Knowing little of weaponry, Livia watched Bram as his trained and critical gaze moved over the various swords.

He picked up one weapon and frowned at it, turning it this way and that, running his finger along its edge. Whatever he saw there did not meet his standards, and he returned it to the case. He took another sword and did the same inspection. Moving into the center of the shop, he took several practice swings, his movements precise and fluid.

As many times as Livia had seen Bram in combat or even practicing his swordplay, she continued to be enthralled by the sight of him in motion. The shopkeeper thought so, as well.

“This will do,” Bram said, setting the sword on the counter. “A pistol, too, if you have one.”

“I do,” the woman answered. “I also have some fine garments that might interest you, my lord. And you, my . . . er . . . lady,” she added, glancing at Livia. Her gaze moved over Livia’s tunic and sandals.

“Bring those, as well,” said Bram.

“My tunic is made of silk from Seres,” Livia insisted when the shopkeeper bustled off again. “Carried thousands of miles upon the backs of camels, over treacherous mountains and scorching deserts.”

“Lovely, to be sure. But a beautiful woman dressed in the style of Ancient Rome invites attention. And we don’t want attention.”

He was right. Too many dangers lurked close. When the shopkeeper returned, her arms full of rustling dresses, Livia selected one that seemed closest to her size and preference—a gown of apricot-hued silk, trimmed with blue ribbon. The ribbon was frayed, and some of the stitches along the sleeves gaped. Livia eyed this evidence of wear with distaste. She had never worn second hand garments.

“I’ll take you back to Madame De Jardin’s,” Bram said. “A whole new wardrobe, made for you alone.”

Neither voiced the question as to when they would have the gowns made. It spoke of a future that she nor Bram could vouch for.