His body tightened in response. It knew she had flesh now, that she could be touched, and both his heart and his body demanded the same thing—her.

Yet she was hungry, tired, overwhelmed by the world and the immensity of the enemy they faced. The curse barring the Hellraisers from coming to their aid needed to be broken. She had to cast the spell to break that curse. He had to keep a harsh rein on his needs, painful though it was.

She rose up from the blanket, took the lantern, and moved toward him. Her footsteps echoed softly through the warehouse, and this simple sound made his blood race as she approached.

The lamplight gilded her skin, the underside of her jaw, and nestled in the shadows of her hair. She had a rolling, sensuous walk, full-hipped.

Her gaze was troubled as she came to stand before him. “This place is ill-omened.”

“Not an amiable part of the city, Wapping. Sailors live here.”

“It’s not a mortal evil I sense.”

His sword was drawn before she finished speaking. He glared into the darkness. “Damn—thought we’d be safe here.”

“For now, we are,” she amended. “But our safety won’t last. The realm below is a kettle on the verge of boiling over, their world erupting into ours.”

“And John’s the bastard throwing fuel on the fire.” Bram sheathed his sword. “The time to move against him is now.”

“The time is soon,” she corrected. “When this”—she set the lantern upon the floor and twin spheres of light appeared in her palms, gleaming with power—“grows stronger.”

“I’ve weapons of my own.” He glanced at his sword and pistol.

“And more.” One of the spheres of light blinked away, and she touched the tips of her fingers to the center of his chest. Yet when she touched him, another gleam appeared—and he was its origin. Its warmth spread through him.

“How?” he wondered.

“Because I helped you unlock your magic.” She took her fingers away, and the light continued to shine. “Years of study and training were needed before I could truly access my power. For you, it’s merely the work of a few moments.”

“Never thought I was gifted with magic.”

“On your own—no. You had a benefit I did not.” She smiled at him. “Me.”

They both watched as the light slowly faded, a lambent warmth lingering within him.

She said, “Now you wield your power the way a priestess might.”

“A priest, not a priestess. And I refuse to take a vow of chastity.”

“I may as well ask the fire not to burn.” Her smile dimmed. “You and I aren’t enough to win this war.”

He saw what she meant to do. “You aren’t strong enough yet.”

“There isn’t time to wait. It must be done now. Tonight.”

“At what risk to you?”

“Impossible to know.”

“Damn it,” he growled, “I didn’t stick a blade into my own chest just to lose you again.”

Her dark gaze held his. “No one is more aware of what you sacrificed. This is the reason you made that choice. The peril is greater now. My magic is, too.”

She spoke the truth. He did not like it. “I’ll lend my power to yours.”

“All I ask of you is vigilance whilst I work the spell.”

He gave a clipped nod.

“Come back with me to the blanket,” she said, nodding toward their makeshift accommodations. “The spell requires I should kneel, and I’ve no desire to test the fortitude of my new flesh upon this . . .” She eyed the grimy floor. “. . . This surface.”

They returned to where the woolen blanket was spread upon the ground. She set the lantern down, then arranged several objects upon the blanket—things she’d gathered from the chandler’s. The feather, the stub of a candle, a pearl.

When she’d positioned them to her liking, she kicked off her slippers, revealing glimpses of slim feet and curved ankles. Need built as she knelt upon the blanket, her movements economical yet elegant, her skirts billowing around her like faded petals upon water.

“Have you a blade?”

Frowning, he handed her the knife he had found in the desk. His jaw clenched when she dragged the blade across her thumb, a bright line of crimson appearing in its wake.

She dripped blood upon the objects, staining the feather, candle and pearl with red. Then she trickled her blood on the ground, murmuring softly as she did so. It looked obscene, the red purity of her blood mixing with the filth coating the floor. A desecration of her body. Yet her expression remained composed, removed, as blood fell in ruby droplets.

His hand upon his sword, senses attuned to the slightest movement or sound, he watched her eyes close. Her dark lashes were lacy against the upper curve of her cheek. The arcane words she murmured grew in strength and volume. They seemed to fill the cavernous space of the warehouse with their intricacy, complex as labyrinths.

Light gathered around her, gold and lambent. It covered her, its radiance like a cascade sweeping across her in waves. An unseen wind pulled her hair from its pins so it blew about her shoulders. Though Bram remained alert to any signs of intrusion, he could not look away from her, shining like a goddess. Her magic turned the air electric. He could feel it in the reticulation of his veins and sponge of his lungs. When he breathed, he breathed her power.

The glow surrounding her grew, spreading outward until it formed a sphere that encompassed them both. Energy skittered across his skin.

The light abruptly flickered, dimming. Livia swayed and her voice weakened. She looked suddenly haggard. Alarmed, he darted forward. Something was awry. Yet before he could touch her, her eyes opened. They glowed. Her irises and pupils were no longer visible, replaced by more golden light.

He halted, his hand hovering over her shoulder. She stared directly at him, but did not see him at all. She chanted louder. With a flare, the glow surrounding her returned, stronger now, so that it stretched out in a radius that engulfed half the warehouse.

A gust of wind pushed Bram back. He struggled to keep standing as Livia’s voice increased in volume and the tempest battered at him.

The unknown language she spoke shifted, and she cried in English, “Return—there are no barriers! Hellraisers, the time to undo your wickedness is at hand. Revertimini! ”

The light around her flared, blinding him, and the warehouse shook. Small pieces of wood shook down from the ceiling and struck the floor. Abruptly, the wind died, the light was quenched, and stillness enfolded the building.

Bram blinked, clearing his vision from its dull red glow. He rushed forward when he saw Livia supine upon the blanket.

Falling to his knees, he gathered her up. She lay listless and unmoving in his arms. But for the slight rise and fall of her chest, she was utterly still. He stroked her hair, her cheeks, his heart pounding fierce enough to rip from the cage of his ribs. She felt altogether too slight, too fragile. Her cheeks were pale, the beat of her pulse barely fluttering against the fine skin of her throat.

He brushed his lips against hers. Light as thistledown, her breath, and shallow. He drew upon it, as though he could pull it from her and drag her back to consciousness.

“Livia, love,” he urged, his voice a rasp, “you aren’t to go anywhere. Is that understood?”

There was no response from her. Not a word spoken, nor even a flutter of an eyelash.

“I’m a wastrel,” he continued, “but I’m a soldier, and a bloody officer. I won’t be gainsaid. Disobeying me is a whipping offense. You obey me now, damn you.”

The softest movement of her lips. She struggled to form words.

His throat burned as it constricted. “What is it, love?”

“I obey . . .” She drew in a thready breath. “. . . No one.”

“Just this one time, do what you’re told.” His heart was a leaping animal when her eyes opened, dark and rich, and focused on him. He could not stop touching her face.

“Only this once,” she whispered. “I caution you, however . . . do not get . . . accustomed to such behavior.”

“I am duly warned.” He glanced down at the rough woolen blanket spread upon the ground. “Damn. You need to rest, but I don’t want you touching this coarse thing.”

She lifted her head enough to glance around the warehouse. “Take me to the desk.”

He gathered her up in his arms and carried her the distance. The feel of her nestled against him, her soft, sleek weight, coursed like fire.

She instructed, “Say the following.” She spoke series of words in a tongue he’d never heard before.

He repeated the words as best he could. Nothing happened.

“The second syllable of the fourth word needs to be drawn out,” she said, and repeated the spell.

He fought for patience. A damned linguistics lesson when she needed rest. But he mimicked her pronunciation of the words. To his surprise, a glow spread out from his chest. It flowed from him to surround the desk.

When light dissipated, the desk had transformed into a low, Roman-style couch. It had curved wooden legs, elaborately carved and gilded, and was covered by a long silk-wrapped cushion. More bright silk pillows were strewn about the couch, tasseled with gold. A small brazier at the foot of the couch sent spice-fragrant smoke curling up toward the beams of the ceiling.

“A useful spell,” he murmured. “We could’ve used this when first we arrived here.”

“The outcome of my spellcasting was unknown. I was uncertain if we would need your magic for something else. Healing, or retrieval. But now . . .”

Carefully, he arranged her on the couch. Her skirts rustled as she settled back, combining with her sigh in an intimate caress of sound.