“Because we took pity on you,” Bram called back.

A snarl twisted John’s face. “I’m gathering Hell’s might behind me. A handful of dissolute libertines and their sluts cannot keep me from my fate.”

“Nor shall we.” Livia looked scornful. “Your destiny is to burn in the flames of the Underworld for eternity. I’m eager to escort you to your fate.”

Snarling, John flung out a hand. A bolt of black fire leapt from his palm. It shot across the field. Bram and Livia pulled their horses sharply to the side, narrowly missing the bolt. It tore into the ground, scorching the grass and flinging rocks.

Bringing his horse back under control, Bram allowed himself the fullness of his rage. It filled him with a cold, deliberate purpose. He dismounted and handed the reins to Livia, who watched him cautiously.

He drew his sword. A trusted weapon. It had saved his life more times than he could recall, had tasted the blood of his enemies and hungered for more. The feel of it in his hand was natural, right.

“I’ve need of your strength,” he said to Livia.

“It is yours. Always.”

He turned to face John and his growing demon army. Despite every soldierly instinct telling him not to, he closed his eyes. Yet he could not allow any distractions. Within himself, he felt the sharp edge of his magic. He drew on it, drew on the anger and darkness and demand for combat. Livia’s magic surged in him, as well, hot and bright as an unforgiving sun, and he welcomed her ruthless power.

There were lives to avenge. Lives to save—especially Livia’s. The task fell to him. He could not falter, nor fail.

The magic within him rose up. He did not know incantations and spells as Livia did. Instinct alone led him. He opened his eyes. Blue energy crackled around him, the sky overhead suddenly filling with jagged streaks of lightning.

A sharp, loud snap. Lightning struck his sword. Its current traveled through the metal, through his veins, filling him with power. He embraced it, pulling it deep, illuminating the darkest corners of his fury.

Livia was there, beside him. “Your eyes . . .”

He studied his reflection in the blade of his sword. Though the blade itself seethed with energy, he could see that his eyes themselves blazed with light, pure blue. Like a demon he looked. Like a demon he felt.

He felt his mouth curl into a savage grin. Livia’s answering smile was equally wicked.

Oh, they were a fine pair.

Bram raised his sword once more. With John watching from the other side of the field, Bram stuck the tip of his blade into the dirt, as though stabbing an adversary. Lightning crackled up from his sword. He dragged the weapon through the soil, trailing electricity. Shimmering blue light radiated up from the gouge in the earth.

“Here and no farther,” he shouted to John. “You will never cross this line.”

The demons screamed and John scowled.

A grinning figure suddenly appeared, twenty feet from where Bram had drawn a line in the earth. Rage choked Bram’s throat when he saw that the Devil wore a parody of a general’s uniform, the fabric black instead of scarlet, adorned all over with silver braid and the marks of his rank.

An insult.

Bram barely held himself back from striding to Mr. Holliday and thrusting his blade into the bastard’s chest. Of a certain the Devil would strike him down before he could so much as cut off one of his silver buttons.

“These displays are enthralling.” The Devil eyed the shimmering demarcation, a mocking smile on his lips. He turned his gaze to Livia, making Bram tense, and then looked beyond her at Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne. “A superior fighting force you’ve assembled here. Shall we negotiate the terms of surrender?”

“I won’t accept your surrender.” Bram kept his feet planted firmly, his sword in hand. “Only your destruction.”

Mr. Holliday chuckled. “Never lose your sense of idealism, Bram. It will make your torment that much greater.” He raised his hand, and Bram’s heart contracted. In the Devil’s hand was Bram’s soul, gleaming far more brightly than ever before.

Bram thought he’d grown inured to seeing it, his soul. It could no longer move him, or so he believed. Yet to see it again, see its radiance and promise, made him ache with loss. He glanced over at Livia. He hadn’t known what he was missing. Now he did.

Under her breath, Livia cursed in her own tongue.

“I am so used to entrusting these things to my subordinates,” the Devil murmured, conversational. “It never occurred to me how delightful it is to keep them close. Perhaps I shall revise my policy. Besides, there is nowhere safer than in my grasp.” His face twisted into a grotesque sneer, illuminated by the glow from Bram’s soul. “This shall always be mine. You will fight, you will die. And still this will belong to me. The consequences of which you are fully aware.”

“I’ve felt Hell’s fire at my back,” Bram said.

“You will feel it everywhere.” The Devil tapped the center of his chest. “Most especially here—knowing that you fought and died for nothing.”

Bram said, “Not nothing.”

The Devil swore. His smooth countenance distorted with anger and confusion as the soul he held slipped from his fingers. He snatched at it, trying to steal it back, yet it kept sliding from his grasp. As Bram stared, his soul drifted toward him, breaching the distance. Mr. Holliday flung nets of shadowed energy, but no sooner had the net closed around Bram’s soul than it glided free again. It floated resolutely toward him.

“How are you doing this?” Bram demanded of Livia.

Eyes wide, she shook her head. “This is not my work. I believe . . . it is entirely you.”

“I haven’t enough magic—”

“No magic. You. Your fight is for me, for your friends, and untold thousands. But not for yourself.” She gazed with wonder as Bram’s soul neared. “He cannot hold you, not when you have become . . . complete.”

Bram stood, stunned. For so long, he’d felt a part of himself missing, an empty expanse inside. Searching for that emptiness now, he discovered it gone, filled as he was with purpose, with Livia.

Not a perfect man, not by a considerable amount, but striving.

Hissing, the Devil made a last desperate lunge for Bram’s soul. The shining object moved faster. Eluding his grasp, it shot forward. Straight into Bram’s chest.

Radiance suffused him, a warmth unlike anything he’d experienced. Not merely a physical warmth, but a sense of rightness, a unification. The manifold facets of himself aligned. A thousand emotions beset him—sorrow, joy, relief, rage—as though the barrier holding them at bay shattered. He saw the face of his father, his brother, fallen soldiers, Edmund.

It was too much. He could not withstand the onslaught. He could bear a hundred wounds and not falter, but this . . . this threatened to raze him to ashes.

A hand, slim and steady, clasped his. He knew her touch by deepest instinct. It shored him, strengthened him. She would not let him fall.

Bram shuddered once, and then came back into himself. Beside him, her hand in his, stood Livia. Pride shone in her eyes, and a gleam of tears he knew she would deny.

“All your own doing,” she whispered.

“Useless distraction,” the Devil spat. He tugged on his coat, righting his appearance. “It signifies nothing. There’s one outcome to this battle. My army will cross that line”—he pointed to the boundary in the dirt—“and transform London into my kingdom on earth. The streets will run with blood. It will be a banquet of suffering.”

“The Devil has no gift of prophecy,” Bram answered.

“There are no certainties.”

John snarled. “I’ll enjoy grinding your bones to powder—that is certain.”

“Six against over a hundred.” Mr. Holliday tutted. “If your friend Whit still gambled, I’d stake everything on us. The odds don’t favor you.”

Livia released Bram’s hand as she stepped forward. “Even probability can be altered.”

“It does not matter,” John cried. “None of this matters.” He wheeled his mount around and resumed his chanting. More demons clambered up from the rift to join the assembled others.

After a final sneering glance, the Devil snapped his fingers and vanished. He would be back—of that, Bram was certain.

Bram now turned to Livia.

She nodded toward the Hellraisers. “Your troops await your orders.”


Livia had seen Bram as a soldier and off icer—in his memories. Now, she saw him assume that role once more. The mantle of authority settled easily across his wide shoulders. He swung back up into the saddle, fluid, and brought his skittish horse around so that he faced the Hellraisers.

His expression was steely, betraying nothing.

“Leo, you’ll take the slithering demons, the things that crawl. Anne, use your command of air to beat back the winged creatures. Throw them to the ground and Leo can finish them.” He turned to Whit and Zora. “The demons with hooves and those that walk on two feet, they’re your responsibility. Cut them down.”

Livia could not tear her gaze from him as he gestured with his sword. It was clear he expected obedience, assured in his judgment. His friends nodded, accepting his directives without question.

This is what Bram was always meant to do. If he held any trepidation, any uncertainty, he did not reveal it. The sharp angles of his face held confidence, and his long, muscled body seemed coiled to strike.

All the while, the enemy across the field snarled in readiness. John shouted orders to the demons.

Every part of Livia tensed. All of this had come to pass because of her greed for power. Now the war to end everything awaited.