“I’ll fix it. Make it as it was.”

She shook her head. “It can never go back to what it was. That is irrevocably lost.” She glanced down at his hand on her arm. “We have to leave.”

He did not want to, but he let her go, and they both left the room. At the doorway, she turned, then waved her hand. The candle winked out, throwing the chamber into darkness once more.

Down in the taproom, he purchased some bread, cheese, and apples, and had them packed into a hamper. “You need to eat,” he explained at Anne’s questioning look.

“What about you?”

“Take care of yourself first.” He had been hungry before. It had not killed him.

The inn stood some hundred yards from the riverbank. They walked together, passing a lone cottage, and Anne ate as they moved toward the water. The night was cold and still, a thick blanket of clouds pressing down, smothering sound.

Beneath the branches of an oak, close to the water’s edge, stood Whit and Zora. They kept close to each other, hands linked and voices low in shared confidence. The distance between Leo and Anne felt wide and echoing—but he had spoken truly. No matter what it took, no matter the time, he would find a way back to her, fashioning a bridge from his bones and blood if necessary.

“Where is our ghost?” Leo asked. “Do we summon her?”

“I am not summoned,” came the specter’s voice from the darkness. Light gathered around the roots of the tree, an unearthly glow, and it gained strength as it grew.

Though Anne, Whit, and Zora seemed more familiar with the sight, Leo stared as the shape of the Roman woman emerged. There was still much of this hidden world he did not know, and it struck him again how reckless he and the other Hellraisers had been, dabbling with such potent magic, skirting the edges of unfathomable power.

“I choose to come when I so desire,” the ghost said, her voice sharper as she came into focus. Leo had seen her a handful of times in his dreams, a plaguing presence urging him to turn away from the Dark One, as she called it. He would have dismissed visitations as nothing but a restless mind had not his fellow Hellraisers confessed to having the same dreams.

Now he was awake, and here she stood. Or floated, rather. For her sandals hovered above the ground as she drifted toward him and the others. Unease prickled along his neck.

She stared at Leo, mistrust and haughtiness in her dark eyes. “The emblem of the Dark One obscures him. He is no ally.”

“He is,” Anne said, surprising him. “He has renounced the Devil.”

“Words.” The ghost scoffed. “Any child may recite them, without thought to the meaning.”

“I’m no child,” Leo rumbled. “My words are backed by my deeds.”

“He fought against demons, Livia,” added Whit. “He has proven himself.”

Leo and Anne’s gazes met, for he had proven himself to her. Yet she insisted there could be no regaining what they had once shared. God, how he hoped that was not true.

“That determination shall be made by me,” pronounced the ghost.

“Tell me what I need to do,” Leo said through clenched teeth, “and it will be done.” This was far more than wresting a place for himself in the upper ranks of Society. The opinions of a few weak-chinned aristos did not matter. Let them think him a baseborn guttersnipe. They might print the foulest slurs in all the newspapers, create belittling caricatures to be flung across the most distant shores. None of that carried significance.

Only now, when he stood on the brink of not only losing his soul, but the only woman he ever loved, did he understand this. His pursuit of status had been a fool’s trade. He did not even like most of the gentry, and yet he sought entry into their ranks. A hollow ambition that would leave him broken and alone.

All that would change. Had already changed.

Everyone—Anne, Whit, Zora, and Livia—stared at him now. Fissures appeared in Livia’s wariness, but all Leo cared about was Anne, and fighting to recover what had been squandered.

“This fight we soon face,” said Livia, “the stakes are far greater than the fate of a single soul.”

“I know.”

“Such confidence. Will you be so assured when your life is imperiled?”

One thing had not changed: Leo did not like to be questioned. He bristled. “Whatever is necessary. If that means my death, I accept the consequences.”

The ghost continued to stare at him, judging, assessing. Finally, she nodded. “All things have a genesis and a culmination. The journey ends where it truly began.”

“We must go to the ruined temple?” asked Whit.

“No,” said Leo. “To London. To my home.”


They rode east, passing through Chiswick, the buildings growing more numerous and closer together. And as they ventured farther into the city, signs of turmoil abounded. Broken glass and shattered wood littered the streets, and more than once they passed gangs of roving men who threw rocks and challenges, their eyes bright with wildness.

One such gang surrounded Leo and the others. “Pretty group of toffs,” the leader snarled. Torchlight gleamed on his shaven head. Sometime during the night’s rowdiness, he had lost his wig.

The leader reached for the reins of Zora’s horse, but before anyone could act, Whit had his saber out and pointed at the man’s throat. Leo aimed his pistols toward the rest of the gang.

“I can only shoot two of you,” Leo said to the mob. “Three, if you count my musket. But you might be one of the three.”

“By nature, I’m a gambler,” added Whit. “Are any of you?”

Muttering amongst themselves, the mob edged away and its leader stepped back. They retreated into the night, yet tension still hung over the street.

“Your efforts are appreciated,” said Zora. “But it would’ve been a small matter for me to reduce him to ashes.”

“A woman wielding flame like a weapon might attract undo attention,” noted Whit, “even amidst this chaos. Besides,” he added, bringing his horse up beside hers so he could lean close, “it gratifies my male pride to play savior every now and then.”

Leo glanced away as Whit kissed Zora. Seeing their ready trust and affection felt like rusty nails pounded into Leo’s heart. His gaze met Anne’s, who had also looked away from the open display of tenderness.

Spurring his horse on, Leo said with a growl, “When you’re done making love in the middle of the street, we’ve got my soul to reclaim and the Devil to thrash.”

He heard their horses behind him as they followed. Anne pushed her mount so that she rode beside him.

Passing Hyde Park and the genteel neighborhoods, the roving gangs thinned, but those who were on the streets moved quickly, heads down, as if anticipating attack. No sedan chairs were out, a rarity. A tense air of retreat clung to the wide streets and the imposing surfaces of Mayfair mansions, and few windows were lit. These were the prime hours for London’s elite to make their rounds of evening diversions, yet no music filtered down into the avenues, no laughter or voices engaged in lively conversation.

Only a night had elapsed since Leo had ridden these streets in mad pursuit of Anne. Yet it felt as though decades had passed.

Saint George’s struck the half hour as Leo and the others headed into Bloomsbury. His house was dark, save for a few candles burning in the front chambers, constituting the servants’ attempt to make life appear somewhat normal.

Leo quickly dismounted and strode over to help Anne down from the saddle. She did not flinch from his touch, but she did not lean into it, either. Still, he took pleasure in his hands around her waist, and her slight weight as he swung her down. He did not know how much longer he would have to hold her like this, so he would take from it what he could.

Two grooms warily emerged from the mews behind his house to take their horses. As the sweat-flecked animals were led away, Leo said to the servants, “Once they are tended to, remove yourself from this place at once.” He tossed them each a sovereign. The men’s eyes widened, but they nodded in agreement.

Standing at the foot of the stairs leading to his front door, Leo stared up at his house. Three years ago he had purchased it; for three years it had been his nominal home. Yet the colonnades and handsome brick exterior moved him not at all. It was a building, nothing more. Only when Anne had come to live under his roof did he feel any sense of excitement when seeing its façade, and only then because he knew he was close to seeing her at the end of a long day.

He had bought this place to serve as a dare to the elite. His challenge: You cannot make me disappear or slink off to the gutter. I am here. See me. Respect and fear me.

And the magic given to him by the Devil served to shore up his challenge. It made sense that this house—the emblem of his desire for approval from those he did not truly esteem—now was to be the battleground for the fight for his soul.

Anne stood beside him and also looked up at the house. Trepidation tightened her mouth. Yet she glanced over at him and seemed to sense the swirl of emotion within him. Cautiously, she reached out and took hold of his hand.

He stared at their linked hands, feeling a tightness in his chest that came not from fear but from wonder. Whatever happened in the coming minutes and hours, he had this, this shared moment that she had crafted. Even when her hand slipped from his, he continued to feel her strength resonating within.

When Whit and Zora joined them, Leo drew a breath. He mounted the stairs. A gaping Munslow opened the front door, all sense of professional demeanor gone in light of the strange vision standing at the top of the steps: the master of the house, laden with weapons and wearing another man’s clothing, the mistress in her torn and dirty gown, the errant Lord Whitney, and a Gypsy. Not precisely the sort of gathering one found in Bloomsbury minutes away from midnight.

The footman recovered enough to say, “Welcome home, sir.” He held the door open, and the group moved inside.

“You and all the other servants,” Leo said. “Gather your belongings and leave immediately.”

Munslow stared. “Sir? Have we displeased you?”

“Not at all. But this place is not safe, and in a few minutes, it will be even less so.” He handed the footman a key. “This is to my strongbox in my study. Take all the money you find there and dole it out amongst the servants. I’m trusting you to be fair in its distribution.”

“Yes, sir,” Munslow said, his face still frozen in shock.

“And if I’m still alive in the morning,” Leo added, “I’ll be happy to give anyone a character so they may find further employment. Go now,” he said when the footman could only gawp at him.

Wearing a look of utter bafflement, Munslow headed belowstairs. Presumably to tell the other servants that the master had gone mad.

“Word will get out,” murmured Anne once the footman had gone.

Leo understood. Servants told tales amongst themselves, and gossip spread from household to household. What one servant might learn would soon reach the ears of their masters. By the time lords and ladies made their morning calls the following day, everyone would know that Leo Bailey had lost his mind. Which could imperil future trade transactions. No one wanted to do business with a madman.

“I can’t find it in myself to give a damn,” he answered.

The chandelier overhead was unlit, and a single candle illuminated the entryway. Shadows engulfed the house, swallowing up the expensive trinkets and costly furnishings. A clock on a mantel measured time in relentless ticks. He thought of all the chambers in this house, chambers in which he had hardly ever ventured, rooms full of objects but empty of life. His house was a sugar sculpture that decorated the dining tables of the elite—ornate, extravagant, utterly useless. Existing only to be admired, but never truly used.

He never saw, not until this moment. “How did you stand this place?” he asked Anne now. “Hour upon hour, day upon day.”

Her eyes were dark but clear. “If I wanted the man, I endured the house.”

The things he made her suffer, the strength she had to weather it all—it was a wonder he could stand to be within his own skin.

Though his heart beat hard at the thought of the struggle to come, resolve was iron in his spine. Soon, the servants would be gone. When they were, Leo would take back what he had foolishly squandered. He might not survive, but he had never backed down from a fight. And none was so important as the battle that lay ahead.