More leisurely, John sipped at his drink. “We ought to arrange an excursion, you and I. It has been far too long since we kept company. Perhaps an assembly, or the theater. You were ever an enthusiast of the theater.”

“Actresses and opera dancers,” Bram said. “The plays themselves bored me.”

Refined as always, sighed Livia.

“It was Edmund who actually watched the plays,” added Bram.

John studied the bottom of his glass as if it held a miniature marvel. “If not the theater, then some other diversion.”

“Of late, the city has become less diverting. Had to find other means of occupying myself.” After setting down his glass on a small table, Bram pulled folded pieces of paper from his coat’s inside pocket. Mutely, he held them out to John.

John took the papers, frowning, and unfolded them. His frown dissolved as he read their contents. “But this is marvelous.” He grinned. “I trust you received no trouble for your efforts.”

“None.”

In truth, the only trouble he had experienced came from that long-disused machine of his conscience. Rusty and corroded, it had groaned as he had used his Devil’s gift of persuasion to gain entrance into a minister’s home and private study. The papers were easily secured, just as easily spirited away, with Livia acting as sentinel.

He hadn’t wanted to pilfer the documents. Outright theft was not one of his many crimes. Only Livia had convinced him to act.

Sin is often required to ensure success, she had argued.

Ruthless, that’s what you are, he had answered.

In everything. There had been no shame in her voice. It verged on admirable, her merciless resolve. She would permit no obstacle to subvert her will.

Now he had handed over a packet of stolen documents to John. It seemed to have the desired effect.

John continued to scan the papers, his gaze sharp and rapacious. “With this information in my possession, I shall be much closer to my goal.” He glanced up at Bram. “You’ve my gratitude.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d want suitable compensations.”

This isn’t what we agreed upon, Livia interjected with alarm.

Rather than look hurt or angry at Bram’s demand, John smiled. He seemed to approve of Bram’s greed. “Name something you desire, and it shall be yours.”

Bram’s eyebrow arched. “Far-reaching claim.”

John held out his hands, brandishing the marks of flame on his skin. “It is a claim I can make with all assurance. If I can rely upon your support, the pleasures and privileges you have enjoyed will seem miniscule in comparison.”

With disinterest, Bram examined the title page of a nearby book. The frontispiece promised a long and phenomenally dull treatise on methods of governance, written by a gentleman with far too much education. He thumbed through the pages and found not a single illustration, only an abundance of long words and foreign phrases. Carelessly, he tossed the book over his shoulder. It landed with a thud and John winced.

“Give me your word,” Bram said, “that I shall have precisely what you promise.”

We were only going to draw him out, Livia protested, her voice turning strident.

“Give me yours,” came John’s immediate answer. “Betrayal is thick around us, and I’ve only use for those I can trust.”

“You have it,” Bram replied after a moment.

No! Livia’s shout echoed in Bram’s head, and he struggled to keep from scowling.

Still, John looked dubious.

With a sigh, Bram bent and pulled a poniard from his boot. John stepped back, yet a pistol suddenly appeared in his hand, retrieved from somewhere on the desk.

Livia’s cursing nearly drowned out Bram’s own thoughts. Her frustration at being powerless seethed through him.

“A gun’s damned prosaic for a man with the Devil’s mark on his flesh,” Bram drawled.

“The gifts he has bestowed upon me are elegant and subtle.”

“Elegant and subtle can’t rip a hole in a man’s chest. Thus, the pistol. But it’s unnecessary, at least where I’m concerned. If it’s a blood oath you require . . .” He drew the tip of the poniard across his hand. Bright crimson welled. “Here it is.”

Smiling, John tucked the pistol into the back waistband of his breeches. He took the offered blade from Bram and made a cut across his own palm. Their hands clasped.

Stop, stop, stop! This is the wrong choice! Did nothing penetrate your obstinate skull? We have to fight John, fight the Dark One! You cannot—

“There’s proof,” Bram said, and John started. Bram had not realized he had all but shouted his words, trying to drown out Livia’s excoriation.

Satisfied, John stepped away. He took a kerchief from a pocket in his waistcoat and wrapped it around his cut hand.

“The gesture is appreciated,” he murmured. “And if you knew my intent, you would understand such an action’s necessity.”

“I cannot know your intent unless you tell me. The reading of thoughts is your bailiwick.”

“That night outside Leo’s home, Mr. Holliday gave me another gift.” John’s words were laden with boasting. “I’ve but to look upon a man, or woman, and I know how they might benefit or harm me. As if a parchment scroll of their attributes appeared in my hands, visible only to me.”

“So this,” Bram raised his cut hand, “was unnecessary.”

John smiled, rueful. “As with my other gift, it does not apply to Hellraisers.” He narrowed his eyes. “What of you? Did not our patron bestow some further power to you that night?”

I stepped between you and the Dark One’s magic, Livia murmured. That may be why we are anchored to one another. His power had an unforeseen consequence—it bound us together.

But John didn’t know that. He had no idea about Livia’s whereabouts, particularly that she haunted Bram.

“All my falsehoods are believed,” Bram improvised.

“Like yours, this ability doesn’t extend to Hellraisers.”

“What a wondrous creature, is Mr. Holliday.” John’s smirk faded quickly. “Have you any word of Whit or Leo?”

“None.”

“That’s as it should be. I’ve made arrangements.”

Bram’s blood iced. “What sort of arrangements?”

“Nothing you need worry about. Even so, we’ll stay vigilant. I do not want them interfering with my plans.”

“The plans you still haven’t disclosed to me.”

“’Tis quite simple, truly. The key to supremacy in England is in Parliament.”

“I thought the king ruled the country.”

John scoffed. “He’s made too many concessions. Piece by piece, the royal authority has fallen away. The king is barely more than a figurehead. No, the cornerstone is Parliament.” He spoke like a scholar explaining a simple fact to a very dense pupil. “All that is required of me is to seize control of the entire body, and place myself in the central position of power.”

“Sounds difficult. And time consuming.”

“For an ordinary man. I am not ordinary.”

He’s the Dark One’s pawn, Livia spat. And now, so are you.

Bram clenched his hand into a fist, stemming the flow of blood, though it continued to well through his fingers. “To what end?”

“To every end. The country will belong to me. Every part of it will be mine, including its military.” Anticipation sharpened his words and his gaze. “I shall lay claim on other nations’ territories, their commodities. Russian timber. Hanoverian silver mines.”

“And if they protest these proposed acquisitions?”

John shrugged. “Then I shall make war upon them.”

Bram kept his posture loose, leaning back against a bookshelf and folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve been part of England’s military. We barely beat the French in the Colonies. What’s to say that these already overburdened and poorly paid soldiers and sailors could take on the armies and navies of France, the Hapsburgs, and everyone else?”

John’s face stretched into a grin. “There will be a wealth of assistance.”

“Given that you mean to make war upon the entire world, I doubt much support from other nations will be offered.”

“There is one realm whose collaboration is guaranteed.”

Goddesses and gods, Livia hissed. He cannot mean . . .

John’s gaze dropped to the ground. Then back up to Bram. His grin widened.

Numb cold crept through Bram’s chest and limbs. “The underworld.”

From a pile of books on his desk, John selected one large tome bound in black morocco. No decorations adorned its spine, nor its cover. The book seemed to draw in all the light in the chamber. John flipped through the pages until he stopped on one in particular. He held it up for Bram’s inspection.

It showed a cavern of fire, with wretched naked humans writhing in misery as their bodies endlessly burned. Hosts of misshapen creatures dwelt amidst the flames, some of them presiding eagerly over the suffering people. Set in the cavern’s stone ceiling was a gate. Directly above the gate stretched the surface of the mortal world, complete with houses and churches.

I recognize that image, Livia whispered. I saw an earlier version of it when I delved into summoning the Dark One.

“The boundary between the two realms is surprisingly slight,” John said. “One only needs a sufficient supply of power, and the gate that divides our world from Hell can be opened. Once it is opened . . .” John’s lips quirked. “Let us say that I shan’t want for soldiers.”

For a moment, Bram could only stare at John. The cut across his hand began to throb, a delayed pain that radiated up his arm.

“Demons,” he said at last. “Fighting for England.”

“Fighting for me,” John corrected. He closed the book and set it back on his desk. “And, Bram, when the time comes to lead this army, there is only one man I want in command.” He stared levelly at Bram.

Despite his intention to appear impassive, Bram couldn’t stop his startled frown. “Me? At the head of a demonic army?”

“Who better?” John spread his hands. “Your military skill is unparalleled. You’ve a surfeit of expertise—and there is no one I trust more.”

“I resigned from the army. I’m done with war.”

“Ah, but think,” John said, persuasive, insinuating, “this war will be fought under your command. Every wrong you saw on the Colonial battlefields, every error in judgment, every misguided order, you can correct them all. You shall have thousands, nay, millions of soldiers—human and demonic—at your command. Combining your ability with such might guarantees clean, unequivocal victory.”

The end, Livia whispered. The end of everything.

Bram said, “You promise me an army of demons, but that illustration is likely the work of a bedlamite. It can’t be taken literally. There’s no gate between Hell and our world.”

A condescending look crossed John’s face. “You do not know what I know, Bram.”

“And you know how to open this gate.”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

John narrowed his eyes. “That knowledge shall remain mine. For a while longer, at least.”

Bram felt his mouth thin. “I’m to be your general, but already we’ve reached the limits of your trust.”

“I simply do not want to confuse the issue.” John paced around his desk. “For now, I only want you to stay alert. Let me know if, in your nocturnal ramblings, you hear anyone speak of me. And if you can use your gifts of persuasion and dissembling to gain more information, all the better.”

Bracing his hands on the desk, John leaned forward. A sliver of afternoon light pierced the curtains, drawing a line down the middle of John’s face, burning white.

“There are only two real Hellraisers now, Bram. You and I. That means a greater share for each of us.”

“Share of what?”

John placed his hand upon the black book, as though taking an oath. “Everything.”


The sexton at St. Paul’s usually did not allow visitors in the upper galleries after dark, but Bram slipped him a shilling, and so by the light of a single taper, he made his solitary way upward. The stairs climbed ever higher, and he ascended like a fallen angel arduously trying to return home from banishment. He half expected to be barred entrance, a clap of thunder or streak of lightning hurling him the hundreds of feet down, to smash his body upon the checkered quire floor and stain the marble with his blood.