“How can you say that?” Disbelief edged her words. “The taking of a blood oath is sacred, inviolate—”

“Perhaps you’ve noticed,” he drawled, “that I don’t hold much respect for anything, especially the sacred and inviolate.”

She stared at him. “It was . . .”

“A ruse.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “John had to trust me. The meaningless spilling of blood seemed a ready means of gaining that trust.”

“And everything else, all the claims you made about joining his cause—more deceit?”

“John’s a chary bastard. He’d reveal nothing without securing my support.”

He thought she might smile, or sob her relief. Instead, her scowl was fierce, her gaze hot. “You said nothing! Played your part and kept me in ignorance!”

“Is that why you’re angry? Don’t like being in the dark?”

“Damn you,” she spat. “You might’ve given me the smallest hint what you were about.”

He shook his head. “John cannot read the minds of the Hellraisers, but he’s sodding perspicacious. If I let even a trace of duplicity enter my thoughts, he’d have read it on my face. So I kept quiet.” He stared at her. “You believed I meant everything I said to him.”

“Taking a blood oath is usually reserved for the sincere.”

“That, I am not.”

At last, her hands came up, covering her face. Her shoulders sank. He suppressed the urge to touch her, comfort her. She had no body to touch, and would rebuff his efforts, even had she flesh to touch. But her moment of vulnerability ended quickly.

“You are,” she said, lowering her hands, “a devious bastard.” She made this sound like a compliment.

“I wasn’t always so. Perhaps you’ve been influencing me.”

Bracing his forearms on the railing, he looked out over the rooftops of London. From this vantage, it was a collection of miniatures, tiny structures that could be scattered by a strong wind. Less than a hundred years earlier, half the city burned to the ground, and thousands of corpses littered the streets, felled by plague. It rose up again, but not much stronger. The city could burn once more. It did already.

His ride from John’s home to St. Paul’s had been fraught with horrors. More brawls, more destruction. Thrice he had beaten savagely men in the middle of assaulting women. Everywhere across the city, scenes were enacted. Atop the cathedral’s dome, he saw and heard all.

“In the Colonies,” he said, “I saw hell on earth. Acts of barbarism I never would’ve believed, had not I witnessed them with my own eyes. My father died of a fever whilst I was fighting, and all I could think was that he’d been given a clean, merciful death. Soon after I returned, my brother got a miniscule cut on his leg that turned septic. It killed him and I inherited a title I never thought to possess. All I sought to do with its privilege was staunch the memories with as much pleasure as I could grasp. Not precisely the heir my father had intended. But I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was ensuring I never experienced that hell again.”

Livia did not watch the city as it slithered toward pandemonium. Her dark gaze rested solely on him, and he felt it in every bone, every breath. He hadn’t known that a man could feel both ancient and restive, exhausted and spurred to action. The process of living, and nearly dying, brought him far more education than university ever could.

“But hell is here.” He gestured toward the spires and roofs. “You might have brought it forth originally, but the Hellraisers and I . . . we gave it fertile fields. Watered it with our sins. It grows, and if nothing is done, the harvest will be plentiful.”

“A reaper of souls, is the Dark One.”

“Including mine.” He rubbed at his shoulder, the markings’ phantom heat spreading out in waves. “For me, hell is a guarantee. Yet I can stop it from consuming the world.”

Livia straightened, then drifted closer, slowly, as if afraid he might bolt away like a stag flushed from the bracken. He thought he might feel numb, or fearful. Instead, tumblers within him clicked into place. Unlocking a certitude he hadn’t anticipated.

“Speak plainly,” Livia urged, “for there cannot be uncertainty. Not in this.”

He gazed at the moon, then at her. They shared a timeless radiance, and she worked her will upon the tides of his intention. Yet no one could make him do anything. He alone dictated his actions. When words formed on his lips, they were his words, fraught and unsparing.

“I’ve been in hiding, but I can hide no longer.” He inhaled, smoke from the burning city clouding his lungs, then breathed out. “The time to fight is now.”

It was an odd sensation—wanting something for so long, and then finally gaining the objective you desired. The feeling mystified Livia. She merely stared at Bram as they stood high above the city atop this immense building, aware of the vast blanket of night and the rooftops and the river and a thousand other things. Yet she was hardly able to understand the meaning of his words.

“I refuse to be toyed with,” she said. “I must know where you stand.”

“I’ve stood in shadow,” he answered, his voice low but resolved. “I won’t be accepted into the light—I’m too far gone for that—but I won’t turn away, either.” He rested his broad hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Since I’ve come back from war, I’ve done nothing with this blade but practice or battle imagined foes. But my strength is in the fight. In the killing of my enemies. That’s my true purpose.” His gaze burned in the darkness. “I’ll fight at your side.”

This thing welling inside of her . . . she struggled to identify it. A hard, luminous rising. She pressed her hand between her breasts, though she could feel no heartbeat, no flesh beneath her palm. Something was there, however, alive and emergent. The feeling grew the more she looked upon him.

The radiance from her spectral form cast silver light upon him, illuminating the sharp contours of his face and the gem-bright blue of his eyes. The veil of apathy had fallen away. Here was the man who had been a soldier. Was a soldier once more.

She moved closer, lifting her hands. He held himself still as she neared. The moment was fraught, an infinity of time within the span of a second. Once, he had looked at her with hatred. Now, tense anticipation honed his expression, as though he wanted her touch.

He would be solid beneath her hands, a powerful weapon of a man, taut with muscle. The beat of his heart would resonate against her. He was purpose and intent. She would feel all this in only a touch, and craved it as a bird craved flight.

When she placed her palms on his chest, disappointment stabbed her. She felt nothing. Her hands actually moved through him.

They both looked down at the sight. Until she pulled away. Her insubstantial body served as reminder—she could never again have the comfort and pleasure of touch. Especially not his.

This was not the moment for thinking of what she had lost. There were greater battles ahead.

Her thwarted touch seemed to turn the heat in his gaze to something harder, shadowed, as though a bonfire could be made of darkness rather than light.

“I’ll cut them down,” he said, jaw tight. “John and Mr. Holliday might know the way of magic, but I know war.”

At that moment, standing high above the city, sword at the ready and eyes ablaze, he was war. Merciless and inexorable. It stirred a primal fear and fascination within her, and she could not look away.

“You’re a different soldier now,” she said.

“Stronger.”

“In body, yes. In humanity, as well.”

His mouth twisted. “I’ve none of that.” He tilted his head back, showing her the length of his throat and the scar that ran along it. “The pulse you see there beating quickly—it’s not the chance to do good that speeds my heart. I want to feel the bite of flesh against my steel. I want to smell blood again.” He lowered his chin. “It’s the fight I hunger for. Humanity has been ripped from me.”