“You say that to convince yourself,” she answered. “I know differently. The Dark One may have your soul, but it exists. And we shall reclaim it, no matter the challenge.”

“We can’t.”

“There are vaults, all gemini keep them. The souls of their prey are kept there. The vaults weren’t as impregnable as the Dark One and his minions believed.” She smiled cruelly. “That was my doing. Two Hellraisers’ souls I’ve helped to free. Doubtless your Mr. Holliday has learned hard lessons, and the vault where your soul is kept is surely more protected than the others, but heed me, we will find a means of stealing back your soul.”

He pressed his knuckles against his chest. “Doing so would reveal to Mr. Holliday and John that I’m no longer their ally. No, the tactical thing to do is leave my blighted soul exactly where it is—in the Devil’s possession.”

“Simply abandon it?” She scowled. “That leaves you imperiled. If you should die before we retrieve your soul, your eternity shall be torment and suffering, like all the other damned.”

“If I die and am sent to Hell, it’s what I deserve.” He spoke over her objections. “We cannot let either Mr. Holliday or John know that I’m not of their number. My soul has to stay where it is. For now.”

Curse him, he was right. Yet, the thought of him trapped in eternal agony was a cage of burning iron around her heart. “When the time is right, your soul shall be liberated.”

He seemed disinterested, as though they discussed the retrieval of a pair of boots. “Issues of my withered soul aside, I own that I’m unfamiliar with battling the Devil. Military strategies won’t apply when facing demons and the powers of hell.”

“Not so. For the first matter of business is assessing strengths and weaknesses, and gathering allies.”

“Whit and Leo,” he said. “And their women, the Gypsy and the lady.”

“I’ve no way to use my own magic now, but the women can, and their men are strong.” She nodded. “We need them here.”

“The last I saw of them was outside Leo’s home, weeks ago. Just after—” His jaw tightened; he had to be thinking of his friend’s death. “They’ve likely made a temporary retreat from London as they regroup.”

“They must be found, and summoned back.”

He made a soft scoffing noise. “Neither Whit nor Leo are the kind of men who take well to summoning.”

Tilting up her chin, she answered, “Their masculine pride must suffer in these circumstances.” She had fought beside them before. Both men had proven themselves as willing and capable warriors. As had their women.

“We weren’t on affable terms when we parted.” His laughter was hollow, resonant with loss. “They’ll do nothing to aid me, and with good cause.”

“Much has altered between then and now,” she said. “That won’t escape them.”

“They need to be found before any of this can be tested. Once we lived in each others’ pockets. Now I’ve no idea where they are. Dozens or hundreds of miles could separate us. Nowhere to send a letter, and even if I had their direction, it could take weeks for any communication to reach them.”

Now it was her turn to scoff. “Your thoughts are too prosaic. Magic can shorten the distance between us.”

“At one time, yours might have. Conditions have changed since then.” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

“That fact is never forgotten.” She felt like a sculptor whose hands had been chopped off.

Hot anger constricted her throat. She had crossed the boundary between the living and the dead, exhausted herself time and again channeling magic into mortals and using her own power to fight. And the last, strongest Hellraiser had finally stepped into the fray. She could not allow herself to fall short, not now.

“If you had all of your magic,” he said, “would such a thing be possible? Locating Whit and Leo, mustering them to London?”

“Yes. The work of a few minutes.”

“Then we’ll make use of that magic.”

She scowled. “Already you’ve forgotten that I possess no magic.”

“You have half. The other half resides . . . in me.”

Her mouth dropped open. “The two of us, working magic together.” She could hardly believe him. “You said you would not attempt such a thing.”

“The last time you made that request, you were attempting to kill me with your magic. The poles have shifted since then.”

The wind gathered in strength, his long coat catching against his legs and billowing behind him. Strands of his hair came loose from his queue. A fierce living energy radiated from him, as though he had emerged from dormancy, his strength greater than before.

Perhaps this war against the Dark One was not as futile as she had feared.

Yet she had to tell Bram everything. She couldn’t lead him ignorantly toward danger. “The working of magic together has its own perils. So many ways it could go wrong, the damage it could wreak . . .”

“The Devil doesn’t frighten me. This doesn’t, either.” She shook her head. “With a single stray thought, we could become trapped between the mortal world and the realm of magic.”

“Every tactic has its risks.”

She saw he would not be dissuaded. “We shouldn’t attempt anything here.” Though they were high above the city, impossible to see from the streets below, they were still exposed. To the elements. To the possibility of the Dark One’s watchful spies taking notice. Bram was new to working magic, as well. She suspected the task would need silence, privacy, and some measure of security.

“Home, then.”

He said the word as if it was their home, not his. A remnant of warmth filtered through her—in her life, she had led a peripatetic existence, hunting magic, searching for power. She never sought such a place. Too confining.

It did not feel so now.

He motioned for her to proceed him through the doorway in the cupola. She shook her head at the gesture but glided past him. A ghost required neither courtesy nor decorum. He certainly hadn’t shown her much before, and she did not expect it.

Small though the gesture was, however, its deliberate use gave her another pulse of warmth. As though she was not a specter, but a woman. A woman who deserved respect.

What man might believe this? Against all probability, the man turned out to be an inveterate sinner.

They sequestered themselves in the chamber that Bram used for combat practice. Even without her magic, Livia sensed his strength imbuing the room. They needed all of his resilience for the forthcoming task, and here he was confident, focused. He paced through the chamber, pushing all the furniture and practice targets against the walls. His movements were assured and unhesitating. If he held any trepidation about attempting to work magic, none showed.

The same could not be said for her. Outwardly, she kept herself composed, directing him to give them as much space as possible—with unknown variables, anything might happen—but inwardly, she was uneasy. She’d spoken truly. Should either of them let their concentration waver, she and Bram might become prisoners of the Ambitus. As she had been for over a millennium. A terrifying thought to be trapped there again.

She had helped Whit cure Zora of a demon’s poison, but Whit hadn’t any magic of his own. He’d been her corporeal hands. There, the danger had been only the loss of Zora’s life. So much more hung in the balance with what she and Bram would attempt.

It was not his skill or unfamiliarity that troubled her. The unknown was her. During her life, she had been a student of magic, always learning, continually acquiring. She had never been a teacher, nor given to sharing. Powerful families had brought their daughters to her, hoping she would impart her knowledge, yet she hoarded everything—her power, her learning.

The seeds of her avarice now bore fruit. She was an untried teacher, utterly green.