“He isn’t my master,” Bram clipped. “Never was.”

“I don’t know why I ought to believe you. Last we met, Edmund’s body lay between us.”

“That was John’s doing.”

“Yet you didn’t lift your sword against him.”

“Things have changed.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I say so.”

“Faultless reasoning.”

“Enough,” Livia snapped. Men would ever grapple for dominance, fighting to push one another off the hill. Former friends seemed the greatest challenge. “Bram is here now. With me. It’s clear his allegiance has shifted.”

The wariness in Whit’s gaze shifted, a glint of tentative hope emerging. Yet he did not lower his sword. “Might be a trick.” He glanced at Zora. “Perhaps Livia has been gulled.”

“I spent my life cozening gorgios,” Zora answered. “Livia isn’t someone who can be tricked.”

“The Dark One fooled me,” Livia noted. “Once.” She tipped her head toward a frowning Bram. “I know the truth of his heart. He is our ally.”

Whit peered at Bram intently, searching. And Bram held himself still under his friend’s close scrutiny, his jaw tight, shoulders back.

Finally, Whit let the tip of his sword drop. He took a step toward Bram, and then another. As he did, suspicion fell away like plates of armor.

The two men reached out to clasp hands. But Whit’s hand passed right through Bram’s. They both started.

“We’re not here physically,” Livia explained. “Our bodies—your body,” she corrected, since she had no body, “is still in London. Transporting flesh takes far greater magic than we possess.”

Bram stared ruefully at his hand. “Beginning to understand your frustrations,” he muttered.

“Try spending a millennium thusly.”

“No wonder you went mad.”

Livia scowled at him. “We did not journey here to discuss my previous mental turmoil.” The scene—riverbank, trees, moonlight—flickered, and both she and Bram swore. “This magic cannot hold for long. We must speak to our purpose.”

“Something has happened,” said Zora. The flames gloving her hands vanished as she stepped close to Whit.

Bram nodded. “John. After Edmund’s death, John’s fallen even further.” Succinctly, he told of everything that had transpired since last Whit and Bram had met. John’s hunger for more power, and his plans to place himself in control. His scheme to summon a demon army to aid him in his conquest. The more he spoke, the bleaker Whit and Zora looked, Whit muttering curses in English, while Zora used her native tongue.

“Can he do such a thing?” Zora pressed. “Seize command of Parliament? Make himself the leader of the whole nation?”

“He’s made allies,” Bram answered, “and more enemies. Yet his power keeps growing.”

“But to completely overthrow the existing government,” protested Whit. “And then conquer the entire world? He’s only one man.”

Livia said, “A man who has the magic and patronage of the Dark One. Should he open the gate between this realm and the underworld and raise a demonic army—” She shook her head. “Even he does not realize what disaster he brings upon us all.”

“If he’s as powerful as you say,” Zora said, “what can be done to stop this?”

“I, we, need you both in London,” answered Livia. “At once.”

“Leo, too. And his wife.”

Whit’s expression turned even more grim. “That’s an impossibility.”

“You’re an earl,” Bram pointed out. “Hire faster horses. Or a carriage.”

“It’s not a matter of cost. Nor distance.” Whit tilted his chin toward the nearby stream. “Mark you well that little brook. Now observe.” He walked toward the water.

Zora’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Whit, don’t.”

“They need to see.” Before Livia could press for an explanation, Whit sprinted in the direction of the stream.

A sound like a thunderclap splintered the air as Whit was flung backward by an unseen force. He landed on his back ten feet away. Zora was at his side immediately, kneeling in the grass as she held his shoulders.

“What the hell was that?” Bram demanded.

Zora said, “As of two days ago, we cannot cross water. Any water. Stream, river, lake or pond. Whenever we’ve attempted it . . . you’ve seen what happens.” She brushed hair from Whit’s forehead as his dazed look faded.

“John’s doing,” Livia said tightly.

“The wily bastard.” Bram growled. “That’s what he meant back in his study. You should see the books piled up. It’s not just the Devil’s power, but his own. He’s used some magic to keep Whit and Zora from coming back into London.”

“Doubtless he’s worked the same spell on Leo and Anne,” Whit said, his voice strained and breathless.

“It can be broken. Can’t it?” Bram turned to Livia.

She exhaled. “Such a spell is a powerful thing. Even had I full possession of my magic, this insubstantial form couldn’t engender enough strength. I would require a corporeal body.”

“We can get your body back,” Zora said at once.

Livia could not stop her embittered laugh. “Impossible.” She waved down at her translucent form. “This is how I shall spend eternity.”

“No,” Bram said, his gaze dark. “There’s a way. I’ve only to find it.”

Silence fell, weighted with leaden thoughts. Despite Bram’s claim, no one seemed to have a solution, the battles ahead already lost.

Whit said, “How can we—”

The scene became a blur of shape and color, a painting left in the rain. Whit’s voice was lost in a haze of sound.

Livia struggled to grasp to magic that held her and Bram to this place. It slipped away, and she felt herself torn from the fabric of the world.

Bram felt the world shudder around him, a breaking apart, and then a swift tug backward. His head reeled, his stomach pitched. For half an instant, he thought he might be sick—he who could endure any manner of rough sea crossings and the lurch of an unsprung carriage down a furrowed road. This motion was unlike anything he’d experienced before, permeating his every sense. The clearing with Whit and Zora spun away, and he plunged through formless infinity.

At last, stability. The whirligig in his head stopped its twirl, and he discovered himself standing in the middle of his practice room, just as he’d been before. He ran the back of his hand across his clammy forehead, and tasted dry metal in his mouth.

He was alone.

He waited for a moment. She would reappear from that Ambitus place. They had worked magic together—his mind still lurched at the thought of creating magic beyond what Mr. Holliday had provided him—and they were bound to one another. She would return. Then they could discuss their next move, formulate strategies. He had been very good at devising tactics and lines of attack.

The few candles in the chamber dripped wax and sent thin coils of smoke toward the ceiling. No other movement in the chamber. Not even Bram, holding himself still, attentive.

Minutes passed, judging by the chime of a clock in the hallway. Still no Livia.

He called her name. His voice echoed in the room.

When no answer came, he reached into his thoughts. Never had he spent this much time in his mind as he did now. He searched for her presence, her haughty flame.

Unfamiliar panic welled when he found only himself within. Her presence was gone. She was trapped in the Ambitus. Again. Fury and despair clutched at him—he couldn’t find the means to draw breath.

Then—there came dim flicker in the recesses of his self. Relief almost made his legs give way beneath him.

Livia, he thought.

She gave a murmur, but did not speak.

He thought her name again, adding urgency. She stirred, the flicker growing faintly brighter.

Are you ailing? he pressed. Injured?

. . . tired ...

Her weakness disturbed him. Never had he felt her so fragile, so enervated. Always, she held the strength of a dozen storms, leveling anything in her path—including him.