“I can feel it,” he murmured against her damp skin. “The web. How it grows. You’ve done it.”

“We have,” she answered, “but it isn’t strong enough.” Then she took him in her mouth, and he stopped speaking.

Later, she pressed a hand to his chest, holding him back when he moved to cover her with his body once more. “Power is a delicate thing. Too much, and we risk collapse.”

“But what a spectacular collapse,” he said, lying back with one arm flung above his head. He stroked her bared flesh with his other hand, and she had to smile at the self-satisfaction on his face. Here was a man who had not only ravished her, but who had been ravished in return.

She allowed herself a momentary fantasy—that she and Bram could spend their days and nights in just this way, discovering new and favored ways to give each other pleasure, that they had no concerns save for sleeping and occasionally eating, that this shabby room served as the demarcation of their world and nothing else existed beyond it. Not the Dark One. Not John. Not the looming war.

Yet, as she and Bram entwined, drowsing and sated, it came upon her suddenly, and she sat up, gasping.

“What is it?” Bram was instantly alert, all traces of languid satisfaction gone.

Her brow lowered. “I can feel him. The web shudders.”

“The Devil.”

“John.” She closed her eyes, homing in on his presence. “He’s using a transporting spell. The beginning and ending of the passage are marked. I feel him working to bore through.”

Bram was already standing. “You can take us to where he’ll transport himself.”

She nodded. Though the remaining Hellraisers had not yet returned, if John was using new, dangerous magic, something had changed, the balance tipping. “If I were to attempt the same spell, John could find us as well.”

“Horseback it is.”

As she and Bram struggled into their clothing, she took in the details of their room, from the streaked windows to the single chair in the corner. This was no dream palace of silk and gold, built for loving. And yet she would clutch these memories close.

They hurried downstairs. None of the patrons remained, and the woman who kept the tavern scurried out.

“You said you’d take the room for the whole night,” she complained.

Bram said nothing, only tossed her a coin. The woman’s mouth clapped shut and her eyes widened when she beheld the coin’s denomination.

Outside, they mounted Bram’s horse, with Livia sitting behind Bram, her arms wrapped around him. She concentrated on the strain in the web. “Head west.”

Bram kicked his horse into a canter, and they pushed deeper into the city as night fell. Livia was not sorry to leave behind the tavern and ramshackle buildings.

As she and Bram wove through the city, some of the windows they passed were illuminated, candles and lamps lit as early darkness descended and people attempted to conduct their lives with a semblance of normalcy. Others remained dim, shapes and shadows moving within. A bitter wind scoured the streets.

She guided Bram through sense, feeling the pull of John’s magic on the web she’d spun. Until they stopped outside a large home.

“This is Walcote’s place.” Bram dismounted and helped Livia down.

“A dangerous man, this Walcote?”

“A Parliamentarian. One of Maxwell’s set.”

They hurried up the steps. Before Bram could pound his fist on the door, it opened, revealing a servant.

“My lord, madam,” he said with a bow. “Alas, my master is not at home to visitors.”

Bram shouldered past the servant. “He’ll see us. Where is he? Is he by himself?”

The servant opened his mouth to object, but a single glance from Bram stopped his protestations. “My master attends to matters of business in the Green Drawing Room. Alone.”

No relief there. John could easily appear without the servant knowing.

“Take us to him,” Livia said.

Without another word, the servant led her and Bram down a corridor, and paused outside a tall, carved door. The servant paused to tap on the door, but Bram had already opened it and strode inside.

A man of middle age sat at a table, sifting through stacks of paper. He stood, frowning, when Bram and Livia entered the chamber.

John was nowhere to be seen.

“I wasn’t to be disturbed by anyone,” Walcote snapped at the servant. He glared at his visitors. “What is this about?”

“Your life is in jeopardy,” Livia said.

Walcote approached. “In the name of God? Who threatens me?”

“John Godfrey.” Bram paced through the chamber, studying the corners, peering behind curtains. He was a commanding presence in the room, radiating purpose.

Walcote laughed. “Godfrey? He’s no threat. The past ugliness of assassins and schemes is over. As of today, John Godfrey has been ousted from Parliament.”

Livia’s heart stuttered, and Bram swore under his breath.

Walcote glanced back and forth between them, clearly anticipating a more enthusiastic response to his intelligence. “We’ve nothing to fear from him now.”

“You bloody idiot,” Bram growled. “Now you’ve everything to fear.”

Livia neared Bram and spoke lowly. “He won’t be held back anymore. Not by the rules of your government or society.” John was free, the chain around his neck loosed.

“You need to flee this place,” Bram said to Walcote.

“The man is a pariah,” Walcote protested. “He has no friends, no allies.”

“He has a very powerful ally,” said Livia

Walcote smirked. “Not in London, he doesn’t. Do I know you, madam?”

“London is not the final word in power,” Bram said darkly.

“John Godfrey can do nothing,” responded Walcote. “He is stripped of authority. He—”

“Is here,” said a muffled voice from the doorway.

Everyone turned to see a lanky figure standing at the entrance to the chamber. Only through his voice did Livia recognize John, for he wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled down, and a scarf obscured the lower half of his face. Leather gloves covered his hands. Save for a narrow band around his eyes, his skin was entirely concealed.

The servant who had let Livia and the others into the house now slumped at John’s feet, unconscious. Blood seeped from a wound on the servant’s head. Though John carried no mortal weapon, Livia saw the energy crackling around him in a dark nimbus, the lingering traces of having used magic to hurt the footman. She murmured a shielding incantation, yet left off the final words—keeping her own magic ready for whatever should happen next.

“Godfrey,” Walcote exclaimed. “What in God’s name?”

“Not God’s name.” John stepped over the prostrate servant, his gaze locked on Bram.

The two men faced each other, both alert, wary. Bram was tense as an arrow, confronting his erstwhile friend. He drew his sword.

The lines of battle were drawn, Bram on one side, John standing on the other.

“This is how friendship is rewarded?” John spat. “With basest treachery?”

“You know nothing of friendship,” Bram said. “Nothing of loyalty or honor.”

The scarf around John’s mouth could not stifle his harsh laugh. “Abraham Stirling, Baron Rothwell speaking of honor. Next, I’ll hear a woman talk of learning.” His gaze turned to Livia, and she tensed. “And here is the Roman slut who challenges me.”

She held Bram back with a warning glare, though he plainly wanted to ram his fist in John’s face.

“Who will defeat you,” she answered.

“No longer a ghost, madam? That makes it all the easier to destroy you. I shall delight in that. Never killed a woman before.”

This time, Livia could not restrain Bram. He feinted with his sword, and John dodged the blow. But as John reacted, Bram’s other fist collided with John’s jaw. John staggered back. As he did, his hat tumbled off, and his scarf slipped, revealing his face.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, whilst Bram cursed and Walcote gasped.