Tonight proved the exception.

Livia rode beside Bram, the head of their caravan of six. Zora and Whit each had their own horses—the Romani woman sat upon her steed as though she had been born in the saddle—and Leo rode with Anne sitting behind him, her arms around his waist. The five horses’ hooves clattered loudly in the stillness, the sound echoing off impassive façades.

A thick miasma clung to the cobblestones, and the sky formed an ash-colored canopy that the moon could not breach. And everywhere was heavy choking silence.

“We’ve not been in London for weeks,” Whit said lowly. “Has it been thus the whole time?”

“This night sees a new malevolence,” Livia answered.

Bram murmured, “Even the criminals are in hiding.”

“There’s a greater evil out tonight,” said Livia.

Whit gave a soft snort. “Used to be that the Hellraisers kept people cowering at home.”

“Now Hell itself is the threat,” Bram replied. He frowned as the broad, black stretch of Hyde Park appeared ahead of them. Beneath the leaden sky, the Serpentine gleamed dully, and appeared as still as the frozen lake of Cocytus. There was no sign of the water demon they had beheld several days prior. The trees stood in mute sentry. What, during daylight hours, was a place of leisure, seemed at that moment a blighted wasteland.

“John’s coming here?” asked Anne.

Livia nodded toward the expanse of parkland. “Not here, but this is where we’ll find more strength for our fight.”

Though it was clear that the others in the company wanted more explanation, they remained silent as they followed.

Livia did not know this place well, yet she understood precisely where she needed to be. She urged her mount faster, heading toward the northeast corner of the park. As she neared, it became clear what drew her.

“Damn and hell,” Leo muttered.

The mist thickened here, swirling and clotting. It glowed with a terrible light. Then gathered—into human shapes. They were hollow-eyed, gaunt, and collected like flies over a corpse. The figures jostled one another, mouths open as if to speak, but no sound emerging.

“Demons?” Anne whispered.

“Our allies,” said Livia. “Perhaps.”

“Must be a thousand of them,” Zora whispered.

“More,” said Livia. “This has been a place of execution for centuries.”

“Oh, God.” Anne gulped. “Their necks.”

All of the apparitions bore dark bruises around their throats. Some had their necks twisted at unnatural angles.

“The fruit of Tyburn Tree,” Bram said, stone-faced.

As Livia and the others neared the throng, the specters turned to face them. The vastness of their numbers formed an icy stone in the pit of Livia’s stomach. She had seen heretics thrown to lions and enslaved gladiators battle unto death, yet never had she witnessed the assembly of the dead, hundreds of years of executions gathered together as ruined testimonial to the demand for blood. All sanctioned under the auspices of the law.

Men, women. Even some children.

“I thought Romans enjoyed their executions,” Livia said.

“Beer, beef, and hangings,” answered Bram. “It’s the English way. The cost of freedom.” The grimness of his expression belied his flippancy.

“The Dark One’s presence rouses them.” Livia eyed the multitude as they drew closer.

“You said they’re our allies,” said Whit. “They can fight alongside us. Even our numbers.”

“Poor fools—they’ve no flesh. They can touch nothing, move nothing—as it was with me. But they aren’t without power.”

“The hell are you doing?” Bram demanded when she dismounted.

She leveled him a glance over the neck of her horse. “Attempting to level the odds.”

By the time she had turned around to face the throng of chalk-faced specters, Bram stood beside her. “Whatever you mean to try,” he growled, “you aren’t doing it alone.”

She drew yet more strength, knowing he was with her, and stepped closer to the horde of ghosts. Four reached out—three men and one woman—their hands open and searching. Bram tensed, poised to strike back, but Livia held him back. The spirits’ hands all moved through Livia’s body, just as insubstantial as she had once been. They opened their mouths to speak, yet no sound emerged.

“I know your frustration,” she said. Indeed, a restive energy moved through the crowd, its discontent and anger palpable. “No mercy shown to you. Your lives stolen. And to what end? To satisfy a feeble sense of justice? To deter others from repeating your folly? Those were the platitudes mouthed at you, but we all know they meant nothing.”

As she spoke, her words carrying across the field and through the mob of ghosts, they grew more restless and agitated.

Behind her, Whit, Zora, Leo, and Anne made sounds of concern, and their horses snorted in anxiety, tugging on their bridles and hooves pawing at the ground.

“Riling them is injudicious,” Bram muttered.

“We need them angry,” she answered under her breath.

At the least, he didn’t ask her why. He said, louder, “I’ve seen a hanging. ’Tis a holiday for the crowd. They don’t care if justice is being served. They don’t concern themselves with right or wrong, or the law. All they want is a good death. No blubbering. No begging for mercy. The people of London wouldn’t know mercy if it had its hands wrapped around their necks.”

The assembled specters grew yet more uneasy, their images flickering, expressions shifting from bafflement to anger.

Livia pressed, “How many of you died for a theft no greater than a loaf of bread? Or on the basis of hearsay or circumstance? Who amongst you were killed because it was easier for the law to end your lives than admit it was wrong?”

As she talked, and the horde of ghosts became more roused, the air above them began to shimmer. It crackled with hot red energy, bright and sharp. The rage of the dead taking shape.

“In life, you were denied vengeance,” she continued. “Those who wronged you, who profited or enjoyed your death—they never faced retribution. Their wickedness lived on. But this night,” she said, staring into a thousand faces, a thousand abbreviated lives, “we can take back what was stolen.”

She pointed toward the south. “A great evil masses. The greatest evil known. This is the wickedness in men’s hearts that robbed you of life. This is what denied you compassion, for the enemy I and my friends face tonight is the source of that darkness. And so I ask of you, will you aid in our fight?”

Though the crowd could not speak, the red light sizzling above the mob turned volatile, its glare blinding. She had her answer.

“Leo,” she threw over her shoulder. “Make haste. To my side, and take the leather bindings from my saddlebag.”

In a moment, Leo handed her the strips of leather as he stood on her other side. She cradled the material in her cupped hands. “I need you,” she said to Bram.

“Whatever you require.”

Quickly, she outlined her plan. Both Leo and Bram raised their eyebrows as she described what she intended to do, but neither argued. This was her realm, and she ruled it well. When she was certain that the two men knew their parts, she began to chant in the tongue of Egypt—her words shaping a spell of gathering. She envisioned it as a net, vast and inescapable, ancient language fashioning the web she cast out over the ghosts’ fury.

It taxed her, the creation of the spell, as she struggled to subdue the enraged energy. Twice, the red force threw off the net, but on the third attempt, she covered it with her sorcery.

At once, the energy fought back, trying to break free.

“Now,” she said through gritted teeth.

Bram stepped forward and took the straps from her hands. Muttering words in the long-dead tongue, he wrapped the straps around one edge of the net. He pulled hard on the straps, drawing the net toward him. As he hauled the energy nearer, he dug his feet into the ground and his body strained. The glare of red light covered him, casting a long shadow behind him so he appeared as a god of creation. Yet she kept her attention fixed on maintaining the net, continually repairing tears, re-knotting it when the strain threatened to rip it open.