Strong arms wrapped around her, holding her steady. She caught the metallic scent of blood, the warmth of Leo’s body, the fierce beat of his heart.

“I have you,” he murmured. “I have you.”

She struggled to push away from him.

“Stop fighting me. You haven’t the strength to stand on your own.”

“Give me time, and I will.”

Yet he did not release her, and of their own volition, her arms came up to wrap around his hard, wide shoulders. She leaned against him, raging at herself for allowing this moment of peace. For letting him comfort her. He was the source of her torment, not her solace. Yet the past few hours and the horror of what she had just witnessed left her shaken and stunned.

My God, the things I have done.

“You fought well,” he said, his lips against the crown of her head.

“I did not know ... I could do any of that.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Surprised myself.”

“And me.”

Yet she did not like the warm humor in his voice. He had no right to it, to the intimacy of such tone and words. For it felt like a blade of ice through her heart. She pushed away again. This time, he let her go.

Even in the darkness, she saw his wounded, wary gaze. But he did not reach for her as she stepped back.

“There will be more.” He glanced at the demons’ bodies. “This was a test. To know what kind of enemy I am to the Devil.”

“Are you his enemy?”

His hand brushed against the tears in his coat, revealing deep gouges in his flesh, and the wetness that gleamed darkly on his fingers was both the blood of the demons and his own blood. Her heart contracted painfully to see him hurt.

“This proves that I am.” He clenched his hand. “I’ve forsaken the Devil. He has nothing for me, nothing I want.”

“What do you want?”

His gaze was level as it met hers. “You.”

A throb of longing pulsed through her. She saw how he wanted it to be. He wanted her to run to him. To throw her arms around him and declare that all was forgiven, and they could return to how it had been between them, two strangers finding an unexpected bond.

She wanted the same. But it could not happen. Not in the span of a few hours—if ever.

“It’s not so simple.”

“Tell me what I have to do. I’ll do it.” His words were forceful, not a plea but a statement of intent. She almost smiled at this. Leo never saw obstacles—only ways over or around them.

She answered him with the truth. “I do not know.”

His jaw tightened, but he did not press her harder. “Where were you going?” When she hesitated, he added on a growl, “I’ve just killed five demons. That should give you some measure of trust.”

“Four,” she said. “You killed four. I killed the fifth.” She could hardly believe that she, a woman of genteel birth, who’d never known bloodshed beyond an occasional reading of the Newgate Calendar, had not only fought against demons, but actually slew one—and happily.

Leo’s mouth tugged into a small smile. “That you did.”

“To the Black Lion Inn,” she said at last. “In Richmond. Lord Whitney is there. He said ... he could help, when I was ready.”

She waited for Leo’s outburst of anger. It did not come. Instead, he nodded tightly. “Whit severed his tie to the Devil. He’ll have answers.”

“I am glad someone does,” she said, weary, “for I’ve none of my own.”

Glancing around, Leo frowned. “Damn horse got spooked and ran off.” He planted his hands on his hips. “I’ve been to the Black Lion. It’s less than a mile from here. Have you the strength to walk the rest of the journey?”

She had never known such exhaustion, her limbs made of lead, her head thick and shoulders aching. Yet this was nothing compared to the weight in her chest, a heaviness so profound that she felt as though she observed the whole world from beneath miles of granite. She wanted only to run away and hide, to throw her arms over her head and surrender.

Instead, she took in a breath of cold night air. Straightened her shoulders.

“I am strong enough,” she said.

Cold morning mist lay chill upon the ground and draped the tree branches as Leo and Anne trudged along the road toward the inn. Difficult not to see this mist as a winding cloth, wrapped around the world as it was made ready for burial.

Leo was not a man given to flights of imaginative fancy. He dwelt in the real, the possible. Even when he used his visions of the future, he sought out truths that he might gain more profit, more power. He had never been a poet, nor aspired to be one. Pretty words and fanciful images meant nothing in Exchange Alley. And when he had spoken tender words to Anne, he had been plain, blunt. He could offer only that.

Yet now he saw the frigid morning fog as a shroud, and the thought could not be dislodged.

As he and Anne walked, they passed farmers with carts heading into the city, their wagons loaded with carrots, turnips, chickens, to be sold in Covent Garden or Fleet Market. The farmers looked askance at two obviously well-dressed but filthy strangers plodding wearily down the road. Clicking their tongues at sway-backed jades, the farmers moved past Leo and Anne quickly.

The sun continued to rise, but it offered no warmth. Anne shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

He held out his arm. “Come. I’ll keep you warm.”

She shook her head. “I am well.”

“Your lips are blue.” When she still refused to come nearer, he cursed and, after removing his brace of pistols and musket, whipped off his coat. The movement pulled hot lines of pain through him, his wounds crisscrossing his body, but he ignored this. Instead, after replacing his weapons, he stalked over to Anne and settled his coat over her shoulders. It was dirty and torn, but better than nothing.

She did not thank him, yet at least she kept the coat on, clutching the lapels close. On her, the garment was huge, sleeves hanging down past her knees. She looked so damned fragile, shrunken. Appearances deceived, however. Anne’s resilience and courage were an inevitable surprise. He should have known that his genteel bride was so much more than a dainty ornament, or a means of entry into the world of the elite.

He said none of this. Anything he offered her now would be rejected. Yet that did not mean he had given up. Resolve burned hotter and brighter than ever. Someway, somehow, he would make her his again. Even if it took the rest of his life.

Which might not be much longer. The Devil’s methods remained cloudy to him, yet he knew with hard-edged certainty that the attack in Kew Gardens was merely the beginning.

He had to find a way to end this.

With that in mind, he resumed his walk toward the inn, though he kept his pace slower, to accommodate Anne’s exhaustion and shorter stride.

At last, a two-story building appeared, a painted sign of a black lion swinging over its door. A boy slept in front of the door, waiting to receive travelers’ horses. Leo stepped over him and Anne did the same as they went inside.

A man smoking a long-stemmed pipe sat by the fire in the taproom. At his feet curled a large orange cat, slumbering luxuriously. The man raised his brows at Leo and Anne’s appearance.

“Lord Whitney,” Leo said.

The man appeared as though he might protest divulging this information to such nefarious-looking characters.

Leo set a bag of coins on a nearby table. It jingled heavily.

The man took out his pipe and pointed its stem upward. “Third door on your left.”

Leo took the lead as he climbed the creaking stairs, Anne close behind him. They reached the first floor and crept down the corridor, as silently as the aged, protesting floorboards allowed. From behind one door, someone snored. From behind another came the sound of a mattress creaking against the ropes, its rhythm unmistakable.