Anne deliberately did not meet Leo’s gaze.

He moved past that door, until he found the one he wanted. Testing the doorknob, he found it locked. Impatient, he wanted to pound the door down, but he also did not want to awaken the entire house. He was just about to knock lightly when the door opened. Just wide enough for a saber blade to jut out, its point touching his throat.

“And a good morning to you, Whit.”

The saber lowered. “Step inside. Quickly.”

Leo and Anne slipped inside. The door shut and locked behind them. They found themselves in a snug bedchamber, gray in the morning light. Whit stood in the center of the room, bare-chested, wearing only a pair of breeches. No doubt about it, Whit had grown thinner these past months, his muscles standing out in stark relief. As if the apathy that had once imbued him had burned away, leaving behind a man lean with purpose.

Movement by the bed drew his attention. Leo had a fleeting impression of white cambric, dark, sleek limbs, and then Zora stood beside her lover. Her black hair lay in thick waves around her shoulders, and her eyes were darker still. And full of fire. She stared at him and Anne warily.

“Can we trust him?” the Gypsy woman asked. As she spoke, small tongues of fire engulfed her hands, throwing light and shadow.

Anne gasped, and even though Leo had seen a display of Zora’s power once before, it still made him start, witnessing it again.

Gazing at the lacerations on Leo’s body, the bloodstains on his skin and clothes, Whit answered, “Now we can.”

The innkeeper fetched coffee and rolls, and his wife brought a basin, a water-filled ewer, and linen towels, all of which were placed upon a table in front of a looking glass. Then, with more coin lining their pockets, the couple scurried out to leave their guests in private.

Zora bandaged the cut on Anne’s arm, a task Leo wanted for himself, but his wife’s wary gaze held him back. He watched Anne splash water on her hands and face. A simple, domestic act, and one he had witnessed many times at home. But home was far away, and the life they had shared there lost.

For now.

The water was only slightly dirty when it was Leo’s turn to bathe. Soon, it turned dark with blood—the red of his own, and the sticky blackness of the demons’ blood. He needed to clean the wounds on his body, so he shucked his waistcoat and then his shirt, letting them drop to the floor as he stood at the table.

Anne gasped. He met her gaze in the mirror, saw the horror on her face as she beheld for the first time the markings of flame upon his back.

Shame crawled over him, hot and viscous. An unfamiliar emotion.

“That answers my first question,” drawled Whit, leaning against the wall. He had thrown on a shirt, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Your soul still belongs to the Devil.”

“How do you know this?” asked Anne. Her voice was thin, tight.

“He had marks much the same on his body.” This, from the Gypsy woman. She strolled to Whit and ran a hand over his shoulder, then down his arm. Possessive, her touch, as if laying claim to Whit and his body, and speaking of deepest intimacy. Judging from the flare of heat in Whit’s gaze, he welcomed his woman’s proprietary touch. “Here, and here.”

Leo’s gut twisted with want. Not so long ago, he and Anne had touched each other the same way. After the fight in Kew Gardens, he desired nothing more than to hold her tightly, wanted that now, confirming that they had both emerged from the battle alive and sound. He couldn’t—not without her fighting him.

“The marks have grown,” Whit said. “And they’ll do so until you are covered by them.”

“What happens then?” Anne pressed.

Leo already knew the answer. “Then I’m his entirely. Irredeemable.”

Anne pressed her fingertips to her mouth, her face growing paler still in the watery morning light. Her gaze moved over the markings, and Leo forced himself to hold steady and motionless beneath her perusal.

“There is but one way to prevent that,” continued Whit. “To remove the markings completely. You must reclaim your soul.”

Bracing his hands on the table, Leo felt tension knotting his muscles, all along his arms and across his back. “I’ve already renounced the Devil.”

Whit studied Leo’s wounds critically. “That I can see. But it isn’t enough. A man may say a thousand words, make a thousand vows, yet none of it matters in the face of deeds.”

“That much, I know.” Rather than continue to feel Anne’s hurt gaze, Leo busied himself with cleaning and dressing his wounds. He washed them ruthlessly, not sparing himself any discomfort as he scrubbed. Yet he made a poor martyr, for physical pain meant nothing in comparison to the bleeding ache within.

He could not fully reach the lacerations on his back, and struggled to clean them. When Anne approached and plucked the cloth from his hand, he held himself very still. She refused to meet his gaze. But she was gentler than he had been, dabbing at the cuts, and then finally taking strips of linen and wrapping them around his chest and back.

He remained motionless, soaking up her touch, her care. It did not matter that Whit and Zora were in the room, as well. He was aware of only Anne. Her hands, her breath across his skin, the small crease between her brows as she secured his bandages. She felt as close as another mortal being could be, yet impossibly far away. He knew her so well. He knew her not at all.

Turning his head slightly, he saw Whit and Zora watching this small scene. Both wore expressions of pity.

Pity was an emotion he always refused. It was for weakness and those who lacked resolve. Not once in his life had he turned away when the challenge seemed too great. This would be no different.

“Tell me how to reclaim my soul,” he said.

“Each geminus maintains a vault of souls,” began Whit. “Souls it has acquired through nefarious means.”

Leo’s gut clenched. Robbins had thought he’d seen Leo at Exchange Alley—working late, Robbins had believed. It hadn’t been Leo, but his geminus. Little did those men of business know that they had, in fact, traded their souls to the Devil. Damning themselves without realizing it.

“Geminus,” said Anne. Finished with her tasks, she moved away—though he wanted to grab hold of her, he kept his hands ruthlessly at his sides—and perched on the edge of the bed. “That ... other Leo.”

“The dark part of himself created when first the Hellraisers made our pact with Mr. Holliday,” answered Whit. He gave a wry smile. “That’s what the Devil likes to be called. The geminus serves Mr. Holliday, and holds Leo’s soul for its master.”

“Then we kill the geminus,” said Anne.

“Killing the geminus means killing Leo,” said Whit. “So long as it remains in possession of Leo’s soul, any injury or wound it sustains, he is hurt, as well.”

The memory of pain throbbed through Leo, recalling how he had tried to throttle the creature and nearly choked himself to death. And the injuries the geminus incurred when Anne had thrown Leo into the bookcase. Bruises covered his torso, ugly purple beneath the white bandages.

His hurt body only emphasized how gravely, dangerously wrong he had been, and yes, his pride suffered. Damned fool, each laceration and bruise accused. Blind, arrogant imbecile.

He held up his shirt, intending to put it back on, but it was tattered and stained. Whit rummaged through a valise until he found a fresh shirt, and tossed it to Leo. Fortunately, they were of a size, and the shirt fit well enough. It provided some cover, yet now that Anne had seen his markings, it felt as though nothing could ever hide the evidence of his hubris, the spectacular failure of his judgment.

“So we cannot kill the bloody thing,” Leo bit out. “There must be another way to get my soul back.”