“If your geminus operates as mine did,” said Whit, “then there may be a means of doing so. Within its vault is your soul. Should you get into that vault, you can reclaim your soul and the curse is lifted.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Anne said.

Zora made a huff of sardonic amusement. “Nothing is simple, where Wafodu guero is concerned.”

“For one thing,” added Whit, “the vault is not fixed in its location. Zora and I discovered this the hard way in a tavern in Oxford. The vault lies behind any door the geminus so chooses. And only the geminus may access it. It may open a door, any door, to get inside the vault, but if you try to open the same door, all you will find is an ordinary room.”

“But I could force the geminus to open the door,” said Leo, “then enter right behind it, without the door closing.”

“Even if you could force the geminus to do that, it has power to keep you from going inside. You will find it impossible to enter.”

“Goddamn it.” Leo paced, frustrated. “There must be a way to get into that vault.” He whirled to face Whit. “How did you get inside?”

“I didn’t. Zora did.”

“And only then through the use of Valeria Livia Corva’s magic,” added the Gypsy woman.

Anne straightened. “The ghost?”

“A powerful sorceress, as well,” said Whit.

“It was she who gave me this.” Zora held up her hands, and flames suddenly danced along her fingertips. She smiled wickedly. “Very useful when fighting the Devil.”

“She gave me something, as well.” A fast, hard current of cold air gusted from Anne’s raised hands. The flames surrounding Zora’s fingers guttered and dimmed.

Leo and Whit exchanged glances. “Extraordinary women,” Leo murmured.

“The finest that walk this earth.” Whit smiled then, his old gambler’s smile, full of rakish charm, only now he sought only the favor of his woman, not the cards.

Damned strange to see Anne—quiet, studious Anne who loved maps and known truths—the possessor of magic. Yet fitting, somehow, for it showed outwardly the strength he knew she possessed within. Seeing her fight the demons using her power ... if he hadn’t been battling for his life, and hers, he would have found the sight thrilling.

Even now, it made his pulse race faster, his breath catch. He was awed by her.

As she lowered her hands and the summoned wind died down, her gaze met his. She had to see the pride in his eyes, the fullness of his heart, for she gave him the smallest of smiles, and he smiled in return. As though they shared a secret pleasure, a gift only they could truly appreciate.

A filament of pleasure gleamed within him. All was not lost. She could be his again.

Then she seemed to remember precisely why she had been given this power, and her smile faltered.

It was enough. For the moment. He’d capture any hope. What he needed now was a means of reclaiming his soul. The rest he would seize later.

“Then we require the ghost,” he said, turning back to Whit. “Livia. She needs to be here.”

Yet Whit shook his head. “She has not appeared to us, not since yesterday. If she showed herself to you recently, it must have tapped her power.”

“How long does it take for her to regain her strength?” asked Anne.

Zora shrugged. “A day, two days. When it involves magic, rules and time mean nothing.”

Another impediment. Leo took up his pacing. Anne’s smile offered him the slenderest of hopes, and he refused to let anything stand in his way. “If she’s been fighting against the Devil all this time, she alone holds the most information, the most power. Proceeding without her would be a mistake.”

“So, we must wait,” said Anne.

Leo forced down a growl. He did not want to wait. Impatience burned him, hotter than any fire. “I want to summon the bloody geminus and get this over with.”

“The moment you do,” warned Whit, “a horde of demons will descend, and that”—he nodded toward the pale strips of bandages that showed beneath the shirt Leo wore—“will appear nothing more than kitten scratches in comparison.”

Snarling in frustration, Leo slammed his fist into the wall. Fissures in the plaster spread out in jagged lines, and a satisfying pain radiated up his arm, but it did little to ease his anger. He pulled his arm back, ready to strike again.

A strong hand clasped his wrist, stopping him. Whit’s hand, with its long gamester’s fingers, and the gleaming signet ring that proclaimed him a peer of the realm. Leo wore no such ring, and never would. Yet it did not matter to him anymore. Distinctions such as nobleman and commoner ... what did they mean in the face not only of eternal damnation, but the loss of the only love he had ever known?

He stared at Whit, this man who had once been a close friend, then an enemy and now ... an ally.

“You aren’t alone in your sentiment,” Whit said, empathy in his gaze. “Not long ago, I felt the same way. But battering yourself to jelly solves remarkably little, I have discovered.”

“Not that you didn’t try,” said Zora.

Whit added in a voice low enough to be heard only by Leo, “And such displays can be rather ... unsettling to those who care about us.” He glanced meaningfully toward Anne.

Leo followed Whit’s gaze to Anne. She stood beside the bed, her hands clenched, her mouth drawn into a taut line. Concern darkened her eyes and paled her cheeks as she stared at him.

He had done enough to cause her fear. Slowly, he lowered his fist. Whit released his hold, and a sigh seemed to move through the room.

“A wise investor knows when to bide his time,” Leo said, gathering calm. “Act too soon, and what could’ve been a promising venture becomes far too costly. Disastrous, even.”

“No help for it, then,” said Anne. “Until the ghost, Livia, returns, we’ve got to wait to make our plan.”

Words such as we and our kindled fresh fires of hope within him. That was all he needed. The slimmest chance, the faintest possibility. He had built empires for himself upon grains of sand. With a few words from his wife’s mouth, he had enough to sustain him for the long battle ahead.

Anne lay atop the covers in only her shift, staring at the low-beamed ceiling. Ashen morning light filtered through worn curtains, cracks in the ceiling and the unmistakable gouges from rats in the timbers. Despite her exhaustion, sleep refused to come, so she counted the fissures in the plaster, hoping to lull herself into, if not slumber, then perhaps a stupor.

Yet her mind would not quiet.

After the conclusion had been reached that they must await the reappearance of the ghost, it had been decided that what Anne and Leo next needed most was rest. She had been swaying on her feet, her eyes hot, her body aching. Zora, a woman she knew not at all, had immediately gone to find her a room of her own. And when the Gypsy returned to lead her away, Leo had stared at her hungrily. But he let her go.

Anne was glad of that. She had boiled away the last of her strength, leaving an empty urn, and though her mind demanded that she keep him at a distance, her heart and body craved him—even now.

Rolling onto her side, she watched a fly form obscure shapes in the air as it buzzed across the room. Zora sat on the floor by the window, her legs tucked beneath her. She frowned over what appeared to be a child’s primer, and her lips silently, slowly formed the shapes of words.

Anne looked away. The day crept toward its zenith, and sounds of life penetrated the walls. Voices in the taproom. Horses outside. A carriage, a child’s cry. They seemed near, and yet distant, echoes from dreams of other lives.

What would the men in the taproom say, were she to hurry downstairs and proclaim that the Devil was real, that magic was real, and she herself possessed it? They would call her mad. And if she demonstrated her new power, they would run away in terror, or perhaps revive the custom of burning witches.