Demon's Bride

Chapter 13

She did not go straight home. Thinking about returning there, with its hollow chambers and shadowed corners, reminded Anne too much of the emptiness of her marriage. What could have been a warm, welcoming place became instead an unfulfilled promise. So she asked the coachman to drive around London, circling aimlessly.

At one point, the carriage drove past her parents’ townhome on Portland Street. A faded little building tucked between grander structures, an impoverished relative at an elegant dinner. She immediately discarded the idea of going to see her mother and father, taking shelter with them from the chaos of her life. They could offer no solace, no haven. Even if she did go in and confess everything—her fears, her frantic, dying hope—they would never believe her. She, herself, could not believe the thoughts she now entertained.

Leo cannot be in league with the Devil. The Devil is not real. Magic is not real.

Yet her faith in the world as she knew it crumbled away, with each day, with each hour.

The carriage drove on.

Everything spun out of control. She watched the streets roll past—Saint Martin’s Lane, Oxford Street, the Knightsbridge Turnpike as they headed west and out toward the new development of Kensington—seeing only a world off its axis, and her unable to right it, to stop the mad whirl.

“Sun’s going down, madam,” the coachman called from his seat. “Don’t think the master would want you out after dark.”

There was nowhere to go but home. It wasn’t home, in truth, but a house she occupied. “Very well.”

By the time she reached Bloomsbury, dusk lay in hazy folds, and the few lamps that had been lit threw flickering shadows across the streets.

Inside, the house held light, but little warmth.

She handed her cloak to a nearby footman. “Is my husband home?”

“Not yet, madam. Dinner is nearly ready, so Cook tells me.”

She had no appetite. “Excellent. Tell him to serve as soon as my husband returns.”

The footman bowed. “Very good, madam.”

Inwardly, she cringed. Making dinner plans, as though she and Leo could sit together at table and converse over Whitstable oysters and seed cakes like any married couple. The thought of the plates, the cutlery, the meaningless exchanges she and Leo would make when the weight of greater questions bore down with a relentless, killing force—it made something inside her curl up and shudder.

She could not sit in a parlor and occupy herself with a book or pore over her trove of maps and globes. She could not spend a moment within these ornate walls. Yet she could not go out. Only one place offered a degree of relief.

Her footsteps took her out into the garden. The time of year was still too early for any growth, everything remained barren and bare, but at the least she had no walls around her, no roof threatening to crush her. She paced quickly up and down the paths, feeling like an animal in a menagerie.

She pressed back farther into the recesses of the garden, where the shadows deepened in the twilight gloom. A small arbor formed a dark cove, hidden from view, and she sat down upon a stone bench tucked within it, determined to gather her thoughts.

She stared at the thorned branches of what would be roses. Nothing could coalesce in her mind, for every time she sought to understand what was truly happening, staunch reason tried to assert itself. All that remained were fleeting impressions, half-glimpsed truths, and thwarted hopes. With a violent intensity, she wished she and Leo could go back to those days leading up to and just after the consummation of their marriage. For she saw what they could be together—were it not for the darkness that gathered around him like a mantle.

A shimmering radiance drew her attention. It appeared as no more than a flicker of light beside the empty flower bed. And then grew larger, like a spark becoming a flame.

Anne dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. She must be tired, having slept hardly at all these past nights, and her vision played her false.

Yet as she took her hands from her eyes, the light remained. Grew even larger. Until it was the height of a person. It coalesced from a nebulous radiance into ... a woman’s hazy form.

Anne shot to her feet. Her heart thudded in her chest. Yet she could not run. She simply gaped as the woman sharpened, grew focused, her limbs and facial features emerging from the light.

“Oh, God,” Anne rasped. For the woman wore ancient Roman clothing. She had proud, aristocratic features and cunning dark eyes. And she stared directly at Anne.

The same woman from her dream.

Anne dug her nails into her palms, and fissures of pain threaded up her arms. She was truly awake. The ghostly woman who shimmered in the garden was real.

Which meant that everything else—Lord Whitney’s accusations, the existence of the Devil, Leo’s use of magic—all of it was real, too.

“You believe now.” The specter’s words sounded as though they came from a great distance. The ghost was talking. “At last you believe.”

“Who ... are you?” Anne hoped that the ghost would not answer, for that meant it was not sentient, and did not truly converse with her.

“Valeria Livia Corva,” said the specter, killing Anne’s hope. “Livia, as I am known. We have met before, as well you know. Now my strength has grown. Thus, I appear before you—though time is fleeting.” She took a step—or rather, floated—closer. “Come, there is much to do.”

Anne edged backward. “Leave. Go away. I don’t want you here.”

The ghost frowned. “What is this delay? The battle is nigh, I have given you the weapons you need. We must act. Now.”

“None of this makes sense.” Moving farther back, Anne felt the edge of the stone bench against her legs. It was all so similar to her dream, but she was assuredly not asleep, much as she wished that to be so. “Whatever it is you want of me, I won’t do it.”

Livia scowled. “Are you his, then?”

“I’m no one’s.”

“There is no neutrality. A side must be chosen.” Her hands made patterns in the air, and Anne bit back a yelp of surprise when a glowing image appeared, hovering in the space between her and the ghost.

She stared at the image, eyes wide. There stood Leo, and all of the Hellraisers, in the same temple of which Anne had dreamt. And there was the elegant, diamond-eyed man, receiving small objects from each of the men, including her husband.

“Reckless men.” Livia’s mouth twisted. “They transformed themselves from merely debauched to truly wicked, the enemies of virtue and honor. Gained magic, yet lost their souls.”

The same magic of which Lord Whitney spoke.

“The pact is written upon your husband’s flesh,” said the ghost.

“Leo keeps his skin covered.” She had foolishly thought the cause was discomfiture over birthmarks or disfigurement.

Livia’s smile was pitiless. “Hiding evidence of his crime.”

Anne assembled the pieces: Leo’s infallibility with investments, everything that had transpired with her father. His refusal to let her see his bare skin. She felt ill. More than an illness of her body, but a sickness down to the depths of her soul. The only man she ever loved was a fiend.

“Leo is ... damned?”

The ghost spoke brutally, coldly. “The world is damned with him. Gaining souls, the Dark One’s power strengthens. His influence spreads like plague.”

“The riot,” Anne murmured to herself. She had seen creatures in the theater, demonic beasts. Leo must have seen them, too, for he had tried to get them out of the theater before the creatures could strike. He knew. He knew. He was part of that madness, perhaps even the engineer.

“A foretaste of what is to come,” answered Livia. The image of the Hellraisers shifted, becoming a hellish landscape of flame and destruction. It was London. Fire engulfed the city, consuming Saint Paul’s Cathedral, Buckingham House, Westminster Bridge. People ran to flee the inferno, whilst others looted and committed horrible acts. And demonic creatures swarmed the streets and skies, turning London into a true hell on earth.

Leo would make that happen.

The specter waved a hand, and the images of a destroyed London mercifully vanished. “Our magic is the fortification, but we must take up arms at once. I have given you the power once belonging to the Druid sorceress. Her magic I stole for my own selfish use, but it is yours now.”

Anne did not know anything of Druid sorceresses. Shaking her head, she said, “I’ve no magic.”

Livia’s mouth curved. “You make this assertion? Daily, you have seen evidence.”

“The candles,” Anne whispered. “The fire.” It had begun the morning after her dream. When alone, she could not keep a fire lit. Candles guttered and went out. Because ... she possessed magic. She stared down at her hands.

Power within her? Magic. She reached into herself, searching. Surely she could feel it, if magic imbued her body.

She gasped, for there, faint but true, came the flutter of power in her veins, tucked into the secret corners of herself. A cool, blue energy swirled like currents of wind.

“Such a spell comes with a cost. Not until this moment could I appear before you and summon you to battle. Yet I am here now, and you are ready.” The ghost hovered nearer, her expression determined, merciless.

Anne’s pulse beat thickly in her throat, and she could barely speak. “I do not ... how can I ...”

“I have armed you, and yet you still require me to devise the battle’s plan? Can you not formulate your own attack?”

Anne felt the blood leach from her face. “I won’t harm Leo.”

“The greater good demands—”

“No.” The ground beneath Anne shifted as her head spun. Her life had become a nightmare. The Devil. Magic. Doom. “I chose none of this.”

“It has chosen you, fragile mortal.” Livia scoffed. “This female has none of the strength of the other, the girl of flame. Oh, for a better ally.”

“I am not your ally. I am nothing.”

“That is of a certain, should you continue on with your mewling protests. As the world collapses, you shall be burnt alive. And the man you call husband will watch and laugh. The crisis point is here. Either you are my ally, or my enemy. Make your decision now.”

Anne choked, bile rising in her throat. She staggered forward, then ran toward the house, seeking safety yet knowing that none was to be found.

He raced into the entryway of the house, the cold of early evening spreading an ache through his bones. As Leo handed his greatcoat and hat to the footman, Anne ran into the foyer. She skidded to a stop when she saw him, her face ashen, eyes wide and dark.

Leo understood at once. Wordlessly, he stepped forward and took hold of her wrist, then strode up the stairs, pulling her behind him.

She did not speak, either, not until they reached the bedchamber. He closed and locked the door behind them.

The candles sputtered. Went out. Likewise the fire. Darkness enveloped the room, the only light coming from the last remnants of a dying sun.

In her pearl-gray gown, Anne made a pale shape, a ghost of herself. She kept nearly the whole of the chamber between them, as if holding herself out of striking distance.

“The Roman priestess,” he said, toneless, “she spoke with you.”

A choked sob broke from her. “Then it’s true.” She turned away, pressing her hands and forehead against the wall behind her. “I kept hoping, wishing. God, this cannot be happening.”

He stared at the slim, straight lines of her back, his gaze tracing down the heavy pleat of fabric that ran from her shoulders to the floor. “It began long before we ever met.”

She made another strangled, wounded sound, and it pierced him straight through. “The whole time you courted me,” she said, “knowing I was to be your wife. Knowing you would bring me into this. Leo, what have you done?”

“You don’t understand.” Now that this moment was at hand, he felt hollow, bereft. A man facing the ruination and loss of everything. It slipped from his grasp, no matter how tight he clutched at it. He wanted to crush her to him, bind her close.

She whirled to face him. “Make me understand.”

A tap sounded on the door.

“Get the hell out of here,” Leo roared.

“Sir,” said the footman on the other side of the door, “I’m sorry, he said it was urgent and must speak with you immediately.”

Leo stalked to the door and threw it open. “Send the bastard away, whoever he is. And if you disrupt me and my wife again, I will throw you out of my damned house.”

“Yes, sir.” The servant gulped. “Only ... he said I was to give you this.” He held out his hand. A ribbon encrusted with dried mud lay curled in his palm.

Anne’s ribbon. From the riverbank earlier that day.

Leo stared at it for a moment. “Where is he?” he asked tightly, pocketing the ribbon.

“He told me he’d wait in your study, sir.”

Leo drew a breath. He could not leave Anne now, but this had to be attended to. “Tell him I’ll be down presently.”

The footman nodded, looking relieved that his job was not at risk, and hurried away.

Turning back to face the darkness of the bedchamber, Leo looked for Anne. She was pressed into the corner of the room, preserving the distance between them.

“I’ll return,” he said. “A few minutes only.”

“You cannot leave.” Her voice was thin, strained. “Not now.”

“This is important.”

She made a disbelieving laugh. “So is this.”

He was racked between necessity and longing, wanting to stay, yet knowing that he could not. “I have to go.”

“Leo—”

Before she could convince him otherwise, he turned and strode from the bedchamber. He hastened down the stairs, then along the corridor, until he reached his study. Leo opened the door.

Waiting for him was not Whit, as he had expected. The man who stood before the fire, glowering at him, was him. Save for the clothing he wore, the man was identical to Leo in every way, from his size, face, hair and eye color, to the way he stood, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet as if readying for an attack. Leo’s double.

“My master is extremely displeased,” the man snapped.

He wasn’t a man at all. It was his geminus.

Everything made a terrible sense now. Everything became clear. He understood what he must do.

Leo stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“The situation is intolerable.” The geminus strode toward him, its face contorted with anger.

But its face was Leo’s face, and he knew in that moment how it must feel to be on the receiving end of his rage. Torn between fascination and horror, he stood his ground as the creature who was his exact likeness paced nearer. No wonder so few ever opposed him—in the full of his anger, he appeared utterly merciless.

And so he had been. In almost all aspects of his life. Anne remained the lone exception.

Thoughts of her spurred him on now.

“The situation isn’t intolerable,” he said, his voice cutting. “It’s ending.”

The geminus halted its advance. Its mouth twisted. “You made a bargain, and you will honor that bargain.”

“Honor? Poor choice of words, coming from you.”

The geminus glowered. “And a word of which you are unfamiliar. Have you not profited, and well, from the advantage my master bestowed upon you? Is not all of this”—it waved its hands at the study, the shelves of books, the expensive carpets, the heavy desk of imported wood—“the culmination of your power?”

“I don’t need the Devil’s magic to succeed.” Nearly everything in the house, and the house itself, had been purchased before Leo had received his gift.

“Mark me well, mortal,” the geminus spat, “it is a small matter to my master to take all of this away from you. Everything can be taken away.”

Leo tensed. “What the hell are you threatening?”

“Precisely. Hell.” Seeing that it had Leo’s complete attention, the creature smirked. “My master does not tolerate sedition within his ranks. Sever ties with Lord Whitney. Should you see him again, kill him. And bring your wife to heel. You are her lord and master. Bend her to your will.”

Leo hated having anyone tell him what to do. Yet fury warred with fear. “If I don’t?”

The geminus moved to the fire, then reached into the flames. Leo hissed as searing pain blazed up his left hand and arm, and as he stared at his hand, the skin reddened and blistered. Turning back to face him, the geminus held a tongue of flame in its palm.

Leo stared as the flame grew larger, hovering above the geminus’s hand. The flames shifted, forming shapes out of fire. Figures emerged. His house appeared, only to tumble down into a smoking ruin. Yet he did not truly feel terror until Anne’s likeness appeared in the flames. A host of demonic creatures attacked, and he could do nothing but watch as the beasts dragged her away toward a ravenous abyss.

“Goddamn you.” He snarled, striding nearer.

The flame and images vanished from the geminus’s grasp. Pain receded by bare degrees from Leo’s hand, but rage and horror sank talons into him.

“Damn you,” the geminus corrected. “That is a given. Yet you shall damn her, as well, if my master’s will is disobeyed.”

Fury poured through Leo, white-hot. Most of it directed at himself.

He’d been stubbornly heedless, convinced of his own supremacy. A bloody thick-headed fool. To think that his gain outweighed any consequence, that nothing mattered but his advancement and the destruction of those he saw as his enemies.

And to drag Anne down with him ...

It was insupportable. He clenched his hands into fists. “Do not threaten her.”

The geminus gave an ugly laugh. “What leverage have you? My master’s power is vast, and yours a trifle by comparison.”

“But your power is not so great.” Leo stalked to the geminus and wrapped his hand around its throat. He squeezed tightly.

And felt himself choking.

His fingers uncurled from the creature’s throat. The moment he released it, his own breath returned.

Both he and the geminus panted and coughed, and the creature wheezed, “No business investment ... is undertaken without ... insurance.” Regaining more breath, it chuckled. “I am made from you. The other side of your coin. Hurt me in any way, and you hurt yourself.”

Black swam in Leo’s vision. He despised being backed into a corner, but the one who had put him in this position was himself. The architect of his own plight.

The geminus became all solicitousness. “Come, it needn’t be antagonistic between us. If you but heed my master’s command, your rewards will increase tenfold. You may enjoy a life superior to a king or emperor. And your wife shall be your empress. No harm shall come to her. Nay, she will thrive, and bear you fine, healthy sons—each of them destined for greatness unparalleled. Is that not a fair bargain? To gain so much, and for such a small cost.”

“Bring Anne under my control,” Leo recited, “and cut ties with Whit.”

“Your rewards would be handsome, if you were to eliminate Lord Whitney. Say, lure him into your confidence, and so dispatch him.”

“Let’s speak plainly. You want me to kill him.”

The geminus smiled at Leo, and the uncanniness of being smiled at by himself made his gut clench. “Ah, my master always did enjoy your directness. So, have we reached an accord?”

“I—”

The door to the study banged open, and the fire sputtered. Anne stood at the threshold.

“Leo, send your visitor away. We must talk—” Her words died as she looked past him to the geminus. Color leached from her face. “Oh, my God.”

“Hello, my dear,” murmured the geminus. “At last I have the pleasure of meeting you.”

What she saw before her was impossible. Leo in the study. Not Leo, singular, but two identical men, both of them not merely resembling her husband, but were her husband. Save for their difference in dress, the men in the study were mirror images of each other.

He had no twin brother. This she knew.

Then who, or what, was this other man?

Her gaze darted back and forth between the men. One was dressed in the same clothing she had seen Leo wearing throughout the day—dark brown coat, waistcoat of green wool, buff breeches tucked into tall, glossy boots—and the other was clad in a gentleman’s bronze velvet ditto suit, the buckles on his shoes clearly not paste. Aside from these surface differences, she could not tell the men apart.

No—that wasn’t true. One looked at her with agony in his storm gray gaze, the other smiled at her, but his eyes revealed a profound, bitter coldness, as if she were no more than a grub found wriggling through the flour.

“What is this?” she rasped.

“A fortuitous encounter,” said the Leo in velvet. God, even his voice was the same, with the barest hint of a rough accent in the hard consonants. He took a step toward her. “If I may—”

The other Leo moved to block his path, his face darkening in fury. “Don’t bloody touch her.”

The cold one smirked. “We have already proven that your threats hold no weight. I was merely going to suggest—”

“Suggest nothing.” The rage in this Leo’s face outpaced the vengeful wrath she had seen from him in the riot at the theater. And it terrified her as her mind struggled to understand what she saw before her.

He turned back to her. “Anne,” he said gently, the way one might speak to a frightened horse, “it’s me. Your husband. Leo.”

“Then who is he?”

His mouth tightened. “My geminus.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“You’re a clever girl,” drawled the other Leo, the geminus. “Surely you can hazard a guess. Only consider: I came into being one very eventful night three months ago.”

According to Livia, that was when Leo and the other Hellraisers made their pact with the Devil, exchanging tokens for their sinister magic. This thing sprang into existence from that exchange. Looking at it now, she saw in its wintry gaze the most malevolent parts of Leo—rage, contempt, hatred. Drawn forth from him, and given flesh.

“It’s you.” She stared at her husband, who stared back with anguish. She could only imagine she looked equally ravaged. “Your dark counterpart.”

“Ah, you are clever.” Yet the geminus looked far from pleased by this notion.

Anne’s hand rose to her throat. “God, Leo, what have you done?”

“What I thought I must,” he rasped.

The geminus clicked its tongue. “Let us not stray from the subject at hand. Now that you are here, we may as well discuss vital matters.” It attempted to move closer to her, and again, Leo lunged into its path, blocking its advance.

“I said, Don’t. Bloody. Touch. Her.”

The heat and violence of his words made Anne edge back. She had never seen Leo this angry, and his rage was a terrible thing, savage as a blood-maddened wolf. Everything became a peril, especially the man she knew as husband. What did he want from her? What would he do? Anything was possible, and all of it awful.

She needed safety. She had to run away, to protect herself. As her emotions churned, energy gathered within her, a swirling maelstrom collecting throughout her body, potent and blue.

Leo turned to her, his expression torn between fury and desperation. “Anne, please—” He took a step toward her, one hand outstretched.

“No!”

Anne flung her own hands out, warding off an attack. As she did so, she felt the energy within her release, pouring out of her in a furious gale. Both Leo and the geminus flew backward, pushed away on a current of violent air that came from her hands.

The geminus slammed into the desk. Leo careened into the bookcase lining the far wall. Both groaned at the hard impact, then fell to the floor, sprawling on the carpet.

Anne stared down at her hands in horror, then at the two figures lying upon the floor. She had done that. Pushed them both away using a power that came from within her.

Madness.

Leo groaned again. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Raised his head to look at her. The pain etched into his sternly handsome face made her want to go to him, comfort him, and she was appalled at herself.

“Anne,” he rasped.

She turned and fled.

She did not know where she ran. She knew only that she must run far. Put the whole nightmare behind her, as if, by the motion and momentum of her body, she could outpace the truth. The truth that scoured her with its ghastliness.

My husband is in league with the Devil.

Anne ran through the streets of Bloomsbury, past elegant homes and leafy parks. Night covered the city, and lamps threw out fitful light. As she passed, the lamps extinguished. Linkboys’ torches sputtered. Even candles she espied through windows guttered and died as she ran by. She sped into darkness.

London became a city of deepest shadow, the city in which she had spent almost her entire life made strange and frightening. Every face she passed seemed to be Leo’s, or some demonic creature. She remembered the things she thought she had seen in the riot, the fiendish beasts in the crowd. Those had been real, and even now, they could be out here, searching for her.

Running, she passed a group of men.

“Where are you going, madam? Are you in distress? Shall I fetch a constable?”

She shied away from outstretched hands, seeing clutching grasps, and raced on. Those men could be disguised demons. They could be men also in confederation with the Devil, their words of supposed kindness a trap.

She had no means of protecting herself. Not from the demons. Not from Leo. And not from herself. Something lived within her, a power she did not understand.

Winded, her stays a hard cage that crushed the breath from her, Anne stopped in an empty square and struggled for air.

Her head spun. Where could she go? With whom could she seek refuge? Not her parents. Numerous acquaintances were scattered throughout, in Marylebone, in Soho and Saint James’s. The idea that she could sit in someone’s parlor and explain to them that her husband had made a compact with the Devil, thus creating a sinister double of himself, and she had to flee for her very life—if she wound up in chains at Bedlam, she ought to consider herself fortunate.

Where, then? When she had not a single ally.

Ally.

Lord Whitney. He had known all along. Had tried to warn her. She must go to him; he would help.

You shall find me and Zora at the Black Lion Inn, in Richmond.

She fought to get her bearings in the darkness. She might be in Mayfair, if the impassive, towering buildings around her were any indicator. Her heart sank. Richmond stood miles away to the west, past Hyde Park, past Kensington, past even Chiswick—on the other side of the river.

Coin to pay for her journey she had none. A bitter irony, considering the number of coins she had procured for Leo.

Coins. Leo had asked her to obtain them for him. Could it be that he needed them to utilize his magic to prophesize? She remembered that he’d demanded a coin from her father before making the mining investment. If that was true ... She had helped him. Abetted his use of evil power. And like a spaniel eager to please, she had done it.

Nausea roiled through her. He had used her. Deceived her. She had done it to make him happy, never knowing to what wickedness she contributed.

It wasn’t all for Leo’s benefit, whispered a voice deep within her. You liked playing tricks on those disdainful, pompous women. You enjoyed it.

She shoved that traitorous thought from her mind. It did her no favors, not now. Easier, simpler, to think of Leo as the villain and herself the wronged innocent.

What she needed was to reach Richmond, and Lord Whitney. Leo might be in pursuit of her. She could not dally.

Holding her aching side, Anne turned toward what she hoped was west and ran. Yet she was a lady, little used to running, and her slippers were meant for soft carpets or gleaming parquet floors, not rough pavement and cobblestones. She might as well have foolscap strapped to her feet for all the protection her slippers gave her. So her progress crept along, as she kept slowing to catch her breath and to ease off her throbbing feet.

London seemed infinite, the night equally huge. Every dark shape made her jump. Each rustle of wind through the elm leaves caused her heart to pound. She was sick, and weary, and terrified, and she despaired of ever arriving at Richmond.

Prayers were sent up to whatever deity might be listening, that she could reach Lord Whitney, and soon.

Anne stumbled down the road, until she found herself at the edge of a large grassy plain, a pitiless, colorless moon overhead illuminating paths, trees. A trio of buildings formed fanciful shapes against the sky, including a tower that soared high above the grass, a series of curiously roofed structures stacked one atop the other. Moonlight gleamed off its green-and-white-tiled roof. She realized at once where she was: the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. The tower was the Pagoda, built recently, and distantly she espied the domed roof and minarets of the Mosque. The Alhambra and its extravagant latticed railing and cupola made up the third structure.

It was all so deliberately, obstinately whimsical—buildings designed to be novelties, things meant for the enjoyment of London’s pleasure seekers, whose lives never touched the kind of horror that Anne now faced.

She hated those buildings, their playful indifference. A bitter desire clutched her; she wanted to burn them down, laugh at their ashes.

Instead, she staggered toward them. Though her heart urged her to keep running, her body demanded rest, and she needed out of the cold. She tottered inside the Alhambra, shadows dulled its brightly painted arches and columns. Only when she sank down onto the ground, her legs unable to bear her weight any further, did she at last give in to tears.