The Deepest Well
Author: Juliette Cross
Date: 2016-02-16 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Historical; Romance; Paranormal Romance; Fantasy; Historical Romance; Demons; Historical Fiction; Magic; Angels
Description: "Love can stand the test of time. Can it rise above the taint of Hell?" Lady Katherine Blakely is married to a monster. On the same night she witnesses how low her husband can sink, she meets a charming stranger, a gentleman from top to toe. Yet even her gallant rescuer is possessed of a dark side. Lord George Draconis Thornton, commander of the Dominus Daemonum, is on a mission to expel the demon prince Damas back to the underworld. But a golden-haired beauty derails his plans and stirs an attraction he s never felt before, not even for his centuries-dead wife. Discovering Lord Blakely is in
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Rights: All Rights Reserved (c) 2016 Juliette Cross

Love can stand the test of time. Can it rise above the taint of Hell?

Age of Gray, Book 1

Lady Katherine Blakely is married to a monster. On the same night she witnesses how low her husband can sink, she meets a charming stranger, a gentleman from top to toe. Yet even her gallant rescuer is possessed of a dark side.

Lord George Draconis Thornton, commander of the Dominus Daemonum, is on a mission to expel the demon prince Damas back to the underworld. But a golden-haired beauty derails his plans and stirs an attraction he’s never felt before, not even for his centuries-dead wife.

Discovering Lord Blakely is in league with Damas, George sweeps Katherine away from the chaos and devilry threatening her life. With every touch, their love grows by joyful leaps and bounds.

Sensing his enemy’s vulnerability, Damas kidnaps Katherine to his hellish lair, where he wages a sensual assault on her defenses. As George tears at heaven and earth to find her, he is painfully aware of only one way to save her soul. The cost will break her heart…and destroy his own.

Warning: Contains wolves in gentlemen’s clothing, a precipitous descent into Hell, and a frightening glimpse of a post-apocalyptic world where angels and demons wage war for dominion on earth.

The Deepest Well

Juliette Cross

Dedication

To my KickAss Chicks—Andrea, Gemma, Kristi, Kyra, Sabine and Sarah—for sailing these rocky seas with me and reminding me to enjoy the ride.

Chapter One

A picture of perfection in coral silk with pale rose embroidery along the bodice, and a touch of pink on her cheeks and lips to offset her fair complexion, Lady Katherine Blakely lifted her chin with a confidence she did not feel. Nevertheless, she turned from the mirror and set her mind on yet another ball.

“Where are my gloves, Maggie?”

“Right here, milady.”

As she slipped the second one on, tugging it tight at the elbow, she asked, “Is Lord Blakely waiting downstairs?”

“I believe so, milady. He was in his study before I came up.”

“Having his evening brandy, I suppose.” She winced at her own bitter remark. “Forgive me, Maggie. I may look the part, but I’m not so sure I’m in the mood for another ball.”

The maid nodded, her wide mouth lifting into a smile. “But you are the loveliest lady I’ve ever seen. If I may say so.”

Katherine turned, her skirts whirling with her, then held out a gloved hand. Young Maggie took it and blushed when Katherine squeezed it tight.

“You’re such a dear one. If not for you, I’m not sure I could endure—” She caught herself. It wasn’t proper for a lady to complain of her misfortunes. She gave her maid a genuine smile without saying another word, then headed for the door to find her greatest misfortune of all.

As she strode down the long hall darkened by crimson carpeting and cherry-stained walls, the swish of silk on silk sounded too loud. The house too quiet. Almost desolate in its interior design and decoration. Even the dark furnishings were oppressive—an improvement her new husband had insisted upon before the ink on the marriage license was even dry.

And before her father’s grave had gone cold.

Her poor, dear father. He’d only wanted the best for Katherine, to see her well cared for in the home of her birth. When her father fell ill, Lord Blakely stepped to the forefront—his wit, charm and good looks a perfect façade to hide the ugliness within.

Katherine shook off painful thoughts of a past she couldn’t change as she descended the stairs, careful not to step on her underskirts. Time to look toward the future and salvage what she could of this life. Even if she was bound to such a man.

Chin up, taking a deep breath, she crossed the downstairs hall to his study, then opened the door with a soft knock…and froze. Mortified.

She wished with all her being that she could rewind one minute and be more observant. The house wasn’t always so quiet. If she’d listened, she would’ve heard the beast on the prowl and the sounds his prey made when he caught them.

Heat rushed up her neck into her cheeks as she stared, openmouthed, at the scullery maid bent over her husband’s desk. Her bodice was undone, one breast hanging loose and swaying with Clyde’s fervent thrusts inside her from behind. Agnes dropped her head in shame, but Clyde did not. A cruel grin cut across his face.

“Come in and close the door, Katherine. You might learn something.” He fisted his hand tighter in the skirts gathered at the girl’s waist, then pounded her hard. Once. Agnes grunted, though she remained facedown, her fingers gripping the top edge of the mahogany desk.

Still in shock, Katherine winced, remembering his fist in her hair several nights ago as he held her down. The back of her scalp still stung. She squeezed the doorknob, her corset suddenly more constricting as her breath came quicker.

“No, sweetheart?” He chuckled and thrust again. “Then get out. Either way, close the door. This one likes to make noise.”

His other hand slid to the woman’s thigh and slapped. Agnes grunted again with a sensual pant, never lifting her head, cheek pressed against the desk.

“Wait in the carriage, Katherine.” Clyde’s mouth tightened into a line, his focus sharp. “I’ll be along directly.”

Katherine shut the door and swallowed hard to keep the bile from rising all the way up her throat. Sweat dampened her chest and neck. The erotic noises on the other side of the door grew louder. She pushed away violently and strode for the front hall, where Edmund held the door open for her.

“Thank you, Edmund,” she managed to murmur as she swept out and down the front steps. As always, he was aware of her needs. And right now, she needed to leave this place as quickly as possible. Hard to believe it was a once-cherished home.

The coachman hopped down from the front of the carriage and opened the door.

“To the Weathersbys, Peter.”

“Shall we wait for Lord Blakely?” he asked.

Katherine settled onto the velvet cushion, chin up. “We shall not. You may return for him after you’ve taken me on.”

Peter hesitated, holding the door open. She leveled him with a look she had learned from her father, before he’d fallen ill and lost the fire in his gaze.

“You will tell Lord Blakely that I demanded to be taken on. Now close the door, Peter. And drive.”

“Y-yes, milady.”

He snapped the door shut. With a jostle of the carriage and a call to the horses, they were off. Katherine leaned back against the cushion, tilted her head heavenward and closed her eyes. This wasn’t the marriage her father had dreamed of for her. This wasn’t the marriage she deserved. But it was her fate nonetheless. She bit back the urge to weep till her chest ached with anger and humiliation. Too many nights she’d wasted precious energy doing just that. And what good had it done her?

“None,” she whispered to herself, dabbing the traitorous tear that had slipped down her cheek.

With a deep breath, she focused on wiping the image of her husband from her mind. It wasn’t even his betrayal of their vows that cut her to the heart. It was the utter disdain with which he treated her. She wasn’t so naïve as to think he’d been faithful the two years they’d been married, but his cruelty was too much to bear. She’d known of his infidelities. But tonight was the first time she’d witnessed the ugly deed firsthand.

“Don’t think of it, Katherine.”

She turned her thoughts to the Weathersbys. They held the most lavish balls, and always toward the end of the season. The hens would be pecking into her business when she arrived alone. She’d have to find her dear friend, Jane Karroway, the only one who could lighten her spirits no matter how dark they’d become. Jane was also the one person who knew her happy marriage was a farce, though Katherine refused to divulge the humiliating details.

The carriage slowed behind a long line, then bumped to a rolling stop. Peter promptly opened the door and helped her down.

“I’ll return with Lord Blakely as quick as I can, milady.”

She nodded, hoping that he wouldn’t.

Strands of the orchestra’s music spilled out onto the elegant members of the ton filing through the ornate columns to the front door of the Season’s main event. Shuffling up the steps, she managed to weave behind a portly man to avoid Mrs. Periwinkle and her ghastly husband.

“Pardon me,” she said, slipping through the door and jostling a gentleman with auburn hair.

“Not at all. My lady seems to be in a hurry. You must pardon me.”

Katherine had already squeezed out of the receiving line but turned at the warm tone and the sultry voice of the gentleman. He removed his top hat, gave her a smile that sent her heart fluttering, then winked, drawing her dumbfounded gaze to his electric-blue eyes. Someone bumped her to get past, knocking her out of her stupor. The stranger chuckled and dipped his chin with a nod, as if he were a familiar friend, before continuing on.

Puzzled, she smoothed her skirts and turned away. The ballroom was oppressive with too many warm bodies. The murmuring of gossip, the strain of violins and the occasional trill of laughter filled the air. Silver sashes draped the room. Golden ornaments and greenery crowned every window, doorway, archway and Greek column. The Weathersbys spared no expense in decoration.

The tops of the dancers’ heads spun in a whirling cotillion at the room’s center. She scanned the groups hovering along the perimeter. That was where she’d find Jane. Sure enough, she spotted her near a high-backed settee, where Jane’s mother was bent in conversation with Helene Weathersby. Jane waved her over, demure and elegant as always. With her honey-brown hair coiffed in a simple twist, a wisp of ringlets at the temples, and a cornflower-blue gown that accented her tiny waist, she was stunning. She was always beautiful in blue.

Pushing through the stifling throng, Katherine finally made it to her friend’s side. “Heavens, what an absolute crush.”

“Isn’t it? I’d say the ton have come out in droves for the final farewell.”

“Is this the final farewell?”

“It might as well be. No one of consequence will dare hold a ball to follow the Weathersby ball.”

“I can hear you, Miss Karroway,” said the white-haired woman sitting next to Jane’s mother.

“I wasn’t exactly trying to hide the information from you, Lady Helene,” said Jane, raising a brow at Katherine. “Everyone knows this is the Season’s main event.”

“Don’t patronize me, Miss Karroway.” The regal woman, who certainly knew her worth, turned to Mrs. Karroway. “You need to marry her off, Eleanor. And soon. She’s got a tongue too quick for one still unmarried.”

“Don’t I know it. It’s not as if I haven’t tried. But she’s the apple of her father’s eye. He’d rather she never married at all.”

“I can hear you, Lady Helene,” said Jane with a smirk. “And you, too, Mother dear.”

“Precisely,” said the hostess. “Now take dear Katherine’s lead and find yourself a good husband.”

Katherine had been enjoying the witty banter until that last remark. She had to fight to keep her smile in place. She wouldn’t wish a husband like Clyde Blakely on anyone, least of all her dearest friend.

“I’m looking,” said Jane, peering over the crowd as if the perfect man might materialize at any moment. “But it seems all the good ones are taken up.”

“And all the bad ones too,” whispered Katherine.

Jane nudged her with an elbow and gave a sharp shake of the head. Everyone knew that Lady Helene was more astute than any woman in London. With a whiff of discontent, she might try to nose her way into Katherine’s misfortune. But Katherine had always liked the older and quite wiser woman. Katherine had an inkling the leader of the ton knew much more than she let on.

Lady Helene swept her hand outward. “There’s a room full of bachelors here, if you care to take a closer look.”

To that, Jane flitted her fan and turned to Katherine. “I wish everyone would stop trying to marry me off. I’m not an old spinster. Not yet.”

Jane was three years Katherine’s junior. “True. But I’d nearly earned the title myself by marrying at one and twenty.”

“Speaking of husbands, where is yours? I didn’t see you arrive with him.”

Katherine scanned the room, looking for somewhere else to focus her gaze so her friend wouldn’t see the pain wrinkling her brow. Too late.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Katherine forced a smile. “Nothing of consequence.”

“Liar. Tell me.”

“Not here, Jane. Not now.”

Katherine watched the mingling crowd. Debutantes vied for the attentions of the marriage-seeking bachelors, batting their eyelashes and laughing too loudly. A widower who often prowled the parties for a new lover settled in the corner with two potentials, gazing up at them with an expression highly inappropriate for a public ball. It was rather inappropriate even for the bedroom. The wallflowers picked at their gloves or stared longingly at the dancers, wishing to be amid the throng. And the gossipers—

“Heaven help us,” said Katherine, watching the Periwinkles approach. “Don’t look now, but we’re being descended upon.”

“Oh my.” Jane snapped her fan to the side and straightened her stance. “But look at the gentleman they bring in tow. Please descend, Periwinkles.”

Katherine glanced beyond Lord Periwinkle’s overly large head at the auburn-haired man with the undeniable swagger. She knew him at once. The gentleman at the door. As the threesome drew closer, his gaze rested solely on her. She wished she’d brought a fan to cool the heat crawling up her neck, as Jane did now, fanning with an overeager hand.

“Mr. and Mrs. Periwinkle,” said Lady Helene, standing from the gold brocade settee. “So pleased you both could come.”

“We wouldn’t miss your ball for the world,” said Mrs. Periwinkle, her absurd ringlets bouncing with her bobbling head. “May I introduce Lord George Draconis, Earl of Thornton.”

“Ah-ha,” said Lady Helene, extending her gloved hand. “I wondered when the mysterious and elusive new Earl of Thornton would finally present himself to the curious ton.”

He took her hand and bent over it with a regal kiss. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I doubt you’ll find I live up to the enigmatic expectation.”

“On the contrary,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. The woman might be moving up in age, but once she’d been a tigress on the prowl. “Though I must say there is no family resemblance to the late Earl of Thornton,” she said with an accusatory but friendly tone.

The late earl had been a short, stout man with a swarthy complexion, as Katherine recalled. Nothing like the long, lean, elegant man standing before her.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been told I have the features of my mother. It was my father who was direct kin to the late Lord Thornton.”

“I see,” said Lady Helene. “May I introduce you to Mrs. Karroway and her daughter, Miss Jane Karroway.”

Lord Thornton swiveled smoothly, making his way back to his first target.

“And this is Miss Karroway’s friend, Lady Katherine Blakely of Harron House.”

His body and mannerisms betrayed nothing, but Katherine felt the burning touch of his gaze like lightning scoring up her body.

His every move—the way his gaze lingered a second too long, the way his dimpled chin dipped too low, the way a lock of his auburn hair slid across his brow in an unruly manner—reeked of an undeniable rake of the first class. Jane extended her gloved hand for Lord Thornton to kiss. Katherine did not. Best keep some distance if she were to keep her head. Those broad shoulders and his intense, aquamarine gaze were temptation enough.

“So, Lord Thornton,” said Jane, “how long have you been in London?”

“A fortnight only.”

“A fortnight?” She snapped her fan playfully. “And you haven’t graced us with your presence until now?”

“I’m afraid it took longer than expected to settle in.” His tilted smile could melt a girl into a puddle on the floor. Katherine forced herself to straighten even taller. Jane’s fan was swishing at an alarming rate.

“That’s right, Jane,” said Lady Helene. “Acquiring servants, opening the hall, all of it takes quite a toll. And may I inquire if there is a Lady Thornton to assist you?”

His voice dropped impossibly deeper. “There is not.”

While Helene and Eleanor exchanged approving glances, they missed the fleeting look cast in Katherine’s direction. But she did not.

“I say. Is that young Godfrey?” asked Mr. Periwinkle, nearly forgotten on the edge of their circle.

“Why yes, it is,” his wife said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “And he’s with that man Radcliff again.”

Lord Thornton stiffened, angling to watch the two men in question approach. Helene’s composure hardened but kept the proper mannerisms to which she was born and bred.

“Good evening, Lord Radcliff.”

“Ladies. Gentlemen.” The black-haired man’s voice resonated with charm, confidence and a touch of something dark. Something indefinable. He flicked a scathing glance at Lord Thornton. A chill tingled up Katherine’s spine as he raked her with a cool, ascertaining expression. Peculiar that a catch of the candlelight tinted his pale eyes red for a fleeting moment.

As mistress of the house, Lady Helene swept through the introductions in a clipped manner. The interlopers didn’t seem to notice. Or care. Viscount Radcliff’s protégé was Alexander Godfrey, the polar opposite of him with his golden good looks. Katherine couldn’t ignore the tension tightening between the two lords, Thornton and Radcliff. While Alexander sidled toward Jane, engaging her in conversation, Lord Radcliff edged closer to her. She certainly couldn’t ignore the protective posture Lord Thornton adopted at her side. Before she could ponder this odd behavior from two men she barely knew, Lord Radcliff had her hand in his and swept an airy kiss across the knuckles. She withdrew it quickly.

“I’m afraid I’m not fond of that custom,” she said with too much venom on her tongue.

“Do forgive me. Your noble beauty requires more, but that is all custom allows.”

Katherine despised when men driveled on about her beauty. She sometimes wished she’d never inherited her mother’s flaxen hair and high cheekbones or her father’s pale green eyes and regal brow. It was what had drawn Clyde to her from the first.

“Come now, Lord Radcliff,” she said. “A man of your stature and charms can do better than that.”

Radcliff’s smile broadened into an obscene smolder. She didn’t know why, but she felt as if she’d just poked the devil with his own pitchfork.

The violins lilted into a new strain.

“There’s our waltz, Lady Katherine,” said Lord Thornton at her side, offering his arm.

Before she could protest, he placed her hand where it belonged and swept her away without a backward glance.

“This isn’t our waltz, sir. You never asked.” They squeezed through the last crush of bystanders to the open floor.

“It is our waltz.” With a sharp turn, he held her hand in the palm of his and gripped her waist with the other. Katherine hitched in a breath, unsteady with his proximity, swirling in the heady scent of expensive cologne and confident man. “This is our dance, my lady. Our first. But not our last.”

With that, he swung them out onto the floor, leading them into the first turn. To her utter distress, her body obeyed his every command.

“You are being impertinent, Lord Thornton. I am a married woman.”

“By law.”

She gasped at his candid reply, then proceeded to watch the crowd whirl by, refusing to give the rabid gossipmongers a reason to think this dance was anything but an amiable encounter between two acquaintances newly met. It was undeniably more. Fire rushed through her blood.

“You shouldn’t taunt a man like Radcliff,” he warned. “Or believe his charms.” His easy smile had slipped away.

“Why not? They were charming charms.”

Another turn.

“He’s a wolf.”

“And you’re not?”

The look he shot drilled her straight to the heart. “I am not.”

Katherine looked away, her party smile in place. He gripped her more tightly, his hand branding her through the silk fabric at her waist.

“You don’t fool me, my lady.”

“Fool you? About what, pray tell?”

“You’re wearing a perfect mask of contentedness, but there is deep sorrow in your eyes.”

She smiled more widely, realizing this man could see straight through her no matter what mask she wore. “You would save this damsel from her distress?” she asked with carefree inflection.

“I would. If I could.”

She let him shift her closer in the next turn. Or perhaps it was she who inched farther into his embrace. For the briefest of seconds, their bodies brushed together. She missed a step. He kept her from stumbling and lifted her smoothly into the last turn. No one could’ve detected the falter. Except him. She gathered her wits before she lost them altogether.

The strings drew the last note of the waltz to a close just as Clyde’s tall figure strode into the ballroom. Katherine winced at the sight of him.

“I would remove all sadness from those eyes, Lady Katherine,” Lord Thornton said for only her to hear.

She faced her partner, knowing etiquette would draw them apart in a matter of seconds. She should have scorned this stranger’s familiarity. She should have ignored his imploring gaze. But instead, the always guarded Lady Katherine opened her heart for one moment and let him see the pain she hid away from the rest of the world. Even from Jane.

Lord Thornton sucked in a tight breath.

“I’m afraid that is too great a feat. For anyone.” She pulled out of his arms and curtsied, knowing this gallant gentleman would not always be there to catch her when she fell. “Thank you for the dance, Lord Thornton.”

Chin held high, she maneuvered through the horde toward her waiting husband.

Chapter Two

George tracked Lady Katherine across the room, where she joined a tall gentleman with an arrogant tilt to his chin. He could only presume that was her husband, who hardly acknowledged her at his side, continuing to entertain his circle with some haughty nonsense. Fool that he was. While George wanted to watch her all night, and even pull her aside for another dance, he wasn’t here for the party or the dancing or the lovely company of a beautiful woman.

He was here for demons.

He wove through the crowd and into the next room, where smaller groups of the more elegant gathered. Scanning the parlor, he spied precisely whom he sought, near the pianoforte. No one was singing but a stunning woman of middle age, who leaned with her black hair coiffed elegantly, her scoop-necked bodice revealing more than ample décolletage, her simpering smile a delectable invitation to the young golden-haired man standing a foot away. It was not proper for a lady to lean in such a way, offering an improper view of her assets, but she was no proper lady—not in the real sense of the word. The widow Kingsley hunted the London scene for a new lover, and she’d unsheathed her claws for the one George planned to protect from the likes of her. If he could. He could guarantee the man standing to their left was the instigator of this devilry.

In his few weeks back in England, George had managed to gain plenty of information from the Periwinkles, who’d had him over for tea almost every day. Mrs. Periwinkle was as fond of gossip as she was of strawberry tarts. Lord Radcliff was often the topic of whispering rumors. His description on more than one occasion had alerted George that this Lord Radcliff could be the one he’d been searching for among the ton. And now he knew for certain that the Viscount Radcliff was indeed Damas, the demon prince of the underworld and his greatest enemy.

George strode toward the trio without pretense. The three turned at once when he joined their party, as if he’d been invited and welcomed.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Kingsley, but I believe Lady Helene asked for you.”

She angled her long-lashed brown eyes at him. “Pardon me. Who are you?”

“Earl of Thornton.” He gave a stiff nod.

“George Draconis, I believe, is it not?” added Damas.

George didn’t acknowledge him, repeating, “Forgive the intrusion, but Lady Helene was most insistent.”

All a lie, of course, but he needed a reason to be rid of her. Lady Helene would only excuse the errand as foolish nonsense, then go about her business.

“Whatever for, I wonder,” said the widow.

“Something of dire import, apparently,” added Damas, a bemused expression quirking his mouth up on one side.

“Very well.” She flicked her fan open and pressed close to Alexander. “Don’t go too far.”

George examined Alexander, noting the familiar line of his profile as the young man watched the scintillating Mrs. Kingsley walk away. George cleared his throat.

“Mr. Godfrey, would you be so good as to give me a moment of privacy with Lord—what is it these days—Radcliff?”

Alexander’s brow furrowed. He aimed his question at Damas, a sign he was certainly under his spell. “Do you know this gentleman, Radcliff?”

“It’s all right, Godfrey. Why don’t you follow after Mrs. Kingsley? I have the distinct notion Lady Helene didn’t need to see her at all.”

Still frowning, Alexander backed away and headed through the archway into the ballroom.

“Now that you have me all to yourself, what is it that I can do for you?”

George wanted to punch the grin off his face, but that wouldn’t do. Not here. “I should expel you right now for what you’re doing with Alexander.”

Damas tsked with a shake of the head. “I’ve not broken any laws. So I’m afraid that’s out of the question. Besides, you’d be in a spot of trouble displaying your extraordinary talents in front of all these lovely gentry.”

“I’ll find you alone eventually.”

“Perhaps. But you must understand that I’ve not broken the rules either. I’ve used no essence at all, so you can’t touch me. Even though you want to,” he said with a smirk. “So desperately.”

Demon lords carried the ability to use their own essence to twist the minds of others. If caught, it was a one-way transport back to Hell. If Damas was telling the truth, then George could not, in fact, expel him.

Damas stepped closer. “Don’t mistake me for my brothers, Slayer. I prefer surrender, not coercion. It makes the victory that much sweeter.” His gaze drifted to the open archway, where Lady Katherine walked alongside her friend, Miss Karroway. “Mmm. Delicious, isn’t she?”

George focused on keeping his breathing even. Though a spark of fury lit him inside, he couldn’t allow Damas to see that the woman he’d just met and held in his arms meant anything to him.

“She’s of no consequence. I’m more concerned with your plans for Alexander.”

“I’m sure that you are,” he said mockingly. “Alexander is my protégé of his own free will. What a delightful gift these humans have for falling this way and that. It’s so fascinating to watch them waver between what they know is right and what they know is wrong, and then finally choose the darker path all the same. Truly fascinating.”

“Leave him alone, Damas. You’re only toying with him because of me. And you know it.”

The demon prince straightened, his jaw hardening into the cruel line George recognized so well. “You are right. I plan to teach him all the pleasures a high-born gentleman may acquire with the right means, then topple him from his ivory tower. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Mrs. Kingsley is only the beginning. Enjoy the show.” Damas raised his brow with a genuine look of surprise, as if he’d just remembered something. “And I know you have an affection for the blonde. Exquisite creature.”

With a wink, the foul beast George had hated for centuries sauntered off in search of his protégé. The demon’s last threat confirmed that George had endangered Lady Katherine with one simple waltz. The irony was that the King of Lies could easily see through the deception of others. He already knew the woman meant something to George.

Remaining on the periphery of the ball, he watched and waited until he saw the Blakelys leave in safety before he left for Thornton. He did not miss Lady Katherine’s backward glance at him in the foyer, nor her partial smile before she was enveloped by the night.

George swirled his brandy in the tumbler, staring out the window of his second-floor parlor. He’d loosened his cravat but was still in evening dress. As he gulped down the second glass and poured a third, he wasn’t surprised to see a fast rider on a black steed galloping up the long drive.

He heard the hall door open below and the murmurings between his guest and his butler, Duncan. The sound of heavy boots on the stairs, four long strides, and his parlor door burst open. George swiveled smoothly, glass still in hand.

“That was quite the dramatic entrance. You’ll have the servants talking,” said George with a nod of welcome at the new arrival.

“Better that than appear like a ghost on the doorstep.”

His guest sauntered into the room and fell into the wingback chair next to the fire, shifting the sword scabbard attached to his waist and propping a boot on the ottoman. Gentlemen of this age didn’t wear swords on their person as a rule, but this was no ordinary gentleman. The man seated by the hearth looked like one who had been to Hell and back. And of course he had been. Several times. And it showed. Unruly but not unkempt dark hair and piercing black eyes along with his aggressive demeanor gave Jude Delacroix the appearance of a lone highwayman or a reckless pirate. But he was neither. He was a warrior. One of the finest. And while an aura of darkness always kept him company, George wouldn’t trust his life with any man more than he would Jude.

“Care for a drink?”

“When do I not? Scotch whisky, if you please.”

George smirked at the rolling burr dipping into his friend’s voice. Jude’s accent wavered between the French of his birth and the Scottish of his upbringing. Jude wore an eternal mantle of darkness, residual evil of the demons he cast back into Hell. Only Flamma of Light or Dark could see he was no ordinary human but a hunter of the damned. Even so, the man managed to bear his burden in silence. Perhaps it was because he believed he deserved this penance.

“Why didn’t you come to White’s after the ball?” asked Jude. “I’ve been waiting all night to hear the news.”

“I’d had my share of London society for the evening.” He put the glass stopper back in the bottle. “Besides, those walls have ears.”

George joined him by the fire and passed him a glass of amber whisky but remained standing. Both gentlemen stared into the flames as if they might find answers to their questions and prayers sifting out of the smoke.

“So?” Jude finally spoke. “Did you see Damas?”

“Yes. He’s masquerading as a viscount here in the human world, going by Lord Radcliff.”

“Ha!” Jude knocked the whisky back in one shot. “He’s demoted himself from prince to viscount? How humble of him.”

George sat in the wingback chair opposite his friend, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, glass cupped between both hands. “Quite.

Lord Radcliff was one of the most powerful demon princes—debaucher of innocents and corruptor of souls. But he wasn’t like his brothers, whose evil seeped into the very air around them. No, Damas was a seducer, a master of deceit. He particularly enjoyed watching the pure of heart fall from grace. His new playground was the aristocracy of London. And George Draconis, commander of the Dominus Daemonum, the Master of Demons, planned to rid this world of him altogether.

“And has it worked? Has he escaped the scrutiny of London society?”

George downed his glass. “I’m afraid not. He’s already earned a blackguard’s reputation, it seems.”

“How so?”

“The hostess was none too fond of him, and others whispered their discontent with Godfrey as his protégé.”

Jude leaned forward and set his glass on the ottoman. “So it’s true. He has taken Alexander under his wing.”

“So it seems.” George stood abruptly and lifted Jude’s glass. “Another?”

Jude nodded, eyes narrowing. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Do you think Alexander is being controlled by demon spawn?”

“No,” George answered. Damas might not have infected Alexander with his essence, but it still might be too late to pull him back from the abyss. Damas was right about one thing. The human will was a hard thing to control. “We’ll have our work cut out for us.”

George poured another whisky for his guest. He set his own glass aside. The brandy had loosened the tension constricting his chest, but the worry, the fear, had not disappeared.

“George, we knew all this before. You’ve only verified what we suspected all along. So what is it that plagues you like a lovesick sailor?”

George cut him a nasty look. “There’s another complication.”

“Oh no.” Jude stood, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you’re right. But how could you know? And I’m not lovesick.”

“You have the look of every man I’ve ever known who is being tortured by a woman’s beauty or other…assets.”

“That’s enough. She is—”

Both men froze. They’d sensed the needles-and-fire sensation crawling over their skins. Demons were near. George glanced toward the window.

“On the lawn.”

Without another word, George disappeared, sifting through time and space, through an in-between place called the Void. Here, he could move freely from one place to another simply by will alone—a power given to him by their maker, Uriel the Archangel.

He appeared on the lawn with Jude a split second later in a crackle of electricity. George had drawn a short dagger from under his waistcoat. Jude held his sword at the ready.

Five red-eyed fiends lurked in the misty darkness, circling them. Farmers and merchants, four were local men from the village, whom he’d spoken to on a number of occasions and knew well. One was his own stable boy, Daniel. They’d been possessed by lower demons who had the power to hide in human hosts so they could walk the earth and do their masters’ bidding. But they couldn’t hide their demon eyes, the telltale sign of lower demons. George’s blood raced. These were men in his care, being used as pawns to attack him.

“Your wards are slipping,” said Jude, swinging his sword in a dramatic arc. The closest demon hissed—the skinny stable boy, Daniel, who’d only ever looked at him with a friendly smile.

“No blades,” commanded George, sliding his dagger back into the harness. “I know them. They mustn’t be harmed. We’ll fortify the wards after dispatching the demons.”

Jude swung his sword again, nearly missing another encroaching fiend with straggly hair.

“Jude! No blades. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Quite clearly. Just having a bit of fun.”

“Bloody hell,” mumbled George, charging the oafish demon, who happened to be the village blacksmith.

George summoned the fiery power from within his chest, chanting the mantra “Flamma intus.” A burning vibration pumped from his core straight through his arm and his fist as he landed a single blow to the blacksmith’s jaw, knocking him out cold. George knelt at the blacksmith’s side, sensing a second attack on his flank. Raising a hand, fingers spread wide, George charged the air with his Flamma power. The wheat farmer bounced back off the invisible shield George had erected, beating against the barrier to no avail.

While holding the supernatural shield in place with his left hand, George placed his other palm on the blacksmith’s forehead, calling the demon forward in the old tongue. A growling rolled from the man’s chest, then his head snapped to the side. Black smoke hazed the man’s form as a second head—hideous and malformed—popped out of his neck. George snatched it by the skull and ripped it straight out of the host. The creature was all jagged bones, sagging gray skin and gnashing, serrated fangs. He clawed at George’s arms, tearing the sleeve of his coat to shreds.

“Back to hell, my ugly friend.”

Midsqueal, the beast disintegrated into a pile of charred bones. Ash and smoke swirled in a small circle around the heap.

George heard the commotion at his back, where Jude must’ve expelled a demon of his own. Finally dropping the barrier, George guarded himself as the wheat farmer lunged forward. It took no time at all to subdue him, yank another gangly demon from within, a creature more pitiful than the first, and send him back to hell in a cloud of powdery smoke. George turned to assist Jude but found all three of the other attackers unconscious at his feet and three piles of ash nearby.

Barely out of breath, Jude said, “That was too easy.”

“Agreed,” replied George. “These were newly made demons, barely strong enough to hold their hosts.”

“How could any master believe these pathetic minions could subdue you?”

Jude’s indirect compliment gave him pause as he stared down at the unconscious wheat farmer, an expression of peacefulness having replaced the menacing mask of the demon who’d held him captive moments before.

“They didn’t. This was a message.”

“What kind of message would that be? Hello there, Slayer, we’re horrible demon lords who are weak arses. That’s quite a message.”

“No.” George stepped over Daniel, anger burning once more in his belly. “This is Damas saying I know where you live, and I know who is important to you.”

The golden-haired Katherine flashed to mind, and the way Damas had looked at and spoken to her. George wanted to stab himself through the heart. Without meaning to, unable to control his protectiveness of her well-being in the prince’s presence, he’d shown her special attention. By doing so, he’d put her directly in the line of danger, singled her out as a target for Damas, who played the game of souls all too well.

Jude dusted demon ash from his trousers. “What shall we do with them?”

“I’ll sift them back to their homes.” George knelt by Daniel, readying to sift him to his quarters above the stables. He glanced up at Jude. “I hope you brought proper clothes.”

“These are proper clothes.”

“No, Jude, they are not. You’ll need attire for a walk in Hyde Park tomorrow.”

“Hyde Park? Why on earth would I possibly go there? That’s where the ton wander about and gossip and flaunt their God-given fortunes of wealth and beauty.”

“Exactly. I imagine that’s where I’ll find Katherine tomorrow. I must speak with her.”

“Katherine?” Jude combed a dirty hand through his dark hair. “Oh, the one who has your heart in a vise.”

“She does not have—”

“Does she have something else in a vise?” Jude arched a brow.

“I bloody hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Jude, be cooperative for once, will you? Prepare your arse for a gentleman’s stroll in the bloody park tomorrow.”

“Well, if you put it so politely, I suppose. But why must I be there at all?”

“If my knowledge of elegant females is correct, and I believe that it is, she will be in the company of her best friend. I’ll need you to entertain the friend.”

“Entertain?” His smile turned wicked.

“As a gentleman, Mr. Delacroix.”

Jude swept a deep, regal bow. “But of course.” With a wink, he sifted away.

George leaned over the stable boy and lifted him in his arms, then sifted to the second floor above the stables. The boy’s candle still burned. His bowl of lamb stew, crust of bread and serving of custard pudding had been left half-eaten. Cook had been generous. But she favored the skinny lad, an orphan who’d come to think of Thornton as his home.

It was true George had settled at Thornton only a fortnight ago. But in that time, he’d taken great care to know the people in his charge. He was of no blood relation to the former earl at all, as was believed. William Lockwood had been a sentinel for the Flamma of Light. Sentinels were humans who were chosen and who accepted the duties to battle the evil set on this earth. William had chosen to live his life a bachelor when he dedicated his life’s work to being a protector for the Light, to offer a haven when needed and to be George’s informant for this part of the world.

A month ago, William had sent word to George, then residing in Paris, that London was swarming with demon activity. By the time he’d received the letter and sifted back to Thornton, William was dead. The local doctor said it was a heart attack, but George knew otherwise. He was sure a Flamma of Dark had discovered William was a sentinel and dispatched him straight away. To George’s surprise, the honorable man had named him his sole heir, falsifying his genealogy to insert him as a distant cousin living abroad. William charged him to protect those in his care. “The only true family I have” were the words inscribed into the will, words he knew George would not take lightly and would gladly honor.

And so here was Daniel, enjoying the reward of a hard day’s work when a foul demon from Hell climbed into his room and crept into his soul. George cringed at the fear the boy must have felt. Thankfully, a human host rarely remembered anything about his possession. He placed Daniel in his bed, noting his coarse woolen blanket was hardly enough to keep him warm through the winter. He tucked the blanket over him. He must tell the housekeeper, Mrs. Baxter, to give him more suitable bedding. As he snuffed out the candle, he made a silent promise to set wards around every home, farm, inn and tavern in town. The problem was, he couldn’t protect the people once they stepped outside the wards. With one last glance at Daniel, he closed the door.

His thoughts strayed to Katherine again. The sorrow in her eyes was a beacon to the damned, particularly a certain demon prince. Demon lords were drawn to those whose souls radiated pain, loss, heartbreak…and innocence. George would simply have to save her from the well of despair she was swimming in before Damas could lure her into his dark embrace.

If she would let him.

Chapter Three

The sun was mockingly bright, Katherine thought as she shaded herself with the parasol. Jane strolled alongside her, beneath her own parasol, happy to finally be out of earshot of her lady’s maid, who lagged behind a few paces.

“So what has you so giddy?” Katherine asked.

“Truly, Katherine, you must be joking.”

“I am not. I wouldn’t have asked if I had any idea why you were grinning like a girl who’d sampled her father’s port.”

Jane laughed. “Don’t be coy. Tell me.”

“Tell you what, dear? You’re under the assumption I know why you’re behaving as if you have a secret.”

“I don’t have a secret.” She arched a delicate brow at her friend. “But you do.”

“I do?”

“Come, come. Tell me about Lord Thornton.”

Katherine’s heart immediately plunged into her belly. The very mention of Lord Thornton created all kinds of wondrous and terrible sensations in her body.

“Lord Thornton and I shared a dance. A waltz, to be more specific. There’s nothing to tell.”

“You must think I’m blind or brainless or both. I saw you, Katherine Elizabeth, and I know you better than anyone.”

“Oh, really? And what is it you think you know?”

“I think Lord Thornton is attracted to you, and I believe you share the same attraction for him.”

“Really, Jane. You know how I feel about women who engage in such extramarital affairs. And I’m a—”

“Oh, don’t start with I’m a married woman. You don’t love Clyde. No woman could possibly love him.”

Katherine kept her mouth shut, for Jane was absolutely correct. Katherine confided enough in Jane for her to despise Clyde for all eternity. Still, it nearly knocked the wind out of Katherine to hear Jane say so aloud.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said more gently. “But you don’t love him.”

“That may be, but it doesn’t mean that I would entertain the idea of a tryst, if that’s what you’re insinuating. And I shared only one dance with the man. That is hardly enough to induce me to fall in love.”

Jane jutted her chin forward, her in-deep-thought expression.

“Besides, I’m not so sure Lord Thornton showed more particular attention to me than he would any other woman who struck his fancy. And if you really must know, he had no significant effect on me whatsoever.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Truly.”

“It would not bother you to be in his company, then?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, that is a relief—for he is walking this way.”

Straight ahead, the man himself strode directly toward them, accompanied by a brooding fellow. Lord Thornton wore all the trappings of a proper gentleman; however, the slant of his mouth, the intensity of his blue eyes, and the way he moved with agile grace and determined steps gave him the air of a fallen angel. His dark-haired, dark-eyed friend looked more like the devil himself.

“Oh my,” whispered Jane.

Katherine nudged her with her elbow. “Be good.”

“Always am.”

“Liar.”

Five steps more and they were standing directly before them in the shade of an elm with rustling green leaves.

Lord Thornton tipped his hat with a small bow in greeting. “Lady Katherine, Miss Karroway, what a pleasant surprise.”

Katherine suspected it was no surprise at all. When Lord Thornton gave her a secret smile, she knew she was right. And damn the man if this one simple act didn’t spin her insides into a maelstrom of chaos.

“Wonderful to see you again so soon, Lord Thornton,” said Jane. “And who is your friend? I’m Miss Jane Karroway,” she said, offering her hand to the brooding one.

Katherine’s jaw dropped. Jane spoke out of turn, ignoring proper etiquette as usual. She never had patience for the tedious bore of propriety. “This is Mr. Jude Delacroix, my friend visiting from Paris.”

Mr. Delacroix took Jane’s hand and bowed with a sweeping kiss. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a thick French accent and a knee-buckling smile. Her first impression was correct. He was the devil himself.

“May we escort you on your stroll?” asked Lord Thornton.

Before Katherine could politely protest, Jane replied, “Of course. I’ve always wanted to travel abroad, Mr. Delacroix. Would you tell me about the beauty of Paris?”

“I’d be delighted,” he said, offering her his arm. “Though there is much beauty to be seen here in London as well.”

Jane took his arm with a girlish giggle but sauntered ahead with him like a lady.

“Lady Katherine?”

Katherine turned from the couple to see Lord Thornton offering his arm. She laid her hand in the crook and let him lead her slowly behind the other pair. Neither of them said a word as the other two spoke incessantly.

“How are you today, Lady Katherine?” he finally asked.

“Very well, Lord Thornton. How should I be?”

Her voice did not give her away, but the nearness of him, her arm held securely between his own and his rib cage, his leg brushing her skirts with each step, the lovely, masculine scent of him swirling in the air, sent her emotions reeling. And she had no idea why. She’d met the man once. Shared one dance. That was all. Why should she be affected so? This was absurd.

He glanced at her, then faced forward again. “By the pinched look of your brow, I’d say you aren’t very well at all.”

“What? Oh, it’s nothing. Simply the heat.”

“I see. Would you like to sit down and rest a moment?” he asked, gesturing to a bench.

“No.”

So they walked on. She felt wound as tight as a clock, ready to spring loose.

“Tell me, Lady Katherine. What are the things in life that bring you joy?”

She flinched and turned her face up to him. “Pardon?”

He kept his focus ahead on the path. “I merely would like to know what it is that makes you happy.”

Made her happy? What an odd question. No one had asked her such a thing before.

“You do know what makes you happy, don’t you?” he teased.

“Of course I do.”

“Is it a secret you’re willing to part with?”

“It isn’t a secret at all. Don’t be impertinent.” She jerked her gaze forward, realizing Mr. Delacroix and Jane were farther ahead. Lord Thornton’s slow pace had widened the gap. On purpose?

“Seems to be a problem I have.”

“Yes, it appears so,” she added, her lips lifting into a smile.

“Still…I’d like to know,” he said gently, melting away her irritation.

Katherine pondered his question. He waited patiently for a reply.

“Riding, for one. Reading. Seeing new places.”

When she said nothing more, he remarked, “I enjoy riding as well. Something freeing of the spirit when galloping on horseback.”

“Yes,” she agreed, glancing up at him.

“A smile? I am a fortunate man indeed.”

“Don’t tease me, sir. We finally agree on something. I’d say it is cause enough for an amiable expression.”

“True. You enjoy reading, which is certainly a positive attribute. And do you sing or play the piano?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve never played an instrument, though I do love listening to fine performers.”

“What about art? It seems so many ladies fancy themselves masters these days.”

“No. I don’t draw or paint either, though I appreciate the art form.”

“So. A lady who doesn’t draw or paint or sing or play the pianoforte. But she enjoys riding.”

“And reading.” Katherine smiled.

“Now who’s teasing?”

“And wildflowers. I forgot that on my original list.”

“That one is rather important.”

“Seems rather small, actually,” she said, stealing a quick glimpse up at him, admiring his profile.

“Not at all. It is the small things of beauty that make life worth living.”

Then he caught her with his brilliant aquamarine gaze. She felt as if he’d never let her go. Swallowing hard, she broke the brief trance and aimed ahead.

“Well, if you’re trying to discover the dark mystery of why a lady such as myself has no affinity for the talents a lady should have, there is no great mystery, I’m afraid.”

“But there is a reason.”

“Of course. My mother died of a fever when I was very young. When my governess, Mrs. Ashburn, insisted upon my learning all the arts of an accomplished lady, I told my father I had no desire to be an accomplished lady.”

Lord Thornton laughed. A very pleasant sound. Katherine smiled again. Mr. Delacroix and Jane had stopped at the end of the path, where their carriage was waiting for them. Katherine’s heart sank. She wasn’t ready to leave Lord Thornton’s company.

“My father loved me dearly.”

“And so he spoiled you.”

“Yes. Most assuredly. So it was that Mrs. Ashburn was handed her wages and seen to the door, and my father took up responsibility for my education.”

Lord Thornton grunted.

“What? What does that sound mean?” she asked.

“Nothing at all. Only I’m surprised. Few men would take on such a challenge.”

“Few men were like my father.”

“Were…? He is no longer with us?” he asked gently.

Katherine shook her head.

“I am sorry.”

“Thank you. But it is all right now.” Though it certainly wasn’t. Nothing had been all right since her father had left this earth.

“And what of travel?” he asked with lightness. “You said you enjoyed seeing new places. Where have you been most recently?”

“I’m afraid nowhere recently.”

“Oh?”

“My—” She paused, loathing to take ownership of the man as her husband even in conversation. Especially in conversation with Lord Thornton. “Lord Blakely prefers that we stay here. I have not traveled since my father took ill almost three years ago.”

“How terrible for you.”

He placed his hand over hers at the crook of his elbow, his fingers heavy atop her own. Her heart raced away again, and she wished she could ask him to take her once more around Hyde Park. But the gossipmongers were always watching, waiting for someone to step out of line. She curled her fingers and gripped him a fraction tighter. He noticed. His gaze dropped to hers. She gave him a genuine smile for the first time, appreciating his company more than he could possibly know. She hadn’t thought of those happy days with her father in such a long time. And Lord Thornton, with his gentle inquiry, had brought forth more genuine joy than she’d felt in ages.

“There’s one more thing that makes me happy, Lord Thornton.”

“What is that, Lady Katherine?”

“Memories of my father.”

By this time, they’d reached the carriage. Mr. Delacroix handed up Jane and then her maid. Katherine turned to Lord Thornton, fearful her emotions would be transparent in her countenance. She’d enjoyed being with him, talking with him, far more than she should have. He helped her up into the carriage, holding her hand till the last possible moment.

“Thank you, Lord Thornton.”

She wasn’t thanking him for the assistance into the carriage. And he knew it. He smiled a smile that warmed her inside and out.

“You’re most welcome, Lady Katherine. Any time I can be of service.”

They stepped away, and the coachman jolted the carriage forward into the lane. Jane grinned like a fiend from her seat directly across, shaking her head.

“I don’t want to hear a word,” said Katherine, stopping her teasing before it could begin.

“Oh, you will.” Jane glanced warily at her maid, never wanting to share any secrets in front of her lest the maid confess them to her mother. “You will.”

Chapter Four

Katherine stepped into the front hall, draped in a perfectly fitted dress of shimmering champagne silk. Clyde stood with his hat in one hand and that odious lion’s head cane in the other, raking her body with a ravenous gaze. She shivered. He’d avoided her bedroom for some time, thankfully, but she knew her respite would soon be over.

“Right on time, darling. Shall we?”

She swept past Edmund, who held open the door, and down to the carriage, where Peter helped her in. “To Covent Garden, Peter.”

Her husband stepped into the carriage and sat opposite her, grinning. Choosing to ignore his arrogant display of husbandly possession, she stared out the window, remembering the sunny walk in the park and her genteel companion earlier that day.

“What’s the matter, dear Katherine? You’re not still angry, are you?”

“Why would I be angry?” she asked in a bored tone.

“The scullery maid.”

She could’ve taken his own cane and beaten him with it for putting that image back inside her head. She’d had such a lovely day. She closed her eyes for two full seconds, then settled her gaze on him, willing the anger in her chest to stop burning. His grin widened. He enjoyed her anger, the very reason she fought so hard to hold it in control.

“Do not vex yourself, darling. My affection for you is not diminished.”

“Perhaps mine is for you.” She regretted opening her mouth, but once she had, she couldn’t stop the words from spilling. “As long as you entertain someone else in your…bed”—though there had been no bed involved—“you can rest assured that you’ll not be sharing mine.”

“Is that right?”

His voice was edged with ice. She might have pushed too far. There was one thing Clyde relished above all things, even his pride—his possessions.

“Perhaps you’re unclear on how a marriage works. You see, you now belong to me. And so does your bed.”

The carriage rolled to a stop. They’d arrived at the opera house. Katherine leaned forward to open the carriage door herself, eager to flee his presence. He grabbed her upper arm in a tight grip.

“Let go.” She tried to pull away. “You’re hurting me.”

He gripped more tightly. “Remember what I’ve said, my darling.”

She stopped struggling, meeting his stormy gaze with calm and resolve. “I heard you, Lord Blakely. Now free my arm before you leave a mark and you’re forced to explain my bruises to your gentlemen cronies.”

The door swung open, but Katherine crouched at the entrance, still held by her husband, while Peter stood there, waiting.

“Lady Katherine?”

Clyde released her, and she stepped down with great speed, tripping on the hem of her gown when she landed on the pavement. Peter helped her catch her balance before she fell.

“Are you all right, Lady Katherine?”

“Fine, Peter. Thank you.”

She moved away a few steps, longing to run fast and far away. But Clyde would only catch her, then punish her for inconveniencing him. He sidled up next to her, offering his arm, brandishing his cane in the opposite hand. Katherine glared at the brass lion’s head at the top, hating the object as much as its owner. Clyde didn’t need a cane, but he fancied himself a dazzling eccentric. He thought the damned thing added a touch of power and prestige. What a fool.

The elegant gentry filed up the stone steps of the Royal Opera House. The women filled the hall with an array of rich-colored silks—deep crimson, darkest sapphire, and emerald green—their glittering jewels draping delicate necks and fine wrists. The men contrasted the vibrant hues in black evening dress. Katherine and her husband proceeded up the staircase toward their box.

“Good evening, Lord Blakely, Lady Katherine.”

“Thank you, Lady Helene,” said Clyde, silky smooth. “And where is Lord Weathersby?”

“Oh, probably curled up in his study with a bottle of his favorite port, I imagine.”

Katherine smiled. She loved that Lady Helene said the God’s honest truth whenever she damn well pleased. She longed to do the same.

“You look lovely, my dear,” she said to Katherine. “You are a diamond shining brighter than the rest.”

“Isn’t she?” Her husband agreed with his usual finesse, but Katherine’s knowledge of the beast within made her cringe.

“Shall we?” she asked with a polite smile, wanting to get to their box, where she could escape for a while in the opera, Faust.

“Certainly, darling.”

Katherine wished with every fiber of her being that he would stop calling her darling. She was not his darling. She was not precious to him at all, except as a commodity for appraisal and to elevate him in the eyes of the aristocracy. Her family had an impeccable reputation, generous to a fault, though always judicious in where they bestowed charity and aid to others. Now, with her husband as an anchor on her estate, spending her inheritance on frivolous nonsense—like expensive, imported canes—he’d proven that she was his purse, his ornament, but never his darling.

“Good evening, Lord Talcombe,” Clyde greeted one of his overstuffed gambling partners, a member of the House of Lords as well as a notorious inebriate. The gentleman’s jowls slackened when he took in Katherine at Clyde’s side.

“Well, well, Blakely. This is your lovely wife? We have never met.”

“Please allow me to introduce Lady Katherine Blakely.”

“What a pleasure,” said Lord Talcombe.

She dipped a small curtsy to avoid offering her hand in greeting. Though Lord Talcombe was obese with a ruddy complexion and looked nothing like Clyde, he bore a striking resemblance to him in demeanor. She had no intention of letting the man’s lips come near her hand, even well-covered in a silken glove.

“And you.”

She wore her society smile as the two men exchanged a few niceties, coupled with secretive whisperings. Katherine hadn’t a care. Her mind had already wandered to a lovely park where a tall, handsome man’s auburn hair gleamed in the sunlight. If she could disappear and transport herself to Hyde Park seven hours earlier, she would. In a heartbeat.

“Well then, Talcombe. I’ll be seeing you soon,” said her husband in parting. The two shared another deviant chuckle, but she cared little about her husband’s mischievous activities.

As Clyde led her away down the second-floor corridor toward their box, he said, “I forgot to mention that we shall have company joining us tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A recent newcomer to London. And his friend.”

Katherine’s legs immediately wobbled. She wasn’t sure how or where Clyde might have had occasion to meet Lord Thornton, but there were few newcomers to London this late in the Season. It must be him. This smothering evening with her husband suddenly took a turn for the wonderful. She inhaled a deep breath and steadied herself as they stepped into the box.

Then her heart fell. Lord Radcliff and his friend Alexander Godfrey, the two who’d put Lord Thornton so much on edge at the Weathersby ball, stood to greet them.

“Ah, Lady Katherine,” said Radcliff, bowing, “what a pleasure that we meet again.”

“You’ve met my wife?” asked Clyde in a tone hinting at suspicion.

“Only briefly. At the Weathersby ball.”

“Oh yes. What a bore,” said Clyde, proving he was an arrogant ass even in front of near strangers.

“Good evening, Lord Radcliff. Mr. Godfrey.” She attempted to lighten the awkwardness of Clyde’s greeting. “I did not realize you were acquainted with my husband.”

“Newly acquainted,” said Lord Radcliff. “We appreciate the invitation to accompany you tonight. Don’t we, Godfrey?”

“Absolutely. Stunning view of the stage from here.”

Clyde stared distractedly at someone down below. Probably a mistress, Katherine presumed. As if on cue, he turned with a tight smile. “If you’ll pardon me, I must see to a matter of business. I’ll return shortly.” With that, she was left alone with two men she hardly knew, though they appeared harmless enough.

“Would you have a seat, Lady Katherine?” asked Lord Radcliff, sweeping an arm in a gallant manner to the front row.

“Thank you.”

She took her seat and adjusted her skirts, resting her reticule in her lap. Lord Radcliff took the seat directly on her left. Mr. Godfrey took the seat next to him, closest to the stage.

“Did you enjoy the ball the other evening?” asked Lord Radcliff.

“I suppose so. Lady Helene always puts on the most lavish occasions.”

Katherine caught sight of Clyde speaking to a tall, dark-skinned man—certainly a foreigner—with a ravishing blonde on his arm. To her surprise, Clyde paid no mind at all to the beautiful creature at the man’s side but spoke intensely with the gentleman. She was wrong. He seemed to have business to attend to after all.

“You don’t sound as if you enjoyed this lavish occasion.”

Katherine tore her attention away from her husband and turned to Lord Radcliff. She’d never been this close to the man, but now that she was, she couldn’t fail to notice that he was remarkably attractive. Fine-boned with a Grecian profile. Dark, wavy hair that fell just right across the brow—not too styled and not disheveled. Clear green eyes that gleamed reddish-gold by the candlelight in the sconce on the wall. Strange.

“Lady Katherine?”

And his voice. Deep and sonorous and entirely unfair for an attractive man to possess. He was a rake of the highest order. Of that she was certain. And yet his demeanor was not lecherous or even suggestive. But patient. Like a tiger in the tall grass, waiting for the most opportune moment.

“Lady Katherine?”

“Oh, I apologize. You were saying?”

A smile crinkled one side of his mouth as he spoke. “I was saying that you don’t sound as if you had a lovely evening at the ball. Was it something to do with Lord Thornton?”

“Lord Thornton?” Her heart sped up at the mere mention of his name.

“Did he distress you in any way?”

If she was honest, yes, he actually had. He had disturbed her on the most elemental level, rousing first anger, then frustration, then undeniable desire.

“No,” she lied. “Not at all.”

“And how long have you known Lord Thornton?”

Curious that his inflection changed when speaking of the man who so obviously held mutual animosity for him.

“I met him only that night.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really. Why would you think otherwise?”

“He seemed to take a particular interest in you. As if he had a right—” He glanced away toward the audience below. “Forgive me. It is not for me to pry.”

Katherine laughed. “There is nothing to pry into. I met Lord Thornton at the Weathersby ball for the first time, and we waltzed once. That is all.”

His gaze swiveled back to Katherine, watching once again like the predator in the shadows. She felt peculiarly on edge for the briefest of moments.

“I see,” he finally said.

“And how are you acquainted with Lord Thornton?”

She tightened her gloves at the elbow, seeming to be indifferent to his answer, though she eagerly longed to know how and why the two were acquainted.

He leaned back in his chair, resting a hand on the knee closest to Katherine’s skirt. “Lord Thornton and I have known each other for many years. Our families have been at odds for some time.”

“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. What is the grievance, if I might ask?”

The orchestra’s warm-up sounds of strings and horns died at once. The lights dimmed just as Clyde stepped back into the box and took his seat next to Katherine.

“Perhaps another time,” said Lord Radcliff with a smile, turning to the stage.

Katherine let her unease wash away as the music of Louis Spohr filled the theater. The somber strings and dulcet tone of the horns carried her to a peaceful place where she was no longer tied to Clyde, where she ruled her world in her own right.

If only.

The guile with which the black-clad Mephistopheles crept across the stage and lured Faust into a deal with the devil sent an alarming chill down her spine. The eagerness with which Faust signed away his soul gave her even more discomfort. At one point, she felt Lord Radcliff’s gaze on her. When she finally glanced his way, he smiled nonchalantly and faced the stage once more, his long fingers tapping on his knee to the rhythm of the orchestra.

At intermission, Lord Radcliff stood first and offered her his arm. “Lord Blakely, you do not mind if I escort your wife to the lounge, do you?”

“Of course not, Radcliff.”

Katherine caught an icy tinge to her husband’s tone, but his abrasive demeanor was not unusual as of late. Though the music was dark, this had never unsettled her before. The opera had always set her mind at ease, even in the company of her husband. However, tonight she sensed that danger was near, circling, weaving through the mingling crowd like a concealed viper.

Lord Radcliff led her to the farther side of the foyer, where the crowd was thinnest. He beckoned a servant carrying a silver platter with crystal flutes of champagne. All this time, Godfrey remained passive and silent at his side. Rather odd, but the fellow seemed as ill at ease as she did. He searched the room as if waiting for something, for someone.

“Here you are, Lady Katherine.”

Radcliff handed her a glass. Though she rarely drank in public, she took it willingly and let the cool liquid tingle down her throat.

“So what do you think of the opera?” he asked.

“I’ve seen Faust before, but there is something troublesome about this performance.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“I don’t know exactly. Perhaps it’s the actors. They seem… They appear so genuine in their performance that I find it disturbing.”

He chuckled. “Really? You can’t fault the performers for doing their job well.”

“No. I don’t fault them at all.” She took another sip. “It’s just that the very idea of selling one’s soul makes me heartsick.”

“Does it?” His keen gaze fixed on her, his voice rolling deep. “Would you not give everything for love and comfort and happiness?”

Katherine felt stricken by the question, by his intense demeanor, by the very idea. “Is that what Faust bargains for? It appears to me to be lust and money and fame.”

“Interesting. Then it all depends on one’s perspective, does it not?”

He swigged the rest of his champagne with a swift tilt of the head. Katherine felt a sinking sensation, realizing this disarming, charming man was powerful in stature and even more powerful with some indefinable energy pulsing in the air around him. She thought herself mad, but she couldn’t stop staring, wondering who he truly was.

He edged more into her intimate space, whispering low. “One man’s heart’s desire may appear unjust and sinful to another. But the man longs to capture the beauty of his eye all the same.” His gaze drifted over her cheeks down to her lips and lingered there. “I’d bet even a lady such as you has her own heart’s desire which may not seem fitting to society or the laws of man…or even the laws of God. Yet your heart wants what it wants, does it not, Lady Katherine?”

At the moment, her heart was beating frantically, sensing danger on a dramatic scale. What was he truly asking her? Did he know how she felt about Lord Thornton? Was he professing his own desire for her? Confusion befuddled her thoughts. She couldn’t say a word. She tried.

“I—I’m not sure what you mean, Lord Radcliff.”

“Yes. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

She turned her head, afraid she might give her emotions away if she remained in his clutches one more second. Clyde stood apart from them, speaking to the tall foreigner with the lovely blonde still on his arm. The man gestured over Clyde’s shoulder. He turned and looked directly at her, frowning at Lord Radcliff, then nodded to the gentleman. They walked together toward them. Godfrey remained silent and to the side, drinking a glass of champagne.

“Mr. Calliban, please meet my wife, Lady Katherine.”

The man bowed properly. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.” His accent was thick, though he spoke English as well as any gentleman of London. Detecting the precise origin of his accent was more difficult. She’d met men of the Middle East before, but none who sounded exactly like him.

“And you, Mr. Calliban. May I ask, is your homeland Persia?”

“Thereabouts, my lady. We have homes in many countries.” He peered down at the woman at his side with a covetous expression, though she never even glanced his way, gaze forward, serene smile in place.

The sensation of dread that had swirled around her during the performance now swelled to new heights. This was no ordinary man. All her instincts told her he was…evil. How could she possibly think such a thing about someone she had never met before? His firm and controlled demeanor put her on edge. He had the look of a man who’d seen a thousand horrors, and they’d not touched him at all.

“Please allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Matilda Calliban.”

The beautiful woman swiveled her glassy-eyed gaze on Katherine and dipped a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure,” she said with a sweet voice, though there was no life in it. She appeared like an automaton—a breathtaking machine of feminine perfection.

“I did not know you were in town, Radcliff,” said Mr. Calliban. “You should’ve let me know you were here. I could’ve given you a proper welcome.” The man spoke with a warning in his tone, not a welcome.

“I knew we’d bump into each other sooner or later, Calliban.”

The entire time this odd interaction was taking place, Katherine’s heart threatened to beat right out of her chest, her pulse racing like mad. Clyde did nothing but stand to the side of Mr. Calliban as if he were the man’s lapdog. She couldn’t stop feeling as if this entire exchange was a façade of some kind, hiding a truth she could not detect.

“May I take your glass, my lady?” asked a servant at her elbow.

“Yes. Thank you.” As she placed the flute onto the platter, she spotted Lord Thornton on the opposite side of the foyer. Watching. His dark gaze intense on the men at her side made her hitch in a breath.

Mr. Calliban swiveled as if he sensed the man at his back. Lord Thornton tipped his own glass in salute, although his expression was anything but friendly. The man who glared with contempt and hatred at her circle was not the man she’d walked alongside in the park. Then she noticed his friend, Mr. Delacroix, at his side, wearing the blackest scowl she’d ever seen.

Mr. Calliban laughed. “Quite a party of us at the opera tonight, is it not, Radcliff?”

“Quite.”

What was going on? Katherine felt as if she’d stepped onto the stage herself, where everyone knew the parts except for her.

“I believe the second half of Faust awaits,” said Lord Radcliff. “Shall we see how it all ends?”

“Indeed. Now we shall witness the lovely, imprisoned Marguerite, who falls into madness by the hand of Mephistopheles,” said Mr. Calliban. “Nothing more beautiful than a virtuous woman in peril.”

Katherine shivered when he directed his comment at her with a crooked smile.

“Come, Katherine,” said Clyde, demanding she take his arm, which was a direct snub to Lord Radcliff. She did so, as was her duty. When she glanced back over her shoulder to look for Lord Thornton, he was gone.

Chapter Five

George stood in the shadows across the street from Harron House, brooding with dark intent. Cloaked as he was in the cast of illusion, the happy couple parading under the moonlight without a care in the world didn’t even notice he was there. If they knew their city was quickly being overrun with demons, they might not relish late-night walks. George was so focused on his target, waiting for their arrival, he didn’t flinch a muscle when Jude appeared right beside him in a rush of wind, having sifted from his own mission.

“And?” asked George.

“Not far outside London.”

“Did Damas go home with him?”

“No. Calliban had only the Vessel.”

“His wife,” said George, shaking his head in disgust. “I’d wager all of Thornton on the fact that he orchestrated that poor girl’s parents’ deaths so he could hole up in their mansion.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You can’t be everywhere at once. You can’t protect everyone.”

George turned to his friend, letting his gaze drift away from the front door of the house across the street for the first time. “And what if his wife were the one, Jude? What if it had been her, before Calliban got his hands on her?”

There was a prophecy among all Flamma of Light and Dark, one that had been torn in half ages ago, the second half lost or hidden. What was known was that a Vessel would be born into this world who would become a powerful weapon for the heavenly hosts in the Great War to come, whenever that might be. Upon her full awakening of power, she would turn the tide against the demon horde. There would be no match for her. She could destroy with a word. However, if a Vessel was corrupted and possessed by a high demon—one of the aristocracy among the damned—not only would she forfeit her power for good, but she would become an instrument of evil—body and soul. In the possession of a Vessel, a high demon could disobey the laws of Flamma forbidding them to possess the weak on holy days or walk on holy ground. By channeling the Vessel power toward evil, he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, to whomever he wanted. And the greatest sin of all was that the Vessels became the ultimate victims—bewitched by their demon lord to do his bidding without any will left of their own. The Vessel’s power became forfeit, amplifying the power for her demon lord.

This was all certainly true of the vacant-eyed woman on Calliban’s arm tonight.

“I should’ve been here,” said George. “In London.”

“You can’t be everywhere at once. Haven’t we been over this?”

“Then we need more hunters.”

“Speak to Uriel about that.”

Uriel the Archangel was their maker. Most archangels and angels never set foot on earth, biding their time till the Great War came, when they would battle the demons upon this middle ground. But Uriel was not like all archangels. His disgust for demons lording over and corrupting unsuspecting humans while the heavenly hosts flitted about in their otherworld seemed unjust. So he began by making George, who was not a Dominus Daemonum at all. His bravery in death had caught Uriel’s eye, and so the archangel had begun building his own army…here on earth.

But it was not large enough to combat the growing hordes of demons mixing with the human population, swarming in to do their ghastly deeds.

“I will speak to him,” said George. “But for now, we are the only ones here to stop Calliban and Damas in whatever they’re up to.”

“Are you certain Damas is in league with him? They aren’t nesting in the same place.”

“The princes are more territorial than any of them. They wouldn’t. But Lord Blakely is at the center of something nasty.”

“Do you believe he is a sentinel for Damas?”

“No. Blakely may have become acquainted with Damas, but his loyalty is to Calliban. And I don’t believe the man has any idea who or what he is toying with.”

“I’ll watch Calliban’s place, see if I can detect any comings and goings.”

George glanced up at the sliver of moon peeking through a sheath of clouds. “Good. I’ll stay here.”

Jude shoved both hands in his coat pockets, mumbling something under his breath.

“What was that?” asked George.

He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you were watching for Lord Blakely or Lady Katherine.”

George stepped forward out of the shadows, taking a closer look at Harron House, wondering if Katherine’s bedchamber was at the front or the back of the house. He should not be wondering where her bedchamber was. He should not be thinking of her at all in the direction his mind wandered. But a fierce beast clawed within his chest, urging him to protect her. George had never felt that way for any woman. Not even his own wife.

“Jude,” he said, pausing as his inflection dropped with sincerity. “I will watch Blakely to discover what the hell he has gotten himself into with Calliban. And I will watch Lady Katherine to keep her from harm’s way. That is all.”

Jude shifted forward into the moonlight, his dark eyes glittering like black stars. “You are a guardian, George. The best of guardians. I do not doubt your intent is true and good.”

He paused.

“But?” asked George.

“But, there is something about her that has you behaving unlike yourself.”

George said nothing in protest. He was not a liar. He knew that the moment he’d met her, there was something compelling and alluring about her, something that spoke to the man, not the guardian.

“I’ve known you for fifteen hundred years. And in all that time, you have never, not once, taken a woman for a stroll through the park.”

“Is there a crime in taking an interest in a woman after all this time?”

Jude combed a heavy hand through his tousled hair. “Of course not. But she’s different. And you’re different around her.”

“Bloody hell, Jude. You’ve seen me in her company one afternoon.”

“And it was enough.”

George considered Jude’s words carefully. He always heeded advice. The only reason he was still alive after all this time was the wisdom accumulated from other wise men. He wasn’t immortal, after all, only ageless. He could die from a blade to the heart like any other man, as he had the first time. Uriel would not be bringing him back a second.

“I appreciate your concern—”

“But it is none of my business?”

“Of course, it is. You are the oldest, dearest friend I have. I will tread carefully. I assure you.”

Jude watched a coach coming up the cobblestone street. “Well, here comes your mark. I’ll be off to watch mine. Meet you at Thornton in the morning.”

George gave him a nod before the man sifted away, leaving him alone. His stomach twisted into a tight knot as the coach drew up in front of the house and stopped. Having seen Katherine in the company of Calliban was one thing. But seeing her conversing jovially with Damas had nearly ripped him in half. She had no idea whom she was dealing with: the master of deception himself, the king of lies. George vowed he would protect her at all costs. And he wasn’t a man to break his promises.

The coachman hopped down and opened the door, but immediately stepped away from the carriage and averted his eyes from whatever he saw inside. George couldn’t bear the suspense. Casting himself in illusion, he sifted into the shadows near the door for a closer look.

Chapter Six

Clyde had ignored her nearly the entire ride home, which was much to Katherine’s liking. However, she realized his silent treatment only meant a storm was brewing. He was angry, though she didn’t pretend to know why. When they turned the corner of Hanover Square, making their way up the drive, he finally spoke. She wished he hadn’t.

“Look at me.”

The seething rage in his voice compelled her to face him, since he had chosen to sit by her side rather than across from her, as was his custom.

“You will not make a cuckold of me.”

“What?”

“With that Lord Radcliff. I know his game. You will regret every intimate embrace you’ve had with him before the night is through.”

Stunned silent for the briefest of moments, she finally said, “You are utterly mad. I have not nor have I ever made you a cuckold.” She didn’t dare mention his own brazen hypocrisy, while she had to defend her virtue to the most disgraceful husband any woman could possibly have.

“But you plan to.”

“I do not.”

He gripped her by the shoulders and pressed a rough kiss to her lips, pushing her back against the side of the cab. The carriage rolled to a stop.

“You are mine, Katherine. You will not give yourself to any other man.”

One of his hands fumbled under her skirts. She could not believe what possessed him to attack her so violently, and in the carriage on their doorstep. The cab door opened.

“Stop it,” she whispered, managing to elbow him to the temple, hard enough to stun him and give her the chance to escape the cab.

“Thank you, Peter,” she called, whisking herself up the steps and through the open door. “Good night, Edmund.”

“Good night, madam.”

She sped up the carpeted stairs, her skirts rustling with each step.

“Katherine!” he called like a madman.

He was coming after her…to her bedchamber. “No.” She picked up her skirts and fled down the hallway as fast as she could, though she could hear his pounding steps behind her.

“Katherine! I’m not finished.”

She rushed through her door and swung it shut, but it stopped four inches from closing. His foot blocked the door.

“Step aside, Katherine, before I hurt you.”

“Go to bed, Clyde. You’re drunk.”

He burst into the room, flinging her onto the floor with the force of his push on the door. “I simply plan to show my wife who she belongs to.”

He jerked off his coat and dropped it to the floor.

Katherine tried to scramble back, caught in the layers of silk and muslin. “Please, Clyde. You’re not yourself.”

It was true. He had been cruel and even rough with her before, but he had never forced himself on her. This was a new animal altogether—a crazed, vicious one with violence shining bright in his eyes. He fell upon her, ripping open the top of her gown, fury lacing his every move.

“Please! Plea—”

He backhanded her across the cheek, her head snapping left with startling pain. Then his weight vanished. A brief noise of grappling. Someone else was in the room. Edmund? Three punches to Clyde’s face, then he thudded to the floor beside her.

Still breathing heavily, Katherine whispered, “Edmund? Is that you?”

The tall figure moved to the candle beside her bed, struck the tinderbox and lit the candle. The golden light illumined the handsome and enraged profile of George Thornton. She was rendered speechless, stunned and confused as to why he would be in her home at night, saving her from her husband’s so-called affections.

Without pause, he leaned down and lifted Clyde like a rag doll. “Show me to his bedchamber.”

“How…but why—”

“Now, Katherine. Before I toss him out the window and hear the pleasant sound of his skull cracking on the pavement below.”

She leaped to her feet and peeked out her door, finding no one in the hall, as expected. No one would have come to her aid. Clyde ruled this house with fear and intimidation.

“This way,” she whispered, ushering him down the hall to the last bedchamber on the right, the master suite.

She held the door open, standing at the entrance as Lord Thornton unceremoniously flung Clyde on the bed. George paused, staring at the door leading to the adjacent suite.

“Why is this room not your bedchamber?”

She cleared her throat. “This is my father’s room. I decided to keep my own from childhood when Clyde and I married.”

He strode across the room, a formidable silhouette contrasted against the moonlight streaming in from the window. “I’ll escort you back to yours.”

She guided him back down the dark corridor and into her bedchamber. He did not stop at the entryway but let himself inside. Still shaken from the incident, she shut the door in case a servant happened to have heard something and come to see to her. She’d never had another man in her bedroom, only her father and her husband. She stood with her back to the window, twisting her hands together in agitation.

“Lord Thornton, how are you in my home at this hour?”

He stood at her washing table and poured water into the ewer. He dipped the washcloth in the basin and wrung it out before returning to her side.

“Lord Thornton?” she asked, still shaken.

“I believe you can call me George from now on. In private.”

He tipped her chin up gently toward the candlelight and pressed the cool cloth to her cheek. She winced at the sting. He clenched his jaw at her reaction but held the cloth steady.

“He did not break the skin.” His voice rumbled low. “If he had, I would have broken his neck.”

“Lord Thornton—”

“George.”

She struggled for a moment, unused to speaking to men by their Christian names. “George.” His name sounded like heaven on her lips. “How are you in my home? How are you in my bedchamber? Did not Edmund stop you at the door?”

“Edmund wasn’t there when I came in. Does your husband always treat you thus?”

She met his fiery gaze, ashamed that he would see her in such a way. His expression softened the moment she glanced upward. His hand was still pressed to her cheek, the cloth between their skins. She placed her hand atop his.

“Thank you. I’m recovered now.”

He paused, then slowly removed his hand so that she held the cloth. His gaze dropped to her torn bodice, then shot in the other direction. He paced toward the window and stared out, hands low on his hips. Katherine glanced down to see how much of herself she’d revealed to him unaware. With one hand, she tried to cover her cleavage, though the gown was quite ruined.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said with patience and a gentle voice.

While he had rescued her at a moment that could have been, no, would have been disastrous, she wondered why he found it his duty to pry into her personal business. But then she remembered their first dance. She had invited him into her personal business with one honest look. She had welcomed him to save the damsel in distress. And so he had…for the moment.

“No,” she finally answered. “He is not a good husband. He is the source of all my disappointment and unhappiness. But he is not always thus. Something has happened to him. Changed him for the worse. Much worse.”

He turned from the window. Hard lines carved his face in shadow and candlelight. Katherine longed to reach out and touch that face, cradle him with a gentle hand and assure him she was all right, and force that hard expression to melt away. The man appeared to be gripped in utter torture at the sight of her, his shoulders tight as a bowstring. She then realized he wore no coat. Tossed aside somewhere before he punched her husband into unconsciousness?

“Why did you marry him?”

He kept himself at a distance. Katherine closed the gap with a few steps, removing the cloth from her cheek. He held himself with rigid control.

“My father worried that I would never marry. He would often tease me for being too spirited, too independent. I suppose that is the result when a single father raises a daughter.”

She paused, wondering with sadness where that woman had gone. Being married to a monster for nearly two years had killed that part of her day by day. George did not move, did not flinch. He simply watched and waited with undying patience.

“When my father took ill, we knew he would not make the year. I had met Clyde among the ton that Season. He was…charming, entertaining, attentive. My father enjoyed his company. And so did I. When Father no longer left his bed, Clyde promised my father he would take care of me and that Father would not have to worry about my welfare. Clyde convinced him of that. Then he convinced me. We were married before Father died. It was I who rushed the wedding through, asking Clyde to procure a special license so that it might be done in haste. I was in earnest, you see. To prove to Father that I was well taken care of. Before he was gone.”

Katherine did not realize she was crying until George broke his rigid stance and stepped forward, wiping the tear that slipped down the unmarked cheek.

“I wanted my father to die in peace, knowing I was happy and well-cared for.”

He slid his fingers into the edge of her hair, his palm against her cheek, holding her with tender care. The gentleness of his touch only made more tears well and fall. She closed her eyes, wondering what life would be like with this man at her side, rather than Clyde.

“So I was not forced into marriage. If you’re looking for someone to blame for my abominable situation, blame me.”

“Blame you. For what? For loving a father so dearly you were willing to sacrifice your happiness to ensure he would go into the afterlife with joy in his heart? I could never blame you for such a thing.” She met his gaze, transfixed by the man who touched her as if she were precious. “You are a lovely, brilliant, strong woman, Katherine. You deserve happiness all the days of your life. Do not let anyone convince you otherwise.”

He dropped his hand and stepped toward the door, gesturing to her chair at the vanity.

“Use that to bar the door tonight.” He stopped at the entryway and fixed her with an intent expression. “Every night.”

Then he was gone, leaving her stunned and shocked and utterly, completely, hopelessly smitten.

Chapter Seven

Katherine considered sending Maggie down to report to Edmund, and thus to her husband, that she was ill and would stay in bed for the morning. But ever since Lord Thornton had stepped into her life, she had begun to remember her old self—the Katherine who rode astride down Rotten Row despite the gawking onlookers; the young woman who laughed too loud and too long without a care in the world; the girl who was her father’s princess and held her head high wherever she went. That girl would never cower from a man who had wronged her.

The one particular point that had been agonizing her since dawn broke through her window was what Clyde would remember of the night before. He had most certainly been inebriated, but who would he think had grabbed him, then punched him twice in the gut and once across the jaw? She was shocked he hadn’t come to her sooner and demanded answers. Or would he actually be ashamed of his behavior and assume Edmund had stepped in on her behalf? After all, Edmund had been with her family for nearly two decades. And although he was surely in his fifties, he was no weak, frail man by any stretch of the imagination.

She groomed herself at the washing table, remembering how George had used this cloth last night to tend to her bruised cheek.

“George.”

She smiled. She liked saying his name. Very much. It was a strange intimacy to use a man’s Christian name, especially when she would not dare do such a thing in public. It was like having a wonderful secret.

She pulled her chair from where she’d lodged it under the doorknob, as directed by George, then sat and inspected her cheek more closely. Not as bad as she thought. With a little powder and by coiffing her hair just right, it was hardly noticeable at all.

By the time Maggie came in and helped her into her favorite day dress—pale green with white flowers—she was more than ready to face her husband. As she descended the stairs, she had half convinced herself that he would still be sleeping off the drink anyway. But she was mistaken.

He sat at his place at the head of the table, a proud position her father had once held. She took her seat on the opposite end, as far away from him as possible. While her father lived, she had sat directly to his right for every meal. But her world had been different then.

Clyde did not greet her with a saucy hello or remark as he was wont to do. He simply watched her take her place and took a bite of sausage. The footman served her a slice of plum cake, knowing this was her favorite.

“Best keep your door unlocked, wife.”

“Pardon?” Her fork rattled against the china.

Katherine froze as Clyde continued to shovel food into his mouth. He gulped down his tea and wiped his mouth.

“I found your door locked last night.”

The footman stood to the side, to wait on their dining needs. Heat flushed Katherine’s cheeks. Clyde apparently hadn’t remembered the initial incident when George had stepped in, and had attempted to come to her again.

Relieved she’d heeded George’s advice with the chair at the door, she said, “You were not yourself last evening.”

Focusing on cutting a morsel of cake, she then forced it into her mouth and chewed slowly.

“What is your purpose as a wife?”

Katherine flinched and set down her silverware, clenching her linen napkin in her lap. “Thomas, you may go.”

The footman eagerly took one step toward the exit.

“No, Thomas,” said Clyde. “You are not permitted to leave. You will stay.”

Thomas stepped back into place, stiff as a board, and swallowed hard.

“Tell me, Katherine. What is your duty?”

“This is not a conversation to have in front of servants.”

“Why not? I am sure that Thomas could give the answer.”

A flush of heat flamed up her neck as she sat there in agony, awaiting further humiliation he planned to heap onto her. Clyde pointed a finger down the table.

“Your job is to get me an heir. And after all this time, I’m beginning to believe you were a worthless bargain in that department. So you will keep your door unlocked and do your duty. As I see fit. Wife.”

The hatred seeping from the man who once had wooed her with some courtesy and charm was almost unbearable. He had once been a gentleman. She couldn’t even call him that anymore. He was a heartless beast.

Edmund stepped into the dining hall with a letter delivery on a salver, a welcome interruption. Katherine removed the letter. No, there were two. She examined the scrawl on the first, which she did not recognize—bold and confident. It was addressed to her and her husband. The second letter was written in the same hand as the first, addressed to Lady Katherine Blakely. She glanced at the red seal and held her breath.

“What is that?” asked Clyde.

She broke the seal and opened the first. A fluttering in her stomach expanded wildly as she read the invitation.

“An invitation to a house party by Lord Thornton.”

“Who is he? I’ve not heard of him.”

Clyde tossed his napkin on his plate and stood. Katherine shoved the second letter in her lap beyond the draping of the tablecloth so it couldn’t be seen. He walked to her end and plucked the invitation from her hand.

“I’ve never met this man.”

“I have.” She cleared her throat and met his suspicious gaze head-on. “At the Weathersby ball. He’s just arrived from abroad and is apparently trying to reacquaint himself with society.”

“He might’ve returned earlier in the Season. It’s nearly done now.”

“That’s likely why he’s holding a house party.”

Clyde examined her carefully, trying to detect whether that was a sarcastic or serious remark. Fortunately, Katherine was good at wearing masks. She smiled up at him, but not too much, all the while clenching her skirt under the table, awaiting his answer.

“Is this Lord Thornton a friend of Lord Radcliff?”

She laughed lightly and took a sip of her water. “Hardly. There is apparently some family feud between them. They could scarcely bear one another’s company at the ball.”

Clyde tossed the invitation on the table next to her plate. “I imagine the Karroways and Weathersbys will be there as well.”

“To be sure. Lady Helene was well acquainted with the former Thornton. She talked with the new earl for some time at the ball.”

That was an exaggeration, but she knew Clyde held Lady Helene in high esteem. How could one not? She was one of the most respected leaders of the ton. It would not do to have his wife not attend a highly attended party.

“You may go, then.”

Katherine stared at the cracked seal with the letters GDT within a crest. Clyde gripped her chin hard and tipped it up to him.

“Heed my warning.”

“Which warning was that?” she snapped without thinking.

He grinned. “You have quite a pretty young maid, Katherine.”

“Clyde, don’t—”

“Then you best keep your door unlocked.” He gentled his grip but held her still as he placed a kiss on her forehead. Like a doting husband. Laughable. “I won’t attend the party as I have other business.” Then, mercifully, he strolled from the room.

Katherine glanced at the footman, who had not moved from his position. The poor man had probably not even blinked. “You may go, Thomas,” she said, standing and swiftly leaving the room.

With the second letter hidden in the palm of her hand and the folds of her skirt, she escaped to the far end of the first-floor corridor, all the way in the corner to her private parlor. Clyde never bothered her here. It was her sacred space for privacy. More so than even her bedroom. The morning light gilded the room a pink-gold hue. She curled up on the cream-colored chaise nearest the window and pulled the letter into her lap. For a moment, she simply caressed the red seal with George’s initials. With a deep inhale, she opened the letter. Something slipped into her hand. A yellow wildflower, a cinquefoil, like the ones that grew on the outer edge of Hyde Park. The letter was brief. But beautiful.

Dearest Katherine,

I am writing with the hope that today is a brighter day than the one before. I have no wisdom or advice to offer after our last meeting. Only this. You are worthy of riches and beauty, but even more than this, you are worthy of compassion and kindness. I would say more, but let this small token convey the happiness I wish for you.

Today, I will light a candle for my past loved ones at three of the clock in St. George’s Church. I will light a candle for your father as well. May he rest in peace.

Your friend,

George Draconis

Katherine reread the letter three more times before she finally laid it gently in her lap. In her fingers, she turned the wildflower, which had been flattened but not yet fully dried. She lifted the copy of Paradise Lost, still sitting on her side table, half-read, and opened it. After carefully placing the flower at its center, she set the book back on her table and ruminated while watching the sun grow brighter out the window. The pink roses in the garden looked especially beautiful today. The world looked especially brighter. St. George’s was an easy stroll to the other side of Hanover Square.

She could not be angry with him for sending a somewhat intimate letter by regular post. Clyde had never interfered with her private letters before, but he was behaving more aggressively, more erratically as of late. What if he had intervened and opened the letter himself? Dreadful thought.

Clyde’s side remark about Maggie had her worried. She tucked the letter in Paradise Lost with the flower, then sought her maid in the kitchen.

“Have you seen Maggie?” she asked Cook, who stood over the stove, pouring chopped onions into a pot.

“Yes, milady. Saw her go in the sewing room.”

Continuing on down the back hall to the sewing room, she found Maggie sitting in the window seat with a needle in hand and the champagne dress Katherine had worn last night draped across her lap. Her stomach fell when she realized Maggie was working diligently on the bodice. She popped up as soon as Katherine entered, as Katherine didn’t often come down here.

“Milady.” Maggie tucked her chin down, embarrassed either for the fact the dress was practically unmendable or the realization that the entire bodice had been ripped open by someone.

“Please sit, Maggie.”

She did, still holding the dress in one hand, the needle in the other. “It may take me a bit longer to fix this, milady, but—”

“Stop mending the dress,” she said, taking a seat and placing a hand over her quickly moving fingers.

Maggie stopped. “Milady?”

“Tear it apart and keep the silk yourself, or sell it for profit to the milliner. I’ll never wear this dress again.”

She did not question why. The reason was obvious.

“Are you all right, milady?” she asked, staring at her lap and Katherine’s fair hand placed over her darker one.

“I am. You needn’t worry about me.” She squeezed her hand and let it go. “But there is something I must ask of you.”

“Anything you want, milady.”

“When I am not in this house, I want you to stay down here in the servants’ quarters.”

“But what about tending to your wardrobe and—”

“When I am at home, you may tend to them. When I am not, stay down here. Help Cook. Or you may run my errands to the milliner or some other place outside this house. And at night, I want you to bolt your door.”

Her round face tilted up to Katherine’s, a frown creasing her soft brow. She was so young. She couldn’t yet be seventeen. Edmund had bristled at the idea of hiring a lady’s maid so young last year, but all those she’d interviewed from the agency were either too cold or too overbearing. She would never have spent hours a day with someone of either sort. So when Katherine had stopped into Mosley’s for a new hat that week and spotted this friendly girl working diligently on her own creation, Katherine couldn’t help but inquire if the young girl would consider the position. Mr. Mosley was sad to see her go, but also pleased she was taking on an elevated position—one he could boast about to all the ladies of fashion who stopped into his haberdashery. Now Katherine wondered if she’d done the poor girl any favors by bringing her into this home. Clyde had not yet shown his true colors back then.

“But why, milady?” asked Maggie, dragging Katherine back to the present.

“Please, Maggie. Do not ask why. But do as I say. It is important that I know you’re safe.”

The sweet-faced girl dipped her head. “Yes, milady.”

“Now for today, you may come and assist me in packing,” she said in a lighter tone. “We have a house party to prepare for. And then you’ll need to pack up yourself.”

“Oh? For how long?”

“It appears to be almost a week. I have an errand to run at three o’clock. You can go to the milliner’s and sell that silk.”

“As you wish, milady. I’ll return with the payment right after.”

“No. You’ll keep it for yourself. Save it for when you are most in need.”

Maggie’s eyes widened like saucers. The silk for this dress was worth more than a year’s wages.

“I couldn’t—”

“You can and you will. I won’t hear any more about it.”

Katherine rose, feeling lighter than she had in ages.

“Do you want me to attend you on your errand first, milady?”

She stopped at the door, a secret smile spreading wide. “No. Thank you, Maggie. This is one errand I’d like to attend on my own.”

Chapter Eight

It was a quarter past three when Katherine stepped into the cool vestibule of St. George’s. Votive candles flickered under the statue of the Virgin Mary to the right. She moved farther into the sanctuary, her sight slowly adjusting to the dim interior lit only by the sunlight through the colorful panes of stained glass.

Two elderly women sat toward the front in silent meditation and prayer. But no one else.

“Katherine.”

She started. Directly to her right was a solitary row, mostly concealed by a column. In the pew sat the man she longed to see. She genuflected, then entered the pew, sitting near him with enough space for one more person between. After placing her parasol on the pew, she folded her hands in her lap.

She had run through her mind a myriad of conversations they might have when she met him again. How did you come by my house at that hour? How did you enter my home unimpeded? How were you at the right spot at the right moment when I needed aid? But now, she did not want to relive any of last night. She did not want to sully their time together with one more thought of that shameful incident. In the end, it did not matter. All that mattered to her was that he was there.

“Did you know I’d come?” she asked quietly.

“I’d hoped.”

His arm rested along the back of the pew, the edge of his hand directly behind her. Once more, his proximity felt intimate, almost invasive. From the first touch on the dance floor at the ball, she had felt as if he were an interloper invading her space and her body, demanding she react to his palpable magnetism. Inhaling a deep breath, she fidgeted with her gloves, tugging at the wrists. This pair was too small, but she had been in a hurry to leave and couldn’t find the other. The silence stretched for some time. It was a comfortable silence, though Katherine found herself longing to hear the rolling timbre of his voice.

“Thank you. For the letter.”

“You are welcome. I meant every word.”

“Though it was foolish of you to send it, you know.”

“Yes. I know.”

“What would I have done if Clyde had taken it upon himself to open my letter? He would have assumed…”

George angled his body toward her, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck, by accident or design. She shivered. Pleasantly.

“Your husband’s fate is in his own hands. If he touches you again with ill intent, he will regret it.”

Katherine opted not to share the threat she had been given this morning. The last thing in the world she wanted was her husband and George in a duel at dawn. To lose Clyde would be no great loss, but to lose the companionship of this man beside her… That would be a tragedy. How could she feel this way after knowing him so brief a time? It felt extraordinary, surreal. It felt like…fate. She chastised herself for believing in such things, pulling at her gloves in agitation.

Her world was constructed so that one married to continue the aristocratic line, to keep the family estate whole, to pass on a legacy. When she first married Clyde, she’d hoped that they might come to love one another. But after their first coupling, which was rough and awkward and uncomfortable, and then after the second and third, she had been assured that she could never love a man whose touch repulsed her. She was thankful when he lost interest, presuming he sought comfort elsewhere. She was right. However, she had not realized his philandering took place under her own roof.

George slid closer and placed his hand atop hers. She stopped fidgeting and watched as he slowly picked up one of her hands, removing the white glove finger by finger. He draped the glove on his opposite knee. She let him take her hand into his, facing palm up. He trailed his index finger along the lines of her palm, exploring the delicate features of her hand by touch.

Katherine’s pulse raced as if she’d just taken an exhilarating ride on her favorite mare. Yet she remained still as stone, watching him discover every line and crevice.

“You have awakened something within me, Katherine.”

She wanted to shout her joy and realization that she felt the same. But she could not, still holding on to that idea that she should be a proper lady. She should obey and be faithful to her husband, as much as he did not deserve the devotion. She should bear him sons and be happy with the prospect of continuing the line. Society had an order. But her heart, her poor, helpless heart, yearned for so much more than her husband or society could provide. She was falling into a place where there was no return to her proper self. If she stepped across this bridge, she would burn it and never look back.

His finger lulled her into trancelike pleasure. How could one’s hand on another be erotic?

“We cannot have a tryst in a church, George.”

He stopped his exploration and looked at her with surprise. “I do not want a tryst or some wayward assignation with you, Katherine.”

“What else could you want with a married woman? I cannot marry you.”

He curled his hand around hers, enveloping it entirely. Rough calluses rubbed her knuckles. He did not look like a man who would have calluses. What on earth could he be doing to have them?

“I want”—he captured her gaze, luring her with the sincerity of a simple word which conveyed so little and so much—“more.”

She licked her lips and swallowed hard, mentally walking across the bridge step by steady step. “So do I.”

He smiled, and her world filled with sunshine and light. “Will you come to the house party?”

“Yes.” She glanced down at her hand as he slid the glove back in place, like a gentleman redressing his lover with tenderness and care. The vision of this simple act made her breathless, and made her yearn for…more. “I will be coming alone. Well, with my maid.”

He pulled the glove tight at the wrist. “Good. I had a feeling Lord Blakely was not the kind to attend a house party.”

“But you knew I’d come?”

“I’d hoped.”

They were once more lost in each other. The world could’ve burned around them while they shared a moment of pleasure in one another’s eyes, knowing they both felt the same undeniable, inevitable pull.

He stood from the pew. She took his offered hand and her parasol and let him lead her into the aisle. While she expected him to release her, he wove his fingers through hers instead. She wanted to rip off that damned glove again and feel him, skin on skin.

“Someone might see us,” she whispered, though the two old ladies had never even turned their heads.

George pulled them to a stop in the vestibule, holding on to her hand. He looked upward. “Who? God?”

Katherine smiled. “If He is watching, then we are certainly not in His favor.”

His grip tightened, keeping her still as he edged even closer. So close she could feel his breath on her cheek. She wanted to press her lips to his lovely jaw, his cheeks, his neck. Her breath came quickly once again. Heat crawled up her chest.

He did not smile or smirk at her obvious arousal. His expression shone with desire, matching her own. “I do not believe that at all.”

He lifted her hand toward his lips. She thought he would place a kiss on top of her gloved knuckles. He did not. He turned it over and brushed his parted lips against her wrist, sweeping twice across her pulse, lingering in agonizing pleasure. Katherine had always thought it ridiculous when reading in her saucy novels of a woman swooning with desire. Not anymore. She fairly thought she might faint right there in church with George’s lips on the tender skin of her wrist.

“Till Monday, my lady.”

She did not miss his emphasis that she was his lady. The steely look of determination on his face was proof enough. He did not care that society’s laws barred such a connection between them. Neither did she. She took the last step across the proverbial bridge.

“Till Monday, George.”

Chapter Nine

“And Duncan, inform Mrs. Baxter that Miss Karroway has confirmed as well, but Mrs. Karroway will not attend. Lady Katherine will accompany her.” George paused, a thrill running through him at the mere mention of her name. “That brings us to a count of ten plus the ladies’ maids and valets attending the gentlemen.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll inform her straight away.”

Duncan took his leave from George’s study, shutting the door behind him.

“Not a very large house party,” said Jude, sprawled in his favorite leather wingback in front of the fire.

“I didn’t want a large one. I kept the invitations to a minimum.”

“Are you sure this party is a good idea?”

“I am certain,” said George, sitting at his desk to scrawl another note for his housekeeper. “There is no other way to keep Katherine preoccupied and safe while we investigate her husband and his dealings with Calliban.”

“Plus, you can rest assured that Katherine is nowhere near Damas,” added Jude with a grin.

George leaned back in his chair. “Precisely.”

“Or her husband.”

George made no comment and finished his letter with a detailed flourish. His silence was agreement enough. Jude went on.

“Right. But our goal is, of course, to discover what nefarious deeds Calliban is up to and send him back to Hell, if we can.”

“Of course,” agreed George, eyes narrowing on his friend, who was grinning like a fiend. “Go on. I can see that you’ll burst soon if you don’t say whatever it is that’s on your mind.”

“Oh, what’s going on in my mind isn’t nearly as interesting as what’s going on in yours.”

“What the devil are you getting at?”

“Are you really going to deny that having Lady Katherine Blakely under your roof for several days isn’t the true motive here?”

“I will deny it.” George stood to face the window, hands clasped at his back. The sun was setting, draping the landscape of Thornton in an array of lavender. The tree line of the woods in the distance transformed to deep purple. George knew he was on the right path, but an ominous foreboding sank into his chest all the same. “I don’t want her for a few days, Jude. I want her forever.”

There was no reply from the man with a smart remark for everything. Moments later, he said, “You do realize she is human, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Let’s say she would agree to leave her husband, which is highly unlikely with her standing in society. How would you go about telling her that you’re not really Lord Thornton, but that you’re actually George Draconis, George the Dragon Slayer, Saint George of myth and legend, savior of damsels in distress?”

George did not answer the charge except to say, “I am not a saint.”

“Ha! That is for certain. Not the traditional saint, at any rate.”

The truth was, George was a Flamma of Light with no true definition. Yes, he was the legendary George who slew the dragon, put on a saintly pedestal for his deeds of bravery. The dragon, of course, was the demon spawn of Damas. George destroyed the creature before it could take a maiden back to its master. That was the beginning of his rivalry with Damas, when the prince learned George was a powerful adversary.

George had never relinquished his role as protector, not since the day he was born or the day he died to the human world among martyrs.

“I am not planning on dragging her into the depths of a life of sin and misery. I simply want—”

“You want to save her. From that pathetic excuse of a husband.”

“Yes.”

“That was too easy,” said Jude, now pouring himself a whisky. “What else?”

“She—” George was rarely without words, but the damned woman rendered him speechless, even in thought. He wanted her. Her. Not for her body or her beauty. He wanted more. All.

“I see,” said Jude at his side as he passed him a glass.

George took it. Jude raised his.

“To damsels in distress—no, to one lovely damsel in distress. And to our fearless commander’s success in saving her from it all. Whatever the all may be.” He mumbled the last.

George clinked his glass to Jude’s and knocked the liquid fire down his throat. Fearless, he was not. When it came to Katherine, he feared everything. Keeping her safe. Winning her heart. Losing her heart. Losing her. Never in his life had a woman wrapped him into such turmoil and need. The sight of her overcame him with both pleasure and pain. He’d not known its like in the centuries he’d lived on earth. It did not matter they had just recently met. Their first dance had sealed her around his soul. She’d opened up to him in a way no woman ever had, least of all a mere stranger. Not with words. With one sorrowful look, she had shown her true self—sad, alone, yearning. The look that mirrored his own, which he kept hidden from the world. Her outer beauty was nothing compared to what he saw within, what he wanted to hold and cherish as his own.

Was he mad for wanting such a thing? It did not matter. He’d set his course, and he wasn’t veering away. He rubbed his thumb along the pads of his fingers, remembering the way her soft hand felt in his, the way her voice trembled with desire. He wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. He would have to find a way to tell her who and what he truly was. He wouldn’t seduce her as Lord Thornton. Though he legally held the title, that was not his true identity. He would not endeavor to win her with a lie. But he had never revealed himself to any human who was not on the cusp of becoming a Dominus Daemonum.

“Do not forget your original goal,” said Jude, setting down his glass.

“Alexander? I have not and will not forget him.”

“Though I’ll admit I’m surprised Uriel hasn’t made an appearance and chastised you for showing favoritism. Even if Alexander is your last living relative.”

The sun slipped beyond the woodland, draping the world in the coolness of early night. George turned to his wall of books and slid out a long, thin drawer concealed between two shelves. He’d had the cabinet custom made. The carpenter in the village had not asked questions about this unconventional piece when he received a tidy sum for his work in advance.

George unlatched the glass casing and removed the harness, looping it over his waistcoat and strapping the buckles at his chest. He then lifted his iron broadsword, Silversong, and sheathed it over his shoulder to lie diagonally against his back.

“You know you can’t murder her husband in cold blood. Against the rules, my friend.”

George shot him a look. “You are not my keeper. And as my closest friend, I’d think you’d know me well enough by now that I have no intention of murdering the man. Though he may well deserve it.” He grabbed his overcoat draped over his desk and slid it on, casting illusion to hide the hilt of his sword showing out the collar.

“Look lively, demon hunter. We have work to do.”

* * * * *

George and Jude began the evening at Harron House, hoping to follow Blakely to his evening activities. But he had already gone out for the night. They adjourned to White’s and pretended to enjoy drinks and a game of cards while eavesdropping on a pair known to be in Blakely’s circle. They’d positioned themselves at a table a short distance away but still within earshot. When the portly, ruddy-faced Lord Talcombe pulled up a chair to this nearby table of whist and mentioned Blakely’s name, both George and Jude stilled. George flicked down a card, his stomach churning. His scowl could be viewed as a result of losing the game, not because of his distaste for the loathsome Lord Talcombe. “Indeed,” said Talcombe. “A new and, shall we say, more alluring club than anything you’ve experienced before.”

“Is that so?” asked the gentleman known as Rupert, smoking his cigar. “I rather enjoyed the last venture Blakely introduced to us.”

“As did I,” agreed Talcombe. “But I’m promised something grander, more exceptional than anything before.”

“Details,” said the other. Bailey was his name. “You’ve intrigued me but offered no specifics. I imagine this extraordinary new experience will be rather expensive.”

“True,” agreed Talcombe. “But well worth the price.”

“And where is this club?” asked Rupert.

Talcombe eyed the surrounding tables.

“Present this at Willow Wood at midnight.” He placed two coins on the table.

“You won’t regret it, gentlemen,” said Talcombe before taking his leave. After several moments during which the pair said nothing, Rupert said, “What do you think? Are you game for a little adventure of Blakely’s making?”

Bailey replied, “Why not? I’m bored with the old. The Season has run dry. Let’s have a bit of fun.”

George and Jude waited for them to leave before making a hasty exit after them. Once outside, they moved to the closest shadow between street lanterns and, without saying a word, sifted to the gates of Willow Wood. Actually, they sifted into the brush just beyond the gates.

A guard in black livery stood at the entry, watching the entrance of Calliban’s home.

“Now we know for certain that Blakely is in league with Calliban,” said Jude.

“And most probably Damas as well.”

“That is probable but not certain,” Jude countered. “I’ll be back.” He disappeared with a sift out of sight.

George observed the guard closely. No shining red eyes, so he was a high demon, able to completely mask the beast within. He looked out of place, with the build of a Highland warrior rather than an English gentleman. Interesting that Calliban would employ one of the demon aristocrats to guard the gate, typically a menial job for lower demons. But Calliban had quite the prize he was hiding from the world. His Vessel. Sadly, from what George could tell, she was too far gone to save. With her vacant stare and submissive obedience, she was Calliban’s creature now. There was no need for a Flamma of Light to attempt a rescue. There would be no point, except to put her out of her misery once and for all. The elite guard was there to protect her from other demons taking Calliban’s valued prize.

Jude reappeared, snapping with Flamma energy. “I tested the wards. Too strong to penetrate. They circle the estate, but there is something peculiar on the other side of the property. Let me show—”

George silenced Jude with a quick wave of the hand. A carriage rolled up to the gate. The guard stepped forward and opened the door. A gentleman within leaned forward out of the door into the moonlight and handed over his coin.

“Rupert,” mumbled George.

“And his friend,” added Jude as a second hand extended from the dark within the carriage to drop another coin into the guard’s palm.

With a scrutinizing once-over, the guard waved them through the gates. The carriage wobbled onward. A shadowed figure with red eyes appeared as they passed. The guard motioned for the figure to follow. The lower demon crept along the hedges just beyond the carriage, following its winding path away from the great mansion.

“Where does that lead?” asked George.

“I think I know,” said Jude. “Come with me.”

Jude grabbed hold of George’s forearm and took them both into a short sift, pulling them into the black Void for mere seconds; then they were standing along the back of the property.

“There.” Jude inched closer to the gate and pointed through the wrought iron, across a lake glittering with ripples of moonlight. “I saw a gentleman step from his carriage and enter that small atrium.”

George edged as near to the gate—electrified with dark wards—as he could without being singed.

“What is that? It’s too small to be anything but an entry.”

“Exactly.”

“Then where are the gentlemen going?”

Just then, the carriage pulled up. Rupert and Bailey stepped out and followed a waiting servant into the domed atrium. A majestic statue of Poseidon stood in a pool of moonlight, frozen in action with one arm held high, calling to the sea, marble waves roaring at his feet.

Then the muffled strain of violins floated up. George followed the sound and took more notice of the lake. Moonlight should have cast a cold blue reflection on the water rippling in the night wind. It should not be shining with golden flecks as it was now, specifically centered in one area.

“He has a ballroom at the heart of this lake.”

Jude nodded at his side. “They can’t seem to get away from the underground.”

A golden hue reflected up through a domed ceiling beneath the water.

“We must get in.”

“The wards are too strong,” said Jude. “I’ve checked—”

“Wards won’t hold this close to water,” said George. “You know this.”

Jude shifted his gaze from George to the lake, examining his theory. “We’d still have to get beyond these wards to sift underwater. And who is to say where we’d find ourselves? You know as well as I that without a proper homing target on either a place or person, we could end up at the bottom of the lake or who knows where.”

“Calliban is too confident. A demon prince’s greatest weakness. He’s warded out here, but he won’t have taken the proper precautions to ward an underground and underwater club. He thinks he’s too clever, having hidden it away from the world.”

Another carriage rolled to a stop outside the atrium. Two gentlemen stepped out and donned the top hats that completed their regal evening dress.

“Damn it to bloody hell,” said George. He recognized the tall forms of Damas, also known as Lord Radcliff, and his protégé, Alexander.

“Let’s try your plan,” said Jude, fury edging his words. His hatred for Damas was legendary among the Flamma of Light.

“No. We won’t do this without knowing what we’re getting into. We may have only one chance. We need more intelligence on what this place is.”

Jude could not argue with that. If they could actually break through by sifting directly inside the club beneath the lake, then it would be their one and only opportunity. Calliban would set greater wards the next time. And if they descended into a pit of vipers without knowing who and how many they were up against, it could end in disaster.

“So we watch,” said Jude.

“Yes.” George eased closer to a nearby tree and leaned against the trunk, arms crossed. “And we wait.”

While snatches of violin melodies strained through the waters, there was no other sound. No lilting laughter of women or posturing voices of men or clinking glasses and silverware. It was as if there was nothing but a concerto recital taking place beneath Poseidon’s lake. It was well past midnight when the voices of two men speaking low and steady echoed across the water. It was none other than Rupert and Bailey, with a woman escorted between them.

Stumbling in her white gown, the woman seemed to need the two gentlemen’s assistance to make it into the carriage. Rupert entered last with quick, sharp instructions to the driver. The driver snapped the horses awake with a crack of his whip, and they jostled forward toward the exit.

Jude and George shared a troubled glance. Again, knowing one another so well, they didn’t need to say a word. George pointed. Jude nodded. And so George and Jude sifted to the gate’s exit.

The stout guard let the carriage pass without stopping. Jude and George followed, sifting through the woodlands that bordered the road until they were on the edge of London proper. The carriage pulled over next to an inn sagging with age and neglect, the kind of place where those without money were forced to rent rooms and board, or the kind of place where those with money wanted to avoid being seen by their peers.

“This reeks of villainy,” said Jude, breathing hard after sifting so many times in a row.

“It most certainly is. I know the girl. I met her father at the Weathersby ball, where he kept a keen eye on her.”

They waited while Rupert went inside, presumably to acquire a room, then returned for the other two. Escorting the woman, holding both her arms, they practically carried her inside. She did not resist.

“Is she drunk?” asked Jude.

“I believe it’s worse. No time to lose. Come on.”

Both of them turned up the collars of their overcoats before crossing the road and stepping inside. The tavern was no more than a stopping point for travelers. It did not buzz with life as did so many pubs in the city. One man slumped over a table in the corner, unconscious, his ale half-drunk. A brutish fellow with thick forearms and a greasy bald head polished mugs behind the bar.

“Hep ya, gents?”

“Discretion,” was all George said.

“Seems to be a popular commodity.”

George stepped forward and tossed several coins on the bar, larger than the man had probably seen his whole lifetime.

“Aye.” He swiped them off the dirty wood and stuffed them in his pocket before his visitors could change their minds. “That’ll do.” He nodded toward the stairs, then turned his back, literally averting his gaze so the two new strangers could get the discretion they paid for.

George led them up the stairwell. They listened at the first door and heard nothing. Someone snored on the other side of the second. But behind the third, they heard the purring words of Rupert.

“A ripe peach, Lady Emily. Those pretty lips denied me often enough. But not tonight.”

George burst in, and Jude slammed the door shut with his boot behind them. Bailey sat on the bed with Lady Emily in his lap, unfastening her stays from behind. Rupert appeared in the middle of pulling down his breeches when the surprise interruption caused him to leap back against the wall.

“What is this?” exclaimed Rupert with indignation. “What do you mean by barging into our room here?”

Bailey stood off the bed, knocking the woman to the side. There was no question there would be a fight.

“This isn’t going to happen,” said Jude, pointing to the girl.

“There’s nothing untoward going on here,” chimed in Rupert. “She came willingly.”

“Oh?” asked George. “And does Lord Farrell know where his only unwed daughter is tonight?”

Rupert launched at George. They grappled to the floor. George pummeled Rupert repeatedly in his perfect aristocratic nose till it bled and the man slumped to the floor. George stood over him with bloody fists and looked over to where Jude had Rupert’s friend on his knees, an arm constricting his neck. He was turning blue.

“Drop him,” said George.

Jude did. The man fell on all fours. Jude gripped his collar and jerked his head back while Bailey still gasped for air. Before the interrogation, George pulled a tattered woolen blanket from the bed and wrapped it around Lady Emily’s shoulders. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands limp in her lap, saying nothing.

“Are you all right? Emily, isn’t it?”

She did not answer.

George turned and towered above the fiery-eyed Bailey, smiling at the fact the man still seemed to have some fight in him. George had no qualms about coercing him for information, no matter what means he needed to use to get it.

“What is the purpose of the club you went to at Lord Calliban’s home tonight?”

“Who is Lord Calliban?”

Crack! George’s blow knocked a tooth out of the man’s jaw as his head whipped to the side. The tooth rattled across the floor and into the cold grate of the fireplace.

“I’ll ask again. This time, I won’t be gentle.”

“Christ, man!” Bailey spat a mouthful of his own blood on the floor.

“That I am not. What is the purpose of the club?”

Though George was fairly certain he knew the answer, he wanted to hear it from the culprit’s mouth.

“Shall I ask again?” George tightened his fist at his side.

Bailey’s eyes widened. “It’s a service,” he spluttered, holding up one hand to guard against the blow George was preparing to lay on him. “For gentlemen.”

“Well, I doubt that,” said Jude, tightening his hold on the man’s collar. “I didn’t see any gentlemen enter Calliban’s estate.”

“Define this service.” George knew of this type of gentlemen’s entertainment. Rather than seeking out women at a brothel, the club moved to different locations at a lord’s out-of-the-way manor or a bachelor’s home.

“An auction.” Bailey wiped his mouth on his white sleeve, streaking it crimson.

“Auction?” Jude’s dark brow furrowed together.

“Are you telling me,” began George, his voice growing more quiet and steady, a sign of his rising fury, “that Calliban is selling women of the aristocracy to the highest bidder?”

Jude let go of his collar and snatched the man by his hair, snapping his neck back to look him in the eye. “You unbelievable bastard. I ought to hang you by your balls right now.”

“No! It was all consensual, all legitimate. The ladies—”

George laughed. “You expect me to believe that these ladies of London society offered their virtue for money? You’re out of your bloody mind.”

“No, no,” stammered the pathetic man on his knees, bleeding onto the wood floor. “Not for money. For sport. For both parties. Calliban explained that these women had given consent. Ladies with ennui, seeking adventure of a more sensual nature, joined this very exclusive club. He even showed us the contracts with their signatures. We signed contracts, wagering high sums against our vow of confidentiality.”

Jude dropped the man in disgust. “Fuck.” He shook his head at George.

If it was consensual, then Calliban was breaking no rules that would require them to expel him back to Hell. If Bailey told the truth, he was simply engaging in a lascivious game with the aristocracy. But George had been dealing with demons for literally centuries. The cat eventually got bored with a string of yarn. Then it wanted live prey, a mouse or a bird to torture.

He glanced at Emily slumped in the bed, who had never moved since he wrapped her in the blanket. Her auburn hair had slipped from its pins, falling loosely around her pale neck and shoulders. Her head dipped toward the floor as if she wasn’t even aware of the men in the room. She hadn’t attempted to retie her loose corset to cover herself properly.

“It doesn’t add up. I met this girl. She wasn’t suffering from ennui.” He stepped toward the bed and gently cradled her face to lift her gaze to his. “She was enthralled at the Weathersby ball, not bored.”

Her gaze was half-lidded. He suspected she had an opiate in her system.

“Drugged?” asked Jude.

“Perhaps. But that wouldn’t explain the contracts. She couldn’t sign her name if she’d been given opium. She wouldn’t care what her name was.” He inspected her eyes more carefully. She never resisted his touch. Very odd. “No. Her eyes aren’t dilated from inebriation. Wait a minute…” He caught sight of a plume of liquid smoke passing over her blue iris, then vanishing. “Come look, Jude.”

Jude moved to the bed and bent over the girl.

“Look closely,” said George, tilting her face toward him.

“It’s not—” The sinister presence licked out again across her eye. “Damn!”

Jude jerked upright, took two steps and punched the wall, cracking the already faded and falling plaster.

“Calm down,” said George as he wrestled with his own rage threatening to overtake his reason.

“How many, George? How many have already fallen?”

“It’s not hopeless. Calm yourself.”

Jude paced for a few seconds, then hauled Bailey onto his feet and slammed him against the wall. Jude pressed his forearm to the man’s throat. “How many girls, you lowlife piece of shit?”

“Wha—how many?”

“Speak quickly, before I lose my patience.”

“T-two ladies were there tonight.”

“Who was the second?”

“The widow, Mrs. Kingsley.”

“And that is all,” said Jude, more statement than question, constricting the man’s throat.

“That’s it!”

“Who bid on the widow?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what other gentlemen were there?”

“I don’t know.”

Jude pressed harder. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“We wear masks. Like a masked ball. The moment we stepped into the entrance, we were told to mask ourselves.”

George mulled this over. Made sense. The lords would feel more comfortable bidding on a woman like a piece of meat under the cover of masks.

“And what is Lord Blakely’s role in all of this?” asked George.

The beaten man frowned. “He—he brings the ladies. That’s all I know. He has some kind of deal with Calliban.”

“Enough,” said George, lifting Emily into his arms. He stepped from the room, but not before he heard Jude’s threats of severe torture and death should Bailey or Rupert frequent another of Calliban’s clubs again.

As soon as Jude moved into the corridor, George said, “Grab my arm.”

They vanished from the seedy tavern into the Void, where gray shapes blurred and whirred by them—all Flamma of Dark and Light passing one another in a blink. George took them to the edge of his property. He’d instilled the kind of wards that not even he could sift through. They felt the distinct pull and release of energy as they crossed the invisible barrier to a safe zone. Rather than take her into his home, he carried her into the shade of a maple tree. The sky was clear and the moon shone bright. George set her on her feet.

“Remove the blanket, Emily.”

She did.

“Remove your dress.”

“George, are you mad?” growled Jude.

George stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Wait,” he whispered.

Her corset had been loosened by the bastard, Bailey. She began unbuttoning the low-cut gown, which revealed too much of her already.

“George,” warned Jude.

“Wait.”

Without shame, she unfastened the bodice, then continued to pull her corset loose and dropped it to the ground. She pushed her skirts to the dewy grass. With a pool of white at her feet, she stood tall in nothing but her transparent shift.

Heaving a sad sigh, George lifted the woolen blanket and wrapped her shoulders.

“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” asked Jude.

“To test the extent of Calliban’s entity, which has a hold on her. Apparently, his essence is strong enough to neutralize a high-born lady’s most valuable assets—her will and her morals.”

“Damn him to hell.”

“I plan to. For now, we need to find a quiet place for her to recover, to remove the entity so she might be returned safely to her father. He will be alarmed at her disappearance, but he would be more alarmed if she were returned as she is.”

An entity was a form of spawn only high demon lords could create. If he could infect a human with his spawn, he could control their will.

“You know,” continued George, “I’ve seen essence used many times before, but it was always to control a violent situation—to start a riot or in acts of war—never to control a girl’s will like this.”

“Calliban is playing games. He enjoys watching the corruption of others.”

“Yes,” agreed George, staring at the lady now covered by the dingy blanket he’d confiscated from that decrepit inn. “Especially the corruption of those who should be incorruptible.”

“He’s enjoying watching gentlemen of society fall further than ever before, I imagine. This is a much darker level of debauchery, George. This girl is certainly a virgin. After tonight, she would be unmarriageable if word got out.”

“Ah, but it wouldn’t, Jude. Not according to the rules. Unless”—his gut clenched at another thought—“unless Calliban was planning to use this information to blackmail the father for money. And all the women debauched in his filthy scheme. Calliban loves earthly money and what it can buy him.”

“Yes, but the widow has no father or husband who cares.”

“But she has a huge estate and a home in Bath. And though she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation, this scandal would cast her from every circle of society, from the balls and dinners where she regularly finds her lovers. To be sold at an auction for the highest bidder, Jude. Worse than a whore. Like cattle. Calliban may have fooled these gentlemen that this is consensual, but the truth is he’s controlling the wills of these women. When he removes his essence, which I imagine he would the next day after their hedonistic night with the buyer—or buyers, as would be the case for Lady Emily here—they would come back to themselves and remember everything. The shame of it.”

Acid churned in his belly at the cruel game Calliban was playing.

“What role does Damas have in all this?” asked Jude. “He doesn’t need to bid.”

“No. But he could corrupt Alexander further by getting him to.”

To think that Damas had taken George’s kin to a place like that set flames to his innards.

“I’ll take her to Father Abney and remove the essence,” said Jude, lifting the girl into his arms like a doll. “Where does she live so that I might return her when she is clear of it?”

“Grosvenor Square, I believe. I’ll send you a letter with the exact address. You’ll want to have Father Abney deliver her directly there, not you.”

Father Abney was a sentinel for the Light, capable of helping and healing humans who had been possessed.

“Don’t worry, friend. You just get ready for your houseguests. I’ll make an appearance when this is all taken care of.”

Jude sifted away, leaving George alone in the shade of the maple. He stared at the majestic outline of the Thornton mansion, longing for Monday when Katherine would be here, safe within his walls. He couldn’t wait till then to see her again.

Immediately, he sifted away and reappeared in her corridor right outside her doorway with a resounding snap. He winced, hoping no one heard. The electricity from sifting could often culminate into sound if he sifted too quickly. When no one entered the hallway, he tried her door. It was open, which angered him, knowing her worthless husband could take liberties with her if he so chose. Thankfully, he was preoccupied at his heinous club at Calliban’s.

What was he doing for Calliban? Procuring the women forcefully? Luring them away with threats or coercion or charm? He’d seen Clyde Blakely in action at the Weathersby ball, when he was captivating the ladies present. They flocked to him, never knowing the dark depravity of the man.

He closed the door quietly behind him and stepped toward her canopied bed, then stopped breathing. Behind the transparent drapery lay the goddess of his dreams. Her fair hair spilled across the pillow and over one bare shoulder where her shift had slipped. One leg lay outside the coverlet, revealing pale flesh and the perfect curve of her hip. Bathed in moon shadows, she looked like an otherworldly queen. Her chest rose and fell in silent sleep. Her sweet face turned toward the window, as if welcoming the moon’s radiance, which enhanced her beauty beyond compare.

She was breathtaking. Utterly breathtaking. He couldn’t force himself to leave her side. How could any man not cherish such a treasure? Fury lanced him again at the thought of Clyde forcing himself on her and abusing her. He made a vow on the spot. He knew his course from here.

No matter how long it took, he would convince her of his love. For indeed, there was no longer a need to pretend it was anything else. George would free her of her ghastly husband, for Clyde Blakely was the cause of her misery and could only bring more. George would be her knight, whether she wanted one or not, no matter what happened. No matter if she spurned him and rejected his love, he would love her still and be her protector…forever.

Chapter Ten

The entire carriage ride over to Thornton, Katherine’s stomach fluttered like a giddy girl’s. She chastised herself for feeling this way and wore her most staid expression as if none of this mattered at all. But she couldn’t fool Jane.

“You can pretend all you like,” said Jane, sitting right next to her, their maids seated quietly across from them. “But I know you.”

“Hush, Jane,” she chastised, “and you had better be on your best behavior or your mother will never let me chaperone you anywhere again. I’m quite shocked she let you come at all, since she was unable.”

Jane laughed. “She trusts you implicitly.”

“And you too, I see. Your poor mother.”

“Don’t tease, Katherine. And wipe that frown away. We’re going to have the most marvelous time.” She leaned toward the carriage window. “Oh look! We’re here.”

They’d turned in the gate and rounded the curve of maple trees lining the entrance.

“Heavens, how beautiful,” said Jane. “Now you can’t be nonchalant about that, Katherine.”

No, she couldn’t. She leaned toward the window and admired the expansive grounds and stunning mansion. As the carriage rolled into the circular drive, she caught a peek at well-manicured gardens along the back of the house. She loved gardens. But she loved the sight of the man with the auburn hair and the heart-melting smile standing on the portico even more.

“Lord Thornton looks smashing, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” she couldn’t help but admit.

When they came to a stop, their coachman quickly opened the door and helped the ladies down. George stepped forward to greet his newest guests.

“Ladies,” he said, reaching for Jane’s hand first, “you are welcome to Thornton.”

He released Jane after a brief kiss, then held out his hand for Katherine’s. He held her longer with a firm grip and lingered. When his finger slipped across the bare skin of her wrist as he released her, she knew it was on purpose. His smile told her so. She arched a brow at him for taking liberties, though she enjoyed the liberty all the same.

“What a splendid home,” said Katherine. “Will we be getting a tour later on?”

“Certainly.” He led them through the front door. “Once all the guests have arrived. Ladies, this is Duncan. If there is anything you need, he is at your service.”

Duncan bowed as they passed through the entrance. “Thank you,” said Katherine with a nod. Jane did the same.

“My lady,” replied Duncan.

And she thought he actually smiled, which was very out of character for a butler. It made her wonder if George had spoken of her. A new panic gripped her. What if one of the guests detected her growing feelings for their host? What if they sensed there was more between them than amity? What if one reported back to her husband?

“Lady Katherine, are you feeling well?” asked George at her side.

“Yes,” she said with a bit too much enthusiasm. “I’m fine. Just fine. It was a longer ride than I expected is all.”

“I see.” He frowned. “Orville here will take you to your rooms so that you might relax till dinner. As many are arriving at different times, we’ll join in the front parlor before the gong at eight.”

“Thank you, Lord Thornton,” said Jane. “That sounds perfect. We’ll be settled and refreshed by then.”

Katherine smiled but quickly followed the footman lest the servants catch her ogling their master. Servants’ gossip was often the end of one’s reputation with no more than a lingering look between two unmarried gentry. Should she have come? Was this a mistake? As she topped the stairs, she stole a glance at the man watching them go, hands clasped at his back. Another flutter she felt straight to the heart.

No. This was no mistake. And if it was, let her be damned for it. Still, she would tread carefully. They followed Orville down a bright, spacious hallway to the corner bedroom, typically the largest on a floor.

“Here you are, ladies. Lord Thornton chose the connecting suite for you.”

“How thoughtful,” cooed Jane as she swept in first. “Oh my. This is absolutely lovely.”

Lovely was the least of it. Stunning was more accurate. Decorated in hues of pale blue, accented with black, from the draperies to the silken coverlet to the damask chair by the fireplace, the room dripped with elegance.

“This is for Miss Karroway,” said Orville. “And through here is the chamber Lord Thornton chose for Lady Katherine.”

While Jane whirled from one pretty table to the next, inspecting the chintz and beautiful accessories, Katherine stepped into the adjoining room and gasped. The first was elegant. But this room was beyond imagining.

Accented in shades of palest pink and cream, the room was a picture of genteel sophistication at its finest. The cherrywood bed had an ivy-carved headboard, which swirled and curved to a soft peak. Shiny gossamer draped softly over the canopy in perfect harmony. The bedding looked too divine to lay one’s head upon the pillow. Or should she say pillows, for there were no fewer than ten in all shapes and sizes piled at the head.

White marble framed a tall fireplace. A delicate mantel, also of white marble, held nothing more than a row of books and a Rococo-style vase upon which a man and woman embraced in a waltz. Above the mantel hung an oil painting of a beautiful woman sitting upon a horse on a hill. She peered into the distance, her mind deep in thought. Katherine stepped closer and smiled. He hinted at their dance, her love of books and her love of riding, to be sure. Or it was all a striking coincidence. She wanted to believe it certainly was not.

“I hope this meets with your approval,” said Orville.

Katherine didn’t hide her happiness, knowing the footman was most probably required to report back to the master of the house.

She beamed brightly and said, “I could live in this room forever.”

Uncharacteristically, the footman cracked his stoic façade with a quirk of the lips to one side and bowed. “Lord Thornton will be pleased to hear you say so.”

He departed while Katherine perused the rest of the room, utterly enthralled with all the finery. A silver candelabra decorated a white vanity in the corner with a tall, wide mirror for the lady who sat here. A silver hairbrush and comb, polished bright, sat at a perfect angle atop the vanity. She removed her gloves and trailed her fingers over the white cushion where she would sit and do her grooming each morning and night, wondering what it would be like if she did actually live here. Melancholy gripped her for the briefest of moments, but she turned away from her reality and walked to the French doors leading to a balcony. She opened one door and let the afternoon breeze waft into the room. The rolling hills were fine for riding. She’d brought her riding attire in the hope she’d have the chance.

“Oh my,” said Jane at the entrance. Jane strode in and took a turn about the room, stopping in front of the fireplace. “He is in love with you, Katherine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I am not. I am being quite serious. I know you eschew my teasing, but tread carefully, for this poor man’s heart is wrapped up in every fine detail.”

“How can you say that? It is just a room.”

But it was not.

“Katherine darling, don’t be a fool. You best let the poor man know he doesn’t stand a chance if this is how you feel, because it’s quite clear he’s in complete and total rapture.”

“But he does stand a chance,” she whispered before stepping out onto the balcony.

Jane rushed after her, skirts rustling. “What did you say?”

Katherine sat on a wrought-iron chair with a cushion embroidered with red roses. “You heard me quite clearly.”

“So I thought.” Jane sat opposite her. “So you do care for him.”

Katherine smiled again, the second time in a matter of minutes, a genuinely happy smile, not the false one she wore for parties. “I do.”

Jane sighed deeply and clutched her hands to her chest.

“Oh, stop all that. We’re not eloping to Gretna Green, for heaven’s sake.”

“Well, you should.”

“Jane, really.”

“I know Clyde is not good to you. I know he’s worse than you let on.”

Katherine turned to the wide landscape, breathing in the lovely view as the sun slipped lower behind the woodlands in the distance.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” continued Jane.

Though the girls had been dear friends for a long time, Katherine would never burden Jane with the knowledge of what kind of man Clyde truly was.

“But, Katherine,” she said in earnest, grasping her friend’s hand, “if you can find some happiness with him, I would never in a million years hold it against you. I would not think ill of you for it.”

Katherine welcomed her approval, even though she never thought herself to be the kind of woman who would engage in an extramarital affair. Of course, she never thought she’d marry a man like Clyde either. And there was no certainty that an affair would take place. They had never even kissed, for that matter.

“There’s no guarantee the man is even interested.”

“Oh, please—”

“Pardon me, ladies.” A stout woman with cherry cheeks stepped onto the room. “I’m the housekeeper, Mrs. Baxter. We’ve brought up some refreshments for you. Go on, Sally.” She waved a maid past her who carried a tray of creamy sandwiches and a pot of tea with two cups and saucers. “Lord Thornton thought you could do with something to eat while you settle in.”

“Why, thank you,” said Jane.

“How kind of him,” agreed Katherine. “Please tell him we appreciate his thoughtfulness.”

Mrs. Baxter gave her a nod. “Of course, my dear. Now if there is anything you need at all, be sure to find me, and I’ll take care of it straight away.”

The shy maid dipped a curtsy and scooted off the balcony with the housekeeper behind her. Jane arched a brow at Katherine and grinned like a fiend.

“Not interested?” With all the arrogance she could muster in her expression and manners, she began to pour the tea. “Prepare yourself, my friend. The man is utterly besotted.”

Katherine dove into the sandwiches so she wouldn’t have to speak another word. As it was, she had no idea what to say. If Lord Thornton treated her in any special way in front of the guests, she would be ruined. But Katherine knew him to be a better man than that. He was a better man than many. Than the best of men. She leaned back in the chair and sipped her tea, gazing out at the golden view. Smiling.

Chapter Eleven

Katherine and Jane descended the stairs a half an hour before the gong for dinner—early enough to meet the party and late enough to be fashionable. If Jane had had it her way, they would have been down a full hour earlier, but Katherine stalled. Despite her eagerness, she was also anxious that someone would detect her feelings through her behavior around Lord Thornton. She had managed to fool everyone into believing she was a happily married woman, so why couldn’t she fool them into believing she was completely disinterested in the gallant, fascinating, elegant, gorgeous Lord George Thornton?

There was a pause in chatter when they entered the room. Katherine wore her party smile and scanned the room, noting Lord Thornton stepping toward them.

“Good evening, ladies. Did you find everything to your liking?”

“Thank you ever so much for assigning us the joining rooms, Lord Thornton,” said Jane. “The two of us are usually inseparable, so now you’ve made it more convenient for us to stay up all night.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Miss Karroway. Though I hope you will get some rest while under my roof.”

“Oh, Jane! I did not know you were coming. How wonderful!”

Penelope Greene bustled across the parlor. Katherine refrained from rolling her eyes. Penelope was the most incorrigible flirt and annoying person that she knew. She tossed around her overly voluptuous frame as if she were the queen of the country wherever she went. Lord knew she had probably come in hopes of landing Lord Thornton for a husband. She’d been on the market for five Seasons with no luck yet.

“Lord Thornton, you did not tell me you had invited my dear Miss Karroway,” she said, swatting him playfully with her fan. “She is my dearest friend.”

Lie. Katherine focused on Jane to avoid making a comment. Penelope’s friend Marjorie moped at her side, being dismissed as the second dearest friend, apparently.

To his merit, George ignored the absurd flirtation with the fan. “I am pleased you have another friend among our company. Though it seems you have quite a few dear friends.”

She swatted him again. Katherine was sure he winced. “Oh, Lord Thornton, how you tease me. Yes, I do have quite a few dear friends.” She glanced at Katherine and, with a slight upturn of her nose, greeted her. “But they’re not all here. Hello, Katherine.”

“Hello, Penelope. It is good to see you.”

“I am sure that it is. Now, Jane, you must come and meet Mr. Delacroix. He’s French. And one of our dear host’s guests from abroad. There he is, over there…”

Katherine remained in place, calm and serene, fully accustomed to Penelope snubbing her in public. George did not seem to notice. Or he pretended that he didn’t.

“And you, Lady Katherine?” George let his voice roll low and soft. “Did you find everything to your liking?”

“I did, as a matter of fact.” She cleared her throat. “Especially the details around the fireplace.”

The gong sounded.

“May I escort you into dinner?”

He offered his arm. It would be rude to do anything but accept him as escort, though she hoped he hadn’t placed her next to him at the table. It would be obvious to everyone he was showing her favor.

The party of about a dozen strolled across the hall into the formal dining room, falling in line as hierarchy demanded. George let her go when they entered the dining room and found his own place at the head. Mr. Parsons—one of the bachelors who frequented all the balls of the Season but never seemed to woo a lady to the altar—escorted Penelope to the seat at the right of Lord Thornton, then sat next to her. Penelope’s mother, Lady Mable, took the seat opposite her daughter. It was true they outranked all the other women in the party without Lady Helene present, which only rankled Katherine further. She wasn’t sure how she would bear watching Penelope simper after George all night while she took her place midway down the table

Katherine’s confidence faltered. She wondered if her feelings had run away with her good sense. Perhaps she had imagined all his attentions. After all, she was a married woman. What more could he want but a short, unlawful affair? What did she want, if anything? She was driving herself mad. Chaos whirled inside her chest as she wrestled too many conflicting thoughts and emotions, but she remained true to her lady’s upbringing. Her father would expect no less. “Never let them see you down, my dear,” he used to say. And she had heeded his advice ever since.

“Lady Katherine, how delightful to see you again,” said Mr. Delacroix, George’s dark and roguish companion at Hyde Park. He was seated on her right.

“Hello, Mr. Delacroix. Have you found your stay in England pleasant so far?”

“Quite. However, the climate is more biting here than in France.”

“Very much like society, I imagine.”

Jude chuckled and turned to the consommé that had been served to all. “I would not venture to insult English society.”

“Well, if you find it biting now, wait until deep winter. Very bitter.” Katherine spooned her broth, which was quite good.

“Are we talking about the weather now? Or society?”

“Both.”

Jude laughed again and shook his head. “I see why now.”

“See why what?”

He leaned toward her, a black lock of his hair falling across one eye. “Why our host prefers your company.”

Katherine nearly dropped her spoon but steadied her hand and continued to finish off the consommé while glancing at the head of the table. Their host appeared to be riveted by the prattle of Penelope Greene, which she knew was impossible since Penelope never said anything of interest. But his gaze would dart in her direction each time Penelope dipped her head over her bowl.

“He has spoken to you of such things?”

She couldn’t believe her own boldness. The dinner guests were all preoccupied with their own conversations. Jane was deeply immersed in discussion with Mr. Langley, the son of one of her father’s friends who’d been on tour in Europe for the past year. So there was no danger, especially if they kept their tones low. And she couldn’t help herself. If George confided in his friend, she had to know what he would tell her.

“Yes.”

Jude paused while the servants removed the bowls and placed a plate of roasted lamb with herbed potatoes and carrots before each guest. As the servants stepped away from the tables and the guests dove into the next course, Jude leaned closer to her.

“I’m afraid he speaks of little else but the fair Katherine.”

Jude’s broad mouth cut into a sensuous smile. Katherine feared for the woman who ever fell into his sights. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Really?” She cut into a potato but kept glancing at Jude. “You’re teasing me.”

He forked a piece of lamb into his mouth. “A little.”

She turned to her meal with a haughty, and exasperated, grunt.

Jude laughed out loud, which made Jane glance over and smile. Jane loved to laugh. Funny that Mr. Langley wasn’t doing a fine job of it on their side of the table.

“Don’t laugh at my expense, Mr. Delacroix.”

“Don’t be angry with me, Lady Katherine. I am teasing you. The truth is, my friend shares little of his thoughts with anyone. He’s a man of few words in general. But lately, I find one name crossing his lips more often than others.” He sipped his wine before adding, “Yours.”

Katherine froze and glared at her tormentor but found no humor in the lines of his face. Rather, she found a sadness there that made her heart trip faster.

“You do not agree with Geor—Lord Thornton’s thoughts on his…preoccupation.”

How could she word it any more delicately than that?

“I fear for him.”

“Fear for him?” She frowned openly at the man amiably shoveling lamb as if they were still discussing the weather.

He then took a deep swallow of wine, then turned close to her again, his dark gaze capturing her. “Be careful, fair lady. For if you are trifling with him, you will wound him deeply. And that will make me an unhappy man.”

First Jane, and now Jude. What no one seemed to notice, because she was such a fine actress, was that her own heart was at stake as well.

“He is your good friend, isn’t he?”

“The best. We’ve known each other longer than you can imagine. He saved my life. And for that, he will always have my devotion.”

Katherine could hardly eat another bite after that confession, even as tempting trays of fruit tarts, jellies, creams and cakes were set on the table. Her mind spun with thoughts of how George had saved his life. She knew not to ask. Mr. Delacroix might look like a rake visiting from France, but there was far more to the man than what one saw on the surface. She knew he would not divulge how George had saved him. She glanced at the man himself, still being tortured by Penelope’s incessant chatter, her black curls bobbing with the annoying waggle of her chin. She wondered if he would tell her.

As desserts were cleared and conversation dwindled, George stood at the head. “Shall we adjourn, gentlemen? Ladies?”

Slowly, they made their way to separate rooms. There was no hostess to lead the way for the ladies, but Lady Mable took the opportunity to walk ahead of the rest as before, ranking the highest among them with her husband an earl. Katherine’s heart sank at the sight of George still escorting Penelope and leaving her with a kiss on the hand at the door. He did not even look in Katherine’s direction before he joined Jude’s side as they walked toward the billiard room.

Almost as soon as the doors were shut, with the ladies flitting and gossiping, she longed to run from the room. But it was Penelope who drove her over the edge.

“Where is Lady Helene?” asked Jane of Penelope’s mother.

“Oh, I believe she’ll be in tomorrow,” replied Lady Mable. “Lord Weathersby was feeling ill, and she needed to be sure all was in order with the doctor and housekeeper before she left.”

“I hope he is not very ill,” said Katherine, truly loving the Weathersbys. They had been the kindest to her above all, next to Jane.

Jane said that Katherine had few female friends because she was too pretty. Katherine thought that ridiculous. But she remembered her younger days when she snubbed girlish society for stables and horses with her father. She did not mix well with other ladies, never had. And her beauty had drawn too many eyes the day she finally came out. She’d made enemies of many young ladies that first Season, as well as their mothers, who narrowed their eyes at her bevy of beaus always surrounding her.

Lady Mable turned a snooty look in Katherine’s direction. “And where is your husband, Lady Katherine?”

“Yes,” chimed in Penelope. “Where is he? I thought for sure he’d accompany his wife to a week-long house party.”

“I’m afraid he’s occupied elsewhere,” said Katherine, waiting for the next blow.

Penelope turned away with her friend, Marjorie Fleming, who was equally spiteful, and muttered, “Seems someone has already lost interest. We knew that would happen. His loss…”

Katherine blocked out the rest of whatever lies Penelope was spewing. Penelope would never forgive Katherine for what she deemed as stealing her man. In fact, Clyde had only been mildly interested in Penelope because of her father’s hefty purse two Seasons ago when she had caught his eye. But when Katherine came on scene, he wanted a pretty face to go along with a healthy inheritance. If only Katherine could have seen through his game. Her own vanity had allowed her to believe he was deeply in love with her. Now she knew Clyde could never love anyone more than he loved himself.

“Jane, I have a bit of a headache and wish to retire.”

Jane was in conversation with Mrs. Langley, Mr. Langley’s mother, a petite woman with a kind smile. “Oh? Shall I join you?”

“No, no. Please, you stay. I’m more worn out than I’d thought. I’ll be good as new in the morning,” she said, forcing yet another smile until she’d turned for the door.

Once in the corridor, she felt a weight drop from her shoulders. Society never appealed to her, and the task of playing the game always came with a cost. The only place she longed to be was in one gentleman’s company. She passed another parlor, hearing the raucous laughter of the gentlemen on the other side of the door. As she walked past another room, the door partially open, someone grabbed her wrist and hauled her inside. She gasped and filled her lungs, ready to scream, but a hand came over her mouth. A gentle hand.

In the dim light of his study, George had her back against a wall of books. He did not say a word, only gazed his fill, his expression that of a tortured man. He uncupped his hand from her parted lips, then stroked his fingers along her lips. She was panting from the fright and now from the divine closeness of him. He pressed his body even closer, further increasing her heart rate.

“George.” She said his name as a plea…to stop…to keep going…to stop the longing in her body and her heart.

He threaded his fingers into her hair, pulling the pins down with the other. She wanted to protest, for she would have to walk the halls with her hair undone, a certain sign of impropriety.

“George,” she whispered again.

He threaded his fingers through her long hair, pulling it down along her shoulder. “My name on your lips drives me mad.”

She expected his kiss, but she never expected the way she would feel when his lips brushed softly against hers. Gentle sweeps as he curled one hand into her hair, pulling her head back enough so that he could angle his mouth over hers and show her the meaning of passion. She didn’t know her body could yearn in such a way. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer. He groaned as he swept his tongue inside, his tempo less gentle, his intent more aggressive. There was no mistaking his feelings anymore. She couldn’t ignore the fire igniting between them. Nor did she want to.

She tentatively brushed one of her hands along his jaw, feeling the muscles work as he kissed her senseless. She combed her hand into his hair, reveling at the silkiness beneath her fingers. She wanted to touch all of him, to know all of him.

He broke the kiss and nipped down the tender column of her neck, pressing soft kisses that would not leave a mark, then trailed back up and grazed her earlobe with his teeth. She moaned, then his lips were on hers again, tasting with unquestionable possession and need.

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped them back to reality. They’d been lost in blissful oblivion for several minutes. They froze. The footsteps were sharp and quick, drawing closer, passing the door, then echoing into the distance.

“A servant,” said George, loosening his grip a fraction.

Katherine trembled from the experience, completely shaken from the inside out. “My hair,” she said, knowing there was no way to put it back in place and make it up the stairs.

“It’s all right. They are all still in the parlors. No one will see you.”

“They might come out and see me, George.” Panic started to seize her.

“No one will see you.” He took her hand in his and smiled. “Trust me.”

Suddenly, she felt a warmth drape over her entire body, as if there was nothing in the world that could harm her with George at her side.

She gave his hand a squeeze. “All right.”

He opened the door and peered outside, then led her to the main stairwell, deserted with everyone engaged elsewhere. Guiding her to the second floor, he pulled her past an open doorway on the farthest end of the hallway.

“This is my bedchamber, if you should ever need something.” He offered this not as a lover might offer the information, but in earnest if she should ever be in danger. It struck her as strange, considering what had just transpired. He also didn’t pull her into the room and finish the seduction as many men in his position would have at least attempted. They rounded a corner and walked the last stretch to her bedroom. He opened her door and ushered her inside. With one hand on the doorknob and the door half-closed, he reached over and cupped her cheek with the other. She expected a soft kiss good night, but he was beyond that. He held her fast and kissed her hard, pouring his desire into every stroke of his tongue against hers.

Her hands came up and gripped his collar, wanting to pull him farther into the room and tumble him to the downy bed. She had tossed her virtue out the window the moment she’d accepted the invitation to this house party, and she knew it. No point in pretending she hadn’t wanted him from the start. Not as a friend, or only a friend, but as a lover. And perhaps even more.

She moaned and tugged him closer. He broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. Now he was shaking between ragged breaths.

“Damn, woman.” He kissed her again, gently this time, tasting sweetly, running his tongue along her lower lip, then nipping with his teeth for good measure.

“George,” she pleaded. And there was no mistaking what she pleaded for.

He pulled away, his hand lingering on her jaw. He swept his thumb across her lips. “I can’t stay, my lady. They’ll be missing me downstairs.”

No one would suspect a short absence, but if the host didn’t return, they would wonder why. And perhaps ask too many questions. In the presence of someone like Penelope Greene, that could be fatal for her reputation.

He clenched his jaw, obviously battling his will. She smiled and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—such sensuous lips for a man. “Thank you,” she said, and pulled away out of his grasp.

“Good night, Katherine.”

“Good night, George.”

He was gone, moving silently back down the hall. She closed the door and waited several minutes to calm her nerves and give George time to return to the gentlemen below, then pulled the bell rope for Maggie to help her undress. She stood by the luxurious bed, gazing out at the loveliest night she had ever seen. Whether it was colored in silver because of the events of the night and her imagination rendered it beautiful beyond any other, she did not know or care. She kept repeating in her mind the sweet words he’d said to her, remembering his lips on her skin and dreaming of having him as her own.

“My lady,” she whispered to herself, loving this endearment he had chosen for her. Loving every fine line of his jaw and brow, his large hands and long fingers, his broad smile and watchful eyes. But most of all, she loved the way he saw her. As his lady.

Chapter Twelve

Katherine was surprised to see that she and Jane were the first ones down for breakfast, though Mrs. Langley walked in right behind them.

“Good morning, Jane. You did not introduce me to your friend.”

“Oh heavens. I surely didn’t. Katherine went up with a headache directly after dinner.”

“I hope it wasn’t a migraine, dear.”

“No,” Katherine assured her. “Only a slight headache. It happens sometimes with travel.”

The breakfast was set up on the sideboard with a footman waiting to attend them at the corner. Katherine skipped over the heavier meats and pies, settling for strawberries, figs and a sugar-dusted scone.

“I have the same affliction. The very reason I refused to travel abroad to visit Henry in Italy.”

Jane straightened her posture and focused on her plate of eggs at the mention of Mrs. Langley’s son. Katherine would certainly be interrogating her later about this subject.

“How long was your son in Europe, Mrs. Langley?”

“Too long,” she said with a smile. “I missed him terribly. He went over for his Grand Tour upon graduation from Oxford, but then he stayed. Fell in love.”

“Oh? She must be a special woman to keep him from home and from his mother.”

“It was Florence he fell in love with, dear.” She sipped her cup of tea the footman had poured for her.

“I see,” said Katherine, noting Jane’s obvious silence.

“He fancies himself an architect, which is a great disappointment to his father, who wants him home, running the estate. A step down, in his father’s estimation.”

“I’m sure that must be very difficult for you all.”

“What must be very difficult?” asked George, standing in the doorway.

Now it was Katherine’s turn to become enraptured with her china plate.

“Nothing of import, Lord Thornton,” said Mrs. Langley. “Just my son, who has it in his head to reside in Florence and become a world-famous architect rather than do his duty back home. His father says I indulged him too much as a child.”

George took a seat on the opposite end from the night before, to sit closer to the ladies. The footman poured him a cup of tea.

“It has always been my belief that a man must follow his heart first, no matter where in the world it takes him.”

Katherine lifted her gaze from the plate and caught his direct glance before he refocused on Mrs. Langley.

“Why, Lord Thornton. That is exactly what I told my husband. Perhaps you should come for a visit and talk some sense into him.”

“Give him time. Men are stubborn creatures. And I would venture to say that he is mourning the loss of his son’s company more than his new choice in occupation.”

“I hope no one is in mourning,” said Jude, stepping into the room with Henry Langley at his side. “I had hoped we might go for a ride today.”

Katherine did not miss the quick exchange of glances between Jane and Henry.

“Good morning, ladies. Thornton,” said Jude. Henry gave a swift bow as the two stepped over to the sideboard to fill their plates.

“Good morning, everyone,” said Penelope, entering the room in the brightest yellow day dress Katherine had ever seen. To say it was garish would have been polite. “Good morning, Lord Thornton,” she crooned. Her friend, doused in pink from shoes to ribbons, curtsied with Penelope and tittered like a schoolgirl.

Penelope approached the sideboard. “I must say that was the best night’s rest I believe I’ve ever had. Didn’t you sleep well, Mama?”

“Yes, my darling,” agreed Lady Mable, taking up the rear. “And look at this wonderful array of fruits. I say, Lord Thornton, you must tell me your secret. We can’t acquire so much as one fresh fig these days in London.”

“You must come to the country more often, Lady Mable,” he replied.

Penelope practically gleamed from what she believed was an invitation to return. George turned to Jane.

“I was hoping to give you ladies a proper tour of the gardens if you’d like.”

“I would adore that. Wouldn’t you, Katherine?”

“Of course.” Katherine smiled at Jane, then their host, before returning to her scone.

Penelope leaned forward in a rather unladylike manner. “How delightful, Lord Thornton. You remember how much I said I love roses, didn’t you?”

“I did. Though I’m afraid we’re short on roses. We have a manicured hedge, but I’ve left an abundance of wildflowers relatively untouched.”

“Wildflowers?” asked Lady Mable. “You must have your gardener cut them down straight away or they’ll take over, mark my words. They’re nothing more than weeds to spoil the lot.”

“I could never do such a thing, though I thank you for your advice,” said George, sipping the last of his tea. “I’m very fond of wildflowers.”

Katherine dipped her head to sip her tea as well to avoid the heated gaze she felt from across the table.

“And after your tour of the gardens,” said Jude, “I’ll lead those who are more adventurous in a ride about the grounds.”

Penelope plopped down next to her mother with a pile of food on her plate. Her voluminous skirts whooshed when she sat. “I’ve always thought riding a rather vulgar pastime for a lady. Don’t you agree, Marjorie?”

“Of course,” she agreed in her mousy voice.

Penelope had seen Katherine riding along Rotten Row in Hyde Park many times. Gentlemen would often stop and stare with admiration as she galloped up the lane. Katherine was masterful on horseback.

“I would love to go riding, Mr. Delacroix,” said Katherine, tired of Penelope’s antics and thoroughly happy she would stay behind. She had to, now that she’d deemed it vulgar for a lady.

“Wonderful. It’s settled, then,” said Jude, sitting next to Penelope with a plate as high as hers. He gave a sidelong glance at her plate, paused, arched a brow, then dove into his own.

“I hope we will not be deprived of our host, Lord Thornton,” said Jane. “I’m sure you know the grounds better than anyone.”

“I will join you, of course,” he said with nod.

“And will you join us, Mr. Langley?” Katherine asked the quiet, genteel man eating his breakfast in silence. He was not the loquacious gentlemen she’d seen last night across the table with Jane. She would be having a tête-á-tête with Jane as soon as they were alone.

“I’d be delighted,” he replied.

“Where is Mr. Parsons?” interjected Penelope, seemingly anxious to change the subject since it didn’t include her. “He was so delightful at dinner last night, regaling us with his adventures in Spain.”

Jude piped up. “I believe he was regaling long into the night in the gentlemen’s parlor till there was little left to regale about.”

Jude took a jab at the man without remorse. George frowned at his friend, who seemed to care very little.

“He asked for breakfast to be sent up this morning,” added George. “I’m sure he’ll join us for the riding tour of the grounds later.”

“I’m sure,” agreed Jude.

Katherine did not miss the small wink Jude shot to George. She wondered how long they’d been friends, for they seemed to know one another as well as brothers. She also longed to know what confessions had taken place between them about her. After last night’s dinner with Jude and after her heated interaction with George, she wanted Jude alone now more than ever to discuss what exactly George’s intentions were in regards to her. Was he expecting a lover for a night or a week? Could she accept such an offer? Her blood raced wildly at the mere thought of his lips on her skin.

“Are you all right?” asked Jane next to her. “You’re a bit flushed.”

“Am I?” She pushed away from her plate and stood. The gentlemen at the table immediately stood with her. “I need a little air. Pardon me.”

“So do I,” said Jane. “We’ll join you all in the gardens, Lord Thornton.”

Katherine left without a glance at the man who made her blush shamefully without saying or doing a thing. His mere presence was enough.

They waited on the veranda for the others, both of them in thoughtful silence for several minutes.

“So, tell me about Mr. Langley,” said Katherine.

“What? There is nothing to tell.”

Katherine laughed. “You are a poor liar, Jane. There is certainly something to tell.”

She sighed heavily. “Oh, very well. Henry—”

“Henry?” Katherine raised her brows.

“Stop it. Mr. Langley and I were acquainted when we were very young. Our fathers were good friends. On occasion, he would come to the house, and we played together as children. Then the time came for me to have a governess and for him to go off to Eton.”

Jane brushed the folds of her day dress, smoothing wrinkles where there were none.

“Go on,” urged Katherine.

“There’s not much more to tell. I saw him at a ball my first Season, three years ago. We danced. We talked. Then he went back to Oxford, then to Italy, and I never heard from him again.”

“Until last night here at Thornton, and at dinner where you were both steeped in serious conversation. What did you two talk about last night?”

Jane’s pretty countenance glowed with contentment. “Architecture. Beauty. Art.”

“Good heavens. Are you in love?”

“Please, Katherine. Hardly.”

Katherine laughed again. “Now who’s blushing?”

Jane said nothing more as the voices of the others drew closer.

George strolled through the back door onto the veranda, with Penelope and Marjorie on his heels, Lady Mable and the Langleys not far behind.

“Oh, a maze!” squealed Penelope. “I simply adore mazes, Lord Thornton. What fun! Will we get lost?”

His piercing gaze held Katherine’s as he passed, rendering her breathless as he sauntered on with Marjorie and Penelope on either side. Katherine had taken a place beside Mrs. Langley. Mr. Langley strode alongside Jane behind them. Lady Mable took up the rear.

“I have heard in history that a lady or two has become lost in the maze,” said George.

Penelope took George’s arm without him offering it. He was forced to play the gentleman and crook his elbow to cover her faux pas. “How thrilling! Did you hear that, Mama?” she called back.

“Yes, dear,” replied her mother. “I believe I will rest on this shady bench while you all take the tour,” said Lady Mable, huffing and puffing already.

“If you pass straight along this path and don’t venture directly into the maze, there is a treasure at the end.” Simply the sound of his voice—steady and sure—lured Katherine to him.

“A treasure?” asked Marjorie, giggling. “What kind?”

“You shall see.”

They strolled along the path and finally came out to an open clearing. A lovely trellis arch stood beside a fountain, where they all gathered. A Grecian sculpture of a nude goddess occupied the center, her hair trailing down her body, her arms outstretched, the water streaming over her and down into the clam shell at her bare feet, where it spilled over into the fountain.

“Venus,” said Katherine quietly.

George broke free of Penelope’s grasp as he turned. “That is correct, Lady Katherine. Do you know much Greek mythology?”

“A little. I have read a few books on the subject.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, then seemed to change his mind.

“This sculpture is of fine craftsmanship,” said Mr. Langley, stepping forward to examine it. “This was not done by an apprentice’s hand but a master’s.”

Jane watched Mr. Langley as he bent to examine it more closely. Katherine knew without a doubt, because of the expression on Jane’s face, that she was clearly smitten.

“You’re quite right, Langley. I brought this one home with me from France.”

“France?” Penelope jumped in as quickly as she could. “Oh, how I’ve longed to visit France. How long were you there, Lord Thornton?”

“Though I lived there for several years, I am pleased to be back in my home of England.” With a surreptitious glance at Katherine, he led them on through the trellis, which extended into a tunnel with a woven vine canopy overhead. Late summer had finally given way to early autumn, the tips of the leaves curling with burnt orange and gold.

“But where is this treasure?” asked Marjorie, her mousy voice squeaking.

Katherine had thought this a beautiful, peaceful place in the garden. That alone was a treasure to her, a haven where one could hide from the world and forget one’s cares.

“If you’ll follow me,” said George. “Watch your step.”

There was a tranquility about this place that kept all of them quiet until the trellis tunnel opened up to a white gazebo. George turned at the step and helped each lady up. Katherine was last. She lingered, allowing him to hold her gloved hand longer. She wished for the second time this morning that they were alone.

“Oh my.” Mrs. Langley spoke first. “So beautiful, Lord Thornton.”

His gaze remained transfixed on Katherine. “Yes. I believe so.” Then he moved to the center of the gazebo.

Katherine understood why there were so many gasps of admiration when she stood at the rail and looked out at a seemingly endless park of green with a lovely dappling of elm, ash, and beech trees. One hickory stood proudly above all the rest.

“It is so lovely,” said Penelope. “I could wake up to such a view every day of my life and never tire of it. Wouldn’t you agree, Marjorie?”

“Most definitely. Never tired at all.”

If Penelope could have done so without utterly destroying every rule of propriety, it was clear she would throw herself at his feet and beg him to marry her. Her constant suggestions that she would just adore to live here were plucking at Katherine’s nerves.

“Absolutely stunning,” gushed Penelope. “And now, you must show me the maze, Lord Thornton. And please stay close, for I could easily lose my way.”

They’d barely stepped up to this divine view and already Penelope was ready to leave without taking a second glance. Somehow, that didn’t surprise Katherine at all.

The others lingered a minute or two, then followed the retreating, yammering voice of Penelope.

“Katherine, aren’t you coming?” asked Jane.

Dragging herself away from this little piece of paradise, she agreed with one thing Penelope said. She could wake up here every day of her life and never tire of it.

“Yes, Jane.” They strolled back through the trellis tunnel. Mr. Langley stayed at Jane’s side, a quiet partner for the sightseeing. “You know, I believe I’ll go straight on to the house.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a walk through the maze?”

Penelope squealed with delight for some unknown reason.

Katherine raised one brow. “I’m quite sure.” She needed a break from the annoying Miss Greene, and she wanted to be sure her riding habit was perfect for Lord Thornton. She quickened her step, realizing she would be galloping over those lovely hills with him at her side. Without Penelope.

Chapter Thirteen

Maggie made double sure that every button was perfectly aligned and every draping of her mistress’s dark green cashmere riding habit folded just right. The skirt rose a few inches above the normal hemline and without the petticoats, Katherine had much more mobility. Her long black boots ensured no skin could be seen at the hem. Her sleeves were slit on the underside for flexibility of her arms. And even with the short, snug jacket buttoned to her neckline and the black riding hat with an ostrich plume crowning her ensemble, she felt more comfortable in this than in anything else she owned.

“Don’t forget your gloves, milady.” Maggie held out her black leather riding gloves.

“Thank you, Maggie.” Katherine took them from her, reminding herself to be calm. “I’m not sure what I would do without you. We may be gone for a while, so why don’t you get some rest this afternoon before I’ll need to dress for dinner.”

“Thank you, milady.” She dipped a curtsy as Katherine left through the connecting door to Jane’s room with her crop under her arm. But Jane was nowhere to be found.

She made her way down the stairs, pulling on her black leather gloves, anxious to go for a ride. She turned toward the back veranda first, to see if the others were still in the gardens. There was no sign of anyone, except for two walking in the shade near a row of trees beyond the manicured hedge. There was no mistaking the honey-brown hair of her dearest friend walking alongside the tall figure of Mr. Langley.

“Dear Jane.”

She sighed a happy sigh, realizing her friend might have finally found a match worthy of her. The thought brought her supreme joy but also a pang of regret. She was tethered to Clyde, and no manner of dreaming would change her sad fate. Weary of waiting any longer, she sought out the stables as she used to do as a girl when anxiety had taken hold of her. Her father had tried to rid her of the habit of frolicking around the stables, where no proper young lady should be. It had never worked.

Katherine glanced around warily, finding no sign of the dreadful Penelope. One place George’s admirer would certainly not be was the stables. And that’s exactly where Katherine hoped to find him. She would steal what happiness she could while there was happiness to be stolen.

Two beautiful chestnuts were saddled and ready in the open courtyard, but no one else seemed to be around. She ventured into the stables and heard the soft shuffling of feet on hay.

“Hello?”

A skinny boy popped out from a stall. “Pardon me, milady. I thought you might be the master.” He glanced around nervously. “Don’t fret. I realize I’m not supposed to be here. But I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said with a conspiratorial smile.

His bony shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Daniel is m’ name, milady.”

“I’m Lady Katherine,” she said, closing the distance.

“I can bring your horse to the courtyard, milady, if you’d like to wait.”

Katherine felt a pang of guilt for putting the boy out of sorts, but the smell of hay and horse called to her, calming her nerves and reminding her of her pleasant childhood when she had no worries. A horse whickered from the stall where Daniel stood in the open door.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward the stall.

He glanced at her fancy riding habit and her shoes then assessed the floor inside the stall.

“I think it’s safe enough, milady. I just put down fresh hay.”

He turned back to the stall where he was working. Katherine smiled and followed, adoring the boy’s candid free spirit. When she walked into the stall, she halted. He had been saddling a pristine palomino with a long white mane and tail.

“Pretty, ain’t she?”

“Very pretty.”

Katherine stepped closer, removed her glove and ran her hand down the mare’s nose. She whickered and snuffed Katherine’s hand. As her father had taught her, Katherine let the horse smell her while she gently stroked her golden neck.

“Such a pretty girl,” cooed Katherine. “Is she one for the ride today?”

“Of course, milady. She’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“That’s what Lord Thornton told me. He ’pressly said, ‘She is Lady Katherine’s mount only, and she can come and ride ’er anytime she wants.’ Lord Thornton doesn’t say a lot, miss, but what ’e does, ’e means for true.”

Katherine swallowed at the realization that George had set such a beautiful mare aside for her exclusive use. “What’s her name?”

“Angel. She sure looks like one, don’t she?”

“Indeed she does. Tell me, Daniel. Do you like working for Lord Thornton?”

“Ah, yeah. I was right attached to the former earl, but the new Lord Thornton, well, ’e’s good to me. I ’alf thought I’d be thrown out when the old earl died.”

“Why is that?” she asked, continuing to stroke the mare. Her eyelids drooped when Katherine rubbed her on the white star at her forehead.

“I’m an orphan, you see, and well, now look at me. I’m ’ead of the stables. No one young as me gets a job like that with an earl. But ’e kept me on, treats me good. Even if there’s somethin’ a little odd ’bout the new earl, I like ’im.”

“Odd?” Katherine paused. Angel whickered again and nudged her. She continued to stroke. “How so?”

“He sends messages at all hours of the night, gets visitors like this French bloke.”

“Mr. Delacroix?”

“Yeah.” Daniel bent over to buckle the girth. “’e came in the dead of night, tearing up the drive like a wild animal. I thought ’e might have some trouble with the earl, but when I checked the next day, Mrs. Baxter said all was right as rain.”

“How interesting.”

“That’s what I thought. There’s somethin’ odd ’bout Mr. Delacroix too.”

“Is there?” Daniel straightened and whispered, “’e’s not really French.”

Now Katherine was riveted. “What do you mean?”

“Or if ’e is, then ’e’s not all French. You see, I’ve ’eard him talkin’ like a Scot too. Sounded like a Highlander I knew once. And not like ’e was puttin’ on airs and foolin’ round. The two o’ them was in the stables one night, thought I was already to bed, but I was cleanin’ me tools in the back. They’d been out on a long ride all over the property I was told. At night, which was also strange. They was in a serious discussion ’bout some bloke with a weird name…Demus…Damus, somethin’ like that. Never ’eard of the likes of ’im before.”

Katherine didn’t know what to think. Scottish accent? Parading around the grounds in the dark? A chill ran up her spine as she considered the two might be in league with some criminal sort. Perhaps they were criminals themselves. Her pulse pounded at the thought of giving her heart to such a man. After all, what did she truly know about him? About as much as she’d known about Clyde before she made the fatal mistake of giving him everything dear to her.

“Do you like her?” came a familiar, steady voice behind them.

She spun with a gasp. “Geo—Lord Thornton! You gave me a fright.”

“My apologies. Thank you, Daniel. That will be all.”

Daniel tugged his forelock and ducked through the open gate, casting Katherine an apologetic sidelong glance. George must’ve heard some of their conversation. Katherine focused intently on caressing the mare’s muzzle.

“I had hoped you would like her.” George eased in beside Katherine and patted Angel’s neck.

“Like her? She’s beautiful.”

Silence stretched, filling up with more questions that remained unanswered. Katherine’s mind spun with possible solutions to such behavior—all of them scandalous. What if they were black-market runners between England and France, avoiding the high tariffs by smuggling goods in and out? That might explain the strange behavior, but it certainly didn’t fit the man she’d come to know. However, she’d never met a pirate. Perhaps they were exactly as she saw before her. Her gaze drifted away from Angel to the man beside her.

“I suppose you have some questions for me.”

He combed a lock of hair away from his brow. Katherine could say nothing, but her expression must’ve said it all. He smiled.

“Come along. Let’s go for our ride.” He unwrapped Angel’s reins from the stable slat. “And then we’ll have a talk.”

In the courtyard, Mr. Delacroix sat atop the tallest of the two chestnuts. Mr. Parsons was seated on the other. A sleek black was saddled and ready to go.

“Ah, Lady Katherine. Wonderful to see you. Where is the rest of the riding party?”

“I was wondering the same thing myself,” she said, maneuvering to the left side of Angel.

“Seems we’re the only ones up for fine sport today.”

Mr. Parsons was pale as a sheet and red-eyed.

“Are you all right, Mr. Parsons?” asked Katherine. “You look a bit ill.”

“Fine, fine, Lady Katherine. Nothing a good ride in the open air won’t cure.” He whirled his horse toward the open field and clip-clopped away.

Mr. Delacroix seemed to be exchanging some secret information with George with nothing more than a swift wink and a knowing smile. “You two will have to catch up.” He nudged his horse into a trot. “If you can,” he called back.

Katherine gripped the pommel and lifted herself up into the saddle sideways without any assistance, then held out a hand for the reins. George obliged with a smile. She guided Angel out of the cobblestone area and onto the ground, kicking her into a light trot. George overtook her quickly once he’d mounted his stallion.

“Let’s stretch our legs, shall we?” His black was pulling on the reins. George whistled, and the snorting beast took off like a shot.

Katherine tapped Angel lightly on the haunch with her crop. “Let’s go, girl.”

And she was off, chasing the black streak ahead with surprising speed. She might be a sleepy mare in the stall, but Angel was wild on the open field. George’s mount leaped a fallen log. Angel did the same with ease. He steered them toward the left side of the woodlands up ahead and slowed his horse to a trot. There were actually three trails dividing off into the woods, one of which had been stamped muddy by recent riders.

“Which path would you like to take, Lady Katherine?” George called back.

She slowed Angel to a walk as they approached. One was airy and bright; the second was obviously occupied by the riders before them; the third was darker with dense woodland, certainly the most secluded of the three. Without a second’s thought, she nudged Angel down the third, picking up the pace when they entered the shade. She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know George was in quick pursuit. The chase, the speed, the wind—all three sent her blood racing and her spirit soaring. She’d not felt such freedom and the euphoria that accompanied it in ages.

Angel leaped a small creek, kicking up rocks behind her and galloping on until they wound out of the shade into a clearing, where a small stone cottage stood next to a ramshackle barn. No smoke unfurled from the chimney. Gray clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the sun that had shone so brightly in the gardens. Katherine slowed to a walk, then stopped and patted Angel, both of them breathing hard from the run.

“Who lives here?” she asked as George sidled up beside her.

“No one now. It was the home of the old caretaker,” said George in a grave tone.

“Where is he now?”

“In the ground, I’m afraid. Passed on right before the old earl.”

Katherine walked Angel toward the barn.

“Katherine, come this way.”

“But look, there’s a beautiful pond over there.”

“Yes, that’s the end of my property. We’d best go this way.” He turned toward another trail leading back into the woods, but Katherine tapped Angel with the crop, and off she shot toward the pond.

“Katherine!”

She ran on, speeding blindly toward the tranquil water, a respite like an oasis in the middle of the woods. Down a sloping hill beyond the pond stood a small farmstead, a quaint pastoral picture of country life.

George caught up and stopped with an urgent jerk of his reins. “Katherine. We must go back. Now.”

She heard the near panic rising in his voice. “Why? What is it?”

His fiery gaze flicked from one side of the pond to the other as if waiting for something to happen. Billowing clouds thickened overhead.

He hemmed his stallion in close and grabbed the reins just under Angel’s bit. “George! What are you doing? You’re frightening her.”

“No time, Katherine. We must go now.”

A sound like lightning striking nearby, three sharp cracks, and there appeared three men on the edge of the pond out of thin air—well-dressed gentlemen with swords drawn and menacing postures, the tallest of them smiling.

“What in heavens—”

“Too late,” said George.

She glanced over to find him no longer in his saddle but at her side, pulling her down off Angel and cradling her in his arms with a tight grip.

“Sorry, my lady. I’d wanted to explain first, but I have no choice.”

A coiling sensation sucked the air from Katherine’s lungs, then all was dark. She thought she’d been hit over the head and fallen unconscious, except she could see George clearly. Only the backdrop was black with gray swirling shapes and—then she was awake again in George’s arms next to the old barn. He set her down under the open overhang. Disoriented, she tried to regain her balance.

“Stay here, Katherine. Do I have your word you will not move no matter what you see?”

She nodded numbly, her body tingling with an unknown energy she’d never felt before. Had she fainted, then awakened again?

George marched back toward the pond, easily within sight, directly toward the threat that had appeared moments before. Appeared? Was she seeing things? The three gentlemen stopped suddenly as if there was a line drawn that they could not cross. George approached them as if he dealt with irate men armed with swords, three at a time, every day of his life. Then there was a sword in George’s hand. A long, wide, heavy one. What was going on? Had she stumbled into a nightmare?

George stopped a few feet from them. Only his tight fist on the hilt of his broadsword warned her he was readying for a fight.

The taller of the men, his long brown hair held back in a queue, angled his head so that he could catch a glimpse of Katherine watching from the overhang. Dense clouds rolled swiftly overhead.

“Pretty one, Slayer.” He swung his lighter sword—narrow and long—then pointed the tip toward George. “Too bad you won’t keep her.”

Slayer? He addressed George as if he knew him.

George laughed. Actually laughed. “Poor Lorken. Still doing the dirty work for Damas? Still his favorite pet?”

Apparently, he did know him. The names were so foreign, but wait… Damas? That was the name Daniel mentioned.

The Lorken fellow grinned, but there was no mirth in it. “I am no man’s pet.”

“You won’t be anything for long.” Katherine recognized the dark edge in George’s voice. She’d heard it the night he knocked Clyde unconscious.

George lunged forward, crossing whatever invisible line had kept them apart. He ducked Lorken’s swing through the air, then sliced the man to his right at the knees. The man opened his mouth to scream, but George severed his head while mumbling a chant of some kind. The head and body crumpled into a heap.

Katherine screamed, but no one paid her any mind. George had just murdered a man. The man’s mutilated body suddenly crisped to black char without any flame or fire. A stormy wind swept in, blowing the ashy remains into the air while George battled the other two, having never taken a second look.

She could do nothing but watch in complete shock as George caught the one called Lorken on the thigh. A red gash bled through Lorken’s trousers. The clang of George’s mighty sword against their less substantial ones dominated until a flash of lightning cracked and splintered overhead. Still no rain, only the tumultuous blustering of an angry storm. Lorken swiveled and moved so quickly behind George, Katherine thought he had disappeared. Anxiety had apparently rattled her nerves until she was seeing illusions. With a deft swing, he sliced George on the bicep.

Katherine cried out again. “George!” But he did not answer, remaining focused. As Lorken leaned to one side, George cuffed him with his left hand across the jaw, just as the other attacker came for him.

“Flamma intus!” George bellowed, the air sparking around him as he stabbed the man straight through flesh and bone. The assailant exploded into black powder and dust, a fierce gale sweeping his existence into nothing within seconds.

George swung around to face Lorken. “Shall we end it once and for all? I’m sure your friends are waiting for you on the other side.”

Lorken lowered his sword, chest heaving, glanced at Katherine, then vanished in a whoosh of wind, leaving nothing more than a plume of smoke. George backed away toward the barn, apparently preparing for a sudden return. But Lorken did not reappear.

Unable to catch her breath, Katherine wondered how soon she would wake up from this unfathomable nightmare. Men appearing and vanishing, George murdering, bodies bursting into dust and ash. It wasn’t possible. Finally giving in, she let her shaky limbs take her to the ground.

George was at her side, gripping her shoulders to keep her from falling over. His sword was gone.

“I—I don’t understand. How is this possible?”

“You are not going mad, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That is precisely what I was thinking. You…you killed those men,” she whispered.

“They were not men,” he growled.

The sky opened, pounding the earth with fat drops of rain. Wind blew the falling rain at a slant, drenching both of them.

George scooped her into his arms and strode to the caretaker’s cabin, kicking open the door with one swift thrust of his heel. Katherine didn’t protest the theatrics with wit and charm as she normally would in any other situation. Her humor and lightheartedness had vanished with her reason, apparently. He set her on a wicker rocker by the fireplace and began fumbling with a dusty old stack of kindling and wood left far too long in its corner by the door. Within minutes, he had a crackling fire popping. Katherine wrapped her arms around herself, shivering from the cold, but even more from the frightening display she had just witnessed.

“You must get warm.”

Squatting in front of her, George hurriedly tugged off her leather gloves, resistant now that they were wet. He unbuttoned her riding jacket, which was soaked through. She watched his progress, unfastening the buttons from the neck down, his own hands shaking. His focus wavered when he pulled the sleeves from her bare shoulders, the undergarment revealing a generous portion of creamy skin. The little jacket was indeed a necessary part of the wardrobe, should a lady want to step into public. It wasn’t merely decorative. But they weren’t in public. They were in a secluded cabin in the woods in a storm. Alone.

“Are you cold?” she asked.

He shook his head. Grabbing a stool, he placed it on the hearth, then draped her jacket and wet gloves so that the heat would dry them, while Katherine unpinned her hat, the ostrich plume sagging. She unpinned her long braid, which Maggie had twisted neatly on top of her head, wanting to let it dry before reassembling herself. Her hands trembled as she set each pin on the stool. George’s gaze followed her hands.

“Who were they? What were they? They weren’t—” She couldn’t admit what her mind was telling her.

“Human? No. They weren’t.”

“How could they not be human? Are you telling me you fought ghosts? Because only ghosts can appear and disappear at will, from what I know of fairy tales and childhood stories.”

“No, Katherine. Ghosts aren’t the only creatures who can vanish at will.”

She draped her braid over one shoulder, then noticed him unbuckling a belt that held the long scabbard where his broadsword was now sheathed.

Mouth agape, she shook her head. “How did I not see you were wearing such a beast of a weapon before? And why are you wearing it in the first place? It looks like something from the medieval era.”

“It’s older than that,” he mumbled, leaning the scabbard against the stone fireplace and pulling another stool close to her rocker. He took her hands in his. She did not resist, feeling numb and befuddled. “Do you trust me?”

He had asked her this before. The answer was clear and true. “Yes,” she whispered.

“What I am about to tell you may seem unbelievable. But remember what you saw here today.” She nodded, knowing what she witnessed was supernatural. “Those men were not men at all. They were demons of the underworld. High demons, to be exact. They were sent here to hurt you, possibly abduct you, a common practice among demons, I’m afraid.”

“Demons?” She shook her head again, her heart hammering so fast, she could feel her pulse fluttering in her neck. “Like Heaven and Hell demons.”

He gave a stiff nod.

Following through with her belief that George would not lie to her, she moved on to the next question. “Why would they want to hurt me?”

He pulled one of her hands in both of his, rubbing his thumb over her palm. “To hurt me.”

She let that idea sink in as he kept his gaze on her hand, avoiding eye contact. His feelings would have to run deep for her if this were true.

“Demons can parade around with the living? Since when?”

“Since always. High demons, like those three we encountered, can mask their form to appear normal, even sophisticated.”

“What do you mean by ‘high demons’? You’ve used that term twice now.” Katherine’s nerves eased the longer George’s hands worked on her own, calming her with his gentle touch and steady voice.

“There are two kinds. High demons are what you might call is the upper class of the underworld. They are the original Fallen.”

She half laughed. “By Fallen, I presume you mean the angels who fell from grace, the stories my governess would tell in the nursery.”

His shrugged a shoulder. Keeping her hand in his, he leaned forward on his elbows when he peered up through auburn lashes. “Perhaps your father should’ve kept your governess, after all. Those tales were true. As hard as it is to fathom. The Fallen were cast down into a netherworld. Their original forms—beautiful and graceful—were warped by their own corruption. Eventually, they crept into the human world, using dark powers to disguise themselves as they once were.”

Katherine stared at him, waiting to see if this were some trick. In her heart, she knew that it wasn’t.

“What is the second kind?”

“Lower demons. They are foul creatures who live in the underworld. With a high demon lord as their master, they can come into our world, take possession of a human host and use their form to mingle with the human population.”

“You’re being serious, aren’t you?”

He lifted his gaze to hers again, the firelight shining golden bright on one side of his profile while shadowing the other. “Quite serious.”

“And you killed them.”

“No. I expelled them.”

“Expelled? Back to…?”

“Hell? Yes. Except for Lorken. He’s a slippery one. Always manages to escape, that one.”

“How do you know about the world of demons, George? How did you move as they did? I thought I had fainted by the pond and awakened beside the barn, but I didn’t, did I?” Had she imagined being transported from the horses to the barn in a long blink?

“No, you didn’t faint. It’s called sifting. A power of the angels, to move from place to place at will.”

“But they weren’t angels.”

“They were once.”

Fallen angels. Could this be possible? What did that make the man standing before her?

He inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Perhaps I should define the two realms for you.”

“That would be lovely.”

His mouth quirked at her sarcasm, though he chose not to comment. “There is the Flamma of Light and the Flamma of Dark.”

“Flamma?”

“Fire, in Latin, which is the common tongue between the heavenly and demonic hosts.”

She pulled her hand from his and stood, staring into the flames. “Why fire?”

He joined her and removed his wet coat. “I asked the same question once.” He winced as he peeled the coat off his right arm. A pool of red had soaked through his undershirt.

“Oh God, your arm, George. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

Just as he had unbuttoned her jacket, she swiftly unfastened his waistcoat, then his shirt and peeled them off him. Steering her gaze away from his finely sculpted chest and broad shoulders, she examined the cut more closely. She bent over and, with a quick rip, tore a long strip from her shift.

“You needn’t do that, Katherine.”

“Be still and let me mend you as best I can.”

He held his arm straight so that she could wrap the fabric around his arm.

“Why fire?” she asked again, busying herself with the makeshift bandage.

“Flamma are all touched by fire, an otherworldly power given to each of us.”

She remembered the way he moved, the way the demons moved, with supernatural speed and agility. A drop of rain dripped from his tousled hair, landing on his shoulder before rolling forward. She followed its path as it slid down and over his pectoral. Trying to regain her composure, she inhaled a deep breath, which was a mistake. She breathed in the heady scent of rain and beautiful man, her agitation amplified by his proximity and the undeniable power surging through his body. She longed to touch him, to know what all that strength would feel like under her fingertips, but she was paralyzed by her own desire and wavered on a dangerous precipice. When she’d cinched the bandage into a neat knot and finally chanced a glance at him, his smile nearly buckled her knees.

“There,” she whispered. “That will stop the bleeding.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

His shoulders went rigid as if he were holding himself in tight control. Katherine knew his thoughts had wandered away from the wound in his arm. She asked again, “What do you mean, George?”

His eyes slid closed. “I love to hear my name on your lips.” He opened his eyes again, his jaw set in grave lines. “What I mean, my lady, is that I am bleeding inwardly, and I know of only one way to stop it.”

Katherine was well aware of the tension filling the room, of the rise of her heart rate, of the longing in his gaze, which surely matched her own. She realized she was tumbling over that cliff. And she didn’t care, quite content to drown in his aquamarine gaze.

“How can I stop it, George? Tell me.”

“I’d rather show you.”

Chapter Fourteen

George’s will had been an iron fist clenching the reins that held back his passion for Katherine. But once he’d carried her into this cabin, removed her jacket and touched her sweet, soft skin while firelight bathed her in heartbreaking beauty, he knew he was lost. A man adrift, floundering in an ocean of longing and need—treading perilous waters and sinking fast. There she sat, listening to his insane confession of demons living among them, with perfect poise and calm and control, asking him to tell her how to stop his internal bleeding. Like a balm from heaven, she offered what succor she could give.

Did she really want to go that far? She knew as well as he did his deep heart-wound was put there by her. That night he swept her onto the dance floor at the Weathersby ball, she was his, no matter that law decreed her married to another. But that wasn’t what had slit him in two. It was her presence in the world and him without the right to claim her. Only one thing could mend the gash inside him. Her. All of her.

She dropped her gaze to his chest for the second time. She was weakening. A stronger man would have insisted they dress—wet clothes or not—and find a more public place to continue this discussion. George was strong. A warrior forged in the fires of desert crusades and barbarian battles decades long. He was the slayer of dragons and destroyer of demon spawn that the human world had never seen nor knew existed. Creatures that would make a lesser man crumble and cower in fear. George might appear the gentlemen, but he was a battle-hardened guardian, bearing many scars from wars past.

She found one. Her fingers rose to the puckered line crossing from his bicep to his pectoral. He shivered under her exploring hand as she traced the scar. He’d nearly lost his arm that day.

“What happened to you?”

He did not answer. He had no words. The sensation of her light touch feathering over his skin to another scar on his abdomen overwhelmed him. Damas had given him that one five centuries ago on a mountainside in Romania. George had found a demon den preying on peasant girls. Damas had not been the high lord in charge, but he was there all the same. Enough reason for George to engage and try once more, unsuccessfully, to banish the master of deceit back to Hell. Another failure where Damas was concerned. By then, the prince had found it a pleasant game to torment George whenever he could.

Katherine’s hand glided upward, not toward a scar but to cup George’s jaw, as a lover would. If only they were. Then the pain—acute and severe—would lessen.

“Why do you look so sad?” she asked.

He wanted to laugh. How could she not know? She was killing him. And he would not be coy or flippant any longer.

He wrapped her nape with one hand and gripped her waist with the other, locking her close against him. “Because I want you, Katherine. In every possible way a man wants a woman, I want you. In my arms, in my bed, in my heart, in my soul. I want to fill you until there is no room left for any other, until your first waking thought is of me, until you whisper my name in your dreams.”

Pink flushed up her neck and cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession. He did not stop his declaration. Too late for that now. He eased closer, their lips inches apart, giving her a chance to pull away if she dared.

“I want to see your golden hair spilled across my pillow every morning. I want to hear you laugh late into the night after we’ve gone to bed and the world is asleep. I want to watch you shudder with pleasure when I’m inside you. Over and over again.” His timbre ground low. “I want all of you, Katherine.”

She gasped. He might have gone too far, but she did not pull from his grip. Rather, she welcomed him when he descended and hovered over her parted lips. She pressed forward first, sliding her tongue into his mouth.

Ecstasy. Pure and raw.

He walked her back into the wall and crushed his body against hers, relishing the sensation of her softness yielding to him. He wanted to be gentle, but fire burned within, and there was no way to hold it back. She moaned into his mouth, and his body grew harder still. He trailed his mouth up her jaw and down her neck, sliding his hand to cup her breast. She moaned louder. He groaned as he scaled his lips over her collarbone, farther down, grazing his lips and tongue over the swell of her breasts.

“George.”

Her hands tangled in his hair, clenching. She arched her back to give him a better angle. “George,” she said again, panting. “We can’t…”

He moved back to her mouth and stole her breath, stopping her words. She was exquisite in every way, and he couldn’t taste her enough.

A zing of Flamma energy snapped him to attention. He jerked away from her toward the door, readying to lunge for his sword. But he knew who it was, the signature of iron and flame a distinct combination. Every Flamma bore their own sensory mark.

“What is it?” asked Katherine, out of breath, while he stalked to the door.

“It’s all right. Only Jude.”

When he opened the door, Jude was leaning against the frame with a devilish grin. George blocked his view, though Jude could see Katherine well enough on the other side, disheveled and grabbing her riding jacket and gloves.

“I worried when I saw the electrical storm, but I see there was no need.” He noted George’s shirtless state.

“Where’s Parsons?”

“Back in bed, I imagine. The poor sot has no stomach for drinking. And he said he was part Scot last night. A lie, no doubt.”

“Has anyone marked our absence?”

“No. But they will soon.” Jude glanced toward the pond. “Did we have a breach?”

“Not exactly. They didn’t cross the ward, but their target had crossed it for them.”

Jude angled his head to get a glimpse of said target. “And how is she taking all this in? Quite cheerily, I imagine.”

George combed a hand through his tousled hair. “Wait outside. I need you to take my horse and return to the mansion with Katherine. I’ll need to sift. My shirt is soiled and my coat torn.”

Better to avoid everyone in his current state since there were few explanations that would suffice.

Jude nodded at his wrapped arm. “Are you badly hurt?”

“I’m fine. Just be sure to get her back safely.”

“Aye, Captain.” Jude winked and shoved off the door frame in the direction of the horses still by the pond.

George closed the door to find Katherine completely dressed. She had set her hair in a braided twist, very similar to her original style, and had pinned her hat back into place, covering any difference. The ostrich plume sagged sadly.

“We must go,” he said while strapping his sword back into place.

“No. I need more answers. I still don’t understand everything and—”

“I don’t want to compromise your reputation, Katherine. We need to head back and separate for a while. Until it is safe.”

“But I—”

He stepped toward her. She stepped back. An instinctual move.

He clenched his jaw. “Are you afraid of me now? After what just happened?”

“I am not afraid.”

He laughed. “Perhaps you should be.” The depth of his feeling for this woman was a volatile thing. A certain cause for fear. “Personally”—he finished buckling his belt and grabbed his coat—“I’m terrified.”

“Why? Do you think that man…that Lorken will return?”

George draped his shirt and coat over his arm. No use trying to wrestle into it.

“I am not afraid of Lorken. That demon filth will smile his last soon enough.”

Katherine held herself like a queen—upright, strong, ready for any challenge. George moved slowly toward her, but did not reach out and touch her as he longed to do. This time, she did not flinch away. The energy between them had not changed, only shifted into something breakable.

“I will withhold nothing from you. I promise. But for now, we must part. You will return on horseback with Jude.”

“Mr. Delacroix? How will you get home?”

“I can travel as the demons can.”

Her pretty brow knitted together. “You are not—”

“One of them? No.”

“I was going to say…an angel. You said that sifting was a power of the angels.”

George couldn’t restrain the smile spreading across his face. “I’m afraid I am no angel either.” He lifted his hand and tenderly cupped her cheek. She let him. He breathed easier. “This is a longer conversation, my lady. It must wait.”

He took one last, lingering look, then stalked outside, leaving the door open. Jude held the reins of both horses.

“Guard her well, just in case there was a breach. We’ll have to do a perimeter check tonight.”

“Trouble is certainly brewing,” said Jude. “But I believe you have more to worry about than demons at the moment.”

“Interestingly enough, I don’t give a damn what your opinion is on the matter.”

He sifted away with Jude’s echoing laughter following him.

Chapter Fifteen

George ignored Katherine at dinner for the second time, seated at the head once again with Lady Mable and Penelope. Lady Mable tried to engage with Mr. Langley on her other side, but he was not much of a conversationalist as he continued to stare down the table at Jane in happy conversation with Jude. The poor man was sadly besotted. Jane would admit nothing before dinner, still pretending they were old friends. Nothing more.

Katherine was forced to endure the nonsensical blathering of Mr. Parsons, who claimed to be an expert rider and regaled them with his numerous achievements during his days at Oxford. When the main course of roast venison was served, Lady Helene, seated on her right, was finally able to cut in. Katherine visibly sighed with relief.

“I’m so happy that you came to the party,” said Katherine, moving her carrots around her plate, but not eating.

“Yes, I am as well. Lord Weathersby is on the mend from a little cold. Nothing to worry about. I say, are you feeling ill yourself, my dear?”

“No. Not at all,” she lied, her nerves on edge ever since this afternoon.

Lady Helene eyed her plate. Katherine took a sip of water. “Perhaps I overexerted myself on my ride today, though I enjoyed it very much.” Not a lie. She did indeed enjoy her ride, before three men—no, three demons—attacked her and George.

“Yes. I remember you were once quite the horsewoman, weren’t you? When your father was alive.”

That was one thing Katherine adored about Lady Helene. She never tiptoed around subjects like her deceased father. Most society people avoided any and all discussion that might turn the conversation uncomfortable. Not Lady Helene. She spoke her mind and never apologized for it.

“I certainly was. Father loved his horses. As did I.” Katherine smiled, cherishing the sweet memories.

“He was good to you. I believed him an excellent father, no matter that the gossipmongers said he spoiled you and needed a wife to raise you properly.”

“Did they?”

“All the time, my dear. The single women of our circles only wanted to land him as their own. To criticize his skills as a father was the best they could do when he had spurned them.”

Katherine covered her laugh with her napkin. “I didn’t realize he was considered the catch of the ton.”

“At one time, he certainly was. Then you became the catch. And I was surprised that it was Clyde Blakely who fished you up.”

Katherine’s stomach twisted into a knot. She was poised with a fork of venison halfway to her mouth. She placed it back on her plate, knowing she’d never get it down her throat now.

“Surprised? How so?”

“He was handsome and charming, to be sure. But there was an element missing in him that I thought didn’t quite match what I thought would suit you best.”

Katherine drank another sip of water. “Are you going to tell me this missing element, or are you going to keep me in suspense?”

Lady Helene smiled, the wrinkles crinkling around her eyes with merriment. “I admire your spirit, girl. Reminds me of me at your age.”

Katherine thought she actually was going to keep her in suspense when she returned to her venison. She dabbed her lips with her napkin, then said, “Respect. That is what he lacked. And still does, if you ask me.”

Respect? Clyde was a nobleman and a dignified member of society. That was a strange reply.

“Let me clarify,” she said, dropping her voice and leaning closer. “Respect for the fairer sex. He is the kind of man who admires women for their feminine assets, but does not value their intellectual ones.”

Katherine cut into her meat, still pretending to eat. “I wish we had been good friends two years ago.” For it was after her father passed that Lady Helene reached out to the lonely new bride tossed into the swirling sea of London society. Clyde dragged her to every event that he could, so that others might covet what he now possessed.

“I wish that too, my dear.”

When dinner was over, George stood at his end of the table and tapped his spoon on his glass for attention.

“First, I’d like to formally welcome Lady Helene to our party.”

“Hear, hear,” said Parsons.

“I am happy to be here,” she said.

George was wise. When word got around that Helene Weathersby had attended his house party, he would be immediately thrust into all circles of high London society. Though Katherine wasn’t sure that he cared for such things. Still, it lent him an air of credibility for his dealings. Anxiety still riddled her frame since she didn’t know what those dealings were.

“Tonight, I thought we might dispense with regular civilities”—meaning the after-dinner separation of the ladies and gentlemen—“and play a game instead.”

“Oh! I love games,” squealed Penelope.

“What kind of game?” asked her mother. “Whist? Picquet?”

“No. Not cards,” said George, shaking his head with a mischievous smile. “My friend Mr. Delacroix knows one or two more intriguing games he brought back from France.”

“Nothing improper, I hope,” said Lady Mable. “You know how the French are.” She lifted her nose in the air. “No offense, Mr. Delacroix.”

“None taken,” he said. Katherine marked his countenance growing darker, though his amiable smile remained in place.

“I adore all games, Lord Thornton,” cooed Penelope from the other side of Mr. Langley. “Where shall we play?”

“In the garden.”

“In the garden? In the dark!” Lady Mable appeared about to faint.

“Come along, Mother. It will be fun.”

“I have had extra torches added for our adventure,” said George. “Unless you all aren’t feeling quite so adventurous?”

“I certainly am,” said Jane with a grin.

“I’m in,” said Mr. Langley right after.

“Well, I’ll leave the outdoor adventure to the younger ones,” said Lady Helene.

“I’m with you,” said Lady Mable.

“I’ll have Mrs. Baxter attend you in the parlor with tea and cakes,” said George.

“That would be lovely,” said Lady Mable, rising.

“I believe I’ll join you ladies,” said Mrs. Langley. “This appears to be a game for the youth.”

So the rest of the party followed George down the long corridor to the back veranda overlooking the garden. The moon was high already, casting a silver sheen on the hedgerows. A line of lit torches extended into the maze.

“So how do we play, Mr. Delacroix?” asked Jane.

Jude stepped forward. “We called it Battre le Minotaure.”

“Beat the Minotaur?” asked Katherine.

“Yes, Lady Katherine.” He gave her a nod. “It is simply a version of hide-and-go-seek we would play at parties where there happened to be a hedge maze. Like this one.” He waved to the torchlit maze. “Everyone gathers at the center, except the minotaur. The minotaur gives a signal when the game has officially begun. Then you find your way out before he gets you.”

“Oh, what fun,” said Jane, smiling gleefully.

Penelope sidled closer to George. “Please stay close to me, Lord Thornton, for I am afraid of minotaurs.”

Katherine refrained from laughing. “You do realize minotaurs don’t actually exist.”

Jane piped up before Penelope could serve her a smart remark in reply. “Who is our minotaur?”

Jude gave a small bow. “I am, of course.” His playful grin and dark countenance cloaked him in a fiend-like aura. He would play the beast quite well.

“All right, everyone,” said George. “Follow me to the center of the maze.”

Penelope and Marjorie flanked George, smothering him with girlish giggles. Mr. Parsons tried to distract them with a story of when he saw the matadors in Spain.

Katherine and Jane walked on either side of Mr. Langley.

“Mr. Langley, did you play this game when you were abroad in Italy?” asked Katherine.

“Afraid not. I’ve never heard of it. But it promises to be entertaining.”

Penelope burst into another fit of laughter.

“Very,” said Jane. “I hope he frightens them half to death.”

“Now that’s unkind,” said Katherine.

“No,” interjected Mr. Langley. “What’s unkind is our being tortured with high-pitched squeals for the next few days.”

Katherine was liking Henry Langley more and more by the moment. They had just reached the center when a monstrous roar bellowed into the night. Marjorie squeaked like a frightened mouse.

“What was that?” asked Penelope with an expression of exaggerated fear, squeezing closer to George.

“That was only our fearsome minotaur,” said George. “Now we need to venture out. We must split up, or he’ll catch us all together.”

George glanced over at Katherine, but it was no use. Penelope had sealed herself to his side. Katherine shrugged and followed Jane and Mr. Langley. Another roar bellowed into the night, but closer and from the direction they were headed. Squeals and giggles erupted right after.

“This way,” said Mr. Langley, leading them down another path away from the noise.

They rounded a corner with a familiar trellis arching above the hedge. A trickling fountain gurgled nearby. Another roar farther off. This time Mr. Parsons’ frightened yell joined the giddy girls. Katherine trailed behind, noting that Mr. Langley took Jane’s hand. She let him as he guided her around the next bend. Better she let these two wander off alone.

Backtracking a few steps, Katherine followed the winding path till she was outside the maze, but in the back of the garden, standing on the pebbled rock of the outer path. Curiously, there was a semicircle of bright torches lit around the fountain and underneath the tunnel of vines leading to the gazebo. She paused, wondering whether all of this was within the wards of protection George had spoken of. Then she wondered for the hundredth time whether she was mad for believing such outrageous tales.

Someone grabbed her from behind and pressed close to her ear. “It’s me. Don’t scream.”

Letting out the breath that was lodged in her throat, she spun and whacked George on the arm. “Stop sneaking up on me like that.”

He smiled wickedly. “We don’t have much time. Come with me.”

Taking her hand, he led her through the trellis tunnel and up the gazebo steps. There was no torchlight beyond the path, so they stood in the dark, with only the moon above them.

“How did you possibly get away from your admirers?”

“It wasn’t easy. Jude will steer them clear for a while. But we don’t have much time.” He pulled her toward a bench. “Please sit.”

She did. He paced a few steps.

“I know that you are confused and possibly still in disbelief.”

“You’d be surprised how much that isn’t true.” She set her hands in her lap, calmly assessing his nervous movements. He appeared afraid. “I accept what you have told me as truth. But there is so much more I don’t understand. What is your part in all this? And Mr. Delacroix?”

A great roar and screams from within the maze paused their conversation. George stood in front of her, apparently unable to take a seat.

“Please listen to me. All that I must confess will sound more unbelievable than what you heard earlier today.”

Katherine swallowed hard, not entirely happy with the sound of that.

“I was once a soldier, fighting for my king in a distant land. Judaea. We had fought a battle against both men and what I discovered later to be an army of demons.”

He inhaled a deep breath then launched into his story.

“After the battle and our victory, the soldiers I’d fought alongside for years seemed to be taken over by violence, a bloodlust that drove them into the village filled with only helpless women and children. It was the essence of demons filling their souls and driving them to madness, murdering and violating the innocent. I stepped forward to protect a mother with three small children huddled in a hut. Before I knew it, I was standing against my own legati, my lieutenant. He ordered me to step aside so that the massacre could continue. I refused.

“This was not done, you must understand. His order was as good as one from the king himself. But I”—he shook his head as if to wipe the horrific memory away—“I couldn’t submit. Rather than simply kill me, my legati said my fate was in their hands. He ordered the soldiers to round the rest of the villagers together. While still held by my own brothers of war, he told me my life depended upon their immediate conversion. He demanded that the villagers recant their God and pledge allegiance to their new god of Rome, to Caesar. Of course, the Judaeans would not. Those helpless innocents with swords at their throats did not waver under the threat of death. Remarkably, I saw hope shining in their eyes, not despair or fear. At that moment, I joined them in their belief and told my legati, I’d rather stand with their God and die with them than live under the yoke of evil and tyranny.

“I tried to remain strong as I was forced to watch the soldiers cut the throats of mothers, daughters, sisters and sons. When it finally came to me, the legati used my own gladius to stab me through the heart.”

By now, Katherine was frozen, wringing her hands together to keep them from shaking as she listened to his fearful tale.

“Observing all this was an angel named Uriel. An archangel. As I lay there bleeding on the ground, he knelt over me, raised my head and asked if I would serve him in all the years to come. I was close to death. I remember his voice sounding far away, like an echo. I actually believed I was in heaven.”

He laughed, a hollow sound, then sat next to Katherine, keeping his hands clasped between his knees.

“Uriel glowed with a fierce power. I could feel it humming against my skin, even as I slipped further away. He asked me once more if I would serve him on earth, fighting other demon hordes, if I were spared from death, to right this wrong done to me and to the innocents of the world. I thought he meant metaphorical demon hordes, of course. I said yes. So I died to my mortal life and was given another.”

Katherine shook her head and opened her mouth to ask a question.

“Hear me out. I want to tell it all right here, right now. When Uriel made me, I became the commander of what would be a league of demon hunters across the human world. The damned were out of control, ruling and corrupting without boundaries. Uriel taught me how to cast them back into Hell, then Jude joined our ranks, but not in the same way. He was the first Dominus Daemonum.”

Katherine translated the Latin. “A master of demons?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you mean, not in the same way?”

George stared down at his locked fingers. “His story is not mine to tell. But hunters are different. They are made when they have received a fatal wound, like I did, but have gotten it when committing a mortal sin. If Uriel deems them worthy of the choice, they are given a second chance to join our ranks. If they choose Light, Uriel makes them a Dominus Daemonum with the same powers as other Flamma, though there is a penance for their sins.”

“What powers?” asked Katherine, her breathing shallow as she listened with rapt attention.

“To cast illusion and build wards, to expel demons, to sift, to remain…ageless.”

At this point, Katherine’s mind was reeling. She started to speak, but he held up his hand, asking for patience.

“You did not see the sword I was carrying today because I used a cast to trick your mind that it wasn’t there. All Flamma have the ability to cast, to disguise weapons or even hide themselves among the population. It is necessary when tracking enemies as crafty as those we hunt. You know about sifting, a gift of the angels. And once a human dies to their mortal life, they become ageless. Not immortal entirely, but free of a natural death from aging and disease.”

George did not waver from her gaze.

“You are ageless?” she asked, hesitantly.

He nodded.

“When…when did you die? To your mortal life?”

“Three hundred and three anno Domini.”

Katherine did not speak, did not move. Neither did George. The laughter of those in the maze still playing their game drifted over them, mocking the world-shaking revelations taking place in the stillness of the gazebo.

Finally finding her voice, she demanded every last detail. “This king you served?”

“An emperor, to be more precise. Diocletian. I was a legionary in the Roman army. Uprisings in Judaea had brought us there to quell the chaos.”

Katherine stood and peered out at the vast park stretching away in moonlit serenity. She inhaled a deep breath, processing the unfathomable story she’d just been told.

“Can this possibly be true?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

“I was thirty-three years old when I died, when Uriel remade me as I am.”

“You are fifteen hundred years old.”

“Yes,” came the soft reply.

A heartrending realization suddenly came to her. “Were you ever married?”

“Once.”

“Did you love her?”

“I loved the idea of marriage, of family, of a home. Our parents arranged the union. I did my duty by her, earned money to make a home for us. I was happy. So was she. I gave her a child, a son.”

Katherine could no longer even breathe. She turned to him, unable to restrain the emotions rattling through her frame, spilling into pools in her eyes.

“You had a son?” Her voice cracked.

He stood slowly and moved close to her, wiping the tear that slipped down her cheek with his thumb. She didn’t flinch away but remained passive and frozen.

“I had a son. Then I went away to war when my emperor called. I was gone for nearly a decade, and I died on a foreign field, drenched in demons’ and soldiers’ blood. I died to the simple life I once had and took up a new one. Uriel told me I could never return. A curse of being ageless, besides the fact that I would only bring danger to them in my new life.”

Katherine sobbed for the loss he must’ve felt, for what he must still feel. He had had a wife and son who loved him, cherished him, and he had lost it all.

“So you never saw them again?”

His mouth quirked up on one side. “Yes, I saw them again. From afar. I saw my wife grow old, caring for our child. I left a pouch of denarii for her as often as I could, to keep them from falling into poverty. I saw my son marry and have a family of his own. Then I watched as my grandson had a family of his own.” George sighed with a sad smile. “I’ve watched them all as long as I could.”

“And you still do?”

“I have one living relative left.”

“Only one? You should have many.”

“My line has not been very fortunate. A great deal of it has to do with the fact that if my enemies, any of the demon princes or their minions, discover me favoring a human, that human will be singled out for corruption and destruction.”

“And where is your last descendant now?”

“Here in London. You’ve met him. Alexander Godfrey.”

“But he comes from a long line of Godfreys. They’d be your descendants too.”

George shook his head. “Alexander is the bastard son of the woman he calls aunt. She fell in love with one of my line while in France, then the last living kin I had. He disappeared and was found drowned in the Seine a month before she gave birth. Then she died from excessive bleeding in delivery of the child. Her brother, the senior Alexander Godfrey, took pity and raised him as his own, since his wife was barren.”

“Dear God. I am so sorry, George.” She reached out and took his hand.

He stared down at their clasped fingers, hers encased in a white glove.

“I’m afraid there is nothing but tragedy in my history. But I’ll be damned if I allow Damas to take my last living kin into a world of debauchery.” He clutched her hand tightly.

“Who is Damas?”

“You know him as Lord Radcliff.”

“The viscount.”

George laughed. “He is no viscount. He is a prince of the underworld. And he is determined to torment me by dragging Alexander down as low as he can before he destroys him completely.”

Katherine frowned, never having seen any sign of wickedness where Lord Radcliff was concerned. She would more believe her husband a demon than—

“My husband, Lord Blakely. Is he one of these…high demons?”

He shook his head. “No, but he keeps their company. I am afraid for you as long as you are with him.”

She scoffed. “I fear there is no way of avoiding that.”

“Yes,” he said, his tone low and grave as he squeezed her hand more tightly. “There is a very simple way.”

“What do you mean?”

He tugged her a little closer, invading her space with his alluring presence.

“I want you to leave him. I want you to come and live with me. If you can’t get an annulment, then so be it. I care little for the laws of men. I know only that I want you as my partner in life. The rest of them can burn in Hell, as far as I’m concerned.”

George’s jaw clenched tight, square and hard in the shadows, his brow furrowed. He was serious. She needn’t ask him if he was.

Rather than entertain his rebellious plan, which had her thoughts spinning wildly, she focused on the part that didn’t matter to her at all.

“You would spurn society?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Then why hold this house party if you don’t care about them all?”

“For you. To find a way to get you here. Because I am a bloody fool, I may have endangered you by singling you out at the Weathersby ball. Damas took note that I drew you away for that waltz. He wants anything that is important to me. And right now, you are the most important thing to me in this whole goddamned world. I held this house party specifically to get you safely under my roof and away from that blackguard of a husband. I am not ashamed of it either.”

A singsong voice crooned from the hedgerow nearby. “George? Where are you?” It was Penelope, who had broken from the party.

Both of them glanced in the direction of her voice. George grabbed Katherine and pulled her close against his chest, his hand splayed tightly against her back as he whispered, “Hold on.”

A sucking sensation pulled her stomach into a knot, then all was black with blurring shapes around George’s head. She felt as if she were falling before they righted on solid ground again, standing by a bench in the hedgerow maze.

“Go that way and turn left. It will take you directly to the back veranda,” he whispered. “And Katherine”—he perused her face with an intensity that made her breathless—“I understand that what you’ve heard sounds like sheer madness, but it is all true. Especially the part about what I want with you.” He paused again, visibly swallowing, then licked his lips. “My parents chose my first love for me. This time I choose my own. My heart chooses you, Katherine. If you’ll have me.”

He sifted away, surely to meet up with Penelope and help the damsel escape the maze before the minotaur got to her.

As she stepped with confidence toward the exit, a premonition of evil seeped into her skin, sending a shiver down her spine: that she was the true lonely maiden wandering through a maze, seeking the right way home before the beast caught her and devoured her whole.

Chapter Sixteen

Sleep would not come that night. George didn’t even try. Around midnight, a steady rain began to pour. No thunder. No lightning. Only rain—relentless and serene. He needed a drink to take off the edge, but he refused to indulge even in that. He wanted to be lucid and alone with his thoughts.

After the charade of a game to entertain his guests, when the real motive was to find Katherine alone and divulge the hard truth of his past, he had retired to his bedroom, exhausted. Dressed only in his drawers, he remained fixed by the window, listening to the torrential downpour and the fire hissing in the grate.

There were many things left unsaid at the gazebo. If she chose to be with him, there would be time to explain the details he’d had no time to tell her then. Like the sudden lightning storm that erupted when he fought the three demon lords by the pond. He did not want to frighten her further by explaining that this sort of phenomena occurred only when Flamma of great power battled one another. The energy coursing through their bodies clashed when they came in conflict and stirred the earth’s elements. Great storms with flashing and thundering skies hid the battles between heavenly and demonic hosts. Humans found cover when a dangerous storm approached. Often, it was a sign that something more dangerous was coming. But tonight, there was nothing but quiet rain pouring down. A stillness that eased his mind.

A soft sound behind him—his door opening and closing with a snick. He didn’t need to turn to know who had entered his bedroom. Her dress whooshed gently as she walked closer. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“I have considered what you said. And what you have offered.”

Katherine paused, giving George enough time to worry that she had only come to reject him. He continued watching the rain.

“Surely you understand that what you ask of me would make me a pariah of society.” She drew closer. George could feel her. “But I do not care what society thinks anymore. If my father were alive, he certainly would. But if he were alive, I would not be married to Clyde, and I would be free to marry you properly…in the eyes of the world.”

George finally turned, his breath catching at the sight of her. She was not wearing a dress at all, but what appeared to be her chemise and a white, lace-trimmed wrap. Her intentions in coming to his room were clear. He wished he’d had that drink after all. He waited patiently, watching her, sculpted in golden firelight and shadows—lovely, courageous and afraid.

“So what I’m saying is…is that I accept your offer.” She licked her lips and shifted from one foot to the other. “That I…I have never felt the way I feel when I’m with you. And that I don’t want to pretend any longer that I am happy in the house of masks and charades that is my life. That was my life. I gladly give it all up, even my father’s estate—my home—to be with you.”

In a stupor, George wondered how this could possibly be real. He had hoped she might return an answer within a week, but had never expected to hear within a few hours. And he had certainly never thought to receive such positive news from the goddess herself in his own bedroom, half-dressed and obviously not intending to leave anytime soon.

She had draped her hair in a loose braid over one shoulder, a golden rope shining by firelight. George stepped closer and gazed into the sage-green eyes he had come to worship with his every breath. He loosened the sash around her waist and opened her lacey wrap, sliding it off her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. Yes. She had worn only her thin, transparent chemise beneath, and the firelight gilded her womanly frame in delectable curves. Brave, giving, beautiful woman. He loved her for all that she offered. Not just her body, or even her reputation, but a lifelong partnership with someone like him, who was not truly an earl and a gentleman but a man dedicated to dealing with filth and evil on a daily basis. She knew what he was, and she wanted him still.

He dropped and knelt before her, spreading his fingers around her waist and holding her tight.

“George?” She placed her hands lightly on his bare shoulders. “What are you doing?”

He peered up and leaned in, placing an openmouthed kiss on her belly, the warmth of her skin burning through the linen shift.

She gasped. He smiled.

“You bring me to my knees, my lady. Now…I am going to bring you to yours.”

Sliding his hands along her hips, down her legs and underneath the shift, he wrapped his hands around the backs of her calves. He continued to kiss her through the fabric, nipping at her hip.

She clenched his shoulder. “George.”

She said his name like a question, breathy and unsure. But he was more than sure, and he planned to show her how a man should pleasure his woman. He drifted his kisses lower toward the apex between her legs.

“What are you—”

He tugged one of her legs outward at the ankle. She let him slide it wider. He trailed his hands higher underneath the shift to the front of her thighs, thumbs gripping hard before he opened his mouth on her.

“Oh heavens.” She held on to his shoulders, swaying a little as he pressed his tongue harder, laving her through the linen, which was no barrier at all, only a delightful friction between tender flesh and tongue. He moved one hand down and, inch by inch, lifted the hem till he held it at her hip, baring her. He captured her gaze—dazed with desire—waiting for her to protest him kissing her without the veil. She did not, her mouth parted, her chest rising and falling.

He took her with long strokes of his tongue, loving every sigh and soft moan. He could not know what intimacy was like for her with the beast that was her husband, but he knew without a doubt the bastard never cherished and adored her as he should have. As he would from this day forward. Her feminine sounds of pleasure urged him onward. He teased and tasted until she cried out. Her knees buckled. He held her up at the waist and stroked a few more times till her panting lessened.

Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her to his bed and sat her on the edge. Untying the two bows at her shoulders, he slipped her shift over her head. Still flushed from her climax, she raised her chin as always, confident yet quiet. He wrapped his fingers around her nape and grazed his lips against hers, parting them tenderly. Her tongue came out and met his. He pulled the ribbon from her hair, still kissing her, and untwined the mass with his fingers. Slipping his drawers off his hips, he let them drop to the floor, then lay beside her, pressing her down into the pillows, never breaking the kiss.

“So soft,” he whispered against her mouth.

He marveled at her.

His whole life, even when he was mortal, had been an endless saga of hard, severe, even brutal encounters. A Roman soldier wandering to foreign lands, killing barbarian enemies, finds no soft bed and few kind words. His valor had bought him a second life, to serve in an ongoing war between Heaven and Hell. The constant battles, small and great, against demon hordes and titanic spawn toughened him further. The centuries of clashing iron and burning fields. The constant scrape of evil on his soul, watching innocents die, wearing him down till he hardened his heart again and again, permitting no gentle thoughts, no soft caresses, no sweet sounds.

And now Katherine.

The embodiment of beauty, in all its grace and elegance, lay beneath him in his bed, offering herself freely, completely. It was more than he could bear. She was everything he’d yearned for—strong yet yielding, magnificent yet kind, brilliant yet wise. Most of all, she hungered for a life of simple joys. Like him. They both seemed to understand that this was the key to true contentment. That the tender moments of life were what made the rest worth enduring. Like the sweet pleasure and ecstasy their bodies could give one another.

She smoothed her hands over his shoulders and chest. “You’re so hard.”

He smiled.

“I mean, your body is so…so…”

He could wait no more. He captured her lips and lifted his body over hers, holding his weight on one forearm while stroking between her legs. She jumped at the sudden sensation when he parted her folds and teased up and down in a slow rhythm.

“Oh God,” she panted, her neck arching as she pressed her head back into the pillow.

He circled her entrance, slick and ready for him. She lifted her hips, rocking against his petting fingers.

“Please, George.”

“Open your eyes, love.”

She did, her beguiling green eyes dark as pitch in the shadows.

“I want to see you when I come inside.”

Holding the base of his shaft, he nudged her entrance. Her mouth fell open wider, but it was his groan that filled the room when he sank into her tight core. He lowered his chest to feel her breasts brushing against his skin, hardening him even more. She was glorious.

She moaned. Then his mouth was on hers, devouring every sweet sound and murmur, thrusting deeper, faster. She widened her thighs and locked her ankles to the back of his legs.

“Yes, George,” she whispered. “More, my love.”

He rolled his spine and rocked with a steady, determined rhythm, each erotic whimper urging him on. One of her hands clawed down his back when she screamed his name, coming with wild abandon. Her inner walls clenched tight, rippling around him.

“Bloody hell.” He pumped three more times. And pressed his full weight onto her, his shaft deep, spilling inside her.

As their bodies still clung to one another, humming with sensual bliss, she whispered against his ear, “Kiss me.”

He did. Tenderly. Softly. Barely brushing his lips against hers, their breaths intermingling. Just like their hearts.

“I want to do this forever,” she said. “I don’t ever want to leave.”

He chuckled, his chest rumbling against hers. He lifted some of his weight, but she held him to her, no smile at all upon her face. Rather, there was a desperate expression pinching her brows together.

George eased back down, tangling one hand into her hair and cupping the back of her head. “Listen to me, Katherine. Heed me well.” He smoothed her brow with a soft kiss. “You are my lady now. I will never leave you. And I will always protect you and care for you.”

She was quiet for a long moment, then her hand came up and cupped his jaw. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

Chapter Seventeen

They made love a second time. Then a third before finally collapsing, unmoving and silent, in one another’s arms. Katherine lay with her head on his chest, her arm around his waist, tucked into the warmth of his body. He twined a lock of her hair over and over in his fingers.

“You know you could have been spotted coming to my bedchamber tonight.”

“I know. But I couldn’t help myself.”

He chuckled.

Katherine continued lightly. “And even so, what would it matter? The world will know soon enough.”

He exhaled a heavy sigh. “True. We should discuss our plan.”

“I’ve already decided our plan.”

“Oh, you have, have you?”

He squeezed her hip teasingly. She wiggled and burrowed back into him.

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

“As soon as your party is over, I shall return to London, pack, and leave Clyde, then return to Thornton.”

“That is your plan?”

“It doesn’t need to be complicated. There is no way I could stay there another night, no matter that it’s my family home. Clyde stole my love for that place long ago.”

He placed his hand over hers, which was covering his heart. “I am sorry you had to marry him. That I didn’t meet you sooner.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” She pressed a kiss to his chest, then lay her cheek back down. “There are a few family heirlooms I would like to take with me when I leave. And I must say good-bye to the staff. Many of them served my father. It is the least I can do.”

“I will go with you.”

“That’s not necessary. I can—”

“I am going with you,” he said in his heavy, grave tone. There was no use arguing.

“Fine. But there’s nothing to fear. Clyde is more coward than brigand.”

Yes, he had been the worst kind of husband—unfaithful, selfish, brutish. But it was always the drink and the dark that gave him courage to abuse and mistreat her. If she confronted him in broad daylight with her butler, Edmund, nearby, he would do nothing at all. That was always his way. Who knew? He may even be happy with this turn of events. He would be free of her and keep the estate all to himself.

Katherine did not plan to announce to the world that she was leaving her husband for another man. She planned to disappear altogether if she could. At least for a long while.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers. She traced a thin scar over the left side of his chest. “I do have one other request. And I am not sure if you will be amenable to it.”

“Ask.”

“You said once that you had a home in France. In Paris. Do you still have a home there?”

“I do.”

“Could we…go there for a while? Just until the gossip dies down. I know you have business here with Alexander Godfrey, but I would feel more at ease if I were out of reach of the ton for some time.”

He slid his hand up her arm and cradled her closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Of course. I can deal with Damas even if I tuck you across the sea in France. Travel is not an issue, since I can sift you there. Actually, I have a better idea.”

“Oh?”

“I say we take our own tour of Europe.”

“Our own tour?”

He rubbed his hand up and down her arm. “You once told me you love to travel. That day in the park. Remember?”

“Yes. I remember.” She just hadn’t dreamed she’d ever have the chance to go beyond England, because of Clyde.

“Well, it is now my wish to give you your heart’s desire. I would love to take you to the beautiful places in the world you have not seen.”

He’d already taken her to a beautiful place she had never seen, had never dreamed existed. Not for her.

“Would you like that?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

She let her eyes slide closed, the hissing of the coals the only sound other than George’s steady heartbeat beneath her. He continued to twine her hair through his fingers, lulling her into a deep, tranquil sleep. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe. And happy.

* * * * *

She awoke to the first gray light filtering through the curtains, warning her it was early morning. Reluctantly, she slipped out of the warm bed and shimmied back into her chemise and night wrap. No time to retie her hair into a braid. The house would be awake soon enough.

Glancing back from the door, she let her gaze linger on George. Sleep had softened the edges of his square jaw and thoughtful brow. She wondered at her good fortune that soon she would be able to spend every waking moment with him. She wondered at the adventurous life she would have at his side, traveling the globe as he’d promised. Her world had turned into a fairy tale where dragons were real. Yet her knight in shining armor was the greatest slayer of them all. She would always be safe with him.

With one more glance back, she opened his bedroom door and crept out into the hall. The house was still, no servants on the move.

Tiptoeing along the wall, she walked swiftly toward the servants’ passage, but then heard a board creak behind her. The door across the hall from George’s bedchamber was cracked open, offering just enough of a silhouette by candlelight to outline the unmistakable bulbous figure of Lady Mable. The door closed suddenly.

Katherine’s pulse raced as she sped back to her bedroom. Anxiety fluttered in her stomach, making her nauseated.

“Damn!”

Of all the bad luck. Lady Mable had to be the one with poor sleeping habits, up at all hours, listening at doors. She had most certainly seen Katherine leaving George’s bedchamber.

“Oh hell.”

Soft pink light slipped through her drawn curtains. She whipped them open, ready to face the day, whatever it might bring. After pacing back and forth by the bed for a moment, she walked to the door connecting to Jane’s room and entered quietly. Jane still lay asleep. Conflicted, Katherine finally decided she had no alternative.

Sitting on the edge of Jane’s bed, she shook her shoulder. “Jane,” she said softly.

Jane didn’t startle. Her eyelids fluttered as she blinked in the morning gloom. Katherine stood and walked to the window to let in some light.

“Jane, please wake up.”

“I’m awake. What is the matter?” she asked, her voice still scratchy from sleep.

“I-I need to tell you something.”

Jane pushed up and leaned back into the pillows stacked against the headboard. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Katherine couldn’t help but laugh, the brightest smile breaking across her face. Jane must’ve thought her mad. “Perhaps. But I’ve never been happier in all my life.”

“Good Lord. Get on with it and tell me what happened.”

“You already know.” Katherine sat again on the bed and curled her legs underneath her.

“I do?”

“George.”

“Lord Thornton, you mean,” she quipped, tucking her hair behind one ear.

“I mean George,” corrected Katherine. “We are in love.”

Jane clutched a hand to her chest and gasped with joy. “I knew it!”

“But there’s more, dear. Perhaps you should settle for the next part. You may not approve.”

Jane curled her hands in her lap and waited.

“I went to his bedroom last night.” Katherine paused. Jane said nothing, her eyes wide and wondering. “And this morning, I—”

“Wait one moment. You’re not going to go barreling ahead to this morning. What about last night? Was it…did you…was he—”

“Oh heavens, Jane. Yes, we did. It was marvelous. And he was spectacular.”

“Spectacular?” A silly smile brightened her face.

“Beyond imagining.” Katherine stared down at her hands, remembering how spectacular he truly was. And how skilled.

“You’re blushing.”

“Enough, Jane. There’s more, and this part won’t make you smile at all.”

“I’m listening. I’m your friend and will aid you in any way I can.”

“You may reconsider that statement once I tell you.” Katherine peered up at her.

“Go on.”

“I’m leaving Clyde. As a matter of fact, I’m leaving London altogether for a while. With George.” Jane said nothing. “And when I left his bedroom this morning, Lady Mable saw me.”

Jane sat straighter. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Katherine pulled her hair to one side of her shoulder, fidgeting. “Our plan was for me to return home at the end of the week and tell Clyde, then be on our way. But now—”

“Oh no. If you plan to tell Clyde yourself before he hears the news from someone else, you’d better go today. The sooner the better. I know Lady Mable all too well, the viper. She’s ruined more than one reputation with less evidence than this.”

Katherine considered her options, watching the room grow lighter with the rising sun. “Then I need your help. I can’t go down to breakfast and risk an encounter with Penelope and her venomous tongue. Surely, her mother will tell her what she saw.”

“No doubt of it. And Penelope is worse than her mother. She’ll view this as a personal insult, seeing as she had plans to catch George for herself.”

“That obvious, wasn’t she?”

“Ridiculously so.”

“All right.” Katherine stood from the bed, hands on her hips, determined. “I’ll summon Maggie. I need a bath this morning and to dress quickly. I’ll have her bring me a tray up for breakfast. I’m absolutely famished.” She headed for her suite.

“I’ll bet you are.”

“Jane!” Katherine spun and raised a brow at her. “No need to be crass.”

Her friend popped out of bed and ran to her side, taking her hands in her own. “I am just so happy to see you so happy, I can hardly contain myself.” They smiled at one another, then laughed. “Go get dressed. I’ll have a tray sent up and make excuses that you are under the weather this morning. I’ll also spy on the Greenes.”

“Good. I plan to be home and back before their spiteful gossip can make the rounds.” Katherine stepped toward her door and paused in the entrance. “Jane, I forgot to ask about Mr. Langley.”

Jane’s expression melted into one of pure joy. “There will be plenty of time for me to tell you about Henry when you return.”

“Henry?”

“Out! You have a marriage to break and a reputation to ruin. Off with you.” Jane shooed her out of the room with a smile. Only Jane knew her well enough to be able to say such things. In reality, her admitting it aloud was like breaking chains. Katherine could breathe easier, knowing her torment under the roof with Clyde Blakely would soon be over.

Chapter Eighteen

It was nearly ten o’clock by the time Jane swished into Katherine’s room and closed the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Where have you been?”

“Well, to say it was an interesting morning would be an understatement.”

“What? What happened?”

“First, Mrs. Langley didn’t come down, due to a slight stomachache, which put some credence to you not coming down as I said you had the same thing. Lord Thornton was obviously out of sorts when you didn’t come down to breakfast with me. Mr. Delacroix was nowhere to be found. And the Greene party huffed into the room, freezing the room to glacial temperatures with their icy stares and cold distance, before Lady Mable declared they must return home today due to a family illness. Lie, of course. Henry made a remark about the strangeness of everyone falling ill after such an entertaining evening, to which no one laughed. Except me. Lady Helene simply watched everyone and everything without saying a word. I declare, it was the most uncomfortable, awkward meal I’ve ever had. Then, all of a sudden, Duncan swept in with a letter on a salver. Lord Thornton read it, leaped from the table, excused himself with no explanation at all and left toward the stables.”

“Good Lord. What can it mean? Did he say who the message was from?”

“He said little to nothing the entire morning.”

“When are the Greenes and Marjorie leaving?”

“They didn’t say.”

Just then, the sound of a carriage rattled on the drive. Jane’s bedroom was on the corner, so she was able to view the front of the house. They both rushed to the window and peered down just in time to catch Penelope’s raven curls bouncing as she entered the cab. A coachman strapped the last bag to the top.

“There’s our answer.”

“Who is that seeing them off?” asked Jane. “I can’t see.”

Katherine leaned closer, pressing her cheek to the glass. “It’s Duncan.” She headed for the door, grabbing her reticule. “I need to find George. We must leave at once.”

“But I believe he’s gone. Katherine, wait!”

Jane rushed toward her and wrapped her in an unexpected embrace.

“What is this?” she asked with a laugh.

“I don’t know. I’m being silly and childish, I know, but I have a strange feeling that I’ll never see you again.”

Katherine’s stomach twisted. It struck her as well that once she’d taken care of her errand at home, she probably wouldn’t see Jane for quite a long time. She hugged her tighter, then pressed a kiss to her cheek, a rare affection.

“I’m not going away forever, Jane.” She pulled back to look at her sweet friend. “But I shall miss you so terribly, I think my heart will break.”

Jane laughed as a tear rolled down her cheek. “No, you won’t,” she sniffed. “You’ll have the charming and alluring Lord Thornton to keep your thoughts preoccupied.”

“Now you’re making me cry. Stop it immediately.”

They both laughed. Katherine wiped Jane’s cheek, her powder smearing on her white glove. “Well, then. You best tend to Mr. Langley and hurry yourself to the altar so he can preoccupy your thoughts. Then you won’t miss me at all.”

“Of course, I will.” She sniffed again. “You’re the best friend a girl could ever have. You’re the sister I never had.”

“Oh, Jane.” Katherine hugged her again, cherishing the sisterly affection she’d never had as a girl.

Jane hugged her once more, then released her. “Now you may go. Find George and send me word when you return.”

Katherine tightened her gloves at the wrists. “Won’t you be here when we return?”

“Possibly not. I visited Mrs. Langley this morning on my way up to you. She invited my mother and I for a visit to their country estate not a half day’s journey from here. And since the party seems to be breaking up early, I’ve already written Mother. She is sure to come as I mentioned how well I’d been getting along with Mrs. Langley and her son. She always adored Henry when we were younger. Mrs. Langley invited you as well, but I informed her you had previous plans.”

Katherine squeezed Jane’s hand one last time. “I’m so happy for you. He’s a fine gentleman, worthy of my dearest friend.”

“Nothing has been arranged as of yet.”

“But it will be. Mark my words.” She opened the door. “I’ll write as soon as I can.”

“Good luck!”

Once she reached the main parlor, she found no one there. She made her way to what she knew was George’s study. Again, no one. As she made her way back toward the front portico, Duncan appeared.

“Duncan, I’m happy to find you. Can you tell me where Lord Thornton is at the moment?”

“I’m afraid I cannot.”

“What about Mr. Delacroix?”

“He is unavailable as well.”

This couldn’t be good news. Katherine considered her options.

“However,” Duncan said, presenting her with a sealed letter, “Lord Thornton asked me to deliver this to you as soon as you were feeling well enough to come down.”

“Thank you, Duncan.”

She took the letter and ducked into the smaller parlor, where the gentlemen gathered after meals. Empty like the others.

She broke the wax seal, stamped with the Thornton crest, and pored over the few words on the paper.

Dearest Katherine,

I was disheartened to wake up alone, and even more so when you did not come down for breakfast. I can only surmise that you needed more rest than usual. For that, I could not disturb you.

Something has come up that needs my immediate attention. Don’t be alarmed. It is nothing to interfere with us. I should return by sundown. Then we may further discuss our plan—and our future together.

I am anxious to see you. And to hold you again.

Forever yours,

George

Katherine reread the letter. Then reread it a third time before finally folding it and tucking it into her reticule. Pacing near the window, she stared out the pane, where bright sunshine bathed the garden. Not a cloud to be seen. A soft patch of burnet and bluebells grew along a path toward a stone bench—yellow and purple in perfect harmony. Katherine smiled at the sweetness of it and George’s keenness for wildflowers. She wanted this life with him more than breath itself. A soft click sounded behind her.

“Someone is awfully pensive this morning.” Lady Helene closed the door and walked farther into the room.

“I am,” said Katherine, suddenly nervous, sensing that Lady Helene knew where her thoughts strayed.

“I am not the sort to pry, dear girl, but I believe, if what I’m hearing is true, that you have a difficult decision to make about your future.”

Katherine lifted her chin, folding her hands gracefully in front of her as if awaiting teatime, not deciding the course of her life. “I have made my decision.” There, she had said it.

“If I am correct, that future does not include Lord Blakely.”

“You are correct.”

Lady Helene took a seat on the chaise. “I see.” Her pensive expression crinkled her brow into fine lines. Sunlight shone bright on her powder-soft skin and wrinkles, revealing a woman at a fragile age, no matter her lofty status in society. She smoothed the folds of her skirt—white with pink posies—taking her time before she spoke. Katherine waited, her back straight in a stiff line. “Then I have some advice for you, dear.”

When she spoke, her voice wavered with both anxiety and defiance. “I’m listening.”

Lady Helene laughed. “No need to chuck your chin up at me, girl. Believe it or not, I’m on your side.” She fixed Katherine with a tender smile. “Your choice is the right one. Life is too short to live in misery. If you have the chance to be happy, damn what the world says is right. Take your chance and never look back. But I’ll tell you this. That Greene woman will have the news spread like wildfire around all of London before the week is through. If you plan to end this properly with your husband, and I believe that it is his right to hear it from you, then you must do so immediately. Before he is told by some blackguard in White’s.”

Katherine shifted from one foot to the other, a nervous habit when anxiety was building. She glanced out the window again, a soft breeze blowing the wildflowers. With a heavy sigh, she strolled across the room, leaned over and planted a kiss on Lady Helene’s cheek. It was the first time Katherine had ever seen genuine surprise on the sweet woman’s face.

“You’re right, Lady Helene. Thank you for your good counsel.” She laughed and hurried out the door, calling out, “Duncan!”

He had not gone far. “Yes, my lady?”

“Do you have a writing desk I may borrow?”

“Yes, this way, please.”

He led her across the hall to a small room with only two chairs, a table, no fireplace and a writing desk. “Mrs. Baxter uses this room for her correspondence and housekeeping records. You are welcome to use what you require.”

“Thank you.” He turned to go. “Please don’t go far.”

He bowed and stood outside the door. Katherine sat and scribed a quick response.

My dear George,

I am rather beside myself that you are not here. But I must go home today to handle the business we discussed. It is imperative that I not delay, due to unforeseen circumstances. I will explain all upon my return, when I will be overjoyed to discuss our future—together.

Yours, now and always,

Katherine

She folded the letter and sealed it. Handing the note to Duncan, she said, “Please give this to Lord Thornton when he returns.”

The austere butler frowned. “Forgive me for prying, but do you plan to quit Thornton?”

“Only for today. I shall return tonight as soon as I’ve taken care of some…business in town.”

“Lady Katherine, it is not for me to interfere, but Lord Thornton will be unhappy if you leave without speaking with him first.”

She found it curious that Duncan was more insistent than most butlers would be. The intrusion would be considered impertinent, even for a well-respected butler. But she understood he was only looking after his master’s wishes.

“I can promise that I will return this night, perhaps even this afternoon if I am fortunate in completing my task swiftly.”

“I see,” he said, more gravely than even before. “Then I must request that you take our coach and coachman, Barclay, with you.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary.”

“But I insist.” Duncan wasn’t going to budge.

“All right. I need to leave immediately.”

“Shall I fetch your maid?”

“No. Maggie should stay and wait for me here.” She wouldn’t bring Maggie back to that house ever again, not after the threat Clyde used against her.

Clyde might not be at home. If he happened to be there, she would tell him with a happy heart that she was leaving him, pack the few heirlooms that she longed to keep—the brush set of her mother’s and the jewelry box from her father—then be on her way back here. If he was not home, she would simply tell him in a letter and return to Thornton. With the callousness with which he’d treated her these past two years of marriage, she decided he didn’t deserve much more than that anyway. No matter what Lady Helene advised. But she still needed to put an end to it and retrieve the things from her parents that belonged to her.

Within ten minutes, Barclay pulled the carriage up to the circle at the front. Katherine gawked for a moment at the huge, burly man, having never seen a coachman quite that size. It was obvious Barclay was to serve as her guardian in George’s stead. Once in the cab, she glanced out the window at Duncan on the step, who gave her a nod, expression somber as always. Perhaps more so than usual. She nodded back with a tight smile, then headed back to London to say good-bye to her old life.

Chapter Nineteen

They made the trip in no time at all. It was a little past noon when they circled up the drive on Hanover Square. Barclay insisted upon coming inside rather than waiting with the carriage. Highly unorthodox, but she had her suspicions that Duncan had given him strict orders.

Edmund promptly opened the door as they approached the threshold.

“Hello, Edmund.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Katherine. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow evening.”

“Yes. I’m afraid something has come up.” She hadn’t planned exactly how she was going to handle this with the servants, but she wanted to tell them good-bye as well. Many of them had cared for her since childhood. “Is Lord Blakely at home?”

“He rose early this morning, Lady Katherine, and I have not seen him since.”

“Very well. Would you please assemble the servants in the kitchen in half an hour? I must fetch a few things, then I will be down straight away.”

“All of the servants?”

Katherine paused. “Actually, no.” Some of the servants were much more devoted to her husband, and those she didn’t care to speak to at all. Especially the scullery maid, Agnes. She stepped forward and placed her hand lightly on Edmund’s sleeve. “Only Father’s servants, Edmund.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Edmund eyed the brawny coachman standing only a few feet from his mistress.

“Do not worry about him. Barclay is assisting me.” That was all that needed to be said for Edmund to obediently disappear toward the kitchen.

When Barclay started to follow her toward the stairs, she spun. “Barclay, you must stay here. I need a few things from my bedchamber. You may not follow me there.”

The large man was slow to understand. Katherine held up her hand. “I’ll be down in just a few minutes.”

He took his place by the door and watched her go. By the time she reached her bedroom, she was out of breath, anxious to claim what she’d come for and to leave for good. When she stepped into her bedroom, she knew Clyde had been there. The energy of the room felt different. A disturbance lingered. Her things were all slightly askew. Then she realized the curtain on her bed was drawn back.

Stepping cautiously up to her bed as if she waited for some sinister creature to leap from within the canopy, she frowned at what she found. Upon her coverlet was a pristine, white dress with small cap sleeves, a low, scalloped neckline and layered, transparent skirts spread wide. There was something eerie about the dress, specifically the fact that it lay upon her own bed, waiting for her like something out of a fairy tale where the wicked witch lingered in the dark woods.

“It will look beautiful on you.”

She jumped and spun around to find Clyde standing behind her. While he appeared calm, holding a book at his side, menace glazed his eyes. Despite her heart beating right out of her chest, she inhaled a deep breath. Now was the time.

“Clyde, I have come home early to tell you something.”

He approached the bed and drifted his fingers over the shimmery silk of the dress. “I am sure it will fit you.”

What on earth was he going on about?

“I need you to listen to me. I don’t want the dress. I must tell you—”

He sharpened his gaze on her. “What is it that you have to tell me, dearest? That you are in love with another man? That you are leaving me?”

He laughed. A thread of ice crawled up her spine. He lifted the book in his palm and opened it. A dried yellow wildflower, a cinquefoil, slipped out and floated to the floor. He took the letter that was concealed there as well and opened it after callously tossing aside Paradise Lost.

“You are worthy of riches and beauty, but even more than this, you are worthy of compassion and kindness.” George’s words on Clyde’s lips sounded like blasphemy. Bile rose in Katherine’s throat. Fear, cold and hard, gripped her around the chest and squeezed as he read more.

“Let this small token convey the happiness I wish for you.” He bent to the ground and lifted the flower, staring at it for a few seconds before he crushed it in his hand. The smile he wore slipped away as he pierced her with a dark glare. “Never, Katherine. Never.” He stepped closer. She edged along her bed toward the door. “You are mine and will always be mine. But you will pay for your infidelity first.”

She launched into a run for the door. He snatched her arm and yanked her back. Gripping her under the chin, his fingers pressing into her jaw, he held her still, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“You dare to make a cuckold of me,” he whispered between gritted teeth.

“Let me go. I am leaving you.”

He grinned. “You aren’t going anywhere. Except where I tell you. And since you enjoy playing the whore, tonight I have a surprise for you.”

“You’ve gone mad. Let me go!”

She struggled and twisted out of his grip, leaping for the exit. Two men appeared in the doorway. One of them she recognized at once: Lorken, the high demon who’d attacked her and George the day before. Her breath caught in her throat as she backed away.

“Hold her,” came the chilling order from her husband.

Within a single moment, they grabbed her arms, and she felt Clyde’s cold fingers wrapping around her throat from behind. He put his lips close to her ear.

“You’re going to learn once and for all how to obey, my wife. Drink,” he demanded.

Clutching her jaw, he forced a glass to her mouth and poured. She coughed and spluttered but the liquid—alcohol with a medicinal taste and a hint of saffron—slid down her throat. Laudanum. She knew the foul concoction from when she broke an arm falling from her horse as a girl.

She tried to spit it out, but Clyde kept her head tilted, a vise-like grip on her jaw, pouring the glass till it was gone. She fought and twisted, but they were too strong. Her vision hazed. An icy aura gripped her body. Her limbs went numb as she drifted away, falling into darkness.

Chapter Twenty

Katherine was in a carriage, the telltale rattle along the cobblestone street waking her. Slipping in and out of consciousness, she remembered being lifted, having her clothes removed, then being redressed and hearing the voices of men. Shame was not what she felt as she slowly came back to herself. Fear—chilling and raw.

Blinking awake, she found herself within a darkened cab, Lorken and the other man—no, demon—sat across from her. Clyde was at her side, adorned in a top hat and evening dress, his golden lion’s head cane propped between his legs. Out the window, she saw only woods shadowed by night.

“Just in time, darling,” said Clyde, arrogance and bitterness lacing his every word. “We’ll be arriving in a moment.”

Her chest and ribs felt constricted, her corset lacings too tight. She glanced down, lifting the flap of a red cloak draped around her shoulders. They had fit her into the white dress, hoisting her breasts to embarrassing heights. She would never bare that much flesh of her own free will. Clyde’s haunting words before he rendered her unconscious echoed through her mind.

“Where”—her throat was rusty from the lingering effects of the drug—“where are you taking me?”

“To a party,” answered Clyde lightly. “And you will be the belle of the ball.” He chuckled at his own private joke.

Katherine’s hands trembled in her lap. No gloves. A lady always wore her gloves. Her heart faltered at the significance of this item absent from her hands.

The carriage rolled to a stop. A brutish-looking man in evening dress stepped up to the cab window, caught sight of Clyde, then motioned them through a gate. Katherine didn’t recognize where they were as the carriage rattled on for a few more minutes. The door opened, and a coachman she also didn’t recognize held out his hand for her.

“Go on, Katherine. Don’t leave the man standing there like a fool.”

She knew there was no point in struggling or screaming for help. She was caught in a nasty situation. The ominous aura hovering around her warned her of a terrible danger. But screaming her head off would do no good at this point. She would observe her surroundings and find a way to escape whatever hellish trap she’d fallen into.

Accepting the coachman’s assistance, she alighted onto a cobblestone path leading toward a dome-shaped atrium, looking much like a greenhouse or nursery, though it sat on the edge of a wide lake. Clyde led them toward the door, with Katherine behind him and the two demons behind her. She was perceptive enough to understand they were not escorting her for her safety but guiding her like a prisoner. Like Andromeda being led to the sacrificial rock, where she was bound to await the Kraken, Katherine wondered what terrible fate awaited her, what monster would emerge from the deep to destroy her.

Once inside the small building, they were met by two men. No. Not men. Their shining red eyes told Katherine they were certainly not human. They took Clyde’s hat and overcoat but did not approach her. One of them held a silver platter of simple red masks. Clyde, Lorken and the other demon donned the masks. Without a word, Clyde led them toward stairs going downward. Her pulse racing like mad, Katherine looked back, hoping for some way to escape. Lorken and the other one blocked any retreat. With no other option, she descended behind Clyde down a steep stairwell that must be taking them underground.

At the end of the stairs, a long corridor lit with sconces extended before them. But Clyde stopped at a door to the left and rapped his cane three times. The door opened. Ushered inside, Katherine was immediately gripped with the urge to run far away as fast as she could. Instead, she held her chin high, facing whatever evil awaited her with what remaining grace she could muster.

It was a small chamber, lit by six-tiered candelabra spread about the room, which was nothing more than some sort of lounging parlor. Seated in an overlarge leather wingback was the man she knew as Mr. Calliban. His lovely and robotic wife was not here. As a matter of fact, no women occupied the room, though half a dozen additional stalwart men in evening dress lingered at the edges, wearing red masks. Mr. Calliban remained unmasked. Like a helpless sheep thrust into a den of wolves, she sensed the imminent danger and felt her chances of survival dwindling.

“Well, well, well.” Calliban stood, placing his glass of port on a sideboard. “You did not disappoint, Clyde. I wasn’t sure you had the fortitude to bring her.”

“I do not break my vows. Though others often do.” His glare fell upon Katherine, but she ignored him, watching the tiger stalk closer. Shadows played across Calliban’s dark complexion as he moved past the candlelight. His tall, lean figure glided toward her in a smooth line. As if a cobra were drawing closer in the tall grass, unseen, she withered at his approach, wishing she could disappear.

He was a high demon. A prince. She hadn’t the time to discover all the attributes of such a title from George, but the sinister power vibrating in the room told her enough. Clyde stepped behind her, unhooked the crimson cloak at her neck and removed it. The gaze of every man raked her with cold lust, though Calliban simply smiled as if he were a true gentleman meeting a beautiful woman.

“You are quite lovely,” he said, moving well within her personal space, placing a finger below her chin to guide her gaze to meet his. Only darkness dwelled there.

“Please,” she whispered. “I don’t belong here.”

“Actually, you do.” His finger trailed away from her chin, along her skin, down her neck to the hollow between her collarbones. “You are the lover of George Draconis.”

A fact. She would not deny him now, though her survival instincts beckoned her to lie. “He will come for me.”

“I am sure that he will. We are counting on it,” he said, inching closer. “I can still smell him on you.” Calliban’s eyes flashed bloodred, then back to obsidian orbs that pinned her in place.

She stepped back, directly into her husband, who wrapped his hands around her biceps, keeping her still.

“But when he comes, he will find you…changed.” A few men snickered. “And slightly more worldly than before.”

“Please,” she begged again, a tear burning hot down one cheek. “Don’t.” There was no mistaking that what virtue she had left, he planned to take from her.

“Shhhh,” he whispered, long fingers wrapping around her throat. “You are worth too much to throw away to the pack.” He glanced at the men to his right, then lowered his head and brushed his mouth against her trembling lips, biting her lower one, releasing it slowly. “You will fetch a high price from a special clientele.”

He stepped back, running his tongue along his lip. “Mmmm. A very high price.” He motioned for a man at the door to take her.

“My lord, do you not want to cast her with your essence?”

“No.” His grin cut his face in half with dark foreboding. “I do not. I want the lover of George Draconis to feel every ounce of fear and pain as her virtue is stripped from her. She will not fight or struggle, for she knows that if she does, not only will she die after extensive tortures that I will implement myself, but every person she loves will endure the same fate.”

He stormed from the room. Clyde released her and followed. The other men pressed close around her. There was nothing she could do but follow their orders and suffer whatever doom they had planned.

As she walked on unsteady legs down the corridor toward an open room, she remembered George feeling guilty for having drawn the attention of Damas, the demon prince he loathed. But it was the attention of Calliban that he should’ve feared more. She wished she could go back to this morning, to that moment in George’s parlor when she read his letter with the sun shining on the garden, when Lady Helene convinced her she must do what was right and honorable. This world did not live by honor. And her husband was a part of it. Naïve and trusting, she had made a decision based on what a proper lady would do, despite the fact she had done something a lady should never do. She had wanted to make the ending right by Clyde, no matter that he had never treated her with the respect she deserved.

But this was not the world in which she’d been brought up. This world operated by rules where honor played no part at all. She had made it so easy for them. And now she must accept whatever fate had in store for her.

Entering a circular room, she observed that chairs had been placed on a dais along the wall. Numerous sconces encircled the room. Shimmering shadows reflected on the floor, which drew Katherine’s gaze upward. A glass ceiling did not exactly reach up to the sky. Water rippled overhead, the moonlight shining through from above. They were under the lake.

A red velvet carpet stretched across a square of wood flooring, painted black, which occupied the center of the room. Another dais stood behind the velvet carpet, upon which sat a gold-painted chair, richly carved and ornamented. Calliban stalked across the floor, then sprawled back in the chair. Not a chair. A throne. Katherine hitched in her breath, scanning the faces of the strangers seated in the room. All men, many of their eyes gleaming red. This was an audience of demons, not men, she realized as she was nudged toward the red velvet carpet. Clyde turned her about to face the room and stood behind her. A group of three violinists sat in one corner.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” said Calliban from his throne. “I welcome you, one and all, to this unique gathering with a prize worth your travels from abroad.”

The many demon lords in the room were still and watchful. Katherine felt the weight of their stares fixed on her. They appeared as normal gentlemen in evening dress, though each of them had fine physiques and lustrous hair shining by torchlight. Not a small, weak one among them. She swallowed hard at the thought that high demons possessed all the physical traits needed for seduction on a potent scale. In addition, a tantalizing energy weighted the room, promising danger and temptation.

Her breath came hard and fast, her chest heaving despite the corset’s constriction.

“As you can see, we have an exquisite lady who promises to satisfy your many diverse appetites, but her beauty is only part of the prize.” He paused for effect. It seemed to work, as many demons leaned forward in their seats to gain a closer look at the woman in white on the crimson carpet. “This woman is the lover of none other than George Draconis.” A chorus of hisses erupted. “Slayer of Demons, Stalker of Dens, Destroyer of Spawn. This human woman is the object of his most dear affection. What satisfaction might one of you enjoy when you take her as your own and keep her in your realm?”

Murmurs among the damned spread around the room as they drank her in more eagerly. Calliban continued.

“This is not a human auction, so money is useless. We will barter for territory only. The bid I deem the richest with the most valuable realms on earth will be the winner of this…delectable treasure.”

Calliban clapped his hands twice. The violinists began to play. Katherine did not know what it meant until Lorken, the slippery demon who had gotten away from George, stepped up to her with his hand offered to her.

“Let us dance, my lady.”

She would’ve laughed at the absurdity of his gallant gesture if terror weren’t gripping her throat in a vise. She glanced toward Calliban, who said nothing at all. His hard expression sealed her fate with the threat of torment and death to her loved ones should she fight him. To think of Jane in this pit of vipers was nearly enough to make her double over and lose the contents of her stomach. She had no choice.

She took Lorken’s hand. With the other, he gripped her waist and pulled her tight against him, whirling her over the black-stained dance floor, giving the bidders a view of her at every angle.

“My territories in south Persia,” came one voice.

“Mine in northern Italy and the island of Cyprus.”

Lorken whisked her into another turn, leering down like the spider to the fly. The violins lilted a somber, romantic tune, adding to the bitter irony.

“My entire realm of Asia will I give for her,” said one with a grating voice that sent shivers down her spine.

The room spun, mirroring Katherine’s inner turmoil. What creature would own her at the end of this harrowing auction?

“I would like to bid,” announced a sonorous voice at the entrance.

The violins stopped. Lorken halted midturn. Lord Radcliff, the one George called Damas, stood at the edge of the dance floor, devastatingly handsome in his finest evening attire, his gaze on Calliban. At his back stood Alexander Godfrey. Why would Damas bring him here?

“Damas.” Calliban rose from his throne. “We were not expecting you. And your friend. I did not think this would amuse you.”

“It more than amuses me, brother.”

Calliban chuckled. “I almost forgot. You and the Slayer have quite a history.”

Alexander didn’t move, stoic behind Damas, like a child at his father’s back.

Damas glanced at her, a tenderness in his expression she did not expect, before he glared back at his brother. “Despite the fact you excluded me from the party, I have come all the same. And I offer all my holdings on earth.”

An audible gasp filled the room, the weight of his offer sparking tension in the air. And something else. There was no denying that these beings cast an eerie energy.

“All?” questioned Calliban, an expression of genuine surprise marking his hard face.

“All.” His declaration was firm and final. “You know that I, among everyone here, hold the most territories on earth. I have holdings in every corner of every continent, altogether more advantageous than any bid they could offer.”

Calliban let the offer linger in the air for just one moment before dipping his chin. “Done.”

Damas held out his hand toward her. “Come, Katherine.” He did not enter the room any farther, which put Katherine on guard. He held himself in a defensive stance with Alexander watching his back.

Though she understood Damas to be one of these high demons, she couldn’t help but sigh a sense of relief as she walked swiftly across the floor under the hard gazes of so many. He had been kind to her and didn’t leer at her like a feast waiting to be devoured as the others did. When she reached Damas, he draped his coat over her shoulders, took her hand and led her swiftly toward the exit.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Look! Over there.” Jude pointed to a carriage half in a ditch, where the sweating horses shuffled in the traces. One whickered at the approaching riders. George whipped his horse to greater speed, recognizing the Thornton crest, his sight well-adjusted to the dark.

From the moment he returned to Thornton, he’d been mad with fear and anxiety. When he received the letter from Father Abney at breakfast, stating that Emily Farrell had finally come round to herself, George was needed to talk her down from hysteria. George was good at calming anxious souls, bringing them to understand the difficult truth, especially after the use of demon essence to possess the soul. He and Jude had escorted Father Abney and Emily back to her home but let the priest enter the gates alone to deliver Emily to her father. George had been happy to see the older man’s face crack with relief and love at the sight of his daughter, wrapped in blankets and the arms of a priest—alive and well. Or as well as could be expected.

He’d arrived home after dark, anxious to return to Katherine, hoping she was feeling better than this morning when she hadn’t come down for breakfast. He’d been so concerned about her well-being, knowing he couldn’t visit her room with her maid there, that he hadn’t noticed the behavior of Lady Mable and her daughter. It wasn’t until his return after a short, terse conversation with Duncan and upon reading her letter that his heart fell from his chest.

George’s carriage was no longer at Harron House, and the Blakely butler, Edmund, did not know what had happened to the brute of a coachman. The last Edmund knew, Lady Katherine had asked the servants to meet her in the kitchen. But she had never come down from her bedchamber. When Edmund had gone in search of her, he found nothing in her room but a book and letter on the floor. Edmund produced the book and the letter, which amplified George’s fear tenfold.

Having been compelled to travel by the fastest means possible to Harron House in London, he and Jude had sifted there. Upon arriving and finding her gone, they were forced to acquire suitable mounts from a local stable and go in search of the carriage. The search took them throughout the streets of London as the night grew long.

And on the outskirts of town, there it was. George reined in his horse, its hooves skidding on the pebbled road. He sped to the front and leaped to the bench. No driver. He wrenched open the door. No passengers either.

“Here he is!” yelled Jude, already in the ditch, helping the burly man into a sitting position. “They gave him a good knock over the head, but he’s alive.”

George pulled a flask of water from inside his longcoat. He poured the water over the dried blood matted in the man’s hair. “Barclay, can you hear me?”

He splashed some water over his face. The man jerked and threw up a fist to knock George back.

“It’s all right! There now. It’s Thornton.”

He held up his fists a moment longer, blinking in the dark. “Milord?”

“Yes. Here, take a drink of water.”

George helped him, but Barclay took the flask himself and gulped down three swallows.

“Tell me. What happened? Where’s Lady Katherine?”

He heaved a sigh and wiped a large hand across his face, water dripping from his chin. “I’m so sorry, Lord Thornton. The lady asked me to wait downstairs, so I did. I wasn’t there long when I felt a thump on the back of me ’ead.” He felt for the lump. “I turned round to give the man a go but was shocked to find a proper gentleman like you did that.”

“Like me?”

“Aye. Dressed in fancy clothes and all. ’e was fast too. Didn’t even see ’im move when ’e ’it me again”—he gestured toward the front of his head at the bleeding wound—“then I was out cold.”

“Sifting,” murmured Jude.

“What did he look like?” asked George.

“Like I said. Kinda like you, but his face weren’t so perfect. ’Ad a nick right above ’is mouth right ’ere. Long hair in a queue.”

Jude and George shared a knowing look.

“Lorken,” said George. “All right, we need to get you back home.”

Jude and George lifted him to his feet and helped him back to the carriage. While George took the reins and guided the horses forward, Jude stepped behind the wheel in the ditch. With much urging of the horses, George pulled and Jude pushed, the carriage lurched forward onto the road, if a bit cock-eyed.

“Whoa! Easy, now.” George gentled the horses, then strode back to Barclay, who stood in a stupor, and guided the man into the coachman’s seat.

“Jude, you help him get home. I’m going to Calliban’s. That must be where they’ve taken her.”

“Like hell I’m letting you go there alone.”

Barclay hoisted himself in front of the cab. “I can get me way ’ome fine. Don’t ye worry.”

“Are you sure?” asked George, eager to sift, his skin tingling with the need for action.

“I’m sorry, Lord Thornton. I didn’t mean to let ye down.”

George shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Barclay. You just get on home safely.”

“Aye,” he replied pulling his forelock before snapping the reins. The horses jerked forward, seeming eager to return to the safety of their stables.

“Sift to the back of the property by the lake,” said George a split second before he vanished.

He arrived along the back gate of the property with a snap of energy, but there was no one outside to notice. The gate that encircled the property was not the true barrier. Rather it was the protective wards. But George knew they could cross over here. He walked along the gate with his hand, palm out, sensing the wards’ strength.

Jude appeared with a whipping crack, which reverberated over the lake. “Must you make so much noise?” asked George.

“I can’t control how powerful I am.”

George had no smart response, too intent on his goal. “Here.”

Jude joined him at the gate and placed his palm in the air where George had his. “Yes. Paper-thin. The lake curves closest on this side.”

“We should cross over now,” said George, fury still pumping hard through his veins.

“Wait. Look.” Jude pointed. A carriage that hardly made a sound rolled up to the atrium.

Neither of them said a word when Damas stepped out, dressed in his finest. Alexander came behind him, following Damas into the atrium.

“Bloody bastard. He’s brought Alexander again.” George clenched his teeth, wanting to crush the demon’s skull with his bare hands. “We’re crossing over. She’s down there in that pit of filth. I know it.”

“No. Be patient. The moment we breach the wards, they’ll detect that we’re here. One of them could sift away with her to the underworld, and we’d never get her back.”

Jude was right. George was thinking with his emotions. He needed to keep calm if he was to get her away safely. So they sat back and waited. Time stretched. Music began playing below the lake’s surface. George watched the lighted dome under the lake, yearning to sift there and take Katherine from that place. If he did, he could lose her with one misstep.

Patience. A virtue he once cherished. Yet now, when it came to her, to Katherine, he had none. Only the desperate, clawing need to go to her, no matter the cost. In this case, the cost might be losing her for good. He clenched his fists, trying to quiet his racing temper, despising the unknown, feeling helpless.

The music stopped playing. Jude and George glanced at one another and watched the door. Waiting.

“Someone’s coming,” said George.

Out stepped Alexander, then Katherine, dressed in white with a man’s coat over her shoulders. Damas was at her back.

Blinding rage took hold of George. He sifted without thinking, landing directly at their side, and reached for Katherine. Damas moved lightning fast and blocked her, punching George across the jaw.

“George!” she screamed.

Alexander defended his master. Damas pulled a sword from nowhere and handed it to the young man, whispering in his ear. Alexander nodded and held the sword pointed at George’s heart, his own flesh and blood used as a pawn against him.

Damas pulled Katherine into his arms and yelled into the night, “Caesar! Veniat ad me!” He vanished, sparks crackling, after summoning some spawn named after the Roman emperor. George’s heart plummeted, not because of the threat but because Katherine had been taken where he couldn’t find her.

“Over there!” bellowed Jude, suddenly appearing and knocking Alexander’s blade away with a zing of steel.

Damas stood on the vast lawn up the hill, Katherine beside him, pale as the dress she wore. The air rumbled. Lightning splintered the sky, striking the ground close to Damas.

“Something big is sifting in,” said Jude.

A crackling boom, then a deafening roar vibrated into the night as a titanic demon spawn sifted above and landed on the lawn, the ground shuddering when his claws touched the earth. Two demons rushed out of the atrium at the noise, while Jude circled Alexander. Jude wielded a second blade in his left hand, readying for the newcomers.

“I’ve got this,” Jude said. “Go get her!”

George pulled Silversong from her scabbard with death on his mind and sifted closer to the beast. Katherine had fallen to the grass and stared up at the black-scaled dragon in awestruck horror. Damas stood over her as the beast shifted its body between George and Damas. George would have to kill the creature first or risk being killed before he could get Katherine out of there.

The prince’s new pet was four stories high with razor-like flaps framing its face. Black scales shimmered under the moonlight when the clouds broke before billowing over the luminous orb once more. Its mouth gaped wide, a crimson forked tongue slithering in and out. Ice-white eyes followed George as the creature stamped one foot, shaking the earth. It growled, the vibration rippling the air as it sidled forward. The clash of steel on steel behind George didn’t deter him. He stood his ground, sword at his side, gazing up at ten tons of death. Damas had made this mistake before, sending one of his biggest beasts to defeat George. There was no creature, great or small, that could keep him from Katherine.

Thunder rumbled above. Storm clouds blanketed the night sky, a sign of Flamma warfare. More demons tumbled from the atrium along with Clyde, who might as well have been one of them, for there was no humanity left in the man.

The beast swiped through the air at George, but it was no match for the centuries-old warrior. All the while, Damas stood to the side, holding on to Katherine, watching the display.

Clyde ambled toward the lawn, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the beast. He mumbled something, then laughed maniacally as if filled with uncontainable glee at the sight of a dragon, a living fairy tale on display for his pleasure.

Damas made a motion with his hand. “Caesar!”

The beast lunged, stretching out its long neck, opened its jaws and snapped them around the body of Lord Blakely. Katherine screamed again. The beast shook its head back and forth. The man’s legs dangled from its mouth before the dragon snapped Clyde in half, letting the legs fall to the ground, and tossed the rest of the man aside, a lifeless chunk of meat.

The beast turned back to George, effectively blocking him from Damas and, more importantly, Katherine. He had to dispatch the beast quickly and get to her. When the behemoth lunged for him as it had done Blakely, he simply sifted, not to another part of the lawn, but on top of the creature’s head. Raising his sword high, double-fisted on the hilt, he released a mighty blow, crunching the blade into the skull. The dragon screamed in pain and shook its head from side to side. George held on and shoved the sword deeper, never losing his balance, his aim straight and true.

The beast crashed to the ground, rolling as it went. George leaped but was caught by the dying dragon’s snout, his legs pinned as they tumbled to the ground together. He glanced toward the woman he loved.

Her eyes wide with terror, she was already running toward him, her arms outstretched. “George!”

Her feet suddenly left the ground as Damas caught her around the waist from behind. Damas glared at George with only one dark thought shining in his stormy gaze. Revenge. The demon smiled over Katherine’s shoulder as she struggled to free herself, one arm reaching out to her love.

“Farewell, Slayer,” said Damas.

Panicked, George froze for a second too long. He sifted, moving as fast as the lightning that webbed the sky. When he appeared where they had been standing, she was gone.

The lingering scent of sunshine and seashore filled the air, a torturous remnant of her warmth and beauty, now in the hands of George’s greatest enemy, taken into his dark lair in the underworld.

“George!”

Jude was being overrun. Racked with pain and fury, George sifted into the middle of the mayhem, swinging his sword wide, the blade still covered with Caesar’s blood. Jude had expelled four demons on his own, but the rest were pouring out of the building. Alexander was in the mix with them.

Fury drove George on like a madman, hacking and slashing. Black blood spewed. Injured demons fell at his feet. And he refused to relent, refused to expel them, leaving them mangled and monstrous, dismembered by Silversong’s vengeful wrath. Most of them fled, including Calliban. He wanted no part of the Slayer of Demons after witnessing his unabated rage and the bloodbath he refused to stop.

“Enough!” yelled Jude when George had hacked the last demon standing into unrecognizable pieces. Jude grabbed George’s shoulder. “Enough, man.”

George shook him off, heaving wildly, anger still burning through his veins. Jude walked from one pile to another, chanting the spell to send them back to Hell. One at a time, they combusted into smoke and ash. George did nothing, still clutching Silversong tightly, unable to quench his thirst for blood and revenge, for his true enemy was far, far away. With Katherine.

“And what about him?” Jude asked.

Against the atrium door, Alexander sat, clutching at a wound in his gut. Dark red soaked his waistcoat.

Jude stepped closer to George. “I’m sorry. He nearly killed me. I was only defending, but he turned and—”

“It’s not your fault. It’s his.” He ambled closer and stood over the fair-haired man who actually showed some genetic resemblance to him along the jawline and profile. He hadn’t noticed till this moment.

George considered letting his family line die right here, right now as he watched the lifeblood spread across Alexander’s belly like a blot of ink on parchment. But the bitter hatred he felt eating him up inside wasn’t for this young man whose eyes were already glazing with death. It was for himself. By one arm, he lifted the man. Jude got under the other and assisted.

“To Dartmoor,” said George.

They sifted together, landing on solid ground on the wide, lonely expanse of Dartmoor near a line of standing stones. The hills rolled under a silver sheen of moonlight—desolate and empty. They lowered Alexander and lay him flat on his back.

“Uriel,” said George, staring upward into the night sky, barely above a whisper.

In a streak of light, with a whipping crack, the white-winged archangel descended, half sifting, half flying to the earth. He didn’t wear the raiment of humans as he often did when blending with the populace. Today, he wore a blue tunic and pewter armor as a battle-ready warrior for the Flamma of Light. The tips of his wings shimmered gold like his hair, even under the pale moonlight. His aura of power beamed a halo around him.

“Who have you brought me?” he asked.

This was their custom. When George found a human worthy to join the ranks of Dominus Daemonum, he would summon Uriel to this lonely moor.

“His name is Alexander Godfrey.”

The archangel knelt and placed a palm on the dying man’s forehead. “Your blood pumps through his veins.” Uriel’s aura of power filled up the space where they stood. “One of your kin?”

“Yes.”

“He has fallen to the enchantment of a high demon. I detect the aura of a dark force. Not essence, but influence.”

“Damas.” George’s voice shook with rage. Simply saying his name nearly sent him over the edge. He could hardly breathe.

Uriel studied George with a clear, steady gaze. “Damas has hurt you to the heart this time. But I sense it is not over your descendant lying before me.”

Rigid and unmoving, George couldn’t speak, inhaling a deep breath as he stared out at the windswept moor that mirrored the hollow emptiness he felt inside.

“Damas has taken George’s—” Jude began and paused to clear his throat. “George’s friend, Katherine, was abducted tonight by Damas.”

“I see.” Uriel’s expression remained calm, never wavering. “We can only deal with one tragedy at a time. Is this man worthy of a second chance, to pay penance as a Dominus Daemonum? Or did you want me to save him solely because he is your blood?”

George still refused to answer. He felt as if Alexander’s wound had transferred to him, the pain spreading like a fatal lesion bleeding inwardly.

Jude stepped forward. “This man, Alexander Godfrey, fought on the side of the Dark tonight, defending Damas, trying to kill on behalf of a demon prince. I would say siding with Damas is mortal sin enough. Yet, there is good in the man. He is not filled with malice as men who have fully fallen are. He has been misled, following the will of an evil one with higher power.”

“Yes. I sense the darkness within. But I also sense the light.” Uriel lifted the unconscious man’s head off the ground with a hand on his chest. “His injury will certainly kill him soon enough. Let us see if he wants a second chance.”

A flare of light shot from Uriel’s hand, zapping Alexander awake. He coughed as his eyes popped open. Staring wildly at the angel leaning over him, he knit his brow into a frown.

“Am I…am I…dead?”

“No,” said Uriel. “But you are very close to death. If you should die at this moment, you will spend eternity in hell for your earthly crimes.”

Alexander’s gaze widened further, his youthful face filled with fear. “I don’t want to die.”

“I can save you,” said Uriel. “But if I do, you will no longer be human. You will live out your days as a force for good, fighting the evil that has corrupted your own soul. Sending them back to Hell.”

A puzzled expression fixed on Alexander’s face, which then contorted in pain as he gripped the wound on his abdomen, his hands already smeared scarlet.

“I don’t want to die,” he repeated.

“That is not an answer. If I give you this power to live again, to live long, you must pledge your life to the power of Light.”

He nodded, his ashen face grim but determined. “I do.”

“Very well.”

Setting his head back down, Uriel ripped open the man’s shirt. George had witnessed this many times. He knew the archangel needed to place his hands on bare skin to expel his own power into whatever human he made into one of them.

Pressing one hand high on Alexander’s chest and the other over the bloody wound, Uriel began to chant the words of making.

“Ignis caeli venite ad me.” The fire of heaven come to me.

White-hot light filled Uriel to the very tips of his wings, beaming like a star too bright for human eyes. The light shifted, pouring into Alexander’s body, beginning with his chest and running through his entire frame.

“Lux autem in tenebris. Libera eum.” Light up the dark. Set him free.

Ethereal flames licked into the night air, burning away the old, renewing his spirit with heavenly fire. Alexander cried out in pain, arching his back as the supernatural burn purged his body clean. The death wound on his abdomen closed up, sealing itself with nothing more than a thin scar running sideways where Jude’s sword had slit him open.

Uriel finally lifted his hands from the hunter’s body. For now, he was one of their own ranks against the Flamma of Dark. The new hunter breathed hard, still in shock but less shaken, an expression of relief covering his face as if he had awakened from a long nightmare.

“Hold still,” said Uriel, leaning over Alexander.

Wide-eyed, the man remained motionless as Uriel pressed his lips to Alexander’s, a palpable energy swirling in the air as, with a kiss, he passed him the power to sift. When Uriel pulled his mouth from Alexander’s, he fell back onto his haunches, exhaustion overwhelming him as it always did when he made a hunter. He stood, his own chest heaving from the exertion. Alexander’s eyes had fallen closed as he slipped into the deep sleep of making.

“Jude, take him to Father Abney. As you know, he’ll need a day or longer to recover.”

Jude obeyed at once, lifting Alexander in his arms. “George, I shall return to Thornton within the hour so we can discuss…so we can see if Damas has her here on earth somewhere.”

George nodded, still silent.

With a resounding crack, Jude vanished with Alexander clutched to his chest.

Ghostly light still shimmered around Uriel, the residue of the making. “Jude did not need to tell me. I know this lady, Katherine, is more than a friend. The grief pouring off your soul is suffocating.”

George never asked how Uriel could sense the emotions of others. Perhaps it was an archangel’s gift. He didn’t know. He’d never pried before. But he was glad he needn’t explain further.

“Then you know,” said George, “that I must do everything in my power to get her back. Damas will…corrupt her.” The images of the ways he would corrupt her broke through his mind, stabbing fresh pain straight to his heart.

“Yes,” agreed Uriel. “He will.”

“I must go.” George prepared to sift back to Thornton to devise a strategy for their search.

“George, you are not only my commander. You are my loyal friend. You must consider the possibility that she may be lost.”

George gazed directly at the archangel who had saved his life and who had become a brother-in-arms. “I cannot consider that possibility. Though you have made me a Flamma of Light, Uriel, my heart is still human. I will never recover if I cannot get her back.”

Pointing out that Uriel had the heart of an angel, not a human, might have been cruel, for it was the division between the species. Angels were made for power and strength, a shield of invincibility protecting them from the weakness humans suffered. Humans were made for love and beauty; their vulnerability was what made them feel on the deepest level and what could also crush their will to live.

Seemingly unperturbed, Uriel opened his white, gold-tipped wings a fraction, preparing to depart, his pure gaze steady, his expression calm. “Though I do not love as you do, I can understand the depth of your despair.”

A pang of regret pierced George for what he’d said. It was bitterness and grief that made him lash out at the archangel, his friend. He knew Uriel was capable of great compassion, as it had been his decision to build an army of hunters on earth while the rest of the heavenly hosts remained aloof, preparing for the Great War. Whenever that might come.

“I am sorry—”

“No need.” Uriel cut him off. “And no time. I have an errand of my own, then I’ll help you and Jude in the search. I’ll meet you at Thornton.”

He lifted off and vanished into the ether. George’s gaze followed him up into the sky. He stared at the canvas of stars, glittering in a dark cosmos, the moon shining bright as if all were right in the world. He glimpsed Katherine in his mind, reaching toward him, screaming his name as Damas snatched her from behind and carried her away, as Hades had spirited Persephone away to the underworld. Unlike in mythology, there was no alliance of gods on Olympus to help him bring her back. And Damas was not so benevolent as Hades to return her for half the year.

George had promised to protect her. And he’d failed. There were no words to describe the depth of his despair. Like a dark well, it pulled him down, dragging him deeper. If he remained there, he would certainly drown.

But he couldn’t give in. Katherine needed him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The crushing pain in George’s chest threatened to cripple him into a heap where he stood on a London wharf at sunset the following day. His heartache was so intense, his nerves quivered with anticipation, the need for action, even after a full day of searching the globe. Every den of Damas’s had been searched, from Europe to Asia to his domain in the far reaches of the West Indies. No sign of him. Or her.

A bell tower tolled. He glanced over his shoulder at Big Ben chiming the hour like a death knell. Six times. The stillness here, the water gurgling by, the pink-orange light as the day ended felt like the curtain drawing to end his life. He wished it were. Then he wouldn’t have to face his unforgivable failure, the Sisyphus-sized burden of what he had let happen to Katherine.

He must accept the fact that she was truly taken to the underworld. Out of his reach.

Jude stepped forward, his waistcoat dusty from the day’s journey alongside his friend. “She’s lost, George. Best to let her go. Forget.”

Uriel, exuding power and strength despite his own weariness from the event with Alexander last night and the long day of traveling, stepped forward. He chuckled low, his silver-tipped cane tapping along the wooden pier as he joined them. Having changed his warrior raiment for full evening attire, he looked the part of an aristocratic gentleman about to launch into a night on the London scene. The sun glinted behind him, casting his silhouette in pure gold.

“Something humorous?” asked Jude, his tone grave.

“You.” Uriel gestured toward him with his cane. “You would advise him to let her go.”

Jude shrugged. “She is lost to us now. There is no way to get her back.”

“He would as soon cut out his own heart,” said the archangel, stepping in front of the sun’s light, his shadowed face shining clearly. Though he cast illusion to hide his wings, George could still see their outline shimmering in the fading light. Remarkable power radiated from him, even though George knew it was diminished from his day’s work.

“And this is humorous to you why?” Jude’s expression darkened, his shoulders stiff, posture tight.

“Because, my friend, one day you will willingly fall into darkness for a woman.” The angel’s eyes glinted an unnatural green, holding secrets untold. “Without a thought, without a care, you will leap into death’s arms and give up your very soul. Because you deem her life worth more than yours, you will not allow her to become lost. You will never simply ‘let her go’.”

Jude blanched white under the archangel’s premonition, seeing it for the truth it would become. He swallowed hard, cleft chin tipping up in defiance. George wondered when that woman would arrive in Jude’s life, and if the pain of being separated from her would gouge Jude as deeply as the opening chasm in his own breast, widening with every second of the day.

Uriel turned his gaze on George. “What do you say? Do we let her go?”

A surge of fresh pain swelled within his bosom. “Never.”

The hunter and archangel kept silent for a moment, understanding there would be no convincing him of any other course but to find her, to save her. No matter what the cost. Jude spoke first.

“There is no way for us to enter his lair.”

Uriel tilted his head toward the city. “Perhaps there is. There is the portal of mirrors in every demon prince’s fortress.”

“That means nothing,” said Jude. “Flamma of Light cannot enter the house of a demon prince in the underworld.”

“The only reason is because the wards are too strong,” said Uriel. “We can’t enter Damas’s lair, but if we could find one of his brothers…”

“What? You think one of the princes plans to invite us down to the underworld into his home? Come on in, gentlemen. I know you’ve imprisoned hundreds of demons in Hell, but not a problem. Have a whisky.” Jude gave a mocking laugh. “That’s not going to happen.”

A ray of hope shot George through the heart. “Wait. I see what he means. Leverage. The demons like to bargain. We need something to leverage, and we could get in.”

Jude scratched his jaw, two days’ growth making him look more ruffian than gentleman. “Money and gold won’t interest them. What, then?”

“We need to capture one of the demon princes,” said George evenly. “Use him as leverage. As a trade.” George couldn’t even say her name aloud. Too painful. But all three present knew who he meant to trade.

Jude scoffed. “Brotherly love? They care little for each other. Afraid that won’t do it, my friend.”

“I think it will.” Uriel edged forward, tapping his chin in a uniquely human fashion. He was the only archangel George knew who devoted any time to saving humans, much less mingling with them and mimicking their characteristics and fashion. “You’re thinking of the prophecy, aren’t you, George?”

He nodded. “Though we have only half the prophecy, what we do know is that two demon princes play a large part. But none of them knows which one the prophecy refers to. They protect one another, not for any sort of brotherly affection, but to protect the outcome of the prophecy. The Flamma of Dark have as much chance at holding the reins as the Light do when the Great War begins.”

They hadn’t spoken of the Great War between the heavenly and demonic hosts, the war that would be waged for dominion over earth, in quite a long time. The truth was none of them longed for the day to arrive. But it would, nevertheless. Half the prophecy had been lost or stolen by one of the underworld. They still knew enough to realize that all seven princes must be alive when the prophecy came to fruition.

“George is right.”

“Great,” said Jude with a roll of the eyes. “And where do you plan on finding a demon prince? Calliban has gone deep underground. We could try Vladek, but his stronghold in Russia is impenetrable. Trust me, I’ve tried to get in.”

George stepped forward, suddenly excited. “Bamal.”

“Bamal. I haven’t seen him since the Crusades,” said Uriel.

“But he has resurfaced, or at least I believe he has. There’s been trouble in the New World. My newest hunter, Dorian, has seen signs of demonic activity around the city of New Orleans.”

Jude rubbed his day-old beard. “New Orleans? That place is a cesspool. Gambling, drinking, whoring, you name it.”

“Precisely how demons prefer to spend their time. The new territory is a shiny toy, the perfect bait to lure a demon prince to the surface.” George couldn’t help the excitement from leaking into his voice. Bamal was in New Orleans. He was sure of it.

“Catching a demon prince is the most difficult thing to do,” said Jude. “Will you help, Uriel?”

“Of course.” He didn’t hesitate, nodding in agreement. “But first, I must rest. After making Alexander, I need a day at the very least.”

A twinge of regret worried George’s mind about his descendant, Alexander Godfrey. All he’d wanted to do in coming to London was save the young man from Damas’s clutches. Because of his fiery temper, George had risked Katherine’s life as well as Alexander’s. Impetuosity had gotten his love stolen from him and turned his last remaining kin into a hunter. Damas had won. The line of George Draconis was broken for good. Alexander would not have a family of his own to love, cherish and watch over as he grew old.

He couldn’t dwell on that now. What was done was done.

“Fine, then,” said George. “We meet at Thornton at dawn.”

With a stiff nod, George sifted away, unable to even look at the glorious day shining down on the world. He had to escape.

Once in his bedchamber, he locked it and headed straight for the carafe of brandy on the sideboard. He needed to numb the helpless feeling crawling around in his gut like a poisonous serpent. He knocked back a glass, relishing the burn down his throat.

Damas would twist Katherine’s mind, then use her body. Often. He gulped down a second glass. A third. The pain wouldn’t ease. He was responsible. Damas had latched on to her from the moment George escorted Katherine onto the dance floor at the Weathersby ball. How could he have been so foolish? To let her fall into the hands of the most cunning, the most deceptive of them all? Fury lanced his body from the inside out.

He spun on his heel and launched the glass at the fireplace, shattering it into a thousand shards. Pieces scattered onto the floor, drawing his eye down. Something lay on the carpet at the end of the bed. He leaned onto one knee and lifted it. A white hair ribbon. The one he’d pulled from Katherine’s braid before he’d loved her well into the night. He’d wanted to see her golden hair in all its glory. And so he had. He pressed the ribbon to his mouth, inhaling her honey-flower scent. Crumbling to both knees, he clenched the small, silken fabric in his hand. And wept.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Falling, falling, falling. Swept away in the arms of Damas, Katherine was taken farther and farther from the world she knew, from George—her friend and protector, her love. Gray shapes blurred past them in the Void. Her slippers fell from her feet. The darkness swallowed her as she fell deeper and deeper into an abyss from which she feared she would never rise again. If she did, she would never be the same. She wasn’t a fool. Damas hated George. And he wanted her. She knew what that meant. But where was he taking her?

They finally righted on solid ground with a splintering crack into the night sky. Wait. There was no sky. No stars. No moon above. Only an endless canopy of black, as deep and dark as a monstrous nightmare. A building rose out of the gloom ahead. An unnatural haze of deep purple illuminated the formidable fortress.

Damas whispered from behind her, still gripping her waist, “Your new home, my lady.”

Beyond a tall wrought-iron gate, a castle rose out of indigo mist, its knifelike spires stabbing upward into the abyss. Tall, pointed windows glowed with white light. She couldn’t imagine what creatures lived there. Damas took her hand and tried to tug her along the dark path. Frozen in terror and shock, she wouldn’t budge.

“You can either come with me or stay out here.” His voice remained soft and calm, but an edge of promise that he would indeed leave her here to fend for herself sparked a new panic.

She twisted around to look behind her. A great forest of lifeless trees stretched into the far distance until she could see no more. Pairs of red eyes blinked in those woods. She sensed the gazes of foul creatures watching them.

He tugged her hand again. This time, she went. The ground was hard and cold beneath her bare feet. She stumbled on a protruding rock when they reached a gate.

“Oh, my lady. I apologize.” He looked down at her feet before sweeping her up into his arms, cradling her against him. “I didn’t realize you’d lost your shoes on the trip down.” He actually smiled at her. She wondered if he was mad. How could a villain smile at his captive?

She said nothing, trying to reason through her fear that this was real and tangible, trying to keep her head in this otherworldly place. As they drew closer to the castle doors, Katherine discovered something she had not expected. The arched doors with intricate carvings and stained glass windows depicting…angels—magnificent in flight—were beautiful. From afar, this place was a foreboding and impenetrable fortress with thick walls and tall battlements. Up close, it was a work of art. She wondered what it might look like in the daylight. A glance upward told her no daylight ever reached this place.

“Where are we?” she whispered.

“My home. Now your home.”

He was a demon prince. There was only one place he would truly call home.

“Hell?” she asked, voice quivering.

“I realize that term may strike fear into you, as it would most God-fearing humans. However, it has never been such for me. Here, you will be my queen—worshipped and adored.”

“By whom? Other demons and beasts of the underworld?” She could not restrain the contempt from her voice.

He gripped her tighter to his chest, drawing her gaze to his face—pale even where there was no light.

“By me, my lady.”

His clear blue-green eyes set in a perfectly beautiful face were a mockery of what he was. What she thought he was. Her pulse skittered faster.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your lady.”

His gaze fell to her lips, lingered, then trailed back up. His mouth quirked on one side as if he would say something. He didn’t, but marched on.

The door opened as they stepped closer. A servant—humanlike but not quite—closed the door behind them and latched it tight when they entered. The unearthly servant was dressed in butler’s livery, but his face was pasty gray, the skin sagging, the eye sockets sunk into his head, gaze glowing an unnatural yellow. If this creature had once been human, he had not been so for a very long time.

“Benjamin, my lady requires a hot bath. Will you see that Laurie draws one immediately in my bedchamber?”

Benjamin gave a bow, turned toward the wall and literally walked into it, disappearing into the gray-washed stone. Katherine gawked at the spot where the demonic creature with a very human name had vanished through a solid wall.

“Let me go.” Katherine struggled in his arms till he put her down. She backed away a few steps. “I’m not taking a bath in your bedchamber. Are you mad? You think I will give myself freely to you?”

He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Do not worry. I will give you the privacy you require.” He stepped closer, his fine Grecian face calm and serene. “But you will give yourself to me. Freely.”

“Never.”

He laughed. “Never is a very long time. Good thing we have forever to wait it out. I’m a patient man.”

“You are no man at all.”

He stiffened, expression hardening for a fleeting moment. “You must come to understand something, sweet Katherine.”

She tilted her chin higher, refusing to back away.

“You are in my domain now. There is no escape. I only want to care for you. To love you. The sooner you accept your fate, the sooner we can enjoy one another’s company.”

“To love me?” she asked with scorn. “How could you possibly know the meaning of the word? You abducted me against my will!”

He stood close and lifted his hand, trailing a finger down her cheek and along her jaw before letting his hand fall away.

“Yes. I took you from a man who didn’t deserve you. To give you more than he ever could.”

“He is a better man than you.”

“I presume you’re not speaking of your husband, for whom I see you shed no tears.”

“I did not love my husband, but what you did to him was…barbaric.”

“Even after he sold you to the highest bidder? I’d say he deserved a barbaric end.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat, remembering the panic of standing in that room. Then Damas had come. Even so, he was not her knight in shining armor. There was only one man who held that special place in her heart. Only one man who ever would.

“It is George of whom I speak. You hate him because he is better than you. In every way.”

“Is he? Then why could he not protect you? Why are you now standing here with me and not him? If he is better than me.”

Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She had been sure George would save her. He hadn’t. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“He will come for me,” she whispered.

Damas smiled sadly. “That’s where you’re wrong, my lady. He will not come for you. He will never come for you. You are mine now, so you’d better get used to the idea.”

His footsteps echoed on the white marble floor as he strolled toward a grand staircase carpeted in sapphire-and-gold interlacing designs, spiraling upward into the shadows. A wrought-iron chandelier centered above the foyer emitted a strange silver-white candlelight, creating a dreamy aura. A wall-sized oil painting, taller than she and perhaps thirty feet long, hung to the right, depicting a vibrant scene of beautiful angels falling from heaven, tumbling from celestial clouds into a shadowy abyss. One of the angels mirrored the man, the demon prince, standing at the foot of the staircase, beckoning her closer.

“Come, Katherine. There is no way now but surrender. Or death.”

To refuse him was futile. She knew this, though her rebellious heart denied the truth of his words. She finally followed, knowing she must find her own way out…if there was one.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The creature he called Laurie was a petite young woman, though not a true woman, dressed in maid’s livery. Her coarse brown hair was pinned on top of her head, and a white mobcap sat atop the mess. Pale gray, papery skinned, dour faced and mousy, she peered out from a pair of yellow eyes like the one called Benjamin. But Laurie actually looked on Katherine with pity, even understanding, although she never spoke.

“Laurie,” Katherine whispered as she stood out of the tub and wrapped herself in a robe. “Does he mistreat you?”

The demonic servant shook her head and pointed toward a white dressing screen. The silver platter of delicacies lay on the table untouched—roast lamb, sweetmeats, cream-filled pastries. Katherine refused to partake. She’d even tried to refuse the bath when Damas had brought her into this vast chamber with the enormous bed and emerald velvet coverlet. The seductive trappings of the room urged her to run. He’d given her the choice to obey willingly or he would assist with the bath. When she stopped struggling and stepped toward the pewter tub, he left the room.

The bedroom was vast—high ceilings with three dangling chandeliers that emitted the same peculiar, ghostly light. In one corner sat a small library—books from floor to ceiling, a soft, plush carpet and a red velvet sofa angled toward the fireplace. Decadence and luxury draped the room, and all of it terrified her.

Katherine ducked behind the screen. She didn’t know what Laurie had done with that horrific white dress, nor did she care. She hoped she’d burned it. She found two dresses hanging on the wall behind the screen, along with a new silk chemise and a high-quality corset with fine boning. The fact that they all appeared to be her size was even more alarming. How long had Damas been planning her capture?

She slipped into the chemise and jumped out of her skin to find Laurie standing behind her. She motioned to the corset. Katherine had thought she was too shy to speak. She wasn’t deaf, for she understood everything Katherine said.

“Yes. I see.”

Laurie played the part of the lady’s maid, cinching up the lacings and drawing them tight. Katherine wondered about Maggie, hoping that George would take care of her. A fresh wave of sorrow washed over her as she thought of Jane as well. What would they think happened? Would she ever see them again? She remembered hugging Jane good-bye, tears of joy in her eyes because she was embarking on the life she was meant to have, a life of love and adventure with George. The tears threatened to return. She held them back, refusing to give in to defeat.

Her new maid finished and ducked back into the room. Katherine stared at her two choices. One was a deep burgundy with a dramatic waistline and voluminous skirt. The second was a simpler gown in pale green made of a soft, shimmery material, softer than any silk she had ever seen. The button seam was along the side. She preferred the simple one. When she finished dressing and slipped into a soft pair of shoes, she exited the screen, fearing Damas would be waiting for her. He wasn’t. Neither was Laurie. She was alone.

Fortune seemed to smile on her and give her this window of escape.

She crept toward the twelve-foot-tall door and opened it. Everything appeared oversized in this place, as if the prince was too large for the space. No one lingered in the hall, which was lit by the unusual silvery firelight in sconces, reminding her she no longer dwelled in her own world. Part of her mind told her running was futile. The other part—the one that longed for home, for George and the safety of his arms—couldn’t do anything but look for a way out.

As she edged along the wall, she passed several closed doors until she came to an open entrance to a landing with stone steps spiraling up and down. She took the stairs going down, hoping they’d lead outside. The halls remained empty, giving her courage to move on. The stairs ended at a door, thick and heavy. She pulled on the latch with all her might and slowly dragged open the door. Gusting wind swept inside. Nothing but a smog-laden cliff and darkness lay beyond. Cold mist seeped through her skin, chilling her to the bone.

Taking a torch, she edged outside and found herself on a narrow ledge, a drop-off into impenetrable black below. She heard voices on the stairs behind her. Panic gripped her, making her move. When she sidled to the left, she saw an even narrower path along the cliff, leading to who knew where. She didn’t care. It led away from her captor. She had to get away from him. With her back to the cliff face, the torch in her left hand, she maneuvered along the mountainside. Whatever voices she’d heard died away. Her heart surged with each step away from his dark castle filled with its sensual surroundings and temptations. She wanted no part of Damas’s feast of sin.

The wind whirled, pulling at her skirt and whipping her hair, which had fully fallen around her shoulders from the night’s events. Then she heard a snort from below and the long beat of large wings. Frozen in place with one hand gripping the cold rock face, she lifted the torch. A beastly face appeared in the wind, the head of a black dragon level with hers, ice-blue eyes narrowed as it hissed, sharp fangs protruding from a wide mouth. She screamed and dropped the torch, which tumbled into the darkness below.

“This can’t be happening,” she murmured. “This isn’t real.”

But it was. She could no longer see but only hear the creature hovering in the air, snorting, its breath hot against her skin. Just as she started to edge away along the cliff, something gripped her waist in a tight hold. She touched her fingers to sharp talons and scaly skin the second before she was snatched off the edge into nothingness.

“No!” she screamed, but it was no use.

The creature lifted her into the air. Far below, that eerie haze of light blanketing Damas’s lair had muted to midnight blue, outlining the wall surrounding the fortress and the dead forest beyond. The beast carried her back to the cliff ledge, where Damas stood waiting, and dumped Katherine unceremoniously at his feet. Her hip hit hard. Her palms slapped the cold stone.

The dragon clung to a crag on the edge, its mighty breath huffing out in white gusts. Rock crumbled away from the edge where its claws dug in. Katherine could only stare in horror, trembling, wrapping one arm around her waist where those claws had gripped her, though hadn’t punctured to the skin.

“Good girl, Portia.” Damas stroked the beast’s snout. The creature closed her eyes under her master’s attentions, growling her pleasure, then suddenly lifted off. The beat of her wings blew Katherine’s hair and gown, baring her pale legs. Then the dragon vanished into darkness once more.

Katherine expected rage and fury from her captor. He simply squatted before her, perused her face and tucked a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. She was too terrified even to flinch. He smiled, seemingly unperturbed, as if he expected this behavior. Without a word he carefully lifted her in his arms and marched back into his fortress, up the stairs toward the bedroom.

“You must let me go,” she pleaded. “I’ll die here.”

“No. You won’t die here. Your mortality stands still while in my domain. In essence, you will live forever now.”

His flippant response stunned her silent. He moved down the long corridor, white candlelight casting a soft glow, after nonchalantly announcing that she was immortal.

“Are you being serious?”

“Never more so. That is why I wanted to bring you to my home. On earth, your life would be too short—a blink in time, your beauty wasting away far too soon. Here”—he paused outside his bedchamber, peering down with a gentle gaze—“you can be my queen for eternity.”

Katherine had never been the fainting kind, but her head spun at this new revelation. He did not take her to the bed as she’d feared, but placed her on the carpet in the corner next to the velvet sofa. He knelt and chanted strange words in a language she had never heard, with his palm one foot above the floor.

Black mist curled out of the carpet, swirling around his wrist, then straightening into a line, solidifying into a black iron stake. He continued to chant. More black smoke emitted from his palm, circling the iron stake and zig-zagging into the shape of a chain with a circular cuff at the end. Katherine stared in shock, not even realizing the purpose of this demon essence until he clamped the cuff on her wrist and stood above her.

“You’re chaining me here?” she asked, rattling the chain and pulling it tight. “Like an animal!”

“It is for your safety, my lady. Danger lies outside beyond my borders.”

“Stop calling me that!” she shrieked with hysteria, the tears pouring now. “I am not your lady. I am not yours!” She hiccuped on a sob. “George will come for me. He will.”

The beautiful demon prince crouched down on his haunches, his expression as patient and calm as ever. “He will never come for you. Once you realize and accept that truth, you will surrender to me. And I will release the chains.”

With that finality, he rose and left her alone once more.

She crumbled to the floor, her chain rattling, and wept hard, hot tears until exhaustion and sleep took her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Time passed. Days? Weeks? She wasn’t sure. Even though there was a tall, narrow window, usually concealed behind heavy gold curtains, the light changed little. There was no sun to rise and shine down on this netherworld. A supernatural hue tinted the endless woodlands fuchsia, then purple, then the deepest, darkest blue throughout the cycle of a day. At least, Katherine thought it was a day that passed. She really had no idea.

She was released from her chains in the library nook once a day, when Laurie came to draw her bath and help her redress. Damas had come the first day after her failed attempt at an escape. When she threw a book at his head, he looked on her with no expression at all, then quietly left the room. He had not returned since.

He puzzled her. She expected a tyrant, a villain, a monster. To be greeted with patience and calm was perplexing.

Laurie delivered meals three times daily—always a beautiful array of roasted meats, fragrant herbed vegetables, pastries, bread and jams, cakes and a piping hot pot of tea. All reminders of the life she had left behind. She imagined Damas sifting to the human world daily to fetch her worldly comforts in order to try to make her happy.

She was miserable. Beyond miserable. She would break out into bouts of weeping without any trigger at all. She’d jerk on the chain till her wrist bled, knowing she couldn’t break it. The cuff would only squeeze tighter when she resisted its hold. Made of demon magic, it could not be escaped. Laurie would tenderly clean whichever arm held the cuff that day at bath time, then cuff the opposite arm on a chain added to her bed. Katherine feared Damas would join her there. But he never did. He never came at all.

She had left every food tray completely untouched until the third day. She’d begun reading to pass the time, for it seemed to slide by like water through a sieve. She’d been reading a copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, considering Anne Elliot’s plight. Anne had been parted from her love for years when he stepped back into her life. After all that time, their love had remained strong and true.

“George will come for me,” Katherine whispered, glancing at the tray of food when her stomach rumbled. That was the point at which she decided to live and stay strong and be patient.

But another day…and another…and another. Nothing changed. The routine was the same till she lost track of the days, if there were even days to track. No contact of any kind with anyone but Laurie, who remained mute. She didn’t look at her with sympathy anymore. After robotically helping her with the bath and dressing her in a new gown, which arrived every night, cleaned and fresh, she’d leave without a word. It was like living with a ghost. Or becoming one.

Standing in front of the long mirror, she admired the newest dress, the bodice woven with tiny rosebuds, the skirt sweeping out in sky blue. Obviously, Damas was acquiring her wardrobe for her, sifting to London, perhaps even to her own dressmaker, for all she knew.

Staring at her reflection, pallid and thin, she wished she were readying for a ball and were about to go down for the carriage to take her away. And she’d become so tired of it all. What she wouldn’t do for normalcy, to have her life back. Her mind conjured the sound of the orchestra leading the dancers into a waltz.

A waltz.

George.

She sobbed again, longing for him till she thought she’d literally break in half.

The loneliness clawed at her, a sad little beast that lurked and burrowed deep within, reminding her she was alone, always alone. And it wasn’t the kind of loneliness she experienced on earth. She’d often spent time alone as Lady Katherine. Thankfully so. Having never quite found too many friends, except for Jane, she’d become accustomed to being on her own. Her own husband was rarely home. Another blessing. A solitary walk through the gardens would clear her thoughts. Afternoon tea in her sunlit parlor with a book would ease her mind. A long ride down Rotten Row was always a pleasant venture. During so much of her quaint little London life, she had enjoyed being alone.

But this place… It was different. Dreamy. The air was heavy—not suffocating, but tantalizing. She wondered if there was magic swirling in the atmosphere, the way her thoughts wandered so easily, the way she drifted off to sleep so often only to awaken and find the fire was burning bright and a new candle had been set on her table next to the sofa where she read. She slept often and dreamed of nothing. The emptiness filled her up until she fell onto the carpeted floor, weeping, her chain rattling at her wrist.

Loneliness never waned but grew exponentially. Always grew. The hollowness beckoned to be filled. She wondered where Damas was, where he had gone, why he left her so abandoned in this place.

Every time the door opened and Laurie stepped in, Katherine found herself disappointed. Then she’d berate and hate herself for longing to see him. Her desperation to converse, to connect with another person, overwhelmed her till she trembled. She would read more ravenously, trying to escape her tormented reality. The pile of books she’d read and reread rose higher and higher. She noticed that she’d started her third pile, all of them so tall they teetered, ready to fall with the slightest breath of wind.

How long would she ache with this bitter sorrow slowly eating her from the inside out? No one could tell. There was only ever the sound of the wind howling beyond the castle walls or the crackle of a fire in the grate or Laurie pouring a bath, one pot at a time.

No words of comfort. No words of any kind. Only those in her mind—memories repeating over and over. She once relived her meeting with George at the church, the way he spoke softly, whispering with kindness, holding her hand and tracing the soft lines of her palm. That memory nearly killed her. She didn’t eat for days, but slowly fell back into the routine.

Read, eat, sleep. Eat, sleep, read.

Nothing ever changed, until one day…

Chapter Twenty-Six

Her dinner tray came with an alabaster figurine standing in the middle—a beautiful work of art of a woman riding astride a lovely horse. Katherine studied it carefully in her hands, realizing the facial features of the woman were too marked to be anyone but her.

“Did your master give you this?” she asked Laurie.

The servant nodded and went about drawing her bath. It took her five trips, leaving and returning with pots of warm water. Since she sifted through the castle walls to wherever the water was heated, the process took no time at all. After her last pail was poured, Katherine stepped into the steaming tub.

“Has he asked how I am doing? Or whether I’m even still alive?”

The demon girl, or whatever creature she was, said nothing, of course, but went about her business in silence.

Katherine took the figurine into the bath with her, turning it over and over, tracing the lovely lines of the horse and noting the exquisite habit the rider wore, not dissimilar to the one she owned.

That night, Katherine fell asleep staring at the figurine on her bedside table and dreamed of galloping through a wintry forest, the evergreens blanketed in downy snow. The wind cut gloriously against her cheeks, filling her lungs to bursting with cold air. She felt wonderfully alive and strong and beautiful.

She awoke suddenly. In the dark. Alone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Another day. Katherine pushed away the platter Laurie had brought for her, untouched. She had no appetite, her heart aching, wishing she were truly the girl on the horse, able to ride far, far away. Curling into a ball on the hearth rug, she fell asleep, then dreamed of being a young girl again, sitting in a summer field, picking at clover while her father’s tenants worked rows of wheat on the land. She awoke to find a soft pink quilt draped over her, smelling of sunshine and earth and wheat. She wept again.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

One day, having picked at the beef stew and baked bread and drained the large glass of wine, having let the warm custard go cold, she was lying stretched out on the velvet sofa when Damas walked in, as casually as ever. She popped into a sitting position with the book in her lap, watching him cross the room in a cavalier manner. Her pulse raced at the sight of him, dressed in formal evening wear, looking dapper and rakish as always. He was truly handsome in a cold, porcelain sort of way. Katherine’s thoughts were usually preoccupied with a warm, auburn-haired gentleman.

His expression showed her he wasn’t pleased with what he saw. “Good evening, Katherine.”

She didn’t reply.

“You do not look well. Are you eating?”

“Sometimes,” she replied, noting her voice was scratchy from disuse.

He sat next to her on the sofa, leaving two feet between them, his body angled toward her. “I wish you would eat. Your cheeks have lost color.”

She wanted to pick up the book in her lap and throw it at his head as she had done before, but she knew he would leave and not return for an eon, like before. He’d taught her well the consequences of bad behavior. She needed someone to talk to or she’d go mad. Even him.

“I’m depressed,” she said in a stoic, unfeeling manner.

“I see that. I do not wish it.” His voice rolled against her skin, a soft caress of compassion. He was sincere, and it made her hurt even more.

“Then let me go.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and glanced down at his clasped hands. “I cannot.”

She wanted to scream and rage against him, but the penalty would be more isolation. And damn her if she didn’t long for human, or even demon, conversation. She bit her bottom lip, tasting the salty tang of blood.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“The Castle of Otranto.”

Damas smiled and reclined against the sofa, one arm draped over the back, his hand falling too close to Katherine for her liking. She inched away.

“I suppose I am the evil prince and you are the lovely Isabella, plotting to escape his Gothic castle?” His smile shouldn’t affect her so. A flutter of joy filled her belly to speak to someone, to hear the voice of another, even his.

“There is no escape for me. Except in my dreams.”

“And what do you dream of?”

“The world outside that I can no longer see.”

He made no reply.

“Will I ever see it again?”

“That depends on you.” He tapped his index finger on the sofa back. “For now, it is not wise.” He stood and straightened his coat. “I can see that I’ve disturbed you coming so soon. I’ll leave you now.”

“So soon? So soon! I’ve been alone for forever. Laurie won’t speak to me. I’m confined to these four walls with no one to talk to, and my mind is”—she pushed her palms to either side of her head, feeling a headache coming on, her chain rattling—“my mind is breaking from this tortured loneliness.”

“Perhaps I’ve left you too long.” He stepped forward. “Stand up.”

His voice was gentle, but she feared him still.

“Please,” he added with a disarming expression.

She stood, and he gently gripped her forearms. He observed her wrists, one still cuffed, both of them chafed and scarred from the restraints.

“Would you like me to make the pain go away? Here?” He stroked a thumb along her wrists above the scars. “And there?” He gestured to her head.

She longed to say no and reject his offering, like a scrap to his dog, but the misery of her life filled her to the brim—the aching loneliness, the desperate longing, the pain and bitterness in her heart. She needed him, even if she were nothing more than a pet. Still holding on to her pride, she would not beg. She gave one stiff nod of her head.

“Good.” He smiled. With a wave of his hand, the cuff disappeared from her wrist. She breathed a sigh of relief to be free of the bonds. “Stay still.”

She did. He slid his hands up and wrapped both wrists, chanting in that foreign tongue like before. The constant stinging pain that had become so normal to her vanished at his bidding. The red chafing disappeared, the scars shrinking to a ring of thin white lines.

“Now for your head.”

He combed his fingers into her unbound hair at the temples, caging her skull in his hands. The sensation was divine. Katherine’s eyes slipped closed. His whispering voice and the magic emitted from his palms lulled her into a dreamy state, a delightful enchantment. Whatever spell he worked on her, she felt lighter and less burdened. He loosened his hold, pulling one hand away, leaving the other, threaded into her hair, his palm against her cheekbone. She opened her eyes to find him gazing at her with obvious longing. Her pulse quickened.

She edged backward a step, then another, till his hand fell away, breaking the tension crackling between them. For a brief second, she knew how his lips would feel on hers. The thought of his hands on her body sent a sweet tingle along her skin. The sudden, hard betrayal of letting him touch her, of what she considered for even a moment, threatened to send her into a darker abyss than before. She would not be his lover. Could not.

“How long have I been here?” she asked, her intuition telling her this desperation and madness did not arise from a mere week or two.

“I thought you needed your privacy, to come to terms with your new life.”

“How long, Damas?”

It was the first time she’d used his name. His mouth tilted up on one side into a half smile.

“Ten years.”

Katherine flinched. “Ten years! That’s impossible.”

“It is not. Time slips by differently in this realm. It does not feel as long, but the human world has turned over ten years during your absence.”

In reality, it had felt long. But ten years? Her knees buckled and her legs gave way. She sat where she had stood on the carpet and stared at the fire that blazed with that ethereal white flame.

Damas knelt on one knee beside her, coaxing in a low, soft voice, “I understand that this comes as a shock to you, but know that your life doesn’t have to be this way.” He motioned toward the chain snaking in a line on the carpet. “You have a choice. I could show you things you’ve never seen before. Beautiful things. If you’d only let me.”

She hadn’t shed a tear. Ten years and not one sign of George. He had forgotten her. Given her up. She swallowed the lump in her throat and inhaled a deep breath, fixing her gaze on the fire once again.

“Why is the flame that color?”

He smiled. “The elements aren’t the same here as they are on earth. Everything is created with our power.”

“Demon magic,” she clarified.

“I suppose you could say that.”

She couldn’t help but confess her thoughts. “The light is beautiful.”

“It is,” he said. “But not half as beautiful as you are, Katherine.”

She snapped her gaze back to him, afraid he would use this as an invitation. Instead, he rose to leave. He glanced down at the chain on its stake. With a wave of his hand, the iron melted into a swirl of black smoke and dissipated into the air.

“I will not bind you. Unless you try to run again.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and she meant it. There was no point. There was nowhere to run to.

“Good.” With a swift bow, he said, “Good night.”

Before he reached the door, she called out, a sudden fear gripping her again. “Will you visit tomorrow?”

He turned at the door, a bright smile lighting his face. “Yes. I will.”

As he closed the door quietly behind him, Katherine wondered what sort of life she could have in a place like this. And for how long? George wasn’t coming for her. She had no love for the prince, but he filled the gaping hole inside her, the chasm begging for the kind company of someone, anyone. The company of a demon prince was better than going mad in the darkness…alone.

Or so she thought.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

He returned every day. He sat and talked with her, even dined with her, having brought in a small table set elegantly for two rather than having her serving tray delivered as usual.

She didn’t ask how many years had passed anymore. She didn’t want to know.

One evening, he didn’t come for dinner. Laurie offered her no explanation. She entered and began pouring her bath in the corner as always. Katherine brought a tall candelabrum on a stand near the bath so she could continue reading her most recent obsession, Dante’s The Divine Comedy. She found its placement in her library ironic and couldn’t stop the compulsion to read it with avidity.

While she soaked in her after-dinner bath, reading, Laurie sitting on her stool, mute as always, Damas walked into the room. Katherine froze, watching him pick up a chair from their dining table and set it beside the tub. He wore riding attire with a black leather coat, a style she’d not seen before.

She set the book aside and crossed her arms over her breasts, lowering her body farther under the water till it reached right below her chin. “Is there a reason you’ve decided to barge into my chamber while I’m obviously preoccupied with something I’d rather keep private?”

“I apologize for disturbing you, but I wanted to see you.”

“You missed dinner.”

His boyish expression made her stomach flip over. “Did you miss me?”

“I didn’t say that. But if you’d wanted to see me, you might’ve made it for dinner, which has become our appointed time.”

“I have something I want to show you, something I’ve been working on for you. So hurry with your bath, and we can go.”

She sat up a little straighter, the water line dropping on her breasts. His gaze roamed, sending her back into the water. “Where?”

“I’m not telling you. Hurry and get dressed. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

He left through the door, and Katherine wondered why he always walked here and there. He could easily sift anywhere, but he didn’t. He chose to walk.

When she went behind the dressing screen, there was no dress waiting for her but a pair of black trousers, a dark vest and a blue velvet riding jacket.

“Laurie, these are men’s clothes. I can’t wear these.”

Laurie lifted the jacket from the rack and showed it to her. The clothes were tailored to Katherine’s measurements.

Perplexed, she put the clothes on over a corset shorter than she’d worn before. The styles were certainly changing if women were permitted to wear these. It was a strange sensation to wear pants that hugged her legs. She found it preferable to a dress, actually.

When she met him at the foot of the staircase she had not come down since her imprisonment—for she hadn’t forgotten she was indeed a prisoner here—she found him gazing at the overlarge oil painting on the wall.

“Are women really wearing this now?”

“Most women, no,” he answered, watching her descend the staircase. “But a few in France are becoming adventurous.”

“France. Of course.” She stopped two steps from the bottom, able to look down on him. Glancing at the painting, she asked, “And do you employ artists here in Hell?”

“No.” His gaze fell on the picture again, the beautiful angels falling from ethereal heights. “I hired an artist during the Renaissance to paint this for me.”

She laughed. “During the Renaissance. By an artist of the age, I’m sure.”

“Definitely. I’m an aficionado of beautiful things, and I want only the best.”

She refused to read anything further into his reply. “Your artist was a Renaissance painter, wasn’t he?” She’d always thought the lines of the prince’s face resembled those sculpted by Michelangelo.

“You may have heard of one of their protégés. Raphael.”

Katherine’s jaw dropped. “Raphael painted this? For you?”

“He did. A fine job too, especially as he was still an up-and-coming artist at the time. But I’d seen his talent. Still”—he leaned forward and examined one particular spot closely—“you can see he’s made a few mistakes here in his brushwork.”

She stepped down to take a closer look. “It’s absolutely stunning. Though the subject is quite sad.”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

He stole a glance at her. “Of course I do. But I don’t regret it.”

He spoke of the Fall. She found herself mesmerized by the fact that she stood next to one of the angels who fell from heaven, cast out for his rebellion.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why did we do it? Or, why don’t I regret it?”

“The first.”

“Because we were not loved. We’d been replaced by humans. I saw that you were reading Dante Alighieri’s version of events. That man must’ve had the ear of a demon to write his Divine Comedy.”

“Why? Was he right? Is the book accurate of how—I mean, the way things are? Were?”

“No, not hardly. Most of the work is fanciful, but there are threads of truth that cut to the heart of it all. He got some things right, and I believe he was sympathetic to our cause.”

“Your cause? To defy God? What kind of cause is that?”

His eyes burned bright when he observed her. “Defiance wasn’t our goal. We wanted the love promised to us. But that was bestowed upon the human race. Frail, pitiful creatures who preferred to destroy themselves rather than flourish in the paradise created for them. So yes, we were cast out. Separated from our kin. Doomed to live in a cold world.” He raised his arms, gesturing to the world around him. “We lost our wings, but we kept our power. Though many hearts accepted the dark, letting it fester inside of them and make them into new creatures, I kept hope that all wasn’t lost. That we could still have a life worth living. Even here.”

He stepped back from the painting with a deep inhalation, closing his eyes, before exhaling again and settling his expression into the serene façade she knew so well.

“Come, Katherine. I have something to show you.”

He didn’t reach for her, but walked toward the large outer door. With a swift glance at the dark-haired angel in the painting, frozen with sorrow on his face as he fell into the abyss, she turned and followed the fallen angel himself.

As soon as she’d descended the stone steps, the purple-hued mist parted and a creature snuffed the air to her left. She turned to dart back inside, but Damas was at her side, taking her hand.

“It’s all right. Come and meet her.”

With her heart hammering in her throat, she let him pull her closer until she was able to see the glow of ice-blue eyes. Expecting one of his dragons, she was surprised to see instead a large black horse—a beautiful, sleek one.

“Oh my.” Katherine eased closer, holding out one palm.

“Her name is Athena.”

Her glossy coat glistened, her mane and tail flowing into silky locks.

“She’s so beautiful.” As Katherine patted the mare’s neck, she realized the horse was saddled and bridled.

“She’s yours,” he said.

“You—you made her for me.” Katherine stated this as a fact, not a question. There was no doubt the beast was created from the essence of Damas, using the same power with which he’d created his dragons.

“Yes.” He stood on the other side of Athena, soothing her with gentle strokes. “I want you to be happy here,” he said, his tone sincere. “Come on. Let’s take her for a ride.”

“What? Both of us?”

He circled around to her side.

“I can’t let you run around here by yourself. I’m making arrangements to extend my guards and wards well beyond the castle. But for now, I must go with you. For your safety.”

She stared at his outstretched hand.

“Or would you rather go back to your room?”

“No,” she replied immediately, sidling up to the saddle.

“You’ll swing your leg over—”

He stopped, for she’d already settled herself in and grabbed hold of the reins. “Riding astride,” she said to herself with a smile. “I never thought.”

He gripped the pommel and swung himself up behind her. “You look like a natural horsewoman.”

“I am. Hold on.” With a nudge of her heels, Athena took off.

Damas wrapped one arm around her waist as they plunged into the dark forest, a path weaving in and out of the leafless trees. She laughed a deep, throaty laugh for the first time in so long.

“As I said.” Damas chuckled in her ear. “A natural.”

She tried to ignore the way he gripped her tight, the way his thumb pressed the underside of her breast, their bodies molded together as Athena galloped farther afield. But she could not. The sensation was enticing, spinning her conscience into a storm of guilt. And yet she urged her mount on, thrilled to feel the wind on her face and the horse pounding the ground beneath her.

Damas nuzzled into her hair, his lips grazing her ear. “We’d best not go too far from the castle, though we can ride as long as you like.”

One of his hands slid to her thigh. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her bottom. She spun Athena around and galloped fast and hard back to the fortress. Once through the gates, she pulled Athena to a stop. The mare breathed out cold smoke.

“I want to go inside,” said Katherine, hands trembling as she squeezed the reins.

“I know you do,” he said, easing his arms from around her so he could dismount first.

He lifted her down, whether she wanted help or not, and planted her firmly on the ground between him and Athena. With her hands on his shoulders, keeping him from pressing too close, she repeated, her voice a slight whisper, “I want to go inside.”

He drank her in for what felt like an eternity, his hands still gripping her waist, the seconds ticking by slowly.

“I know you do.” He leaned close to her ear. “And I know what else you want.” Pressing a kiss beneath her ear, he finally released her.

Katherine didn’t stop running till she’d made it to her bedroom and barred the door. Not that it would matter. He could sift into any room he pleased. After climbing into bed that night and tucking deep into the covers, she expected that he would come to her in the night. He didn’t. But the dreams did.

As she galloped through the wintry forest on her black mare, naked and bare, her lover rode behind her. The sound of the horse’s hooves echoed through the trees. The sound morphed into pants of passion. The vision of the horse faded. She was on all fours on the forest floor, her dark lover behind her, thrusting hard and deep, both of them sweating and moaning with pleasure. She screamed, but not in fear or terror. She screamed for more. And she screamed his name.

She awoke in the dark, saying “Damas.” No light at all but a subtle hint of indigo filtered through the parted curtains. Cursing herself, she curled into a ball and wept again. This time it wasn’t the unknown or her endless imprisonment or her heartbreak of losing George that caused the tears to burn hard down her cheeks. It was her own weakness—dry and brittle like the branches of the Black Forest—threatening to bend and break under the temptation that would surely send her into madness this time. She felt like Marguerite, completely under the guile and power of Mephistopheles.

“No,” she whispered. “Please, no.”

But there was no one to hear her prayer in the darkness of Damas’s domain.

Chapter Thirty

The next time Damas came for dinner, he offered her another night with Athena, but this time on her own. She took the gift gladly. After he pointed out the perimeter, which she understood was for her own safety, she stayed within the border.

She went out again on Athena the next night. And the next. These escapes into the woods with the wind in her hair were a reprieve from the days isolated in her castle bedroom, though he’d unlocked her bedroom door and given her permission to explore any room where the door remained open. She did, finding rooms upon rooms of paintings, artifacts, weapons and furniture—ancient and beautiful. Roman battle shields, Baroque paintings, Grecian urns, Viking battle-axes, medieval swords, Rococo furniture appearing as if it had been taken directly from the palace of Versailles. Perhaps it had been. All of it magnificent and lovely. This occupied her days with little journeys through time. He’d join her at dinner by night, when they’d talk of books, usually whatever she happened to be reading.

One evening after a long ride, she paused outside a room where the door was closed. She’d never disobeyed his orders before, but she’d been through every room on the first floor, twice. Something beckoned her to open the large iron-studded door, the first room off the vast foyer. Its proximity to the main hall and the intricate designs marked it as important in some way. Like Pandora, her curiosity got the best of her.

Pushing open the heavy door just enough to slide her body through, she found the massive room mostly empty. A pointed ceiling with ribbed vaults and wide columns with Gothic capitals framed a center aisle, leading toward a throne at the head of the long room. The throne was tall and wide, carved of deep mahogany wood with a pointed arch at the head. A second throne, smaller, sat to its left, equally elegant in dark mahogany. Black velvet draped behind the dais where the thrones stood. A perimeter of shadow surrounded the room. These weren’t museum pieces or artifacts. An eerie tingle rippled over her skin.

Then something caught her eye. Along the right wall stood three tall mirrors. Glancing to the left, she saw three more in perfect symmetry. She edged closer to the left, realizing they weren’t mirrors at all. There was movement on the other side of one, and torchlight. Peering closer, she saw figures, though blurred, moving in another room on the other side.

“Naughty girl, Katherine.”

She spun to find Damas standing a few feet behind her, his clothes disheveled, a riding crop in his hand, and a streak of black blood on his white shirt, ripped halfway open. Eyes wide, she took in his appearance and trembled for being caught.

“Don’t worry. It’s not my blood. Just a few trespassers on my border. They won’t be returning.”

He stalked closer. Something was different about him tonight. He wasn’t playing the gentleman but moved rather like a predator. She backed away as he circled closer.

“I had planned to wait before showing you this room myself.”

“What—what were you waiting for?”

“For you to finally surrender to me.” His footsteps echoed in the hollow room as he walked forward.

“Surrender?” Her voice trembled.

“I believe we can dispense with the games, sweet Katherine. The wooing stage is over.”

Her heart hammered against her rib cage as she eased away from him, glancing at the riding crop in his white-knuckled grip.

“Do you think I’d hurt you?” He laughed and dropped it with a clack to the stone floor. “I might break you, but you’ll love every minute of it. I promise.” His expression cracked into a wolfish grin, but his gaze remained intense and cold.

“Please, Damas—”

He sifted and pinned her to a white marble column before she could even blink.

“I don’t love you,” she murmured as his body pressed hard against hers.

“Lust will do. For now.” His lips molded to hers, tongue stroking in, wickedly sweet, stealing her breath and tasting her deeply. He crushed her body with his own before breaking the kiss.

They both panted, breaths mixing.

“I don’t love you,” she protested again, more weakly than the first.

“No. But you’ll worship me before I’m through. I’ll even make it easier for you.”

He slid his hands down her arms, gripped her wrists and pinned them above her head. With a guttural chant, he swung back an arm, and a stake formed in his hand by the time he plunged it into the marble with a resounding clank. Two cuffs swirled out of black smoke and bound her tight.

“You said you wouldn’t chain me anymore. I kept my promise. I haven’t run away.” Her desperation rang in her own ears.

He kept his body pressed to hers, letting her feel his strength and the intoxicating power vibrating an aura around them both, smothering her with his sensuality.

“I’m not binding you to keep you here, sweet lady. I bind you to remove the guilt you still harbor in your heart. Humans can’t seem to escape their consciences. Free will and all that, I suppose. I’m removing the choice. Now you can let go. Now you can take what you want, what you’ve been resisting for so long.”

With a wave of his hand, her riding jacket, trousers and boots vanished into thin air, leaving her in a blouse and her corset. Shock must’ve shown on her face.

“That’s right, Katherine. My essence is in everything in this place. I rule in every corner and every fiber of everything…except in here.” He spread his fingers into her hair with his palms on either side of her head at the temples, as he had that first night she let him touch her. She whimpered, realizing all her mistakes, allowing him to get closer and closer, weaving a tight rope around her will until she had none left. He swept his lips over hers. “But I’ll be in here after tonight, and you’ll never wish for another.”

“That’s not true,” she whimpered.

He grinned, his lovely face turning wicked. “I’ll let you have your fantasy the first time. But not after.”

His black hair lightened to auburn. His eyes brightened to clear aquamarine. The angles of his face shifted to the lines of the face she longed to see more than anything in the world.

“George,” she cried.

He ripped open her blouse and admired the view.

She knew he wasn’t George, but just seeing the likeness of him made her heart ache and yearn for his touch.

“Please. Have mercy,” she begged, for she knew she couldn’t resist what he was offering. She did want him and hated herself for it. All this time feeling an aching loneliness dig deeper into her soul, and now to feel his passionate, if rough, touch was divine. The rougher, the better. She finally felt alive again.

“You’ll find no mercy here,” he finally answered, in Damas’s voice, not George’s. Her mind reeled. “I’ve given you long enough.”

He assaulted her mouth again, both hands curling around the top of the corset. He deepened the kiss. She couldn’t resist the likeness of George as the bodice vanished altogether. He mounded one breast with his palm and descended on the other, nipping down her throat to her breast and teased the taut nub, before gliding to the other. She dropped her head back and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to defy the pleasure coursing through her body.

“Don’t lie to yourself anymore. Or to me,” he said, before his hand trailed up her thigh to the apex between her legs, two fingers stroking. He moaned at her readiness. She could hear the smile in his voice, for she refused to look at him any longer. “Your body says yes, sweet Katherine.” He chanted three guttural words, and his clothes disappeared. All that heat pressed deliciously against her. “If you can tell me no, and mean what you say, then I will show you mercy.”

She opened her eyes to stare into the face of the one she loved and longed for most in the world. A tear slipped, for she knew this wasn’t truly George, only a fantasy Damas offered. One she couldn’t resist. She wanted it. She wanted him.

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a smile.

He spread her thighs and took her hard and long against the cold marble. She thought she saw pairs of yellow eyes watching from the shadows, but she didn’t care. She was lost, falling farther and farther into that dark abyss. Her moans echoed through the stone chamber as he slowed his rhythm, prolonging their pleasure as he drove deeper and deeper. He drew out their coupling in exquisite torture.

“Mine,” he ground out as he bit her neck.

She cried when she climaxed. The intense pleasure overrode the soul-deep pain that had kept her company for so long. The sensation of sinful ecstasy filled her up to replace the hollow emptiness, leaving behind a wound that would never heal. Even so, she longed to lose herself in sensual bliss once more.

No matter that she hated herself for it, when he came to her the next day, she let him take her again on the carpet in front of the fire, on all fours like her dream. He’d come to her in her bed in the middle of the night, crooning soft words, petting her under the covers, fondling her breasts, teasing her nipples and stroking her between her legs till she rolled into his arms and let him crawl on top. He came to her during her bath, ordering her to stand up. She would, every time. He’d drink his fill of her, motionless, water dripping down her body, waiting for his command. He’d dismiss Laurie, or sometimes not, and take Katherine on the floor, still wet and steamy from the bath. It became easier and easier to yield to him. And every time, another piece of her heart broke away, leaving nothing at all in its stead.

Each time he left, Katherine told herself she wouldn’t let it happen again. She knew that if she could deny him in truth, he would leave her unmolested. Force didn’t bring him pleasure. Damas wanted full surrender or nothing at all. But the moment he entered her presence, she trembled and her body responded, longing for his dark touch, needing it like she needed breath in her lungs. His passion was opium, poisoning her veins, ensnaring her soul. She needed him while at the same time he was killing her, one sliver of her spirit at a time.

One night, after she’d been reading a book by an author she’d never heard of before, Charlotte Brontë, she found herself crying on the red velvet sofa. The heroine of the story had been alone all her life and had finally found love. But due to tragic circumstances, the heroine could not keep her beloved without losing her virtue. Rather than forfeit her own soul for what she wanted most in the world, she ran away, leaving him behind in order to stay true to herself.

Katherine wept. Knowing she’d been weak, that she’d forgotten her own beloved—George—that she’d succumbed to Damas’s will, that she’d felt pleasure at the hands of George’s greatest enemy, all of it threatened to break her in half. She’d come to the realization she would never see George again. She had no idea how many years had passed, but the constant change of Damas’s clothes and the wardrobe he brought to her told her the world had gone on without her. Her world was now Damas. And still, she wept for not being as strong as the heroine in the book, for forsaking all that was important to her.

Damas walked into the bedchamber. Katherine stood immediately, her back to the hearth.

“Why are you crying, my lady?” He seemed so sincere when he wanted to be. “Have you missed me?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.”

He tossed his coat to the side and began unbuttoning his shirt, a maddening exercise to torture her, because she knew all he had to do was make the command and their clothes would disappear, which was his usual mode of operation. But he was making a scene of it, disrobing slowly, showing her what was coming whether she liked it or not.

“What has gotten into you?” He glanced at her book on the sofa. “Jane Eyre? It is fiction, Katherine. No woman can resist the longings of her heart.”

“You’re right.” Hands at her back, she bumped into the dining table and grasped the knife from the silverware setting. “She can’t resist the longings of her heart. For too long, I’ve hoped for something, someone, who has never come.”

“I told you he would not. We’re beyond that now.”

“Beyond that?” She laughed with scorn. “I’m damned!” she screamed, her voice shaking with sorrow. “My soul is blacker than yours. I know what true love is—or at least I did…once.” Tears burned down her cheeks. “And I let it go. I let it all go,” she whispered more to herself than to him.

“You had no choice.”

“Because you took my choice away? No. I could’ve been true to him still.” She edged around the table, her knees shaking.

“No, you couldn’t.” He removed his shirt, tossed it aside and glided closer. “We were always meant to be. You and I.”

She backed against the wall, desperate to get away from him. “I don’t believe that.”

He drew closer. She slashed out with the knife, almost nicking his shoulder before he grabbed her wrist. Squeezing tight, he forced her to drop the knife, which clanked to the stone floor.

“I don’t want you anymore,” she cried on a sob.

“Must we go through this again?”

Within seconds, she was shackled to the wall, after he whispered the sinister words to bind her.

“You are mine, Katherine.” With a hissed command, her dress and undergarments vanished in a whirl of smoke. “Your body answers my call, even if your mind tries to resist.”

“No.”

His eyes glowed ice blue. His chest and shoulders tightened as he drew closer.

“Yes. You must give yourself up, once and for all.”

She shook her head. “There is nothing left to give.”

“I beg to differ.”

Now naked, he pressed his hard body to her soft flesh, prying her mouth wider with a deepening kiss, demanding entry. She yielded. As she always did, her heart suffering while her body thrummed with pleasure, wanting him.

He groaned as he slid his fingers between their bodies, testing her readiness. He stroked with slow, slow precision till she whimpered.

“Yes. Do you want me to ease the ache inside, my sweet?”

While he stroked again in a torturous rhythm, she wished she could disappear, just vanish from this world in a puff of smoke like everything else. But he wouldn’t let her go.

“Tell me,” he urged, skimming his lips up and down her neck.

She muffled something, her mouth pressed to his bare shoulder, his skin on fire.

“Say yes. And I’ll make it all better. You want me. Your body is trembling, aching for me.” He slid one finger inside her entrance, then pulled out, teasing her, knowing what her answer would be. “Say yes, sweet Katherine.”

She arched her neck, facing the demon prince who had broken her spirit and blackened her soul, knowing she would never return from the dark well he’d put her in.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“That’s what I thought.” He lifted her thighs wide and slammed inside her, growling with fierce pleasure. “Am I your master?” He rolled his spine in a sinuous wave, thrusting back in with brutal force.

She cried out…with pleasure, not pain.

“Yes.”

He fisted her hair with one hand and angled her face toward his. The unforgiving line of his jaw and the tyrannical tilt of his head showed her who this prince truly was. “Say it again,” he ground out.

“Yes.”

As he pounded into her, he whispered more lies, like the serpent to Eve. “You don’t need him. Only me. I am your master.”

Her mind drifted, longing to fly away from her reality. Even so, she heard her own raspy voice say, “Yes.”

Chapter Thirty-One

George appeared from the Void with a loud crack, still clutching the arm of the demon, Dommiel. The high demon in Bamal’s service had brought them to the precise location he’d been trying to reach for far too long. George took in his surroundings, his adrenaline riding high, his pulse pumping hard.

Definitely a throne room—dark but for two torches at the door. No guards. George glanced to the right. Three human-size portals, shimmering like mirrors. To the left, three more.

“Which one leads to Damas?”

Dommiel had offered assistance back in New Orleans. George didn’t trust him. He was quieter than the others, more observant, smarter. All good reasons not to trust him. But he was the only one willing to carry George into Hell after he and Jude had finally corralled and imprisoned Bamal. The chase had led them around the globe and back, but they’d finally caught their quarry.

“Which one?” George repeated, seething with new rage, knowing he would soon be in the presence of Damas and wouldn’t be permitted to kill him.

“Before I point you in the right direction, Slayer, I have a request.”

“Ah. I knew that you would. Tell me what you want.”

“New Orleans.”

“Don’t you think your master would like to keep it for himself?”

“My master,” he mumbled with contempt. “Wouldn’t you like to see him dethroned after the merry chase he took you and the hunter on?”

George considered, searching for a reason to reject the demon’s request.

“Look. As soon as you walk through that portal into Damas’s domain, I could sift away. I won’t. I’ll wait. I’ll keep your way clear till you and the woman return.”

“How do you know there’s a woman?”

George’s blood drained away at the mere mention of Katherine. He hadn’t spoken about her to anyone but Jude in decades. He certainly hadn’t informed Bamal or his minions why he needed an escort into the underworld.

Dommiel’s expression sobered, his shoulders slackening as he casually slipped both hands into his trench coat. When he spoke, his words were low but clear, even solemn.

“I’ve been watching you, Slayer. There is only one reason a man throws his life in harm’s way over and over again.”

George turned toward the portals, hardening his resolve, despite the fact that he teetered on a razor’s edge.

The demon spoke again, repeating his offer. “I’ll hold your way clear. I’ll see that you both get through. In return, give me New Orleans. I want a place of my own. I want that ass, Bamal, somewhere else. I’ll keep the rules of Flamma as long as I rule in New Orleans.”

George heaved out a deep breath. “Agreed. Now, which one?”

“The third,” he said, pointing to the wall on the right.

George pulled Silversong from her sheath. She felt good in his grip as he marched toward the portal, which shimmered like water on the wall. Stepping across, he felt the sucking, wet sensation of passing through, then found himself dry on the other side. Prepared to battle demon guards, he was surprised to find Damas’s throne empty. His blood raced like wildfire through his veins. He was so close.

The throne sat empty, as did the smaller one next to it. George swallowed the new fury burning up his throat, knowing full well for whom the smaller one was meant.

Strangely, one marble column had a blackened crack splitting it just above eye level. While an aura of artifice hung in the thin air of Bamal’s realm, here the world felt heavy, laden with untold burdens, hidden secrets and lies. When he paused, closed his eyes and listened, he could feel Damas’s power weighing down the very air he breathed. Even now, after all that George had done to get here, he wasn’t sure Damas would accept the proposition he planned to make or if Damas would even be willing to trade the woman he apparently saw as his queen. George’s gaze fell on the smaller throne again. He gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly and marched on.

The main corridor was deserted. He wondered what kind of prince kept no guards or lackeys about. An arrogant one. The entire first floor was empty. He apparently didn’t keep guards of any kind. As he crept up the stone stairs past a giant painting of the Fall, he sensed a presence behind him. When he turned, it was gone, whoever or whatever it was. He moved more swiftly up the carpeted steps till he reached the stone corridor at the top. That was when he heard her.

He knew the sounds, and he knew it was Katherine, for she had sounded the same on the one night of heaven they’d spent together at Thornton. Steeling himself for what he would find beyond the open door up ahead where firelight spilled into the corridor, he stalked forward, dreading every step he took.

He entered the chamber, but there was no one in the canopy bed with an emerald green coverlet. On the other side of the room, Katherine hung bound against the wall—nude—her arms in a vee above her head, her legs wrapped around Damas’s naked body as he pounded inside her.

George had tried to prepare himself. He’d tried to imagine this moment and seeing this very event take place, but it was all for naught. The physical assault of nausea and bile rising in his throat at the sight of Damas thrusting his hips while Katherine moaned with pleasure threatened to undo him entirely. The one thing…the only thing that kept him from driving a spear through Damas’s back was Katherine. She was here, against that wall, being taken by the demon George hated with unforgivable fury, because of him. He had done this.

Katherine’s head fell back, her mouth open in passion. She must’ve sensed a presence, for her head shot up sharply and her eyes opened. The strangled cry she made when her gaze landed on him nearly brought him to his knees. Damas stopped, still panting, and pressed a slow kiss to her cheek before he stepped away and turned with a knowing smile cutting across his face.

Katherine froze, watching with terror-filled eyes. George focused his attention on Damas, who didn’t bother to hide his naked body or his arousal, another slap in his face.

“Curious to find you here, Draconis. How is that possible, exactly?” Damas didn’t seem alarmed, only surprised.

The blood pounded furiously through George’s head. He could barely keep himself in one place, wanting to leap three steps and plunge his sword into Damas’s black heart. But he couldn’t.

George reached into a satchel around his chest and pulled out a photograph. “I have something for you.”

Damas eyed the photo dangling in George’s hand, clearly wary of reaching for it when George still clutched his sword in the other. “Place it on the bed and back away.”

George did. As Damas came forward and lifted the photograph to observe it, George let his gaze wander to Katherine, his heart shattering at her still bound and vulnerable form. She panted wildly. Her expression of disbelief fell away, replaced by despair. Biting her lip, she turned her head on a stifled sob. Her golden hair fell to her waist in tangled waves and partially covered her body. She sagged in the cuffs binding her to the wall, clearly helpless to free herself or to escape this shame.

“I take it you want to trade a particular someone for my brother.”

George couldn’t speak, his throat thick with frustrated fury. He nodded. The black-and-white photograph depicted a drugged Bamal sprawled on a hotel bed, the only way to keep him from sifting away, with Jude leaning against the wall over one shoulder and Uriel over the other. George waited to see how much Damas believed in the prophecy of old. Only true believers would do anything they could to keep the prophecy from being broken. If one demon prince was destroyed, the prophecy might not come true, and the Flamma of Dark’s chances at dominion on earth would be markedly diminished.

“What are you using on him? Opium?”

“Absinthe. He’s in a perfectly contented state, though he has no idea where he is or who he is at the moment.” George forced his gaze to remain on Damas. “If I don’t return in an hour, Uriel will kill him. If I don’t return with her, Uriel will kill him.”

Only Flamma with superior power like archangels held the power to destroy completely, wipe from existence. George wished he had that power right now, but he knew if he harmed Damas, he and Katherine would never get out alive.

Damas made a disgusted sound. “You would start a war over a woman?”

“Yes. In a heartbeat.” A rivulet of sweat coursed down his back along his spine.

“Uriel wouldn’t kill a prince without heavenly permission,” he said, mockingly.

“If you believe that, then you don’t know Uriel at all. He has never played by the rules. Entirely. The very reason we have an army of hunters chasing down filthy, fucking dogs like you.”

His voice had dropped several degrees, more growl than words. It was impossible to restrain himself much longer. His sword arm shook, not from the weight of the sword but from the intensity with which he held the weapon, longing to see it driven home into the demon prince who stood in naked arrogance before him.

“Let her go. And we will let him go.” He glanced back at Katherine, still cuffed to the wall like an animal.

“How do I know you’ll keep your bargain?”

“Right now, Bamal’s servant Dommiel guards the portal in Bamal’s throne room. You know I can’t sift in or out of hell without a proper escort. Dommiel will sift with us back to the location in the photograph, because he knows exactly where it is, and will bring Bamal to you safely.”

“That’s not a guarantee. You could kill them both when you sift back to earth.”

“Not if I want to be left alone by you for all of eternity. Not if I want Katherine left alone for as long as she lives.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “I see.” His gaze rested on Katherine, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, her face turned away from them both, sagging against her shoulder.

Finally, Damas approached Katherine. Every muscle in George’s body went rigid, wound tight and ready to strike. Damas gripped her jaw and tilted her face toward his. Her pained expression of longing, suffering and shame drove a dagger through George’s chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“The surrender was sweetest with you,” Damas said to her. “Are you sure you want her back, Slayer? I’m not sure this wound will ever heal.” Damas looked back at George, keeping hold of Katherine. “I don’t believe she’ll ever be yours now.”

Acid burned like a pool of lava in his gut. That was exactly what Damas wanted all along. Little did he know how much George loved her. Little did he understand what love was at all.

“I will cherish the day I kill you, demon. Let. Her. Go.”

Not one to be ordered in his own fortress, Damas clenched his jaw. “You have one minute to get out of my domain.”

He waved his hand, and her cuffs vanished into black smoke. His essence. The bastard. Katherine crumbled to the floor. Damas stepped over her as if she were garbage and disappeared into the wall.

George leaped toward her, sheathing his sword. “Katherine.”

“Don’t,” she whispered toward the floor, her head hanging. “I’m disgusting.”

Yanking off his coat, he wrapped her body before lifting her. She was light and frail, but it felt so good to physically have her safe in his arms. She didn’t resist, although she murmured, “Let me go. Leave me here.”

“Never.”

He barreled down the stairs and through Damas’s throne room, leaping through the portal into Bamal’s domain. Dommiel reclined on the throne, his arms crossed and legs outstretched. He lurched to his feet, concern creasing his brow. Without a word about the naked woman cowering against George’s chest, Dommiel gripped George’s shoulder and sifted with them back to the Roosevelt Hotel on the edge of the French Quarter in New Orleans.

They appeared in the room depicted in the photograph George had given to Damas. Uriel, not bothering to cast illusion over his white, gold-tipped wings, turned from the window overlooking the city. Jude didn’t move from his position on the sofa, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

“Let Bamal go. Put him somewhere his lackeys can find him,” George said to Uriel before turning to Jude. “New Orleans is now Dommiel’s territory. And it will be yours as well. Alexander will take over in London.”

George didn’t need to clarify that Jude would now be Dommiel’s keeper, ensuring the high demon and his minions didn’t cross the line. Jude also didn’t protest being reassigned from England. He stood and gave a deep nod. Uriel strode across the room without a word and took hold of Bamal, then disappeared with a sharp crackle of energy. George glanced at his dearest friend, who had endured all manner of hellish obstacles to help him get back the woman in his arms. His gratitude welled and lodged in his throat. George nodded to his friend and vanished, sifting through the dark Void, gripping her tighter against him, knowing he’d lose his soul for good if he lost her again.

He landed on firm ground, the front lawn of Thornton, the house dark but for a few lights left on for him. Katherine hadn’t lifted her head since he’d pulled her into his arms, though he felt her shallow breath against his neck. He marched past the wards and into his home, sifting to the bedroom in which she’d stayed so long ago. With the exception of adding electrical lighting and a bathroom with proper plumbing, he hadn’t changed one thing. He’d kept the bedding, the wallpaper and all the furniture exactly as it had been. Her luggage still remained in the large wardrobe. Her dresses still hung there, though she couldn’t wear them anymore without drawing attention. Not in this century.

He tucked her into her bed, gently pulling away the coat he’d used to cover her. Kneeling at the hearth, he started a fire in the grate. Though they’d traveled far from that pit of Hell and were sealed behind safe wards, Damas’s presence lingered in the room, still barricading him from her. She had pulled the covers up to her chin and faced away from him toward the open window and the view of a beautiful starry night.

He pulled a chair to her bedside, sat and said nothing. His body trembled from the entire experience now, his adrenaline wearing off, his nerves returning full force. He’d gotten her back. Finally. But the reality was that she was no longer the woman she had been before Damas had taken her.

“Katherine. Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

He wasn’t sure what he’d find after all that time, but she hadn’t aged at all. Not a single day. When she finally spoke, her words weren’t what he’d expected.

“What was that parchment you gave to Damas to make him give me up?”

George cleared his throat. “A photograph.”

“What is that?”

He’d forgotten. She didn’t know what that was. “Since you’ve been gone, there have been many inventions. One is the camera. It takes exact images of people standing in front of the camera. We had a photo of Damas’s brother in our captivity.”

She made no reply. The silence stretched like hollow wind across the moor. George was lost as to what to do for her.

“Can I get you anything?”

“How long have I been gone?”

“A very long time.”

She rolled over to face him, a cold mask hiding the woman he once knew. “How long?”

“A hundred years.”

She closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek. He stood and took a step toward her, longing to comfort her.

“Don’t.” She met his gaze, her mask broken into an expression of deep pain. “Please don’t,” she begged, like the submissive she was for Damas.

Slowly, he stepped back and sat in the chair, though it took all his will not to pull her into his arms.

“Katherine. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t speak. Please.” She rolled away from him again. She didn’t make a sound, but the shaking of her shoulders told him enough. He wanted to claw his own hair out, he felt so helpless. Now that she was finally in his home, he realized she still wasn’t safe.

Too long. Damas had had her too long. Nevertheless, if he’d had her a hundred years more, George would still have fought to get her back.

Bamal had been crafty, evading capture for decades. It wasn’t until they’d cornered his servant, Dommiel, who agreed to assist without too much coercion, that they’d finally been able to imprison the demon lord. George had known that Dommiel didn’t seem the type to be coerced, or certainly not that easily without having an ulterior motive for himself. The trade was of little consequence. He would’ve given Dommiel the entire southern region of the United States if he’d asked for. For that matter, he would’ve given him the whole bloody world. All that mattered to him was the frail woman lying in the bed before him.

Now she was here. Yet still not here.

The fire crackled and burned, filling the silence as the stars shifted in the sky through the window. The muscles in his body had finally relaxed. He’d been awake for days, knowing the time of her rescue was near. Sleep finally overtook him.

Chapter Thirty-Two

He jerked awake, reaching for his sword, daylight streaming into Katherine’s room. She stood at the window, dressed in the sage-green dress she had worn her first day at Thornton. He’d never forget the sight of her stepping from the carriage and walking into his home for the first time. She’d apparently explored the modern bathroom, where he’d left a brush and grooming items. Her hair was combed and wound into one long braid over one shoulder.

Without turning toward him, she said, “I want to see Jane.”

The lack of any emotion in her voice disturbed him. She was cold and more distant than the night before, walling him out. He must be patient.

“She is long dead, Katherine.”

“I want to see her.”

Though a cemetery was the last place she should be right now, he wouldn’t argue. Her every move had been controlled for a century by a self-serving piece of filth. She needed to make her own decisions. And he needed to let her.

He walked across the room but didn’t push too far into her space. He stopped and waited, holding out his hand. Turning from the window, she stared at his hand for a moment, then met his gaze. Her green eyes were bright, ringed with dark circles. Her pale cheeks, sunken and stark, revealed how little she’d eaten in that place. George clenched his jaw, refusing to tell her she must eat or anything foolish he knew she’d refuse, but his instincts to care for her overwhelmed him. She needed space. She needed time.

He’d prepared for what he would find when he finally did make it into Damas’s domain, and he’d found precisely what he’d expected. Still, the horror of what she’d endured there, and being thrust back into a world she didn’t know anymore, must be unbearable. He was lost himself—wondering, worrying, hoping. The only thing he could do was honor her every request and let her come to him in her own time.

“I’ll take you,” he said.

She seemed to be contemplating whether to trust him, or perhaps she didn’t want to sift. Either way, she finally lifted her trembling hand and placed it in his. He released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as he squeezed her hand and sifted to the gates of the Kensal Green Cemetery. Letting her hand go, he marched up the gravel path and veered left, knowing his way by instinct. Past tall stone crosses and angelic sculptures, he led them toward the end of the row where an elm tree shaded three graves, its gold leaves rustling in the autumn breeze. Mossy lichen grew on the unadorned headstones along this section of older graves.

George stopped in front of Jane’s tombstone, the epitaph simple but true. Jane Anne Langley, April 7, 1809—Oct. 10, 1881—Beloved Wife and Mother. Katherine knelt, then sat, reaching out her fingers to touch the engraved name of her dearest and deceased friend. A fresh bouquet of white lilies sat in a vase at the base.

“She married Henry.”

“Yes. They married the year you…the year they met at Thornton.”

“Was she happy?”

“Wonderfully so.”

“I’m so glad,” she said, both sorrow and joy thick in her voice. She clutched at her chest as if the thought overwhelmed her.

“I checked in on them from time to time, just to make sure.”

“To make sure of what?”

George shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. “To be sure she and her family were safe.”

Katherine turned her gaze on him, rimmed with unshed tears. “She had a family.”

“Three sons.”

She laughed, though there was more heartbreak than happiness in the sound.

“I’ll bet they kept her busy.”

“They seemed to.”

“My sweet Jane.” The wind lifted wisps of Katherine’s blonde hair. Skimming her fingers over the stone, she said, “And I missed it all.” Lifting her hand, she touched the petal of one white lily. “Someone still cares for her.”

“Yes. The anniversary of her death just passed. I try to come once a year, on the anniversary of her passing. I don’t want to rouse suspicion since one of her great-grandchildren comes on her birthday.”

“The flowers are from you?”

He nodded, clenching his hands at his sides, still at unease with the distance between them when all he wanted to do was hold her.

“I came because you couldn’t,” he answered honestly.

She dropped her hand to her side. “I see.” Rising to her feet, she wrapped her arms around herself. She’d dressed in her thin day dress of old— entirely inappropriate for both the era and the weather.

“I also…” He started hesitantly since he wasn’t sure she would be pleased at what he’d done. “I wrote her letters addressed from you.”

Katherine turned her head sharply, furrowing her brow, but did not speak. George went on.

“I wrote correspondence twice a year, expressing that you were well and that you were happy but unable to return to London for obvious reasons. Clyde’s severed body was found in the woods that night. And while officials declared that he was ravaged by wild animals, his death remained in suspicion, especially with your disappearance. So I created a fiction for you, for Jane’s sake, letting her believe you were well. That you were happy.”

Katherine remained still, staring back across the cemetery in silence.

“I hope you’re not offended by this.”

“Jane knows my hand. She wouldn’t believe your writing was mine.”

“I cast illusion. It works in many ways.”

She gave a nod but remained aloof.

“Did I do wrong in this?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she replied steadily, shivering again against the chill.

“Will you take my coat?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Take me back to Thornton, please.”

She’d been so civil, so quiet, so demure, yet he could feel the anger, rage, torment and bitterness boiling below the surface.

“Whatever you wish.”

He did, sweeping them through the dark Void, happy to bring her back to his safe haven. Once back in her bedroom, she took up her position at the window, watching the slate-gray sky skim overhead. He could tell by her stance that she wanted to be alone, but the thought of leaving her for even one moment was torture.

“I don’t belong here,” she said so low he almost didn’t hear her.

He took a step closer, but not too close. “I understand this must be difficult.”

She rounded on him, horror written into every line of her face. “You can’t possibly understand how I feel.”

He stiffened. “No. I don’t.”

“There is no place for me anymore.”

“This is your place.”

“At Thornton? What. As your wife?” she scoffed and shook her head. “I’m ruined, George.”

He stepped closer, needing to hold her desperately. She backed away. “You’re not ruined,” he said, furious that she would even think such a thing. “Katherine,” he started more gently. “I love you.”

Still shaking her head, she ground out, “Don’t love me. Don’t, George. I—what I’ve done—” She squeezed her eyes shut as if to cut off a memory and balled her fists at her sides.

“I don’t care what you’ve done.”

“I do,” she said, meeting his gaze, hers still full of the horror of the past century. “I’m no good for you. I’m no good for anything anymore.”

“Let me—”

“Don’t come any closer.” She held out a shaking hand. “Please.”

The way she begged, trembling before him, as if he’d disregard her wishes and force himself on her, cut him straight to the heart. He stopped where he was, and for the first time in his entire centuries-old life, he had no idea what to do or how to help this woman he loved more than the breath in his own lungs.

She swallowed hard and turned toward the bathroom. “I’d like to take a bath.”

“Do you need some help with the—”

“I can figure it out.”

Before she’d crossed through the door, George couldn’t help but finally lay his own sins at her feet.

“I tried. I tried so hard. It took too long. I’m so—so bloody sorry.”

Her delicate hand rested on the doorframe as she looked over her shoulder. “No. I was lost the moment I took the carriage back to Harron House. The moment I left Thornton, my fate was sealed.”

“Forgive me, Katherine. Please.” He heard the words of a defeated man spilling from his own mouth.

She smiled, a tear streaming down her pale cheek. “I can’t,” she said, softly and gently. “I can’t forgive either of us.”

What little bit of heart he had left cracked and shattered to the floor as she closed the door.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Listening to the water fill up in the tub from the next room, George stood in the place where his world had ended. He’d never thought he’d have to let her go after he saved her from Hell. She was lost to him.

He stormed from the room and stalked down the long corridor, down the stairs and into his study. Not giving a damn that he’d used alcohol for decades as a coping mechanism to soften his hard reality, he grabbed the half-empty bottle of whisky usually reserved for Jude and drank straight from the bottle, relishing the burn down his throat and into his belly. He took a breath, then upended the last of it.

She wouldn’t forgive him. He knew that now. He never really expected her to, but—

“Damn!” he yelled and threw the bottle at the fireplace, unable to contain his fury anymore.

The bottle broke with a satisfying crash, splintering shards onto the carpet. George paced, combing his hands into his hair in dire earnest, anxiety filling him to the brim.

“It just can’t be,” he mumbled.

What did she need forgiving for? Giving in to the temptation of a cunning demon prince? She hadn’t stood a chance against him, especially after it took George so fucking long to free her. He’d known what would happen. Every night that he was able to actually sleep, he’d dreamed of her in the bed of Damas, doing his bidding. He’d known that was a fact, especially when he’d started receiving gifts from the villain.

The first package arrived at the gate of Thornton ten years after Katherine had disappeared. Duncan had found the parcel and brought it to George in his study. No note, nothing. Only a package wrapped in brown paper. He unwrapped the box and opened the lid to find the white dress Katherine had worn the night she disappeared. The bottom hem was torn but otherwise the gown was intact. George had fallen into his chair, pulled the dress into his lap and simply stared at the remnant of her, the woman he’d not seen for so many years.

Ten years later, he received a second package. He found it himself, sitting at the gate, precisely where the wards would’ve stopped a demon intruder. He leaped from his horse and tore the package open on the spot. Lifting her transparent shift from the box, the one she’d worn on their night together, he crumbled to his knees on the gravel drive, inhaling her scent from the soft fabric and falling into dark despair. Just as Damas had wanted. George was unable to leave his bedroom for a month, barring even Jude from his presence.

When he emerged, Jude had brought news of Bamal being spotted in Eastern Europe, near his brother Vladek’s territory. Civil war was ravishing the American colonies, bleeding as far south as New Orleans, which had apparently put a damper on the party Bamal had been having on his plantation for decades. He’d left Dommiel in charge while he roamed the globe for a more palatable environment.

George finally revived from receiving the suggestive gift from Damas, knowing that if the demon thought to send him torturous gifts, then Katherine was alive and whole, even in the bowels of Hell. That was something to hold on to.

His former stable boy, Daniel, now steward of the estate, was a man fully grown, with a wife, and living in a house rebuilt where the old caretaker’s cottage had been. George had hesitated when Daniel asked permission to tear down the cottage, as memories of Katherine still lingered there. But as he watched the final boards fall and the structure of a new home built up around the original stone fireplace, a fresh spark of determination lit him inside. A hope that he could find her, that he would, and he could rebuild their life together as they’d planned before Damas had taken it all away from them.

He and Jude set out for Russia to find Bamal. Their chase began, which would last until the second decade of the twentieth century, when they’d finally captured him in New Orleans, where it had all begun.

He’d received only one more gift in all that time. George had stopped returning to Thornton, knowing his lack of aging would terrify the villagers and even his own servants. Only Duncan and Daniel ever knew that he was not wholly human, but served a higher power for good. He returned for Duncan’s funeral but only watched from afar, visiting Daniel when he was alone.

Sometimes, he would sift to Thornton at night and walk the land he longed to return to, specifically retracing steps he’d taken with Katherine to remember the love they’d shared for a few short days.

One day in 1888, George had received a letter as well as a still-sealed envelope from Daniel, now in his seventies, delivered to his home in Paris, which he used as a base between the missions he and Jude set out on. Daniel’s handwriting was shakier than it had been in the last letter, and George noted he’d need to have a conversation with Daniel’s son, Edward, before long about becoming the new steward of Thornton. He’d vowed not to return to his beloved home until he found Katherine and brought her home with him.

The letter told of the news of Thornton, that all was well with the estate, and that Daniel’s own son and grandson worked the estate alongside him. He’d ended with a postscript that this envelope addressed to him had been found by his grandson, John, while he was playing near the front gate. George tore open the envelope sealed with black wax, stamped in the shape of a D.

Within the envelope was one photograph. One was enough. He’d seen the staged portraits of serious posers for this new invention. But he’d not seen a photograph like this. In shades of black, white, and gray was the nude form of his love, asleep on top of a massive bed, her limbs akimbo, her long blonde hair spilling down the pillow onto the bed, her face in profile and serene. He stared at the photograph for hours, memorizing every line of her until he thought he’d fall into madness. When the first rays of sunlight broke through the window, he lit the candle at his bedside and burned the photograph, dropping the paper onto a salver and watching the corners curl and burn inward until the image of what Damas held in his tight grasp was gone.

All these memories of his past pain flooded back, burning through his gut like a train on fire. Yes, she had a right to be angry and hurt, but he refused to let her live with a shame that he shared as much as she did. And he’d be damned before he let her wander away from him as if nothing had ever happened, as if what they felt for each other wasn’t real and true and good.

He threw open the door to his study, half sifting, half running back to her bedroom. She was still in the bath with the door closed when he rushed into the room. Rapping on the bathroom door, he called out. “Katherine. I must speak to you.”

He knocked again. “Katherine? Answer me. I know that you’re angry at me and at the whole goddamn world, but we must talk.”

Knock, knock, knock.

No answer.

Deep terror gripped him around the throat. She’d locked the door. He sifted to the other side and found her in the bath, both arms spread wide like wings, her lifeblood draining away from slit wrists, the mirror broken in the sink, a sharp shard, her weapon of suicide, fallen to the tile.

“No!”

He pulled her from the tub, dead weight, sloshing bloodstained water on himself and the floor.

“No, damn you! I won’t let you go.”

He sifted directly to the gathering stones on Dartmoor, still whispering to her, his warm cheek pressed to her cold one. “I won’t let you die. You can’t leave me, my love.”

He sat back on his haunches, cradling her wet, bleeding, lifeless body in his arms and screamed to the heavens, “Uriel!”

He couldn’t keep his own tears back as he watched more blood spill from her veins into the cold earth and onto him.

The archangel sifted from the sky and landed with a great flap of his mighty wings. He said nothing, just took in the obvious.

“Save her, Uriel,” he pleaded, choking on the panic welling up his throat.

“She’s dead already.”

“No, she’s not. She has a faint pulse.”

Uriel, always a being of control and power, knelt before George and placed a hand on Katherine’s crown, an expression of deep sorrow on his face. “She doesn’t want to live, my friend.”

“You don’t know that. Make her—make her one of us.”

“You know the rules. She must have committed a mortal sin for which she needs redemption.”

“She has. She’s taken her own life.”

“She must give consent to the penance one pays as a Dominus Daemonum.”

“I give consent for her.”

“That is not how it’s done, George.”

“Goddamn you, archangel. If you do not save her right now before her pulse slips away, I will destroy myself and join her in Hell and leave this godforsaken human world for you to defend on your own.”

George knew Uriel could probably depend on Jude to command the hunters, though the darkness in Jude often led him from the more righteous path. Still, this threat wasn’t about who would command. George’s threat meant he’d damn himself to some lower level of Hell, Erebus, the darkest realm of all, if he should take his own life. Just as the woman in his arms would wander there should she succeed in her attempted suicide. And no matter how distant the archangel appeared, his bond with George was one of true friendship and loyalty.

Uriel’s clear gaze lifted from Katherine to George. “Very well. But you will bear the blame when she is awakened to a life not of her choosing.”

“Agreed. Now do it. Before she’s gone.”

“Lay her flat.”

George hated to lay her on the cold ground, the grass sparse and stiff in October, but comfort was of little consequence. He arranged her on her back, her arms at her sides, the bleeding having stopped as her pulse slowed to near nothing.

Just as George had witnessed dozens of times, he watched Uriel kneel over her, placing one palm on her chest, the other on her stomach. He began to chant one phrase over and over in a smooth, lilting rhythm.

“Ignis caeli venite ad me.” The fire of heaven come to me.

Uriel’s body blazed bright with inner flame as he poured his power into Katherine. Her pale, slim form lit up with golden fire as it burned away the darkness within. Her back arched and her mouth fell open in agony as the Flamma power licked its way through her veins.

Uriel continued to chant under his breath till he released her, drawing his hands from her chest and abdomen. The ethereal flame slowly faded, leaving her body beaming with power and light. The archangel leaned forward, cupping her head in his palm, and pressed his lips to hers, giving her the kiss of power, giving her the ability to sift.

It did not slip by George that she would easily have the power to leave him if she so chose. And forcing an eternity of servitude, fighting the ones who’d marred her soul, might be what severed her from him forever. He’d made that choice for her, unable to let her slip away into oblivion. Unable to let her go. He’d promised to protect her. And he hadn’t. He bloody well wasn’t going to let her soul be cast into Erebus to wander the vast depths of nothingness alone for an eternity.

The archangel stood, opening his wings for flight. “You are responsible, George.” His tone was sharp and grave.

“I know.”

“She may not forgive you for this.”

He stared down at the woman he loved, the flush of life filling her cheeks again. “I know.”

With that, the angel flew upward several yards before vanishing into the ether. George took Katherine back to Thornton and dressed her in a nightgown. Her skin glowed with a golden luster as angel power coursed through her body. The sight was dazzling and beautiful. But she always had been to him.

He lifted her hand in both of his, studying the underside of her wrist ringed with thin scars from Damas’s shackles and another jagged one from her attempt to escape this world and leave him all alone. He pressed a gentle kiss there and wondered if she’d ever know how deeply, how devotedly, how faithfully he loved her.

Chapter Thirty-Four

A soft pillow lay under her head and warm covers wrapped her body, though she remained in the dark. Knowing she could not be in Heaven for what she’d done and convinced this wasn’t the plush and warm cushion of Hell, Katherine opened her eyes wider and recognized the outline of George in the chair beside her bed. The dying embers still glowed bright and cast his silhouette in red-orange.

She wasn’t dead. When she pulled her arms from under the covers, she could tell by the glow of the dying fire that she wore no bandages, nor were there stitches. How was she still alive? And her body felt…good…strong. From the moment she’d been taken into the underworld, she’d felt the distinct weight of the atmosphere pressing her down, the sinful temptation and the deeds she’d done weighed on her soul even more, the boulder-like burden not leaving her when George had brought her back to earth. But now…

She lifted off the covers, placed her bare feet to the ground, and realized she was dressed in a white nightgown. A distinct sensation slapped her hard—the heady scent of ginger spice and wood smoke wafted with a strong autumn breeze. At first, she thought there was a pot of something on the fire; then she realized there was no fire at all. Only burning coals. No window was open to let in a breeze. But she didn’t smell these things with her senses as much as feel them brush her mind. The sensation emanated from George himself, his arms and ankles crossed as he slept in a stiff position in the wingback chair at her bedside.

A sinking reality came over her. Had he done something supernatural to her? She shuffled to the walk-in closet, pushing one dress aside after another till she found the more modern clothes he’d bought for her. Finally finding what she wanted, women’s trousers for riding, she hesitated with the hanger in her hand, remembering her days in the Black Forest on Athena.

“I’m not there anymore,” she whispered, needing to remind herself that she was here on earth.

She changed quickly and twisted her hair into a tight braid, then marched back through the bedroom to find George had stoked the fire and stood near the door, waiting for her. Hair tousled and face pale, he jumped and turned at the sound of her entering the room. With his shoulders slouched and his lips set in a grim line, he was the epitome of a defeated man. A defeated man who refused to accept the inevitable: that he might have won the battle, but he’d lost the war. And victory was nowhere to be found. For either of them. No amount of desperation and hope could wish back the love they once shared—a long-forgotten dream that was nothing more than ash in the wind. And now she was sure he’d done something tragic in an attempt to keep her.

She froze at the sight of him, a maelstrom of emotions swirling inside—anger, confusion, longing…more.

“What have you done to me, George?”

“I saved you.”

She laughed with disdain. “I didn’t want saving.”

“Not yesterday, not now. But one day, you would have. One day, you’ll be glad you didn’t succeed. You would’ve ended up lost in a mindless, soulless oblivion.”

She noted the rage riding his voice. He was angry with her. Very angry.

“I’m afraid I’ve ended up there anyway.”

“I know that you need time to reconcile who you were before with who you are now, but you must move forward.”

Desperation rang in his words. Katherine feared the spark of hope in his voice was for the two of them. Their chance at a life together had vanished the moment she’d left Thornton. And now he’d saved her, only to drive a larger wedge between them. They could never be as they once were. He had to accept this fact.

“George,” she started more gently. “There is no happily ever after here…for us. You must understand that.”

The sag of his shoulders cut her, but she wouldn’t give him hope where there was none. She had nothing left to give. Damas had taken it all.

“I understand,” he finally replied.

“How did you save me? I don’t feel the same.”

“You are now a Dominus Daemonum, a hunter of evil. Like Jude.”

She stared for a long moment, letting the reality of what he said sink in. “I am ageless?” she asked, her brows pinched together.

He simply nodded.

“Why? Why would you do this to me?”

“Do this to you?” One arm gestured wide as he said, “Do you honestly think I’d just let you go? Let you slit your wrists and leave me here? No, Katherine. No.” He shook his head, adamant and furious. “You think you have sins to pay for? Then fine. Now you can pay for them. You’ll train and become a demon hunter, expelling the evil from this earth, because it is a much better service than living in a well of pity and regret. And it is much less cowardly than killing yourself.”

She flinched, hardened by his harsh words. Because they were offensive. And because they were true.

She lifted her chin. “I won’t train with you.”

“I’m aware of that. You’ll train with Jude in New Orleans. In America.”

“George, we can never be—”

“Don’t, Katherine.” His voice broke as he turned his back to her and paced toward the fire. He braced both hands on the mantel, his shoulders taut beneath his white dress shirt. “Don’t say it again. I’m aware what my own mistake has wrought on you.”

“Your mistake?”

He did not answer for some time. She couldn’t think beyond the fact he saw this as his fault. Then he turned, pain etched in every line of his face.

“As much as I wanted to hold you in my arms, I should’ve never asked you to dance at the Weathersby ball.” He clenched his jaw and said no more.

There was nothing more to say. That one dance had made her a target for Damas. That one dance had led her to fall in love with the most courageous and giving man she’d ever known. She didn’t know her heart could break any more. But watching him take on the weight of what had happened to her was too much to bear. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but it partly was. She wanted to say the blame fell all on her shoulders, but it didn’t.

Some hurts dig too deep, finding their way into your heart and soul, opening a chasm until there is no possible way to escape unscathed. Though her body was strong and her mind was clear, Katherine still lived in the dark woods of the demon prince’s domain. Her knight had finally come for her, but he was far too late to save her.

“If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your new home.” He held out his hand.

Steeling herself for this final good-bye, for she knew that was what this parting would be, she met him at the mantel, memorizing the way the golden light highlighted his lovely profile. She set her hand in his. A wave of harvest spice and autumn wind wafted through her.

“Katherine. I am sorry.” Small words with a well of emotion behind them.

“Katherine is dead now.” She smiled as best she could. “Call me Kat.”

Present Day

Dear Katherine,

I can hardly express to you how much I admire the woman you have become. You may think the sentiment patronizing, but you have stepped into your role as Dominus Daemonum with vigor and transformed into a stronger woman—more beautiful, more vibrant, more captivating than ever before. I thought you were alluring as the lady of the ball. But that is nothing compared to who you are now—a warrior with more heart and soul than ever before. The phoenix arisen more brilliant than the sun.

The moment you walk into a room, despite the fact there are always a number of hunters accompanying us—for you seem to make sure we are never alone—I long to hold you and confess like a fool how ardently I still love you. Yes, after all this time, my feelings are not diminished. In fact, they grow stronger by the day. You were then and have always been my lady. I have never seen you any other way.

Yours, now and always,

George

*Letter George wrote to Katherine. Before he burned it.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Kat sifted into the alley outside of George’s place in Chelsea, London. With hands in her brown leather trench coat, she waltzed onto the street, passing two young women dressed in their little black dresses and five-inch pumps for a night on the town.

“Well, if Jerry is there, he can drool from the corner, because I told him it was over.”

“You’re absolutely daft. You wore that dress for Jerry, and you know it.”

“Yes, I did. But I invited Ben to the party.”

“Ben! He’s in love with you. He’ll be hanging on you the whole night.”

“Precisely, but when the clock strikes midnight, I’ll be sure to send Ben away and situate myself conveniently next to Jerry.”

“For a New Year’s kiss.”

“Of course.”

“Brilliant.”

Kat watched the pair sashay toward their car, hitting the town on New Year’s Eve. But this year promised to bring in not just a new year, but a whole new world. One where survival wasn’t a given for everyone.

A petite brunette in jeans and a gray peacoat ushered a young boy up the whitewashed steps of the building adjacent to George’s.

“Hurry, Mum! We’ll miss the eclipse. Dad has a new lens for my telescope.”

“All right, Jack. Hurry along, then.” She gave Kat a sidelong glance before shutting the door.

The street was pristine and clean as usual. Not exactly Kat’s regular stomping grounds. She preferred the dark and gritty streets of New York, where she worked the demon dens alongside her partner, Dorian. He was already rallying with other hunters, heading to the gathering on Dartmoor. Kat looked up. The full moon was a luminous orb in the starry sky. Not long before the eclipse.

As George had requested through a text on her cell that morning, she had come to his place tonight before they were to meet the others. Tightening her no-nonsense ponytail, she straightened her trench coat, which hid the dozen multisize blades strapped to her body over the black catsuit she typically wore on night hunts, then strode up his steps into the foyer and into the elevator that led to the top floor and his seven-thousand-square-foot penthouse.

Tonight wasn’t just any night. And George hadn’t requested a private meeting with her since…well, since she’d become a hunter. Actually, it was only recently, when Genevieve Drake—the incorruptible Vessel who would fulfill the prophecy—showed up that Kat and George had been in one another’s company for more than a minute or two in almost a century.

Kat fiddled with the strap of the sheath holding the bowie knife at her hip. Since Genevieve had stepped into her life, George had stepped back into it as well. She didn’t know how to handle the chaos of emotions warring inside her every time she was in his presence. She’d become a good actress over the years, hiding her fear under a mask of indifference. After all, she’d spent the last ninety years dealing with demon scum and expelling them back to Hell. She’d learned the importance of hiding her emotions. But with George, she was beginning to fail. Miserably. The last time they’d met here for a rendezvous to discuss strategy, she’d arrived before Jude, Gen and the others. It was the first time Kat and George had been alone in decades.

They treated each other with a cordial “hello.” Then she took to his wall of windows and stared at the city lights reflecting on the Thames. There was no mistaking the tension between them, filling up the room with an electric current sizzling straight to her gut.

She felt him approach from behind, his autumn scent ensnaring her senses. A wall of heat at her back, he stood too close, but if she moved, she’d prove that his presence bothered her.

“Katherine.” He’d never called her Kat, which was her preferred name. He refused, stubborn man. “I believe it’s time to stop punishing ourselves for a loss we cannot regain.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

He placed a gentle hand on one arm. She winced but didn’t pull away, not having had his touch for many, many years. Her body craved it like sunlight. Or air.

“I still love you, you see,” he said gently. “I always have.”

He wrapped one arm around her without touching her and opened his palm so she could see what he held. Within a small, sealed plastic bag lay a flattened, dried yellow flower.

She lifted it with trembling fingers. “A cinquefoil.”

“The cinquefoil,” he corrected. “I found it in your bedchamber in Harron House. After.”

“You couldn’t have. Clyde had crushed it,” she said, heart hammering with the long-forgotten memory.

“Yes. He did. But the petals were all still there. I managed to put them back together and make her whole again.”

Kat spun to face him then, yearning to open her arms, but so afraid. Still so very afraid.

“Damas still lives,” she reminded him. “And while he haunts this world, he’ll always haunt mine.”

Jude and Gen had arrived at that moment, pulling them back to the reality that they were on the brink of the Great War.

The elevator dinged and opened. Kat stepped into the glossy foyer and entered George’s home. The pianoforte at the entrance and the sweeping modern amenities, pristine and perfect, all the way to the crystal-clear wall of glass, the room-size balcony and the city of London glittering on the Thames beyond.

With her stomach fluttering and her heart pounding erratically, she announced her arrival.

“George? Kat here.”

He strode up the long corridor from the back bedrooms, which she had never seen, dressed immaculately in full black and strapped with more deadly steel than she’d ever seen him wear. Including his favorite iron broadsword. He marched directly toward her. She stiffened and stood up straighter.

“Katherine. Thank you for coming.”

He sounded more businesslike than he had at their last meeting. She relaxed a fraction until he turned a look on her she hadn’t seen since the night he’d confessed his love for her in the gardens at Thornton. She swallowed hard.

“What…what do you want?” she asked.

He smiled—confident and smoldering. Just like that, her knees weakened. After all this time, he could still do that to her.

“You, my lady. And after tonight, I plan to have you.”

“George, we’ve been over this before.”

“The last time we discussed this, you reminded me of something.”

She couldn’t imagine what she’d reminded him of.

“You said that Damas was still alive, and while he haunts this world, he’ll always haunt you.” He clutched the strap across his chest that held the broadsword’s scabbard against his back. “Genevieve now has the power to destroy demons. Not just to expel them back to Hell until they find a way to crawl back out, but wipe from existence.” Clenching the strap at his chest, he leaned farther into her space. “He dies tonight, Katherine. Then you must decide if you’re pushing me away because of Damas. Or because you’re still stuck down there in that dark well.”

He lifted his free hand and trailed his knuckles along her cheekbone. She couldn’t even breathe.

“Remember me, Katherine.” He dropped his hand, holding her entranced with his intense gaze. “Remember us.”

His phone beeped. So did hers.

“We have to go,” she said, clearing her throat.

“He dies tonight,” he repeated as if she hadn’t heard the first time. “And then we live again.”

* * * * *

The eclipse was full, casting a ruddy light on the heavenly and demonic hosts gathered on snow-covered Dartmoor. Flamma of Light and Dark filled the white fields as far as the eye could see. Archangel Michael’s black-winged army in red tunics and silver armor lined the perimeter near the circle of standing stones, next to a line of Dominus Daemonum. The angels had finally deemed themselves worthy to come down to earth and lend a hand. Of course, the army had been built for this day, for the new world that would begin tonight.

Across from them stood six demon princes along with their minions and servants—red-eyed, fanged, clawed and ready to kill. Genevieve had dispatched one of the princes on a recent errand in Hell, so only six stood arrogantly at the front of the line closest to the ring of stones. From here, George could make out Damas’s perfect profile. He tightened his hold on the hilt of his sword, ready to smash Damas’s face when the battle began.

George smiled at the thought of the strong-willed and powerful, yet young and hopeful Vessel of Light at the center of this ghastly horde within the standing stones. Genevieve reminded him of Katherine when they first met. Katherine stood close by, next to the blue-winged, raven-haired angel warrior Anya, her crossbow in hand, her violet eyes glowing with supernatural luster. Even next to the radiant angel, Katherine stood apart. Having left her long coat somewhere so she could have easy access to her weapons, she looked regal and fine to him—chin up, blonde hair falling down her back in a ponytail, strapped with blades on both hips and thighs and in a double-crossed sheath at her chest. He could hardly take his eyes off her.

He was glad Anya stood with the hunters rather than Michael’s army. He’d fought alongside her before, a deadly soldier devoted to Uriel and his cause to help humanity and defeat the hosts of evil. Now that the Great War was finally here, the human world would be overrun by angels and demons of all kinds. He couldn’t think what tomorrow would bring. He must focus on his one goal tonight: Kill Damas. Or die trying.

He had stayed toward the back with one eye on the ring of standing stones, where Genevieve faced off against Bamal’s Vessel and the other on the rolling, mist-laden moors filled with all manner of demon spawn, including the Titans—dragons. He had a particular fondness for killing the greatest of the demonic beasts. But there were others: hulking creatures with hooved feet and minotaur-like bodies with a single horn atop the head, their many eyes gleaming red in the dark. Other smaller, scaly monsters with razor-sharp claws and serrated teeth in wide mouths scuttled along the border of the demonic horde. Among the throng, closer to the ring, was the black-clad Bellock, a guardian demon with gray skin and a powerful body. Jude’s gaze kept sliding to the one who gloried in hunting and killing angels, their exact counterpart. No doubt Jude would engage with this one as soon as the battle began, as Bellock was one of Jude’s oldest and strongest rivals.

The last of the creatures who circled the ring, gazing out at the masses, were the five rivers of the underworld, the Collectors of Souls, the soul-eaters. They sided with neither the Light nor the Dark. They served only themselves, feeding on the bodies and souls of the dead. Their favorite meal was Flamma, relishing the power they could absorb by eating flesh, bone and spirit. The five peered out, preparing to gorge on the fallen.

Acheron—the River of Despair—a black-boned skeletal creature in regal robes of pitch, stood at the center, long, bony limbs at his sides. Cocytus—the River of Woe—a banshee-like crone, shrieked to the sky in her ghostly raiment. Styx—the white-robed beauty with black eyes and a blacker heart—reeked of hatred. Lethe—the feared River of Forgetfulness—the withered hag with ratty hair and hollow eyes—floated farthest from the others. And Phlegethon, with the body of a minotaur, rippling with massive, bulging muscles and fire licking over his red skin to the tips of his black horns—he was the fiercest of them all. His slitted yellow eyes glowed with a lust for violence. In his gargantuan fist, he held a Thor-size hammer, molten red and ready to crush the skulls of any beast that drew near.

Storm clouds rolled in like waves crashing to shore, swallowing up the blood moon. The tension among the waiting armies stretched taut when a sudden, deafening cry echoed across the vast fields of Dartmoor. A crashing beam of lightning flashed from the sky dead center of the standing stones, striking Genevieve, who cried into the night, awakening her to her full power. A thunderous, roaring wind swept icy snow across the field. Finally, the time had come.

George launched toward the closest demon, a fury with reptilian skin and a snout like a wolf. The demon fought with a scimitar, curving it with precision toward George’s head, but George had been fighting for centuries. He dodged easily and slid under the demon’s swinging arm and sliced his broadsword across the creature’s back, severing its spine with a crunch. It screamed a high-pitched howl.

Dragon fire spewed into the night.

“Kat!” It was Anya.

George leaped into action, seeing the two battled a yellow-scaled behemoth with a deadly spiked tail. Kat rolled to the ground as the tail swung right over her. She popped up as Anya winged her way above the beast to its horned crown. But it knew her aim, leaping with massive wings spread wide and crashing its body onto three angels and two demons in the midst of combat.

“Son of a bitch!” yelled Kat, sprinting toward the beast again.

George was at her side. “I’ll take the left.”

She nodded while in full motion. “Got the right.”

They’d fought dragons before. There was only one way to kill them: penetrate the scaly armor at the skull, preferably at the temples. Fortunately, this ugly beast had giant spikes ringing its skull—the perfect place to sift in and hold on tight.

The dragon growled while puffing up its chest just before it let fly another stream of fire straight up into the sky, trying to kill Anya, who aimed another arrow and hit the beast dead center of the eye. It roared and flounced, swinging its massive head from side to side. Anya had already swooped high in a giant arc, flying upside down, then cutting a line straight back to the beast’s head.

“Now!” yelled Katherine.

At a full sprint, George sifted and landed on the man-size spike spearing outward from under the dragon’s left ear. The stench of the dead wafted from the beast’s mouth, which yawned and snapped, then shook, trying to lose the two intruders now dangling on its head. George sensed, not saw, Katherine on the other side, knowing her presence like he knew his right hand. Without hesitation, he pulled back and drove his sword, Silversong, into the indented temple, the thinner part of the skull. Letting out a war cry, he shoved it through and held on as the howling beast stumbled, then tripped toward the earth. Before they hit, he sifted out to a safe distance.

The dragon crashed to its death. Panting, he glanced right and found Katherine standing among a pile of dead not far from Styx, who was sucking up the remnants of spirits and licking her fingers dipped in the black blood of dead demons.

“Behind you,” he said, pointing.

She was too far away but read his lips and turned. With a shuddering glance, she stalked away back to the dragon. He did the same, needing to retrieve Silversong. The mighty dragon’s head tilted to the right, its forked tongue lolling out of its fanged mouth. He sifted to its head again and wrenched Silversong from its monstrous sheath. It zinged as he freed the blade.

The battle raged on, but most of the combat had pushed toward the ring of standing stones. He glanced around, seeking the one he’d been wanting all night. And there he was at the base of the small hill. Damas gloated over an enemy, his foot pressing down his prey. Genevieve.

In a blink, George stood directly behind Damas, the enemy who had thwarted him for centuries, who had stolen his love and broken her—body and soul—with malice, lust, greed and cruelty. Adrenaline shot through his frame as he stepped close, listening to the foul threats he spewed at Genevieve, who lay pinned on the ground beneath his foot. George grabbed Damas’s shoulder and slid the sword home, straight through his upper chest and slightly to the left. The blade, slick with black blood, emerged on the other side.

“You’ll never twist anyone to your will again,” George promised before whispering words only for Damas to hear. “This is the day I will cherish, as I told you I would. Then I will forget you, and it’ll be as if you never existed at all.” George glanced down at the most powerful Flamma of all, still trapped under Damas’s foot, and raised his voice. “Finish him, Genevieve.”

Her expression of shock transformed as she grabbed Damas’s ankle. Without saying a word or mumbling a chant, she petrified the demon lord with a single thought. Genevieve’s entire body lit up from within with white-hot fire. A crackling, splintering sound, then Damas exploded into a cloud of fine ash and bone. A flash of ultrawhite light radiated across the moor, singeing the demons still in combat. Squealing and roaring, they fled the field. In that instant, George knew they had won this battle.

Genevieve popped up too quickly, swiped a femur off her, then wobbled. George grabbed her arm to hold her upright as her knees gave way. Before he could scoop her up, Jude was there, lifting her in his arms. He whispered words in her ear, carrying the woman who’d stolen his own heart away from this field of blood and death.

George stared down and toed his boot into the stack of bones billowing with ash. He tapped loose the demon’s skull. It rolled behind him and down the hill to where Katherine stood. She stopped it with her boot, toe up. After a second’s hesitation, her chest heaving, she crushed the skull beneath her foot.

George waited, wanting her more in that moment—blood-spattered, dirty and pale as a sheet—than he ever had his entire godforsaken life. Terrified, his heart too full of hope, unable to accept any answer but yes, he stood unmoving, gazing down the incline at the woman who held his heart in her hands, and simply waited. She met his gaze, breathing fast with the adrenaline of the moment, angels swooping after the fleeing demons in the distance, fires burning sporadically from dragon flame.

The world was on fire, and he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was this woman. This magnificent, beautiful, darling woman.

He raised his brow in question, bloody blade at his side—vulnerable and hopeful.

She crunched over the demon’s skull, not giving it another glance, leaving the bones behind her, and stretched out an arm toward him. Then she smiled.

“Let’s go home, George.”

Sheathing Silversong, he barreled down the hill, wrapped her in his arms and spun in a circle. She was laughing when they slipped through the Void, the momentary darkness no discomfort to either as they clung to one another. George righted them on solid ground outside the gates of Thornton.

George set her on her feet, both of them trembling, her laughter slipping away, though her smile remained. Taking her hand, he walked her through his wards, where they would be well protected and where they could relax their guard, if just for a little while.

As they crunched along the gravel drive, there came another, softer sound not far away. A violin and a woman’s beautiful voice floated over the lawn. The light from a bonfire flickered off to the right, near the stables. A small gathering of people circled the fire, a pastoral tradition for New Year’s here.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“You remember Daniel? The stable boy?”

“Yes.”

“I charged him as steward when I left Thornton…to look for you. It’s been a bit of a family tradition to pass that torch down the family line. His family lives in part of the house. They now run the estate, which is more a museum than anything else. And an attraction for those who seek the Lost Lord of Thornton.” He said the last with a doom-and-gloom tone.

She laughed, their hands clasped between them as they walked, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Lost Lord of Thornton?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know? He vanished one night in the early 1800s and was never seen or heard from again. Though a mysterious donor continues to fund the estate and keep the title in the Thornton name. Some say his ghost haunts these halls on a moonlit night.”

Katherine didn’t seem to enjoy his teasing. Her expression turned somber.

He pulled her to a stop, the violin and song still echoing into the night. “Don’t go tripping down memory lane. Not now. Please.”

“I wasn’t.” She inhaled a deep breath, focusing down on their entwined fingers. “I was just wondering something.”

“And what is that?”

“Is the Lord of Thornton still lost?” She met his gaze. The emotion welling there nearly crippled him.

“No.” He swept a loose lock of golden hair away from her face, before cupping her cheek with extraordinary tenderness. “I believe he has finally been found.”

“Oh, George.” She let out one sob and struggled to hold the rest back, biting her lip.

“Don’t, my love.”

The singer and fiddler burst into a new song with a lively beat, singing about hearth and home and a bonny child at her mum’s feet. George let go of her hand, stepped back and bowed, wanting no sign of sadness anywhere in this moment of their reunion.

“May I have this dance?” He held out his hand.

“You may.”

She stepped onto the lawn where he guided her, holding her as he had that first night when they waltzed at the Weathersby ball. Though the music was quite different, the connection was the same. They swayed together in perfect harmony, holding one another as if nothing else mattered. Because in that moment, nothing else did.

Though George wished neither of them were still strapped with chest harnesses and battle gear, he knew he’d never forget the glossy look in her eyes and the messiness of her hair and how absolutely perfect she was this night.

“You have demon blood on your chin,” she remarked with a smirk.

“So do you.”

“And you look a right mess,” she added, grinning now.

“So do you.” He spun her in a whirl, then drew her back into his arms where she belonged. “You know, I’ve had more modern amenities put into the house.”

“Have you? Like what?”

“Wonderful, large showers.”

“How interesting.”

He stopped their progression in the next circle, gripping her waist tight. “I’d love to get you in that shower and clean you up.”

He wondered if he’d gone too far, too soon, but her hand on his shoulder slipped to his nape, sending a delightful shiver down his spine. “I’d love that too.”

He did as promised and cleaned her from top to toe, never once kissing her, not until he’d gotten her into his bed, warm and dry. He loved her fiercely yet tenderly, tasting every sweet spot on her body. When he pushed inside her, she cried silent tears of joy. He kissed them dry as he thrust slow and deep and long. She whispered such beautiful things in the dark—passionate words, loving words—bringing them both to climax more than once throughout the night. But the most beautiful of all was after their passion was spent, when their bodies were still entwined, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as if she would never let him go.

“George?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yes, love.” He combed his fingers through her unbound hair.

“I do forgive you, you know.”

His trailing fingers paused. “Thank you.” He rested his hand on her back, two fingers caressing her spine.

“Do you forgive me?” she asked, peering up at him.

“Decades ago, love.” No hesitation.

She smiled, and his heart lifted. “I’m just like that flower. The cinquefoil.” She reared up on her elbow, cupping his jaw. “I was torn apart. But you, my knight, you found all the pieces and put me back together.”

Then there were no more words as she shifted her body over his, kissing him deeply, showing him the depth of her love.

George knew the world was going to Hell, but none of it mattered when he held Heaven in his arms.

Epilogue

Kat poured George’s favorite Nambarrie tea as he scanned his iPad for the latest news. She took her own cup and stretched out on the balcony sofa overlooking Thornton, propping her feet on George’s lap. Following the Blood Moon, they’d spent a solid month in Chelsea, pushing back a demon horde that had taken root and burned half the city. They’d returned here for a respite—the one place that seemed untouched by the ongoing war. For now, Alexander, who preferred the name Xander, was in charge of London by himself.

“Says here Germany is in a blackout. The British ambassador returned to England in a catatonic state.”

“Why is the ambassador even there? Most embassies are no longer functioning.”

“We’re English, my love. We must remain civilized as long as we can.”

“Even in Germany during the apocalypse?”

“Especially in Germany during the apocalypse.”

“Well, it’s being overrun.” She heaved a sigh and sipped her tea. “I imagine we’ll be heading there next.”

“I’ll need to report to Uriel first, see where we’re needed. He may already have the uprising covered.”

George continued to scroll, riveted to the screen. Much in the human world had fallen apart and slipped from existence—restaurants, movie theaters, businesses of all kind simply shut down. The wave of death that followed the night of the Blood Moon had decimated the general population. And while life as they’d known it had stopped, humans had found a way to survive. Some even thrived. One thing that had not gone away was the Internet. Specifically, news filtering out of New York. But no one knew how long that would last. After the night of the Blood Moon, chasms had opened up from above and below, flooding earth with Flamma of Light and Dark. But Genevieve had led a successful campaign, pushing the demon hordes back to Hell where they belonged. Even so, they were not gone. This war would not be over soon.

Kat watched the pall of gray shift in the afternoon sky, the sun peeking between two clouds, then fading once more behind the constant cover. The barrage of warfare between the Flamma had put the elements in chaos, churning the sky with billowing clouds day and night. With so much of the world in turmoil, Kat was happy to have her own private piece of serenity.

George remained intent on the news, draining the last of his tea. Kat wiggled her feet. He patted her leg. She wiggled them again. Nothing.

“Well, I think I’ll go in and take a long, hot bath.”

“All right, love,” he mumbled, focusing on the small screen.

“Yes. Just me and the bubbles.”

Nothing.

“Naked. With nothing to do.”

His gaze shot up from the screen. Setting the iPad on the table, he leaned forward, grabbed her thighs and pulled her closer, then onto his lap. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she gave him her innocent smile.

“I can think of something to do,” he said.

“Can you? I wasn’t sure. You seemed so keen on the world at large a moment ago.”

“The world can go to Hell.” He descended on her neck, nipping up the tender column toward her lips.

“Finally,” she whispered as he smiled against her lips.

Katherine moaned, loving the way George did everything with complete precision. No matter what the job was, his focus was sharp and his skill was perfection. After several centuries, he’d become a master at many things. But kissing had become her favorite of his many skills.

“I’d like to take that bath with you,” he said between kisses.

“Are you sure you’re finished with the news?”

Sliding his hand from her hip to her breast, he showed her where his attention lay. “Quite.”

As he stood, lifting her in his arms, a loud flap of wings sounded overhead. In a split second, he’d dropped her to her feet and they’d both drawn blades, which they never went anywhere without. But the Flamma landing on the balcony wasn’t an enemy. The serious and serene Anya stepped toward them, folding her royal-blue wings against her back.

George and Kat relaxed.

“I apologize for interrupting.” She must’ve seen what she was interrupting a few seconds before her landing. “But I’ve become concerned about Uriel.”

Anya was devoted to Uriel, following his strategy against the demon horde above others. She had worked closely with him since the beginning.

“What’s wrong?” asked George, concern written on his face.

“He hasn’t returned from his last mission.” Her violet eyes were piercing in broad daylight, even with the endless gray canvas above.

“His last mission where?” Kat asked.

“Italy. He was on simple reconnaissance to rally the hunters in Florence and Venice. But he hasn’t returned.”

Katherine glanced at George. “We’d better go.”

“I already have,” said Anya, her voice steady. “He vanished. My contact there said he spoke with him a month ago, but he never met them again at their appointed rendezvous.”

George rubbed the day’s growth of stubble on his chin. “I know someone who may be able to help.”

“Who? Jude?” asked Katherine.

“No. Dommiel.”

“You and Genevieve. Why do you both trust him so much?”

“Because he’s never failed us.”

“Not yet,” clarified Katherine.

“No. Not yet,” he amended.

“So now, demons are our allies?” she asked with an arched brow.

“Better the devil you know. Besides, Dommiel is different from most.”

Katherine couldn’t argue with that. Beyond the fact that he’d been the one to aid George in saving her from her living nightmare in the underworld, the demon had joined forces with the hunters in the months before the Blood Moon. He’d become invaluable up till that night, then he’d disappeared.

“I’d like to help if I can,” interjected Anya. “Where can we meet this demon?” She turned to Katherine.

“That might be the problem. No one knows where to find him.”

“Genevieve can find him,” George assured them before turning a knee-buckling smile on Katherine—the kind she pretended didn’t affect her anymore but most certainly did. “Get packed, darling. Our honeymoon is over.”

About the Author

Juliette calls lush, moss-laden Louisiana home, where the landscape curls into her imagination, creating mystical settings for her stories. Her love of mythology, legends and art serve as constant inspiration for her works. From the moment she read Jane Eyre as a teenager, she fell in love with Gothic romance—brooding characters, mysterious settings, persevering heroines, and dark, sexy heroes. Even then, she not only longed to read more novels set in Gothic worlds, she wanted to create her own.

Website: www.juliettecross.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/juliettecrossauthor

Twitter: www.twitter.com/Juliette__Cross

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/7795664.Juliette_Cross

Look for these titles by Juliette Cross

Now Available:

The Vessel Trilogy

Forged in Fire

Sealed in Sin

Bound in Black

Age of Gray

The Deepest Well

Coming Soon:

Vale of Stars

Dragon in the Blood

Don’t miss Juliette Cross’s Vessel Trilogy!

She never knew this demon world existed. Now she just wants to survive it.

The Vessel Trilogy, Book 1

Genevieve Drake never needed a man to come to her rescue. Not until the night of her twentieth birthday, when some dude nearly chokes her to death in an alley behind a New Orleans Goth club. And a hot stranger splits the guy in half, rips a monster from inside, and incinerates it into ash.

The hunky rescuer? Jude Delacroix—Dominus Daemonum, Master of Demons, now her guardian, whether she likes it or not. But she’s seriously beginning to like it.

Her would-be murderer turns out to be only the first of many minions of the demon prince, Danté, who has all kinds of lascivious and sadistic plans. Which means when the formidably beautiful Jude offers his protection, Genevieve has no problem accepting it.

For Jude and his fellow demon hunters tell her she is a Vessel, one who is born to serve the Light, but can be corrupted into a weapon of darkness. And to survive, she must trust a man whose unearthly eyes promise heaven…but whose powers unleash hell.

Warning: Contains a dark and brooding demon hunter who harbors even darker secrets, a snarky heroine who’s being hunted by every demon in the underworld, and a sadistic demon prince with a fancy for violent sexual encounters.

Sometimes sin looks an awful lot like heaven.

The Vessel Trilogy, Book 2

One demon prince may be festering in the bowels of the soul eater Cocytus, but Genevieve’s troubles are far from over. Prince Bamal, demon lord of New York City, still wants her. But this time, he wants her alive, to control her inherent power as a Vessel of Light.

With Jude Delacroix off searching for the prophecy, Thomas—a guardian angel with sea-green eyes and an aura of winter woods—steps into the gap, offering her the power to protect herself.

Yet she hesitates, for the transfer of that power comes through a kiss. While Gen’s love for Jude is true, Thomas stirs a desire where there should be none. Thomas also knows Jude’s darkest secret and plans to use it, if necessary, to win Gen for his own.

While her Vessel power grows and more demon spawn creep from every dark corner of the world, one thing is certain—the Great War between the angels and demons is quickly approaching. And Gen is in a race against time to awaken her full power before the storm breaks.

Warning: Contains a demon hunter with dark secrets, a sexy angel with ulterior motives, and demonic creatures running amok.

eBooks are not transferable.

They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

Cincinnati OH 45249

The Deepest Well

Copyright © 2016 by Juliette Cross

ISBN: 978-1-61923-337-9

Edited by Linda Ingmanson

Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: February 2016
www.samhainpublishing.com

Table of Contents

- Dedication
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Present Day
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Epilogue
- About the Author
- Look for these titles by Juliette Cross