Even so, the Hellequin took her hand and dismounted, leading her to stand with him before the thing.
“You’ve let loose the soul I sent you to collect,” the Devil said, for of course it was he.
The Hellequin bowed his head.
“You know,” the Devil said quietly, “what forfeit you must pay.”
Faith’s heart squeezed. “What is he talking about?” she asked the Hellequin. “What is the forfeit?”
“My soul,” the Hellequin replied. “The Devil demands a soul and since I lost one, I must pay him back with my own.” “No!” cried Faith.
The Devil’s thin, cold lips curved as if he were amused. “The living are so passionate. Shall I chain you to a red-hot rock and roast your flesh for a hundred years, girl?”
Faith lifted her chin, and though it made her tremble to do so, she met the Devil’s pitiless gaze. “I live. You have no power over me.”
“Ah. The Hellequin has been speaking out of turn, I see.” The Devil shrugged. “Begone from my domain, then, human.”
“I shall go,” Faith said, “but not without the Hellequin.” The Devil threw back his head and laughed—a sound like a blade drawn along a whetstone. “Silly girl. The Hellequin is not human and hasn’t been for a thousand years.”
“He drinks like a human,” Faith said.
The Devil’s eyes narrowed.
“He eats and he sleeps like a human as well,” she continued bravely, hope rising in her chest. “How is he not a human?”
“He does not draw breath like a human,” the Devil snapped.
Faith’s eyes widened and she saw that she had lost, for the Hellequin had never drawn breath the entire time she’d ridden with him.
Faith turned to the Hellequin, her eyes swimming in tears, and stood upon tiptoe to place her palms on either side of his black face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
And she laid her mouth on his and with a kiss blew air from her lungs into his.
The Devil shrieked in rage and around Faith and the Hellequin a roaring wind began to spin. The wind rose, spinning higher and faster until all Faith could do was close her eyes and cling to the Hellequin.
Then the wind was gone and she opened her eyes to find that it was night and they both stood on the crossroads where her beloved had breathed his last breath. The Hellequin was making an odd rasping sound. He clutched his side and fell to his knees.
Faith knelt beside him, alarmed. “What is wrong?” “Nothing,” he said. “It hurts to draw breath after a millennia of stillness.”
He threw back his head and laughed—and unlike the Devil his laughter sounded warm and alive.
The Hellequin drew Faith into his arms. “Dearest, you have given me food, drink, and sleep. You have made my heart beat and breathed life into my dead lungs. You have outwitted the Devil and saved me from Hell, a thing I have never seen before. I am not a good man like your beloved, but if you will take me as husband, I will spend the rest of my mortal life learning how to make you love me.” Faith smiled. “I love you already, for you would have given your own immortal soul simply to free my beloved’s—and to please me.”
And she pulled his head down and gave him the first of many kisses as a mortal man.
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
THREE MONTHS LATER…
As Lady Penelope Chadwicke’s companion, Artemis had witnessed many ill-advised ideas. There had been the time Penelope had decided to take over the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children—and had been pelted with cherry pits. Once Penelope had tried to start a fashionable craze by using a live swan as an accessory—who knew how irritable swans were? Then there had been the debacle involving the shepherdess costume and the sheep. A year later the scent of wet wool still made Artemis flinch.
But—hissing swans notwithstanding—Penelope’s ideas weren’t usually dangerous.
This one, however, might very well get them killed.
“We’re in St. Giles and it’s dark,” Artemis pointed out with what she hoped was a persuasive tone. The street they were on was deserted, the tall houses on either side looming in a rather sinister manner. “I do think that fulfills the letter of your wager with Lord Featherstone, don’t you? Why don’t we go home and have some of those lovely lemon curd tarts that Cook made this morning?”
“Oh, Artemis,” Penelope said with that disparaging tone that Artemis had really come to loathe, “the problem with you is that you have no sense of adventure. Lord Featherstone won’t hand over his jeweled snuffbox unless I buy one of those awful tin cups of gin at precisely midnight and drink it in St. Giles, and so I shall!”
And she went tripping off down a dark lane in the most violent section of London.
Artemis shivered and followed. She had the lantern, after all—and while Penelope was a vain, silly ninny, Artemis was rather fond of her. Perhaps if they found a gin shop very soon, this would all end happily and Artemis would have another amusing tale to tell Apollo when next she visited him.
This was all Miss Hippolyta Royle’s fault, Artemis thought darkly as she glanced warily around the awful lane. Miss Royle had captured the imagination of most of aristocratic society—the male half, in fact—and for the first time in her life, Penelope had a rival. Her response—to Artemis’s deep dismay—was to decide to become “dashing,” hence this foolish wager with Lord Featherstone.
“That looks promising,” Penelope called gaily, pointing to a wretched hovel at the end of the lane.
Artemis briefly wondered what Penelope considered promising.
Three large men reeled out of the hovel and started their way.
“Penelope,” Artemis hissed. “Turn around. Turn around right now.”
“Whyever should I turn—” Penelope began, but it was already too late.
One of the men raised his head, saw them, and stilled. Artemis had once watched an old tomcat freeze in the exact same way.
Right before the cat tore apart a sparrow.
The men started for them, shoulders bunched, strides bold.
The lane was closed. There were only two ways in or out, and the men advancing on them blocked one.
“Run!” Artemis muttered to her cousin, gesturing with an outstretched arm for Penelope to come with her. She couldn’t leave Penelope alone. She simply couldn’t.
Penelope screamed, loud and shrill.
The men were almost on them. Running would buy them only seconds.
Dear God, dear God, dear God.
Artemis began to reach for her boot.
And then salvation fell from above.
Salvation was a big, frightening man, who landed in a crouch. He stood, an easy, athletic uncoiling of muscle, and as he straightened she saw his mask: it was black, covering his face from upper lip to hairline, the nose horribly huge, lines of scars twisting along the cheeks. Dark eyes glittered behind the eyeholes, intelligent and alive.
Before her stood the Ghost of St. Giles.
