Chapter Text
18 November, 1865
A few minutes earlier
Steve leaned forward a few inches, attempting to peer out the window of the rented hansom without visibly gawking.
They were slightly late, but not so much as to cause comment. Not that it was their fault. The ball was better attended than he suspected the Devils had anticipated, and the streets had been terribly clogged with foot-born litters and carriages. Walking would have been faster, and had he been on his own he might have and damned the wagging tongues of gossip, but it wouldn't do to subject a lady—not even Miss Van Dyne—to being such a spectacle.
The devils had spared no expense for the evening. Even the outer walls were hung with garlands and wreaths, real marble statues that were loosely covered with tasteful silk wrappings to hide their nudity tucked into corners and lit with candles and mirrors that cast soft golden shadows on every rounded limb and fold of silk, while more lighting tricks were played on the walls and the lush moss that stood in for lawn. Cleverly-placed lights and bits of brass clockwork made shadowy silhouettes that seemed to dance, forming figures of maidens and devils frolicking to inaudible music, devilesses with their tails as clearly visible as their clothing wasn't, griffins and bulls and great multi-headed snakes. One scene had been dedicated entirely to the various amorous pursuits of Zeus, even to the shower of rostygold that had been made to pour from a window across the shadow of a cavorting lady. She twisted, folding in on herself protectively as the gold shimmered around her, and then unfolded again with a twirl and an arch of her body that could have been ecstasy or torment before the scene repeated.
Though it was all clockwork, Steve couldn't imagine the delicacy and precision that would have been necessary to achieve such range of motion in the shadows. It rivaled even the work he'd seen from the rats. Whoever the devils had working for them on such matters, they were skilled beyond human measure.
He wondered if his admirer were up there somewhere, watching from a window, and then dismissed it. A man bold enough to send such open letters would be assured enough that he wouldn't need to crouch by a window to assauge his nerves.
"You would have been striking as Mars." Resplendent as Venus, Miss Van Dyne smiled at him and leaned away from the window, casually arrogant in her comfort with the displays put on. "The costume would not have needed many adjustments to accommodate the change either, I warrant. It would have taken only a moment."
"I am certainly no god of war," Steve demurred as their cab pulled to a stop at the carriage porch. Footmen leapt forward in perfect unison to open the door and pull down the carriage steps. He let himself out with a nod to the servants and then turned, offering his hand to Miss Van Dyne to assist her down.
More than just any simple costume of silk and jewels, her rendition of Venus was one Steve had once seen in a print of a Botticelli, with flowing cream silk and bodice ribbons so heavy with golden embroidery that the cloth beneath had vanished. Even her auburn hair had been crafted to match the Goddess's lazy braids and curls, though such a style was much out of fashion. As a lady of more than modern sensibilities, he supposed he ought to be grateful that she had not chosen Botticelli's other Venus as her inspiration.
As soon as her feet were on the ground the footmen blanched and hurried to bow, making Steve's eyebrows rise under his thankfully concealing helm. He'd suspected that Miss Van Dyne was someone of importance at the Embassy, but the reaction seemed a bit much for a lady who cursed and wore trousers. Secrets and more secrets, Steve thought in faint disgust. He grew weary of the damned things.
The lady smiled up at Steve, ignoring the small spectacle, and allowed him to lead her. Her hand was light on his forearm as they followed the path of lanterns and carpet that had been laid out from carriage porch to door, the light making the hell-ferns woven into the rug seem impossibly real for a mere product of the weaver's art.
"But you are certainly more than a Captain," Miss Van Dyne murmured as they presented their invitations to the footmen at the over-sized brass doors and were bowed inside. "Much more, I should say."
His jaw tightened, and he could nearly feel the secrets locked behind his lips, as though they were physical things waiting to be pried out and sold to the highest bidder. "My rank never rose higher than Captain," he insisted, which was true enough, officially.
But officially was all that mattered any longer, and anything else was between him and President Lincoln.
Miss Van Dyne didn't seem put out by his refusal to disclose, merely smiling and patting his arm. "Of course it didn't."
A mild retort caught on his lips as they stepped into the hall. Brass walls were the first, and only, thing he saw, smeared with marks of bloody red in odd shapes, familiar and at the same time so alien that he knew that the writers had never been known to man. They seemed to bend and smear into words that he couldn't quite make his tongue grasp, meanings glancing across his mind like a blow. Air left the room in a rush, leaving his lungs burning for lack of it.
North.
He tasted salt water.
A touch to his cheek, and air returned, brass refocusing into merely faded murals and walls. "Captain Rogers?" Miss Van Dyne asked from far too close for propriety, brow furrowed with worry. "Cousin, are you quite all right?"
"I—" He took a slow breath, savoring the taste of air, even the stale air of the Neath. Inside the Embassy it was spiced with something he couldn't name, a sharp flavor the rode the line between unpleasantly acidic and sweetly floral. "I am well, I assure you. Only overcome by the hall."
Certainly it was worth taking pause for. Even though the murals were faded, they were spectacular renditions of life as he imagined it might have been in Rome and Athens of the past, and the draperies had been hung in a way that they seemed to be part of the scene rather than overlay it.
She didn't seem to believe him in this any more than she had over his rank, but a light of understanding lit her eyes and she nodded and took his arm again, following the hall to its end, where a staircase waited. "Oh yes, the Embassy is famed for its balls. It makes an art of it, whether in decorations or entertainments. I sometimes think the devils do it to win over those who think them aligned with Lucifer, and sometimes I think they simply enjoy being grand hosts." As they began to climb the stairs, Miss Van Dyne's skirts rose to display surprisingly sturdy dance slippers, thick of sole and robust of construction.
"Aligned with Lucifer?" Steve seized on that phrase, to distract himself from the continued, faint distress brought on by the walls. "Are they not? They come from Hell, certainly." And there was the trade in souls, though polite folk didn't speak of it. London was not yet certain what to think of the devils open interest in the matter. He wasn't either, but he thought that for certain something so unique as a soul had to have some worth beyond the material.
One of her shoulders rolled in a shrug that the upper-class lady she made pretense of being would never have lowered herself to. "They say they are not, that he is a myth of history, and who are we to gainsay?"
The conversation faded as they stepped on to the floor above, which was filled with even more scandalous wonders than the hall or lawn. Dancing girls and boys in diaphanous silks gathered little crowds of masked admirers around them, while fire-eaters and -jugglers wandered the floor, peddling their abilities with kind smiles and feats of acrobatic brilliance. None of them seemed to be wearing more than the minimum necessary for modesty, and at least one young man seemed involved in a dance that would end in significantly less than that. Even what he thought might be scarlet stockings wandered the crowds, dressed as nymphs, their signature color worn as sheer wraps rather than in the traditional way.
Seeing them in their signature color made Steve uncomfortably aware of how his own costume matched them. Indeed, he drew curious, hungry glances from others as he and Miss Van Dyne navigated the music rooms, where people of indeterminate gender played waterfalls of music on standing harps. No one else seemed to have acquired that particular color for their garments; though he saw some shades of crimson that were nearly rich enough, they were poor imitations when he compared them to his own tunic.
On his arm, Miss Van Dyne had noticed the looks as well. Her chin had risen proudly, and she walked a bit closer, clearly pleased by the jealousy directed her way. Steve squirmed, uncomfortable with the attention but not having any way to counter it short of stripping off the offending garment, and that would not be any help at all.
When they passed by through the doors to the ballroom, Steve breathed a sigh of relief. The footman who approached them didn't show any signs of poor opinion of Steve's attire, though he did cast a lingering look at Steve's bared knees that made him flush and wish he'd worn a proper pair of trousers. Then Miss Van Dyne caught his attention and the footman bowed his head to her lips, nodding as she whispered something that was too soft to rise above the strains of a hidden orchestra that filled the silence before the opening dances.
The footman bowed and stepped aside, gesturing to them as Steve led her to the top of the stairwell. "The Goddess Venus and the Stalwart Roman Legionnaire!"
"Stalwart?" he asked, startled, as they descended in slow, measured steps. He was many things, but stalwart was uncomfortably commemorative for a life he thought terribly ordinary.
A smile curled her lips, smug and not terribly kind. "I could have chosen handsome, but I think that you might have objected to that as well, humble soul that you are."
He could hardly argue that without looking foolish, so he settled for making an unamused face at her before turning his gaze to the ballroom, scanning for any sign of his admirer. It was as fantastically adorned as every other room, with well-placed statues and bouquets of mushrooms, but no one seemed unusually interested in them.
One thing caught his attention as they rounded the bend and reached the final landing. "Why is the floor...?"
Unlike the rest of the Embassy, even the floor was brass, polished to mirror-brightness to reflect back the light of the chandelier overhead. It gleamed wickedly, smooth and strangely sinister for being only a piece of flooring.
"Heated," Miss Van Dyne answered casually as they stepped on to it, as if she were merely relaying the name of a composer, or perhaps what she'd had for dinner. "Be careful as you walk. Your sandals have asbestos in the sole, but that won't protect your toes, or the rest of you if you fall."
Steve took her advice, watching his feet as he walked a few steps along the ballroom floor. The sandals had been well-designed, and only a faint warmth seeped up to his skin, but as he watched a mushroom slipped from its bouquet on the walls and landed with the hiss of a cooking pan.
Other than the heat, it seemed a normal—if elaborate and large—dance floor. What might go on other than dancing he steered his thoughts firmly away from. Silk drawers were inconveniently sensual enough without having thoughts to make the matter worse, and his tunic would surely not be of aid in hiding any condition that might arise as a result.
Like a sudden crash of thunder, shrill screams erupted behind him, shattering the peace of the music. Fiends no higher than his waist swarmed him, whirlwinds of teeth and grasping limbs. They clutched at him, fingers digging into his tunic like claws and yanking him about in a flurry of silk wraps, their weight dangling from his arms limply. He shoved Miss Van Dyne away for her safety and reached for the sabre that was no longer at his side. Once he realized what his attackers were, though, he hesitated.
He'd never seen a devil-child before in the Neath, had not even supposed they existed, but now he would have been very glad to have kept the illusion. Steve's balance wavered as he fought not to step on them; every time he moved, another one moved in, a writhing mass that seemed intent on nothing but pinning him down to the sizzling-hot floor.
"Candy!" a tiny girl said in an odd accent, then babbled something in a language that seemed made more out of music than words. Giant golden eyes stared up at him from under a pile of equally gilded curls as the devilet wrapped her tiny fingers around his wrist, fangs scraping across his skin with the sensation of someone drawing a feather across his spine. Steve tried to pull away, but others had boxed him in, climbing him as if he were a tree, child-devils chanting and babbling at him in dozens of tongues, nipping and clinging.
"That's enough!" Suddenly, three devils waded in, a lady in green, a tall dark-skinned devil in a red toga, and another in bright brass armor. They pulled the devilets off, to many cries of dismay and one or two nips that resulted in blood. The general especially seemed put out by the children, hissing at one who refused to unhook his fingers from Steve's belt, nearly tripping on his elaborate red cape as he did so.
"Mine!" he growled, picking the child up by the waist and tugging to little appreciable affect on the devil-child's grip. Steve stumbled forward with the tug, startled off-balance by the declaration. Then the devilet dug his nails into Steve's wrist, sharp as claws, and brought his focus back to the task at hand.
The lady in green turned her attention to the remaining child, grabbing the devilet's hands to pry him off finger by determined finger. Steve started to help and was bitten on the knuckle for his trouble, little fangs sinking in and locking. He let out an undignified sound of pain and yanked, but the devilet had locked his jaw like a terrier around a stick and wasn't coming loose with any ease.
Hurriedly the lady grabbed his wrist to free it, then froze, looking up with wide eyes. "Oh."
The Senator snarled something in a language that made Steve's ears heat as if scalded and stepped between them, wrapping his arm around the child's chest and leaning down to whisper something. The boy blinked opened his mouth meekly, allowing himself to be hauled away. The last three remaining devilets backed away hurriedly, huddling together at a distance of a few feet and contriving to project an air of cherubic innocence suited to the nature spirits they were dressed as.
Steve's attack had gathered a crowd of curiosity-seekers; they circled them, devils and humans murmuring to one another in low tones of shock. He checked to be sure that his mask had not gone awry, but the helmet held it in place far more securely than ribbons might have, and it had held. Scratches marred his hands and arms, with a few enterprising ones on his knees from the tinier of the children, but by far the worst wound was the twin punctures in the meat of his thumb that looked like nothing so much as a snakebite.
A sharp clap silenced everyone, children and on-lookers, cutting through the lively strands of the latest piece put on by the orchestra. The green clad deviless brought her hands together again and then pointed toward the back with an air of unmistakable annoyance.
One of the larger devilets stepped forward, playing with the tip of her tail anxiously as she protested, "But Miss Wanda, he's—"
Whatever expression crossed Miss Wanda's face must have been fearsome, for the child quieted quickly and scurried back. As one, they turned and fled, hurrying behind the curtain that must have hidden them at the start. They wasted no time hiding themselves, and Steve wondered what sort of punishment devils dealt to their children.
Show done, the remainder of the crowd began to disperse, still no doubt talking amongst themselves about the ordeal. Steve suspected that by the time they left, he would have been mauled by a pack of full-grown devils right there on the ballroom floor, gnawed down to the bone. As they moved, it became clear that the ball had been opened while he was occupied dealing with his assailants, couples having already stepped out onto the dance floor for the opening set. Most of the ball-goers were gentlemen, the Brass Embassy still being far too scandalous a place for most ladies to venture of an evening, and it made an odd balance of couples. None of the gentlemen who partnered with one another seemed put out by the lacking, however, and no one looked it amiss. Steve took it as a good sign, that his admirer and he might not be forced to ride the sidelines entirely while others danced.
As the deviless that the child had called Miss Wanda turned, Steve found himself flanked by Miss Van Dyne on one side and a devil on the other, elaborately decorated brass armor and a scarlet plume marking him as a general. Breath left Steve in a rush as he realized that the general was in the same intoxicating shade of red that his own costume bore—his admirer? Who else could it be?
"I apologize for my charges," the deviless said in a soft murmur, hands clasped before her and eyes lowered demurely. "They must have noticed your... exceptional quality, and it over-excited them. Children are sensitive, are they not?"
"Little harm done—" Steve started to say, but the general cut him off with a hiss. Something hot and flexible slithered around his knee, gripping it tightly enough that he thought it might take real effort to win free.
"You apologies are noted." the devil Steve was more and more certain was his admirer growled. "But I believe your charges may be waiting for you?"
The deviless merely smiled in obvious, condescending amusement, and reached into a small silk case that hung from her wrist. She stepped forward and took Steve's unresisting hand, pressing a card in to it. Her hands lingered around his, and he could have sworn something hungry crossed through her eyes.
"Call on me."
And then she was gone, sweeping away back into the alcove and behind the curtain, where no doubt the little ones were about to feel her quiet wrath fall upon then. Steve turned to Miss Van Dyne, but she was already walking away, pulling the nameless Senator off and leaving him alone with...
Fever-warm hands wrapped around his, bright blue eyes barely visible in the shadows created by a heavy helm and a mask similar to his own. The helm had been cunningly designed to accommodate the wearer's horns, but it couldn't disguise or hide them entirely. Certainly no effort had been made to hide his tail, which was still curled around Steve's knee, but looser than its previously strangling grip. The tip of it tickled the back of his calf, drawing lazy loops and spirals along tender skin. The devil's legs were as incautiously bared as his own, showing fine strong muscle and a dusting of dark hair that he assumed matched what was under the helmet. Equally strong arms were bared at the bicep, warm golden skin seemingly made to glow by the proximity of so much polished brass.
"You're the one who's been sending letters," Steve breathed, finding the air suddenly too warm for his liking. A devil. Even though Miss Van Dyne had insisted on vagueness, he'd suspected it might be such, but seeing the truth in such undeniably handsome detail was unsettling. His soul was firmly his own, with no intentions to give it up, but devils were known for their eloquence, and experience had painted this one as more persuasive than most.
"And you are the one who replied to them." His admirer flashed a smile, white fangs peeking out from behind his lips, made even more startling by perfectly groomed facial hair. For all the heat and underlying meaning, it was a boyish expression, one that might once have come with confessed secrets of birds' nests tucked away in trees back when he'd been a mere devilet. "Rather whole-heartedly, of late?"
A fresh wash of heat rose in Steve's cheeks as he recalled the things in his most recently reply, words of sunshine and rather more bared skin than provided by kneecaps. The first song was fading away to the silence between pieces, voices rising as dancers hurried to find fresh partners. "Your pen did not portray you as a man interested in timidity."
"A liar it is, as I find myself as interested in your blushes as I am your boldness." The general took a sharp step forward, which forced Steve to move back against one of the brass walls if he wanted anything similar to space between them. He held his ground against the impulsive urge to flee, though courage that had stood him in good stead on the battlefields of Antietam wavered when the nevercold brass of the other's breastplate brushed his bare arm.
"What do I call you, sir, as you seem to have the best of me?" Steve asked in a soft voice, low and surprisingly rough in his ears.
"It's a masquerade, Captain," the General whispered in his ear. Though he could not see it clearly, he could hear the laughter, wholesome and sweet, inviting him into the joke rather than making him the center of it. "Names are a business for other evenings."
A callused hand clasped his and drew him out onto the floor as the orchestra started again, the sweet tones of a waltz replacing the opening quadrille. He saw Miss Van Dyne being led by the Senator from before, one of the few others partnered with a devil that he saw, though many devils watched from the sides with curiously analytical expressions.
"Would you take the part of the gentleman?" his partner asked courteously, but Steve shook his head and instead took the lady's place, one hand at the devil's shoulder and the other rising to the usual position.
"It wouldn't look right, a general being led by a soldier."
"I think you commanding enough a figure to attempt it, but I'll not pursue against your wishes." The devil's lashes lowered, watching him as they waited for their mark, and then on the down beat they stepped into a turn and danced, the devil's cape swirling about them like the skirts of a fine gown.
When they'd been younger, Steve had taken on himself to teach his brother the basic steps of the waltz, taking the lady's place because their mother had been too ill for it, but dancing with the devil was nothing like that at all. There was a fluidity to it that Bucky had never mastered, a pivot of hips and the occasional touch of bodies that had certainly never been part of those long-past lessons. Breath came in shorter quantities than the exertion of the dance would seem to call for, nerves dancing as the room whirled by with every turn and step.
The space between them seemed smaller than usual, but a glance at other dancers—Miss Van Dyne in particular—showed that they weren't alone in their closeness. One couple—a set of ladies, no less, which was shocking when there was such a dearth of them—were practically touching, so close that their foreheads could brush.
At his waist, the devil's hand crept low, to the small of his back, and his lips came perilously close to Steve's ear. "I quite enjoyed your last letter," he purred, apparently unaffected by the strain of the waltz. "Particularly the reference to the grassy fields found of the surface world. Have you ever had such stains on your knees and palms as you describe, or were you the cause of them in others?"
Bold words were easier written than said, and Steve found his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth when he attempted a suitable reply. After several attempts, he finally managed to murmur, "Neither, and I think it best to keep an open mind when considering new experiences, don't you?"
His partner laughed and the pattern of steps in their dance changed slightly, pulling them out of the heart and toward the edges. In the space of two measures, Steve was being whirled down a side corridor that seemed made for servants more than visitors, poorly lit and sporting plain wooden flooring without a carpet. Stepping only a few feet down it revealed a sudden turning and a nook that might once have sported a statue or set of armor. "I must agree," the devil whispered, blocking Steve in with his body.
Though the brass was the same sort as everywhere else, it felt surprisingly chill against Steve's skin where it touched his arms and elbows, especially contrasted to the unnatural heat of his admirer. He could hear his heart in his ears, a loud beat that matched the pace of the waltz taking place a mere stone's throw away. There was no indication that this particular corridor was unused—a servant might walk down it at any second, or another couple seeking a private place for their own exchange of affections. A jolt of anxious desire seemed to connect groin to chest at the realization that only a mask and the lack of lighting protected them.
Steve's arms slid around the devil's neck to draw him closer, a strong thigh slipping between his. When their lips touched, there was a moment of unfamiliarity at the faint scratch of facial hair, the points of fangs so sharp that Steve nearly cut himself by an incautious motion. But the devil seemed easy enough at kissing, deftly avoiding causing more than superficial damage as his tongue explored Steve's mouth and strong hands slid across his backside.
Though his admirer was terribly free with his hands, it was the touch of his tail that Steve felt first on his skin, a flicker of sharpened leather across the sensitive places on the inside of his thigh just under the edge of his drawers. It scratched ever so lightly in smooth arcs and whirls, as if the point of a pen were being dragged across his flesh. Steve shivered, head spinning as if they were still in the heart of the dance floor and erection throbbing. Nips and delicate scrapes of teeth flushed his entire body, making his very soul sing like a plucked harp string.
Wanton and made bold by the other man's touches, Steve ventured his own, sliding his hands up silken skin and then under a garment that felt similar to his own unmentionables in brevity and cloth. His fingertips drew a line across the scattering of hair just below the crux of his companion's thighs, and then higher to the thicker patch at his groin. As it turned out, devils were not so far removed from man in design, length thick and not unfamiliar to Steve's curious hands.
The devil hissed against his lips, a feral noise that was accompanied by a squeezing of his hands and a fumble for Steve's own drawers. In a trice they were dropped to his knees and held off the ground only by the curve of the tail as it determinedly kept on with its strange caresses. Steve's groan was lost in the space between their mouths as their pricks lined up, a surprisingly soft glide of skin on skin, the devil's calluses hard points of contrast where his hand gripped them together, stroking with a confident measure next to Steve's less certain one.
Gasps turned to heady groans of pleasure shared between them, words better suited for a zailor seeming to scorch the air. Though Steve considered himself a man of not little endurance, the thrill of such illicit pleasure was too much. He pulled away with an oath and the knock of brass on brass as his helmet connected with the wall. Silk touched the head of his prick, the whisper of a handkerchief; it was enough to push him over the edge, spilling into the offered scrap of fabric with a shudder. He felt his partner follow in his wake only a minute later, a splash of exquisite heat that made his skin sting before it was dutifully sopped it up with the handkerchief.
Steve closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wall, listening to the orchestra that now was distant, muffled, as if even the strains of music were giving them privacy. The devil rested his head against Steve's shoulder, spreading affectionate kisses across his sweat-damp neck and jaw, bodies nuzzled together in a way that was more of mutual comfort than lust. Even his tail had settled about Steve's waist, limp as a piece of rope.
"You are a miracle," he breathed against Steve's throat, the scratch of his goatee drawing new shivers across Steve's skin.
"I would say the same for you, barring circumstances." Armor blocked the way of Steve's hands as he attempted to return the languid caresses, too hard and unreal against his fingers, not the soft flesh he wanted at all. "Is this it, then? You'll not even give me a name?"
"I believe I have already told you: this is a masquerade." Another kiss landed against his lips, stealing the very air from his lungs. Steve arched in to it, head growing light as a bat on the wing, vision fading to blackness, and then taking consciousness with it.
He dreamed that men with the faces of other men leered at him from the deck of a barge as it floated downriver, while the pale, emaciated boatman played a game of chess using bottles that that screamed agony with each turn. Bucky's face peered out of one of them, withered and care-worn, lashed with bruises. Other men from his last regiment were there, too—Howlett and Dugan and Jones and a dozen others, faces he'd seen around the encampment and faces he'd seen over a drink nearly every night. They screamed and begged, but no matter how Steve tried, how he shoved and called and fought he couldn't save them, limbs locked as if bound by rope stronger than any designed by man.
Walls rose up as the river turned into a hall, brass towering and warm, painted with blood that Steve somehow now knew was his own. And then there were the streets of Rome as Venus led a Senator into sin, her smile hungry as they vanished behind a curtain of spider-silk. Hissed whispers followed them like the tongues of snakes, forked and venomous. A choir of devilets raised their faces in an ancient hymn, voices angelically sweet as they spun Latin into harmonies that tasted of sugar and folded about his dreams like silk. Though he did not know the meaning of the words, the song resonated in his bones, as if the soil and roots above the fallen city would hum with it in time too slow for human ears, and the stars that watched over them had a solo piece of their own within. Tears sprang to Steve's eyes, dripping to the floor, and when he looked down they glowed golden like candle flames in the night.
And then there was sweet darkness, gentle and comforting, and a steady pulse under his cheek. Someone whispered secrets in his ear as the visions of stars faded, words that burned like strong whiskey, flowing through him and settling in his heart to keep him warm.
When he came back to himself Steve found that he'd been tucked comfortably into the corner of the same cab that he'd arrived in as it trundled down the cobbled street, something warm and blanket-like arranged about his shoulders. He ached abominably, wounds from the attack of the little ones sharp and throbbing, muscles tender at the least movement, inner thigh burning where the tail's work on his skin had finally transmuted to pain, a sting of not-unpleasant heat. In the low lighting, he could barely make out words among the wounds, carved directly onto his skin in a familiar, spiky hand.
There was no sign that his affectionate devil might have lingered, only a few scraps of sorrow spider silk pressed into his hand, the corner touched by some embroidery he couldn't quite read in the darkness, and a string of moonpearls.