Infernal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demons of Fire and Night Book 1) (17 page)

U
rsula reconstituted
on the floor of the sigil room. For once, she’d remembered to hold her breath, but the pain that tore through her arms and legs was far worse than the soot in her lungs. She glanced down at her ravaged forearms, and the gashes in her leg from Abrax’s talons. They had ripped right into the muscle, and blood pumped from the wounds. Dizzy, she tried to stand, pain splintering her limbs, and only made it to her knees. Her body shook violently, and nausea overwhelmed her. An image flashed in her mind of the slumped fae corpse—the man she’d so casually killed.

She couldn’t give in yet. What if Kester was still in the fae realm, still alive somehow and being tortured to death? Nauseated, she stayed on all fours, watching the blood pour from her wounds.

Kester could have saved his own skin at least once by giving her up to Emerazel after her failure. Was that why he’d been so reckless tonight—because he knew he’d probably die anyway? Her stomach heaved, and she vomited.

Suppressing a scream, she forced herself up, her legs shaking.
How long until Emerazel comes for me?
Her right leg had been shredded by the talons, and she only lasted a few seconds before she was on the floor again, crawling this time. Slowly, each movement torture, she dragged herself into the hall. There was an extra cellphone in her bedroom. It would be agonizing climbing the stairs, but she’d get there eventually.
As long as I don’t bleed out first.

Blood smeared the hall as she crawled. If anyone wanted to fight her now, she’d just roll over and give up.
Just get to the phone, Ursula.
As soon as she dialed 911, help would be on the way. They’d stitch her up in the ER, maybe sew her veins back together. The gashes went straight through to the bone, but it would give her some time.

She paused, gasping for breath.
I’m not going to make it that far…

What other options did she have? Kester had used a healing spell after the fight with the moor fiend. A healing spell would get her, quite literally, on her feet.

Focus, Ursula
. Could she recall the spell, like she had with the sigil spell in Club Lalique? Probably not. She’d been unconscious when he’d chanted it over. She closed her eyes, racking her brain. Maybe it was somewhere in that procedural memory of hers. But, she had nowhere to begin.

The pain drowned out nearly all rational thought.
She leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths to manage the agony.

She could
read
Angelic, even if she couldn’t produce a spell out of thin air. What she needed was a spell book. Her eyes snapped open.
The library.
Those books had to be Henry’s collection of grimoires, and she’d seen Kester unlock the books on his shelf. All she had to do was recite the unlocking spell and skim through their pages.

With a shock of pain, she forced herself onto her hands and knees again and crawled down the hall to the library. The hallway had never seemed so long before—but she’d never felt like she had knives piercing her bones before.

Kester.
He had some sort of history with Abrax, she was pretty sure. He’d had an intense reaction when she told him about the incubus. He’d already wanted to kill him. Whatever their history, she wanted to hunt down Abrax and finish the job for him. She shuffled forward, groaning as she reached the library.

Almost there.

She dragged her broken body to the locked books. They stood just as she remembered them, lined up on the bottom shelf with that familiar glow emanating from their bindings. Grimacing, she reached for one, but the force field pushed her hand away.

She grunted, trying to think clearly.
How did Kester do it?
He’d simply held his hands out and recited a spell.

Not a spell,
she thought.
That word—like a woman’s name.
Gasping, she rolled onto her side and held out her shaking hands. She closed her eyes, picturing Kester’s mouth as he spoke the word, his deep voice caressing her skin, and she repeated after him. “
Oriel.
”

As soon as she finished, a magical aura whispered over her skin, just like it had when she’d chanted the spells with Kester. The glow around the books flickered for a moment but didn’t disappear.
Bollocks.

She slumped back to the floor, the pain in her legs pure agony. Her breath came in short gasps, and the blood continued to pump from her wounds, staining the rug. There wasn’t much time left.

She closed her eyes. If Oriel was a name, then maybe each of these locking spells were personalized, like a password on a computer. And if this apartment had belonged to Henry… How the fuck was she supposed to guess Henry’s password? She knew nothing about the man apart from the festive state of his organs after his death. Her heart thrummed. Had she seen anything in the apartment, any photographs…?

The painting.
There was a painting in the living room of a beautiful woman named Louisa. And if Kester had named his spell after a woman…

She reached out her hands again, choking out the name. “
Louisa
.”

For a moment she thought she’d guessed wrong, but then the yellow glow faded. Relief washed over her.
Finally getting somewhere.

Her eye raced along the titles on the books’ spines. There were copies of the
Fasciculus Chemicus
and the
Theatrum Chemicum Britannicum
, an ancient-looking book simply called
DAEMONS
, and an Angelic book that translated to “Lenus’s Healing Spells and Poultices.”
Bingo.
She pulled it from the shelf with a thud, barely able to lift herself off the floor. She flipped through it, translating the Angelic spell names at the top. God, she was so tired. She needed to sleep…

But if she fell asleep, she’d wake again bathed in flames.

Fear pushing her on, she refocused her attention. Spells for curing rashes, tinctures for alleviating gout, and conjurations by Ashmole, Norton, and Starkey. She flipped through an entire section on bovine maladies and crop sickness, rapidly losing the will to live.

Her hands were beginning to shake uncontrollably, and she glanced back at the shelf. One book was different from the others—smaller and made of leather, with no name on the spine. It looked more like a journal than a spell book.
Henry’s ledger.
She pulled it from the shelf and flipped through page after page of Henry’s adventures as a hellhound—each soul he’d claimed, rendered in his spindly handwriting. Desperately, her eyes searched for anything about injuries or a healing spell, until at least she neared the end of the book.

She almost screamed with relief.
Starkey’s Conjuration
it was. She’d seen that one. She flipped back through
Lenus’s Healing Spells
. Her vision began to narrow, darkening at the edges.

Please, gods, work.

She focused her dimming sight on the page, and read through the Angelic words about healing waves of light. The words rolled off her tongue, and as she got to the final stanza, she nearly smiled—it was the part she’d heard Kester recite over her broken body after she’d fought the moor fiend—the part about healing waters and leaching away pain.

At the final words, the air charged with a crackling electricity that traveled over her body in a rush, washing through her flesh and muscle. When it reached her arms and legs, a tremendous shock ripped through her. Her tunnel vision narrowed all the way down to a point, until nothing remained but Ursula and the darkness.

U
rsula opened her eyes
, staring at the library ceiling, her head resting on
Lenus’s Healing Spells.
Her gaze darted to the window—still dark outside. Wind rattled the pane.

I’m not burning in an inferno. I must be alive.

She sat up, examining her arms and legs. Not a single scar remained, and her muscles felt strong enough to run a mile. If it weren’t for the bloodbath around her and the shredded gown, she might have been able to convince herself it had all been a terrible dream.

She rose, surveying the room.
Blood everywhere.
It looked like a crime scene, red spattering the rug and books. Stepping into the hall, she eyed the trail of gore that led back to the sigil room, overcome by a desperate desire to clean it all up. She didn’t know what sort of killer F.U. had been, but the sight and smell of it turned her stomach. Worse, the trail of blood in the hallway sparked something in the darkest recesses of her memory, something she didn’t want to remember…

Frantically, she rushed to the kitchen, yanking open the closet and grabbing a mop and bucket. Her hands still shaking, she filled the bucket with water from the sink, and a hefty dollop of soap.
I need to get rid of the blood.

She nearly spilled the bucket in her rush to drag it back into the hall, where she manically pushed the mop over the boards, sopping up vomit and gore.
I need this gone.
She’d killed someone tonight, and she’d seen Kester die. She hadn’t known him long and hadn’t liked him most of that time, yet she had the strange feeling that she’d miss him terribly if he were truly gone. She could envision his perfect face, his lips as he’d kissed her.
Please, Kester, don’t be dead.
Maybe he’d bust through the door unannounced at any minute.

What the hell had happened in the fae realm? She didn’t even know what Abrax had been doing there in the first place. Kester had said the fae were unaligned—they had nothing to do with the god of night.

She scrubbed the crimson-stained floor, trying to push out the image in her mind—Kester falling over the ledge—but the horrible vision kept returning to her. Abrax had slaughtered him viciously, without waiting to hear what they’d needed. They hadn’t come to the fae realm to hurt anyone, just to get Zee’s soul back. And she’d failed—miserably. Again.

Something cold and primal chilled her heart. She wanted revenge.

She’d lost not one but two souls tonight. She glanced down the hall at the sigil room, hoping to see Kester’s athletic frame suddenly appear by some magical stroke of luck. But she was an idiot for counting on things like luck to save her—things like her stupid white stone. Luck was for the desperate, not for those with any sense of control over their lives.

A harsh, gnawing emptiness welled in her chest, and she threw down the mop. She needed to get control for once in her life, before Emerazel showed up and dragged her to the underworld. Maybe she could still reclaim Zee’s soul. She could at least try. And maybe—with Zee’s help—she could find out what happened to Kester. If she was the one missing, Kester wouldn’t just sit around mopping floors and crying. He’d do something about it, for fuck’s sake.

Adrenaline coursed through her blood. She would be different—a New Ursula, one who took the hand she was given and dealt with it.

First, she needed to get out of her tattered, stained gown. She raced upstairs to the bathroom, stripping off her dress and turning on the shower. She stepped in, letting the hot stream of water wash the blood into the drain. She was already feeling better. After just a minute, she turned it off and toweled dry before crossing to her bedroom.

She rifled through her drawers for some of the black clothes Kester had bought her.
If I’m going to be an assassin, might as well own it.
Kester had been right—she wasn’t a “spring colors” girl anymore. She was a demonic killer, and it was time to get used to it. If nothing else, she wanted to hunt down Abrax and rip out his claws, one by one.

She slipped into a pair of black leather pants, her black boots, and a dark top before pulling on a jacket.

She needed to hunt down the incubus. She’d get Zee’s soul back, and then she’d slaughter him for what he’d done to Kester. Or, at least, she’d die trying.

Except—hadn’t Kester said he’d been searching for Abrax for years with no success, and that tonight had been their only chance? So where the hell was she supposed to start? She didn’t know the first thing about demonic lairs.

She crossed through the hall, thundering down the stairs. Whatever the case, she needed to start by reclaiming Zee’s unconscious body.

She hurried to the armory, grabbing Honjo from the rack. A sense of strength flooded her as soon as she picked him up.

In a drawer under the rack of weapons, she found the Kevlar sheath that allowed her to attach the sword to her back. As she armored up, she stole a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked like an angel of death.
Good.
That was what she was tonight.

On her way to the sigil room, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, taking a long slug and grimacing as it burned her throat. This would do to light the sigil.

As she poured the whiskey into the furrows of Emerazel’s sigil, she chanted the words she’d learned the first night she’d met Kester. At the last word, flames engulfed her, burning her body to cinders.

Moments later, she was hunched over on her hands and knees in Kester’s boat, coughing.
Dammit, why can’t I remember to hold my breath?

Only moonlight lit the inside of the boat. The cold stove stood in the center of the room, its fire now dead. As the sigil flames cooled around her, she caught Kester’s scent—his warm, cedar smell, and her heart ached.

Her jaw tightened. There was no time for sentiment now. She had a mission to accomplish. But before she could rise, she saw the blade of a sword coming right for her head.

S
he leapt away
, hitting the floor hard and rolling behind the bookshelf they’d moved earlier. Somewhere on the other side of the cabin, her attacker chanted in Angelic—a spell for light—and a luminescent orb appeared in the center of the room.
So much for hiding in shadows.

Kester had told her not to enter a fight unless she had a good chance of winning, so she wanted to get an idea of exactly who she’d be fighting. From her position, peeking around the bookshelf’s edge, she could see his outline glinting in the orb light.
Armor—fae armor.
She’d killed one fae tonight. She’d kill another if she had to.

The fae soldier’s heels clacked over the boards, and she reached over her shoulder to unsheathe Honjo, stepping out from behind the bookshelf.

The man had long, honeyed hair, and his handsome face split into a wide grin. His suit of armor was ornate complete with silver vambraces to protect his forearms. “Looking for a fight, little girl?”

“Yes, unless you want to take this opportunity to piss off, which I strongly suggest. For your own benefit,” she added, for emphasis. She was going to have to work on her sword fighting smack-talk.

Laughter danced in his eyes, but in the next moment, his face hardened, telegraphing an imminent strike.

Ursula parried gracefully, knocking his sword into one of the wooden bookcases. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I already killed one of your brothers tonight. What’s one more?”

The guard ignored her, yanking his sword free with a growl.

His movement left an opening, and with a flick of her wrist, she slid her blade between his hand and the vambrace, slicing his skin. He grimaced, and she pulled away her blood-stained sword. “I did warn you.”

“My orders are to bring you to Oberon. Dead or alive.”

This time, he didn’t telegraph his strike, and she had to dodge behind the stove. He stalked after her, armor creaking, backing her into a corner. She sliced Honjo, but the fae parried, sparks showering from their swords. He rounded the edge of the stove, swinging for her face. She ducked, and his blade whistled through the air only inches above her head. She had to do something offensive, but she didn’t know how to penetrate that fae armor without room to wind up in the cramped corner.

The image of Kester’s falling body blazed through her mind again, and fury flooded her. She lowered her shoulder and charged.

The force felt like tackling a steel beam, but she’d gotten the leverage right. The guard toppled back, hitting the floor with a crash that sent his sword skittering across the room.

Ursula stood over him, pointing Honjo at his throat, piercing the skin just enough to draw a small drop of red blood. “I did warn you.”

Fear shone in his eyes, his grin gone. “Have mercy.”

“A coup de grâce then?”

“Please don’t kill me…”

“What happened to Kester?”

“I don’t know…” he stammered.

“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice came out in a cold roar, almost foreign to her.

“He died,” the fae yelled. “He fell to the ground and died. His body was mangled. He’s with his beloved fire goddess now, which I’m sure is what the filthy dog always want—”

Ursula stabbed downward, but not into his throat. Instead she drove Honjo into the gap between breast plate and pauldron, her blade tugging on the sinews of his shoulder until it
thunked
against the wooden boards. He screamed piteously, but dark fury filled her. “I didn’t like where that sentence was going.”

The guard moaned.

“Don’t worry. You’ll live.” She wasn’t sure where this cold, icy Ursula had come from.

She crossed to the other end of the boat, pushing open the door to Kester’s room. She cast one last glance at the moaning fae. “If I hear any spells or incantations, I’ll be back to reap your soul.”

Dim light from two portholes illuminated Kester’s bedroom. Tucked into his bed, Zee slept, her chest rising and falling slowly.

Ursula scanned the room, her throat tightening. The walls were steel blue and the bed was covered in a grey duvet. The room was tidy, and a small bookshelf hung on the wall above his bed, lined with more old novels. This was Kester’s home. He’d been alive for four hundred years, and she’d led him to his death tonight.

Apart from the bed, the room was sparsely furnished with a small reading chair and a dresser. Something glittered on the top of the dresser—Kester’s reaping pen. Ursula stuffed it in her pocket before turning to pull the covers off Zee, who still wore her bloodstained opera gown. Ursula slid her hands under the fae girl’s petite shoulders, lifting her from the bed. She was lighter than Ursula expected, and she carried Zee back into the the main room, cautiously eyeing the soldier. He was just where she’d left him, pinned to the floor like an enormous entomologist’s specimen. “What do you want with that whore?” he spat.

“She’s a friend of mine.”

“You know she’s tainted? King Oberon never lets a fae leave his troop unless they’re unclean.”

“King Oberon is unclean,” she shot back. She didn’t know what that meant exactly, but clearly the old fae king was a filthy bugger. She hoisted Zee over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and gripped Honjo’s hilt. “I’m going to free you now, but only because I want my sword back.”

She ripped the blade from the fae’s shoulder. He screamed, hands gripping the wound.

She trained the point of the dripping blade at him, backing away. “If you get up, I’ll stab you through the other shoulder.”

She stopped when she reached Emerazel’s sigil. Holding Zee tight, she whispered in Angelic. At the last words, she and Zee disintegrated in a burst of flame.

* * *

U
rsula was gasping
for breath by the time she reached the gothic bedroom in the Plaza apartment. It wasn’t every day that she carried a limp body up a flight of stairs.

She dropped Zee on the black canopy bed, ignoring the animal skulls that lined the walls. She tucked Zee under the blankets and slipped out the door, her body aching.

A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it on the back of her hand. She’d retrieved Zee’s body, only to learn that Kester had died in the fall—died trying to clean up her mess, in fact. She’d only just been getting to know him, still hadn’t gotten the chance to learn his secrets. Who had Oriel been, and what had she meant to him?

No use wondering about it now. She still needed to figure out exactly how to hunt down an incubus lair. Kester would have known what to do. The man had been an experienced hellhound with an encyclopedic knowledge of spells and arcane magic.

Of course, she
did
have a literal encyclopedia of arcane magic in the library below. A lick of hope ignited, and she rose.