Infernal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demons of Fire and Night Book 1) (6 page)

K
ester led
her down the hall, past the sigil room, and pulled open the door to a dining room. A domed ceiling arched impossibly high above them, painted with a fresco of dryads and centaurs. Mahogany cabinets displayed antique porcelain and crystal glassware. In the center of the room, a silver candelabra cast warm light over the rich wood of a banquet table. Two place settings lay in one corner, along with a pair of domed silver trays.

Ursula’s back stiffened.
I’ll just have to pretend that I don’t normally eat a dinner of beans and toast in front of a TV.

Kester crossed to the head of the table. “Have a seat.”

Instead of sitting in front of the tray, she pulled out a chair on the opposite side, giving herself a clear view of the door. She needed to know if anyone else was going to slip in here.

He arched an eyebrow. “A little nervous, are we?”

Reaching across the table, she dragged over the other place setting. “I like a view of the door.”

“In case an intruder comes in?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time tonight.”

“What is
that?
” He nodded at her hand.

She hadn’t even realized that she’d pulled out her white stone and was rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s my good luck charm.”

“What is the point?”

“There’s no point. I’m just attached to it.” It was the one constant thing in her life.

“Good luck charms are for the desperate.”

“I’d say that describes me perfectly.”

“May I?” He asked, holding out a hand.

Reluctantly, she handed it over. “I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s something magical.”

He sighed, rolling it around in his fingers. “No. It’s ordinary hecatolite. Completely uninteresting.”

“It has sentimental value.” Though what it tied her to, she had no idea.

He eyed her. “I thought you had no memory.”

“I don’t, but I always assumed F.U.’s life was better than mine.”

“You’re a very strange person, you know that?”

“I saw you turn into a dog and eat a live sheep,” she sputtered. “I’m not sure you have a great handle on normal behavior.”

“You still seem cranky. Have some dinner.” He pulled the dome off her tray, revealing a beautifully plated steak, a bowl of cauliflower soup, and a small watercress salad.

Her mouth watered at the rich aromas. “Where did this all come from?”

“Room service here is fast and Michelin rated.” He filled her wine glass. “Hopefully, some filet mignon and red wine will placate you.”

She picked up her knife and fork to cut the steak and took a bite; it was as soft as butter. For the time being, she could almost forgive Kester for kidnapping her in the middle of her slice of bread.

“I hope you like it here,” he said.

“It’s… fancy. Empty, but very grand.”

“You don’t find it comfortable?”

She cut another piece of rich meat. “It’s not what I’m used to. It’s amazing, but I was about two days away from being homeless, and it just seems like it’s a waste for a place like this to lie empty when there are probably families freezing outside.” She frowned at him. “You’re not eating?”

“I filled up on lamb.”

It took Ursula a moment to realize that he was talking about the ewe he’d devoured. “Right.” The image of his gore-covered teeth almost put her off her food. “What exactly are you? Some sort of werewolf? Am I going to turn into a wolf now that I work for Emerazel?”

“A hound. I’m a hellhound, and so are you. But you won’t transform for a number of years.”

“Are we…” She struggled to get the word out. “Witches—I mean, mages? Like people are talking about? The terrorists who slaughtered people in Boston?”

Kester shook his head. “We are mortal demons, compelled by our marks to work for the fire goddess. I know magic as well, but you needn’t learn it. I just need you to learn to fight and to collect souls.”

She nearly choked on her wine. “I’m sorry—did you say I’m a demon?”

“I did.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “And your job is to find those in Emerazel’s debt. Force them to sign the contract, by whatever means required.”

She took a deep breath, trying to process the word
demon
. “I’m having a hard time with the demon concept. Surely demons are scaly creatures with pointy tails and claws.” She stopped herself. “I mean, you have claws, but no scales.” She shook her head. She was babbling like a loon now. “Demons are monsters. I don’t look like a demon, do I?” She gripped her knife so tight she thought the silver might bend.

“Right now you do.”

“It just sounds like madness.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not sure when you last spent time around normal people, but normal people don’t talk about demons. They don’t fight monsters in ringstones, or eat live sheep, or travel across continents by incinerating themselves.”

Kester leaned back in his chair. “But you’re not normal. Normal people don’t have severe retrograde amnesia, and they can’t light things on fire with their hands. Given the rest of your life, the fact that you’re a demon shouldn’t be much of a surprise.” His green eyes gleamed. “What exactly was your explanation for your powers?”

“Genetics,” she blurted. “A mutation. I have no clue. I’ve hardly taken any science classes. And anyway, it just happened for the first time tonight so it’s not like I’ve had time to think about it.”

“You think a random mutation in your DNA could allow you to do this?” He held up his silver fork. For an instant his hand glowed incredibly hot, like he’d pulled the door to a furnace. Then the fork collapsed on the table in a molten lump.

She felt dizzy, overwhelmed by a strange sense of vertigo. “I have no idea. I don’t understand any of this.” Maybe he was right, though
.
Only the supernatural could explain everything she’d seen. “I need to know more specifics about this new job.”

“You track down people who’ve struck a bargain with Emerazel, people who’ve traded their soul for fame and wealth. You need them to sign the contract to bind their soul to the goddess when they die. Very rarely, you might meet another such as yourself who has carved Emerazel’s mark in their body. But there aren’t many around with these.” He unbuttoned his shirt collar, and her eyes landed on the familiar scar in the center of his athletic chest. “Emerazel’s strength can only be granted through one of her blades, and there aren’t many in the world.” He buttoned his shirt again, and she tried not to think about his body.

“I don’t even know how I got my scar,” she said.

“You really have no idea?”

“Nope.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “What happens when someone signs their soul away?”

“Each god has their own hell. Emerazel’s is the inferno. The debtor’s soul will go there once they die.”

Suddenly, she was no longer hungry. “And the soul burns forever? Does it hurt?”

“I assume so. That’s why I’ve been keen to avoid it.”

She stared down at the lump of meat on her plate, fighting a growing sense of nausea. “I can’t do that to people. I can’t send them to hell.”

“My darling, you don’t have a choice. It’s you or them. You won’t win in a fight against Emerazel. You’ll come to understand that over time. Anyway, the debtors agreed to the bargain. It was their choice.”

She rubbed a knot in her forehead. “How do I know where to find them?”

“Emerazel will tell you.” He leaned closer. “You know the symbol we travel through?”

“It’s familiar, yes, since it burned me to a crisp a half hour ago.”

Kester ran his fingers over the rim of his wine glass. “A sigil of fire can also be used to contain demons. Even gods. We can summon Emerazel within it.”

“I light the symbol, and Emerazel appears with instructions?”

“Precisely.”

Whatever Emerazel was like, it couldn’t be much worse than working for Rufus. “And I suppose I need to find a new flat?”

“This apartment is your new home.”

Her jaw dropped. “There’s no possible way I could afford to live here.”

He shook his head. “This apartment is paid for. You don’t have to worry about rent. And of course Emerazel pays an annual stipend of ten ingots of gold.”

She stared at him. “Gold what?”

“Gold ingots are 400 ounces each, and the price of gold is about $1,500 an ounce.” He looked at the ceiling, muttering calculations. “That’s six million dollars a year, or about four million pounds. Give or take.” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

She gaped at him.
This must be a dream.
There was no way she could be making that much money. “Six million dollars a year,” she repeated. The amount was so far out of her frame of reference that it almost had no meaning. “What would I do with six million dollars a year?”

His cheek dimpled as he flashed a smile. “Oh, I’m sure you could find a worthy anti-gentrification cause to fund.”

“Uh-huh.”
Definitely better than working for Rufus.
She took a long sip of her red wine. She had no idea what kind it was, since Rufus’s club never got any more specific than
red
or
white
. “So why was this place empty? Who used to live here?”

“Another hellhound. But he’s moved on to other things.”

“And he has a scar. Just like ours?”

“Exactly.”

“How did you get yours?”

He reached down, twisting a silver cufflink. For the first time she saw a hint of vulnerability, when he didn’t meet her eyes. She liked this side of him better. He swallowed, still examining his cufflinks. “Everyone has their stories.”

Wow. That was amazingly…vague.
“Right, but what is your—”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Reaching under the table, he lifted up a silver bucket that held champagne and crystal flutes. He looked at her again. “It is your eighteenth birthday.”

S
he sniffed the champagne
, waiting until Kester took a sip of his before she put the glass to her lips, just in case it was poisoned. It tasted fruity and crisp, like fall apples.

“This is delicious,” she said.

“It’s a 1928 Krug. One of my favorite vintages. I keep a few bottles around for special occasions.”

“Champagne from the ’20s. This glass probably cost more than my annual wages,” she mused.

“Things have changed for you.” He stood, a champagne flute in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Shall we see the rest of the apartment?”

“There’s more?”

“There’s the second floor.” He stepped out the door.

She rose, gripping her champagne as she followed him into a large foyer with a marble staircase. He pointed to a set of double doors. “The elevator, which should satisfy your paranoid tendencies in case you need to make a fast escape.” He flicked a wall switch. Above, a chandelier sparkled with a hundred tiny lights. “The bedrooms are on the upper level.”

As she climbed the stairs with him, her shoulders tensed. Maybe magic was real, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a pervert.

She glanced at him. If he attacked her in some way, she could smash the champagne flute and stab him with the stem. “Before you try anything funny, you should know that I’m pretty good at brawling.”

He shot her a sharp look. “Charming. First, you will not beat me in a fight. Not ever. And second, I promise you there’s no need for me to force myself on unenthusiastic women when there are many willing participants to choose from.”

“Is that so?” It was the only retort she could come up with.

“Do I need to remind you again that I’m your mentor?” That cold, commanding tone had entered his voice again. Gone was the whole soothing charade he’d plied her with earlier in the dining room. Obviously, persuasion was part of his hellhound skill set.

She loosed a sigh. “You don’t need to remind me.” As she climbed up the stairs after him, she ran her fingers over the brass railing. “This is all part of the hotel?”

“The upper floors of the Plaza are all private residences. A former hellhound purchased this apartment in the twenties for a pittance. The Plaza tried to reacquire it in the thirties but… well, let’s say we have our ways of getting what we want.”

They reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and a hallway stretched out in either direction. Kester crossed to a door, pushing it open and flicking on a light. “Bedroom one. The greenery room.”

Ursula peered inside. This bedroom appeared to double as a botanical conservatory. A wrought-iron scaffold supported glass panes, enclosing half the room. A small day bed stood in one corner. It was pretty in a way, but rotting orchids and cacti lined shelves, and a smell of decay filled the air.

She stepped out. “Interesting. Maybe I’ll get into gardening.”

“I’ll have the cleaning staff come through in the morning,” said Kester, closing the door.

He continued down the hall, gesturing through a doorway. She stuck her head into a grey-tiled bathroom. An enormous claw-foot bathtub stood in the center, with a shower in the corner.
Beautiful.
She’d never had a proper shower before, just grimy tubs with handheld sprayers that emitted a sad trickle of water. “I’m really going to enjoy that shower.”

“I thought you’d like it. Come. There’s more.” Kester led her to another room. When he entered, he muttered in that strange language, and candles blazed all over the room. Shadows danced over high, arched ceilings and stained glass windows. In the center stood a four-poster bed with a black canopy. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of potions and animal skulls. “The master bedroom.”

Stunning—but creepy. Not unlike my new mentor
. “Great. Maybe I’ll sleep here.”

There was no way she was sleeping with the skulls. She’d sleep in the living room.

“There’s one more.” He walked to the end of the hall.

She stepped inside. This room was smaller than the others. A twin bed with a cream coverlet nestled below a window, and an antique dresser stood in the corner. Kester muttered the spell again and the lantern that sat on the bedside table flickered to life, bathing the room in warm light. On the ceiling, someone had painted the zodiac—gold on midnight blue. It was perfect. It just needed a few finishing touches, maybe a bit of color, to make her feel at home.

“I love it.” If Ursula had brought a bag she would have tossed it on the bed to claim it as her own.

“There’s one more thing you need to know.” He stepped back into the hall, pointing to a door across from hers. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it before.

Made of rough oak studded with iron nails, it could only be described one way:
creepy as hell.
It looked like something you’d find in Vlad the Impaler’s castle. A pale yellow glow surrounded its frame, the exact color of the shackles Kester had clamped on her wrist in the Lotus.

“In case the spikes didn’t make it clear enough, that room is off limits.”

Suddenly chilled, she hugged herself. “What’s in it?”

Kester glared at her. “You don’t need to know that. And now, I’ll leave you to that shower. Alone, of course.”

He turned to leave, but she touched his arm. “Kester. What happened to the last hellhound? What did he move on to?”

He stared her down. “That’s not for you to worry about, Ursula. You have enough to take care of. Get some sleep.”

His response didn’t do anything to put her mind at ease.

* * *

K
ester let himself out
, leaving Ursula to rifle through the drawers and cupboards on her own. After a glorious hot shower to wash off the remnants of the Muppet’s stale beer, she picked through the apartment again, one room at a time.

In the kitchen, she discovered a chrome espresso machine and coffee grinder stowed in a closet. She dusted them off, moving them to one of the marble countertops.
I love coffee. I belong in America. Would it be strange to pay for coffee beans with gold ingots?

Returning to the library, she read the spines of every book in the room. There were first editions of all the modern classics: Melville, Poe, Dickens, and Brontë. She even found older works by Chaucer, Dante, and Shakespeare—many of them written on parchment and beautifully illustrated in the margins.

Strangely, a lower shelf seemed to be protected by the same golden glow that blazed from the door upstairs. When she reached for the books, her hand was repelled by an invisible force. So of course, those were the ones she most wanted to read. Gold lettering looped up their faded blue and maroon spines:
Fasciculus Chemicus
,
Iconologia
, and
Picatrix.
She had no clue what any of that meant, just a strong desire to do whatever she wasn’t supposed to do.

After giving up on the enchanted books, she rose to take one last peek in the armory. When she stepped into the room, she caught a glimpse of the clock mounted above the mirror. It was past midnight. That was, what, five or six a.m. in the UK? She really needed to get some rest.

She trudged up the stairs to her new bedroom and crawled under the coverlet. As she lay in the darkness, she closed her eyes, trying to calm the thoughts blazing through her mind.

Muppet’s singed shirt, Kester’s fiery eyes and clawed fingers, the moor fiend’s leering grin.

She’d never fall asleep with these thoughts whirling in her skull. She imagined one of her favorite places: a ruined church near the tower of London, its crumbling stone walls covered in ivy. But even with that serene image in her mind, Kester’s words rang in her head:
You’re a demon
.

The concept was horrifying. She’d always known she was different, but… a demon? A mortal one, no less. You’d think that one of the benefits of demonhood would be immortality, but no. Not only was she an abomination and a bringer of death, but she had to die, just like everyone else. She rubbed her white stone between her fingers, but it wasn’t giving her comfort tonight.

She pulled her bedsheets tighter. She hadn’t asked for any of this. At least, she didn’t
think
she had. As long as she could remember, the strange scar had marred her shoulder. Who knew how she got it? She was a Mystery Girl all right—a Mystery Girl who’d made a terrible decision she couldn’t even remember. And now she was stuck in a foreign country, permanently cut off from her best friend.

That
was the thing that really bothered her. More than anything, she wanted to find a way to phone Katie, just to hear a friendly voice again. But she really didn’t want to find out what Kester’s threat meant. And what could she even say to Katie without sounding like a complete and utter lunatic? Heat rose in her chest, and sweat beaded on her face.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the blue ceiling flecked with gold stars. There was something oddly comforting about the night sky. At times like this, when the world seemed to suffocate her, she felt like she wanted to throw herself into the freezing night air, to drift along in the wind, riding a night storm…

Basically, she was a lunatic, trapped with her own thoughts.

And as if they weren’t enough to keep her awake, a glowing, spiked door lurked just outside her room.

She threw off her covers and rose from the bed. Shivering, she returned downstairs and snatched a dagger to slip beneath her pillow.