Infernal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demons of Fire and Night Book 1) (10 page)

T
eeth chattering
, she squeezed through on her stomach, tumbling onto the floor of a pitch-black room. She crouched, clutching the dagger, and listened. All she could hear was a soft hiss of air from the window behind her head. Otherwise, the room lay silent as a tomb.

She rose to her feet, holding the dagger defensively. She still shivered, and it shook in her hand. When nothing leapt at her from the darkness, she pulled open the curtains, letting light fall on the room.

She almost dropped her knife when she saw what lay before her.

The interior looked like some sort of alchemical laboratory, with a rib-vaulted ceiling that arched high above. A small forge stood in a hearth, and shelves of strange glassware lined the walls: rows of delicate Alembic flasks, Dimroth condensers, Thiele tubes, and Thistle funnels.

How in God’s name do I even know these words?

Tentatively, she crossed the room to the shelves, reading the hand-written labels on the flasks. They bore names like
nigredo, aqua regia, dragon’s blood
, and
philosophic mercury.
She sniffed the air.
Stale creosote.
This laboratory hadn’t been used in a long time.

She turned, surveying the rest of the room. The walls were painted a deep indigo blue, patterned with golden astrological symbols and strange alchemical glyphs that twinkled and drifted like stars in the sky.

Ursula crossed back to the window, pulling it closed. If she left it open, Kester would know she’d been in here
.
With no breeze, an eerie silence descended and the tension returned to her shoulders. Ursula let out a slow breath. She could hear her heart thrumming in her chest.
Why am I so nervous? There’s no one here.

Slipping the dagger into her belt, she crossed to another rack of shelves. A thin layer of dust covered the flasks. She slid her fingers around one of the containers, picking it up. As she blew off the dust, she held it in the pale of light of the window. Her face reflected in its surface, and behind her the laboratory. Even an old bed, tucked into the shadows.

A cold chill slithered up her spine. In the glass’s reflection, it almost looked like a dark shape lay on the bed.
A body
.

Ursula hardly dared to breathe. She turned, placing the flask back on its shelf as quietly as she could. Slowly, she drew the dagger from her belt again.

She approached the bed, gripping her weapon. An enormous, muscled man lay atop a deep crimson bedspread. He was huge.
Bloody hell, is he even human?

“Hey?” she called out in a low whisper.

He didn’t move.

“Hey!” She said it louder this time, but he remained motionless.

She moved closer, hardly daring to breathe. The dagger trembled violently in her fist.

His eyes were closed and raven black hair framed his face—his perfect, sublimely beautiful face. He had the most stunning features Ursula had ever seen: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and perfect, kissable lips. His body was strong and muscled, and his skin had a deep Mediterranean tan, rich and warm, even in the faint light. Her dagger stopped its frantic shaking.

He must be asleep, right? Surely I don’t fancy a corpse.
At least, his warm olive color suggested that he lived.

“Hello?” She shouldn’t be here. She should turn around, wrench open the door, and never come back into the forbidden chamber again. But something drew her toward him. Maybe it was his thrilling masculine allure, or maybe it was simple compassion. What if he needed her help?

She stared at the stranger’s chest. It neither rose nor fell, and the only sounds of breathing were her own anxious breaths. “Who are you?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Muscular arms lay crossed on his chest, and his feet were bare. He looked like an effigy carved on a medieval tomb. He wore dark jeans and a grey t-shirt. Thin iron chains snaked around his body. When she looked closer, she could see tendrils of dark air curling off him, like black smoke.

What the hell is that?

If he was dangerous, at least he was bound, but she still clutched the dagger in case he sprang to life, desperate for her blood.

Slowly, she reached for his wrist, tracing her fingers over his warm skin. As soon as she touched him, something sparked like an electrical charge. It coursed through her body—a thrilling vibration of dark and ancient power.

She exhaled, trying to focus.
Definitely a magical creature.
She touched his wrist again, trying to ignore that rush of magical energy. The man had no
actual
pulse.

You don’t feel dead, but you don’t breathe, and your heart doesn’t beat.

Her mind turned over the possibilities. He could be a fresh corpse that Kester had stored after a recent kill—but the warmth of his skin and that energy that radiated from him seemed so alive. Plus, there was a certain tautness to his muscles, a look of composure in his perfect face.

Perhaps he was a vampire? Heartless, strong, and gorgeous. With the way things were going, vampirism didn’t seem like such a stretch, but it was the middle of the night, and weren’t vampires nocturnal? Maybe he’d been subdued with some sort of sleeping spell, and he wouldn’t awake until the right person kissed him. Tempting, but if the corpse scenario turned out to be accurate, there wouldn’t be enough soap in the world to clean off her mouth.

She took another step closer, studying the man. With a burst of horror, she realized the crimson wasn’t the color of the bedspread beneath him. Her heart threatened to gallop out of her chest.

It was blood. Gallons of dried blood.

Ursula leapt back from the bed, almost tripping on the rug. The blood stained the sheets in a crimson halo. She scanned the body for wounds, but whatever had injured him had left no visible mark. Something very bad had happened to the stranger, but she didn’t know what. Maybe the Headsman had murdered him.

A terrifying reality settled over her like a burial shroud: she was in way over her head.

Gripping the dagger, she moved to the door. She could see no sign of the magical lock and she desperately hoped that meant it would open from the inside. She twisted the handle and relief washed over her when it turned in her grasp. A gentle push cracked the door open and she slipped out, shutting it behind her.

She crouched in the doorway of her bedroom, watching the door. Her eyes were beginning to water, but she didn’t blink. The dagger remained ready at her side.

Even though his chest didn’t rise and he had no pulse, the beautiful man had felt alive when she’d touched him. His warm skin had seemed to exude a powerful, shadowy magic. If he was alive, then she had to consider the possibility that she might have disturbed his slumber. What sort of a creature could lose that much blood and live? She’d actually been able to
feel
the intensity of his power. Hadn’t Kester said something like “there might be worse monsters than hellhounds?” She had a bad feeling that she might now know what he was talking about.

The stranger could burst through the door at any moment and rip her to shreds. In fact, maybe he was the monster who had slaughtered the last hellhound. Then again, if he was such a threat, Kester would have locked the door from the inside too. Her pulse began to slow. She was probably safe for now.

Ursula slid the dagger into her belt before she got up from her crouch and walked to the conservatory. Her hands were still shaking as she shut the window and collected her empty champagne flute. She couldn’t have Kester discovering her unsanctioned nocturnal activity, or he’d send her straight to Emerazel.

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, her mind flashed with an image of her body burning in hellfire, her skin blistering and blackening. She shuddered, shoving her fingers into her hair.
I’m going to lose my mind.

Maybe Kester was right about her. Maybe she’d quickly shove her moral qualms aside to do what she needed to save herself. After all, she only had herself to rely on in this world.

She tightened her fists, sighing. Tomorrow, she would hunt down Hugo Modes at the opera, even if it meant she’d become a monster herself.

U
rsula poured
herself a cup of coffee, her mind rejoicing in the rich aroma. An old rock song played on the radio—Iggy Pop,
The Passenger
. She loved this song, and even through the fog of exhaustion, part of her wanted to dance, just to feel human again. Clearly, she was running on some kind of insane adrenaline at this point, trying to drown out all thoughts of the man or demon upstairs.

She’d gotten a few hours of sleep—if fitfully rolling around, trying not to think about impending doom, was considered sleeping. There’d been just one period of rest between two and six a.m., until the sound of her dagger falling to the floor woke her with a shout.

Morning’s arrival had been a blessing, restoring some sense of normalcy. After she’d climbed from her sheets, she’d slipped into a pair of thin grey trousers, her thigh-high boots, and a bright blue top—one of the few bright things Kester had bought her. She’d pulled up her hair into a high ponytail, and carefully applied her eyeliner. Monsters be damned, she would wrench back some sense of control and normalcy over her own life.

She took a long sip of coffee and cast an approving glance at her reflection in the chrome coffee maker.
So maybe I live in a hellish new world of monsters and headsmen because F.U. sent me here. I’m not going to let myself fall completely to pieces.

The caffeine rejuvenated her. With the radio on, she almost felt like herself again, and she let her hips sway to the music, dancing along as Iggy Pop sang about stars coming out in the night sky. She loved that part…

Footsteps clacked over the floor, and she whirled, nearly spitting out her coffee.

Kester stood in the doorway, wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans. It would have been a perfectly sensible ensemble, if it weren’t for the sheathed sword at his waist, and the strange alchemical tattoos covering his forearms. “I like the way you move.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t just stride in here whenever you want.”

“What are your plans to find Hugo?” he demanded.

“Is there any way you can start knocking, or at least calling first?” What she really wanted to ask, but resisted, was
Hey, can you tell me about that gorgeous and terrifying man upstairs?
The Headsman clearly wasn’t in a mood for insubordination from a novice hellhound today.

“What is your plan?” he repeated.

“I’m pouring you some coffee first. You seem cranky.” She grabbed a ceramic mug from one of the cabinets, filling it with coffee. “I’ll approach Hugo at the Metropolitan Opera this evening. He’s going with some French model. I’ll get his soul.” She slid the coffee across the table.

“And you think he’ll be more agreeable tonight?” His gaze roamed over her fitted blue top.

Is he checking me out?
“My plan is to do whatever it takes so I don’t have to burn for eternity.” She hated what she was becoming, but self-preservation came first. She’d have to sort through the ethics later. “And I was hoping Zee could come again and use her fairy magic.”

“Of course.” Kester arched an eyebrow, pulling out his cell phone. “Gods know you’ll need some help.” He tapped on his phone, then took a sip of his coffee.

“Seriously, though. You need to knock. I could have been in my underwear.”

For the first time in two days, he flashed a smile. “That’s hardly going to put me off.”

“Do you want me busting into your apartment?”

“Fine. I’ll knock next time.” His phone buzzed, and he flicked open a text. “Zee says she’d love to go to the opera. She’ll meet you at seven p.m.” Kester put his phone back in his pocket. “Right. Now that that’s settled, I believe we have some training to do.”

* * *

B
arefoot
, Kester stood in the armory, inspecting the blades. “Choose your weapon.”

She picked up Honjo from the rack. Ursula’s gazed flicked to his powerful arms, tattooed with the same glyphs and astrological signs that covered the walls in the sleeper’s room. “Why are we training with blades? Am I supposed to force Hugo to sign at knifepoint?”

“If that’s what it takes,” said Kester. “But this isn’t for Hugo. He’s not the only thing you need to worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

He leveled his green eyes on her. “We’re not the only monsters out there, Ursula. There are legions of demons who want us dead, and if they ever scent your fear, they will tear you to shreds. For whatever reason, Emerazel won’t allow me to accompany you on your mission, but I’m going to make sure you don’t die. And that means you need to know how to protect yourself. Understood?”

Ursula raised her eyebrows. “That sounds comforting and ominous at the same time.”

“I’m your mentor. Whatever Emerazel’s problem is, you’re my responsibility, and I’ll keep you alive. I’ve seen you use a sword, and you look like you’ve had some serious training already. It’s a good place to start.”

Maybe he was on her side, even if he was the Headsman
.
She really had no clue at this point. “When you said there are other monsters out there… ”
Do you mean monsters like the bleeding guy across from my room?
She was desperate to ask about the sleeping stranger, but she bit her tongue. “What types of monsters do you mean?”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “I forget how little you know.”

“The only things I know about this world, I’ve learned from you. Which is basically fuck-all.”

“We don’t have time to go into the whole history, but I can tell you this. Light demons have been warring with the dark ones for a hundred thousand years. Our gods are in a race to collect souls, and that means you’re a prime target for the shadow demons.”

A shiver crawled up her spine.
Is that what is sleeping in the room across from mine?
“What makes them dark? Are they more evil?”

“No. It’s just how the universe keeps magic in balance, with equal amounts of light and dark magic, like day and night. Only the fae are neutral. What you need to know is that you can kill shadow demons with certain weapons—especially those made with iron. They must be charmed with the right spells.”

She suppressed a shudder, thinking of the sleeping man upstairs, and the ancient magic that coiled off him in electrifying midnight tendrils. “And some of these shadow demons might be after me tonight?”

“Perhaps. And that’s why you need to learn to fight them.” He pulled a small glass jar full of amber liquid from his pocket, then a handkerchief. He poured some of the oil onto the cloth. “I’m going to anoint your sword with Zornhau’s oil. It’s a salve that protects a blade from damage. Also prevents you from seriously injuring your opponent—limits the chance of an accidental
coup de main
considerably.”

He held out his hand for the sword, and Ursula handed him the hilt. Kester rubbed the blade with the cloth, holding Honjo with a casual confidence that told Ursula that he was an experienced swordsman. Once the katana glistened with gold, he handed it back to her. “Just remember to clean the sword thoroughly when we’re done. The steel is useless with the oil on it.”

Backing into the center of the room, he drew his own sword from the sheath at his waist. It was the same blade Ursula had used at her battle with the Moor fiend, already glistening with amber oil. “Are you ready?”

Ursula gripped the Katana, planting her feet in a fighting stance. “Whenever you are.”

Kester lunged, his sword striking hers like the fang of a venomous serpent. Ursula deflected his blade with a deft parry, but he stepped back before she could counter. She danced closer, looking for an opening, but he sidestepped, staying just out of range. Their swords clashed, though Kester didn’t break a sweat.

He pushed in, striking. “I spoke with Zee about your encounter with Hugo.”

“Oh?” Apparently Kester was planning on incorporating a bit of chit-chat into their bout.

“She told me you argued with him about bathing suits.” His tone was somewhere between a joke and an accusation. She slashed at him, but he parried easily. He was trying to throw her off her game by bringing this up now.

“Yes, Hugo was saying that he broke up with his girlfriend because—”

But before she could detail Hugo’s misogynistic attitude towards woman’s swimwear, Kester cut in. “I don’t care what he said. My point is: you need to lure people in. Make them think they can trust you, that they want to please you.” He flicked his blade, and she had to leap to the side to avoid being skewered.

“He seemed to like it when I told him I prefer to swim nude.”

She caught a flicker of interest in Kester’s eyes.
Two can play at the distraction game.
She hadn’t failed to notice his eyes lingering on her cleavage whenever he got the chance.

“Nude?” He parried, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead. “Is that so? You like the feel of the water against your bare skin?”

You’ve got him, Ursula. Keep going.
“Yes, and I eat ice cream nude, because I like when it melts and drips down my breasts.”

Nope. That was just weird.
Really, really weird.

Weird or not, Kester faltered. With him off balance, Ursula stabbed at him. He dodged, but not before the tip of her katana nicked his ribs.

“Touché,” Kester swiped the blood from the hole in his shirt and sucked it off his finger. He lifted his sword again. “We’re not done.”

“You want more of that?”

His sword clashed off Honjo. “You got off on the wrong foot with Hugo.” He began to circle her, fire flashing in his eyes.

“Is this some sort of interrogation?”

“Yes.”

Kester feinted at her head and then slashed at her knees. Ursula just barely deflected the blow with a downward swipe. He moved out of range before she could counter. She couldn’t keep up with him.

His fiery gaze was hypnotic. “To succeed as a hellhound, you need both steel and silk, weapons and charm. You can’t always force a signature. Sometimes you must lure in a debtor, convince him it’s in his best interest to sign over his soul.”

She thrust her sword at him, but he dodged. “You think I can’t do that?”

“Zee said you have all the social graces of a water buffalo.”

What. A. Bitch.
“That’s a load of bollocks.” Ursula said it confidently, but inwardly she knew he’d touched on something. How many foster families had she been through? Four? Five? She’d lost count. Even the people she’d loved had told her the same thing.

Rufus’s voice rang in the hollows of her mind: “The truth is, you’re a sad cow who won’t make anything of your life.” Hollowness welled in her chest. Worst of all was the dawning realization that this character deficit might explain her amnesia. Was she some sort of magical reject? Forced to forget her past and then cast aside because she put everyone off? Was it possible that no one had ever loved her?

She felt tears prick behind her eyelids.
Bloody hell, Ursula. Do not cry. Do not cry.
Not in front of Kester. She needed to prove she had both the skill and character to be a hellhound, or she could forget about that whole “self-preservation” thing.

“So—” Kester held up his hand and then laid his blade on the mat indicating that the sword-play was on hold. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

Kester stared at her like she was off her meds. “Prove that you know how to charm people. Look approachable.”

She scowled. “How am I supposed to prove that?”

“By not making that face, for one thing.”

She lowered Honjo and straightened. She pushed out her chest, smiled and cocked her head.

“Much better, but your smile doesn’t look genuine. You’ll need to soothe him. Keep him from panicking.”

Ursula felt a familiar heat rise within in her. First, she had to force people to sign away their souls. On top of that, she had to condemn them with a lullaby, cooing at them as she consigned them to hell? How much would she end up hating herself if this was the person she was to become? But she couldn’t say that out loud—not to Kester.

“Put down your sword.” Kester stepped closer, his green eyes drinking her in. “Ask me to sign the pact.”

She tucked her sword in the corner of the room before straightening her shoulders. She tried to force a pleasant smile onto her face. “You just need to sign here.” She pointed to an imaginary pact in her hand, using a firm but gentle voice, like she was a police negotiator convincing a suicidal man to step away from the edge of a bridge.

Kester answered in a perfect impression of Hugo’s posh British accent. “No I don’t want to sign. This must be some sort of stunt. Are you having me on?”

“This is not a stunt. Hasn’t your career taken off since you asked Emerazel for her power?” The content was good, but Ursula stumbled over the last few words.

He continued to ape Hugo’s accent. “I’m not doing it. I’m not giving my soul away.”

“You have to. You agreed to the bargain.”

He shook his head. “Relax your shoulders. You’re supposed to look alluring.”

“How did you do it, when you broke into my kitchen? I was ready to bash your head in with a frying pan, and then the next thing I knew, I wanted to do whatever you wanted.”