Infernal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demons of Fire and Night Book 1) (5 page)

D
espite the cold
, sweat dampened her brow, and she gripped the sword hard. This blade would be her savior.

She strained to see in the dark, but she could no longer make out the monster’s hunched form. The wind picked up again, spraying snow between gaps in the ringstones.

She lifted her weapon, trying to keep the fear at bay.
I’m a sitting duck here.
Her mind raced. She was at a serious disadvantage, since she had no idea where or what this
shadow stalker
was. At least a stone could guard her back. She backed into the shelter of the nearest one.

To her right, something scratched at one of the stones, and she spun to face it. She held the sword in front of her, her breathing ragged. Ice flaked off the boulder, drifting to the ground, and fear stole her breath. Snow crunched behind her, and she whirled again. More fragments, crumbled off the stones. Where was this monster? A low growl spread through the circle, rumbling through her gut, followed by a sharp, scraping sound.

The fiend is sharpening its claws.

Without the orb, darkness enshrouded her. She pressed her back against the basalt rock, her sword wavering as she peered into the darkened center of the circle. How did one see something made of shadows?

In the center of the stones, something whirled—tendrils of black on a phantom wind, deeper and darker than the night sky.
Please let me get through this.

From two feet above her head, yellow eyes flickered into existence, as large as dinner plates. Panic inched up her spine. The fiend was at least eight feet tall. Following the eyes, its body shimmered into view, shoulders as broad as a ringstone.

A wave of fear slammed into her. Sure, she knew how to swing a blade, but did she know how to fight a giant?

She clutched the sword, pulse racing as the fiend lurched forward. It balanced on the knuckles of a long arm, like a monstrous gorilla. She readied herself for its attack.

It lunged, swiping at her with a clawed hand. She dove to the side, slashing upward, but the blade cut only air. Scrambling to her feet, she searched frantically for the monster, but it was gone.

Bollocks bollocks bollocks.
It had only feinted to draw her away from the safety of the stone. She whipped her head around, searching for her opponent—but not fast enough. The creature’s arm flew from the darkness behind her, slamming into her side like a cudgel.

The sound of her arm and ribs snapping cracked through the air, and she was lifted off her feet. She slammed into the frozen earth next to one of the blue stones, and pain shot through her like a white-hot knife. She screamed.

A wet, guttural sound drowned out her cries.
Laughter.

Agony pulled her apart.
I can’t die here. I can’t die alone, not knowing who I really am.
She gritted her teeth and pulled herself to her feet, lifting her sword. The monster had smashed her left arm, and something warm and metallic dripped from her mouth.
Blood.

She turned her head toward a movement. The fiend was creeping into the circle again, eyes blazing yellow.

She glared back, her jaw set tight.
If I’m going to die tonight, it’s going to be on my terms.
She slashed at its ribs, but despite its enormous size the shadow stalker dodged easily. Fighting this thing was like trying to grip a plume of smoke.

A third option,
Kester had called it, but this trial was just a slow and terrifying execution. The moor fiend was toying with her. Kester was probably enjoying every minute of it. He’d sacrificed her to this monster, before she’d even come to grips with the existence of magic.

She tried to block out the pain coursing through her shattered side.
Hell of a birthday.
She’d been fired, stalked, assaulted, kidnapped, and now she’d be mauled to death by a creature made of smoke and wrath.

I didn’t even get a chance at life.
Rage roiled inside her, simmering away her fear.

“It’s my bloody eighteenth birthday!” she shrieked.

As far as she knew, no one had ever baked her a cake. That somehow seemed like the worst offense of all, and anger simmered.
Three years. I only had three years.
As her right hand grew hot, heat burned through her veins. From her palm, fire surged into the sword and flames licked along the blade.

The fiend shrank back, and Ursula stepped forward, emboldened by the flaming sword.
I am an angel of death,
her mind whispered.

The pain in her side threatened to rip her apart, but she held the blade before her like a priest holding a cross to ward off evil. Fire engulfed the whole blade. The few snowflakes that drifted onto the metal sputtered and popped in the heat.
I am wrath.

The fiend took another step away, pressing its back against a stone. Despite the glow of the fire, the beast’s edges were still difficult to make out—a mass of dark hair, muscle, and sinew surrounded by shadows. Its yellow eyes blazed, but no longer just with hunger. She saw fear there, too.

The fiend’s shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly, then it leapt. She thrust the sword up just in time to shield herself as the wight grabbed for her. She was ready for it this time, and her blade sliced into its forearm.

Grunting, the fiend slammed its arm into her, sending the sword skittering across the circle. She turned to run for the weapon, but a strong hand grabbed her ponytail and flung her to the ground.

She landed on her broken ribs, and agony fractured her body.
I’m broken.
Gasping for breath, she tried to roll onto her front, desperate to stand, but the fiend leapt on top of her, crushing her lungs and shattered ribs into the icy soil. Long, clawed fingers reached for her throat, and Ursula gasped for breath.

In desperation, she kicked her feet, struggling to free herself, but the fiend slipped its fingers around her throat. It squeezed, like a snake constricting its prey.

Inching toward her face, its golden eyes stared at her with a primitive intelligence.
This is the face of my executioner: bestial and merciless.
Slowly, it opened its mouth, revealing jagged rows of nubby teeth. She braced herself for the bite, until she realized this repugnant display was a smile.

It squeezed harder. Ursula’s windpipe flattened with a soft popping noise, and pain splintered her mind.

They say that in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes—a series of still images projected from your subconscious to your dying mind. For Ursula, it began at fifteen: the firefighter pulling her from the rubble of St. Ethelburga’s Church, the flashbulbs as she left the courthouse with her first foster family. The next few scenes were a blur, one family after another, accompanied by a soundtrack of tutting, screaming, and finally shrieks of “I can’t take this girl anymore!”

When her lungs were close to bursting, the filmstrip slowed. Her tiny apartment in Bow flickered past. Those two arsehole students fighting in the club. Last of all, Rufus’s words reverberated through her skull: “You’re a sad cow who won’t make anything of your life.”

He’s right.
Because now her shitty life was over in a flash of shattered bones and burning lungs.
Burning.

A final burst of rage inflamed her—rage at the unfairness and the futility of it all. She hadn’t asked for any of this—to be a mystery girl with no family and an infernal fire inside her. Anger flowed, a hot magma in her veins. It erupted from her, broiling and volcanic. She pressed her blazing hands into the wight’s shining eyes.

Its hands wrenched off her throat, and she heard her own scream.

H
ot blood gurgled
from Ursula’s throat, bubbling into her lungs. Drowning in her own fluid, she was kept conscious only by the agony wracking her body. Then her vision blurred, and she no longer cared about the injustice of her short life. She just wanted to sleep, to rest peacefully in silence, free of this mind-shattering agony.

But instead of silence, a melodious sound drifted into her ears. Kester, speaking in Angelic again—but she understood the words, something about healing waters and leaching out the pain. Her sight began to clear. She caught a flash of green eyes above her. Kester kneeled over her, changing, his brow furrowed with concern.

As he spoke, she could feel her bones shift and slide into place, the pain slowly dulling. Gently, she touched her neck. It still throbbed, but the skin was smooth, healed over. She rolled over, hacking a crimson spatter of blood onto the blackened earth.

Still crouching, Kester quirked a smile. “I imagine this hasn’t been the best birthday celebration you’ve ever had. But you made it.”

He’d called up a demonic and lethal creature without warning her, and now he was smiling about it. “Wanker.” She choked out the word, her voice box still raw.

“Is that any way to talk to the man who just saved your life?”

Ursula rose to her knees, gasping. Though her ribs and left arm were healed, they still throbbed with pain. “That wasn’t a trial. That thing almost killed me.” She was fresh out of patience.

“I told you. I’m not in control of these things; Emerazel is. I’m not actually a god, even if I look like one.”

Arrogant wanker
. She wanted answers. Now. Another foxfire orb burned above them, illuminating the scorched and charred earth around her. At the edge of its glow, something glinted in the shadows.
The sword.
She rushed toward it, plucking it from the frozen earth before whirling to point it at Kester.

“You need to tell me what is going on, or I will slice you in half.”

Kester tilted his head thoughtfully. “Fine. I brought you to the Avebury Henge for a trial. To become a hellhound, you must defeat a demon.”

She stalked closer, still pointing the sword. Had he said
hellhound
? “I thought fighting the demon—shadow stalker, whatever you call it—I thought that would resolve my debt.”

Kester shook his head. “The trial merely gave you the
opportunity
to repay your debt. Your soul still belongs to Emerazel until you pay it off.”

The frigid air stung her cheeks and fingers. “So I’m not free?”

“Not free.” The tip of his nose had grown pink in the cold. “But on the bright side, you’re employed, so that’s a step up from a few hours ago. Your new job is to collect either souls or signatures from those who owe a debt to Emerazel. Plus, you’re alive, and to be honest my money was on the shadow stalker.”

Finally having got an answer, she lowered the sword. “Why didn’t you just reap my soul, like you threatened?”

“A request for trial is always honored.” His breath clouded around his head. “And now, we need to go. Sunrise is in an hour, and I don’t want to have to explain to a warden of the National Trust why you desecrated a Neolithic monument.”

“We’re going back to London?” Ursula turned to walk back to the car, but Kester’s voice stopped her.

“Not the car, Ursula. We’ll be traveling by Emerazel’s sigil.” He strode toward her and gently pulled the sword from her grasp. Gripping it in both hands, he pointed the tip toward the scorched earth. “And no. Not London.”

Ursula jammed her hands in her pockets, trying to warm them. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re going.” Apparently that fire had burned the fever right out of her, because her hands were freezing now. Shivering, she watched as Kester carved a triangle in a circle in the snow and soil—the same symbol that marked her shoulder.

Kester slid the sword into its sheath, and reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. With a half-smile, he pulled out a silver flask.

He unscrewed the cap and took a slug, then offered it to her. “Want a sip? It’s Glenfiddich, 1937.”

Ursula shook her head. “No thanks.” She swiped a hand below her eyes. Her eye makeup must be halfway down her face at this point. At best, she probably looked like a drunken KISS fan, but at least she was alive.

“Suit yourself.” He poured the contents of the flask into the furrows he’d scratched in the soil. He knelt for a moment, his hand glowing white hot, then flames snaked along the lines in the dirt.

As he straightened, his gaze lingered on Ursula. “You will need to stand right in front of me.”

Shoulders hunched in the cold, she edged closer to him. She tensed as he reached for her, pulling her into a tight hug. He smelled faintly of cedar wood—and somehow, the warmth of his body was oddly comforting.

“You’ll want to hold your breath,” he whispered into her ear.

He chanted an Angelic spell softly, and she listened to the words, understanding each one. He spoke of a portal of fire, and Emerazel’s eternal grace. Now, she knew something else about F.U.—she’d apparently been some sort of witch.

As he finished the short spell, the flames blazed high above them. For a moment, her skin seared in an exquisite agony, then she crumbled to ash.

W
ith the crackling
of a thousand cinders uniting, she reconstituted in the center of a circular room, atoms and molecules joining together again with the force of an exploding star. She rested her hands on her knees, her body shaking as she retched. Whatever the fuck she’d just done, she was pretty sure human bodies were not meant to do it.

Her skin crackled with electrical power, and an odd buzzing noise sounded in her head. Each one of her nerve endings blazed in rebellion.

Kester glanced at her. “Are you all right?”

As she straightened, she looked around at the circular room in which they stood. A wrought-iron chandelier, blazing with candles, hung from a towering brick ceiling.

She glanced down. At her feet, a few tongues of flame licked at the edges of an encircled triangle carved into the floor.

Bits of hot ash burned her throat like she’d just pulled too strongly on an unfiltered cigarette. “Bloody hell.” She coughed. “What was that?”

“That was sigil travel. You can travel between Emerazel’s symbols by knowing the right spell, and envisioning where you want to go, but it’s not the most comfortable method of transportation. I recommend actually holding your breath next time.”

She rubbed her eyes, still trying to get her bearings. Between three tall windows, the walls were painted with strange frescos of dancing nymphs, satyrs, and occult symbols. On one part of the curving wall stood a mahogany door carved with stars and flames.

Ursula wondered if they might be in some sort of antechamber to the underworld, until the windows caught her eye. Distant lights twinkled through the glass. On the other side of a park, a cityscape glimmered. Entranced, Ursula stepped toward the glass, watching the falling snow that blanketed the treetops and distant buildings.
Where am I?

She searched for the usual London landmarks: the London Eye, the Thames, or the pointed tip of the Gherkin.

But this wasn’t her city. The buildings lining the park were far too tall for London’s skyline.

Dizzy, she stepped back from the window. “Where are we?”

“New York City.”

She shook her head, trying to clear the confusion. It didn’t seem possible—then again, she’d just defeated a demon and travelled through a blaze of fire and ash. Clearly, she needed to rethink what was possible. “So, so…” she stammered. “I’m looking at Central Park.”

“Yes.” Kester traced a gloved finger over the glass. “It’s dark now, but on a clear day you can see the roof of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and beyond that, Harlem.”

She gaped at him, wondering if this was all some kind of dream. “The fire you lit transported us here. With magic.” She felt stupid saying the words out loud.

He pulled off his gloves, turning to the sigil. “Precisely. I can call on Emerazel’s power with her symbol. With the right spell, it is possible to travel between them.”

“I need to let Katie know I’m okay.”

“No. There is no Katie anymore. You need to leave your old life behind. I’ll take care of the explanations to anyone who knew you.”

She eyed him. “You’ve got to be joking. I can’t contact my best friend?”

“You don’t want to test me on this. There are worse things than death, and they’ll be waiting for you if you defy that order.” His voice sent a shiver over her skin, putting an end to that conversation.

Her skin felt hot, and she pulled off the coat Kester had given her, trying to think of what to say next.
I was burnt to ash, and then I traveled to New York through a flaming sigil. Magic, demons, hellhounds…
Her mind raced in a jumble of confused words that she couldn’t process.
F.U., you were a raging lunatic.
“Where are we standing right now?”

“This room has been properly prepared to receive those who travel by Emerazel’s fire,” he said, pointing at the markings on the walls. “It’s on the top floor of the Plaza hotel.”

“The Plaza Hotel. Right. And witches and demons are real, and you eat raw sheep and steal souls.”

“We don’t say ‘witch’ in our world. ‘Philosopher’ or ‘mage’ are the preferred terms. And I am your new mentor, so you’ll need to watch that unpredictable attitude, or you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of my wrath. Are we clear?”

She choked back a retort, forcing a smile. “Clear as day.”

“Good. Come with me.” He pulled off his jacket, tucking it under his arm as he walked through the door. “I think you’ll find this place an improvement over your usual haunts.”

She followed Kester down the hallway and into a cavernous main hall.
Bloody hell.
She let out a low whistle. The place looked like some sort of medieval castle.
Is this where he lives?

High above, the ceiling’s arches gave the room an almost cathedral-like quality. Persian rugs carpeted the floor, and rich taupe velvets upholstered the sofas. A baby grand piano stood in a far corner. Above the fireplace hung an antique portrait of a beautiful ivory-skinned woman, her raven hair threaded with wildflowers. On a small plaque pinned to the bottom of the gilt frame was the name
Louisa
.

Fancy as it was, a musty smell hung in the air. Dust coated the floor, and flowers in a vase had dried into drooping husks. This place had clearly been unused for quite some time.
What a waste
.

Kester waved a hand. “The living room.”

“Who lives here?”

“We’ll get to that.”

“It looks… fancy.” She glanced around furtively, feeling like an intruder in a rich person’s home. “But how do you get out of here?” Admittedly, escape routes were a bit of a preoccupation, but since she’d been attacked by two different creatures tonight, she thought she could be forgiven for a little neurosis.

He pointed to a doorway. “The elevator is through there, but the Plaza’s security is excellent. No one is coming in here unless you want them to. You’re perfectly safe. Come with me.”

Ursula followed him down a hallway, gaping at the vibrant paintings of pale, ecstatic women dressed in gold and crimson gowns. The place was decadent, but intensely beautiful.

He stopped by an open door, flicking on a light switch. “This is the library.”

Ursula peered inside. Distant streetlights flickered through a single window at the opposite end, and a comfortable window seat nestled under it. A small table stood in the center, and dark bookcases lined the walls, their shelves filled with leather-bound volumes. She had a sudden desire to lock herself in the room and page through each book for the next month. “I love this room,” she breathed. Maybe she wasn’t much of an intellectual, but the room’s coziness called to her.

“You’ll have time to look around later. There’s more to see,” said Kester. He strode to the end of the hall, and she followed. Though another door, he pointed out an enormous kitchen with marble countertops.

This was a kitchen made for something a little more delectable than buttered bread. Her stomach rumbled, but Kester had already moved on.

Down the hall, he flicked on a light through a doorway. “The armory.”

Ursula’s pulse quickened.
Weapons.
She’d grown quite fond of that sword tonight.

She peeked inside. The armory was as large as the main hall. A mirror lined one wall, and beige tatami mats covered the floor. A wooden sparring dummy stood in a corner. Across from her, a magnificent collection of daggers, swords, and spears hung on wooden racks. Grinning, Ursula hurried across the room to inspect them.

“Take your time,” said Kester. “I’m going to see about some food. I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.”

Ursula’s eyes went wide at the gleaming collection. There was a Viking sword like the one she’d so recently used to fight the shadow stalker, pointed blades for puncturing hearts and lungs, stubby Roman swords, and even a Scottish claymore. But it was the rack of Asian weapons that most drew her eye: a sword for chopping the legs off of charging horses, a pair of daggers, two long spears, and a wicked-looking katana. She had no idea why, but these swords called to her.

She bit her lip, fighting the urge to steal a few daggers. She didn’t know where she’d be resting her head tonight, but sleeping with a cold blade by her side might not be a bad idea. Especially since her new mentor had the disturbing tendency to grow claws and fangs. Maybe he was being civil to her now, but he was clearly dodgy as hell.

She reached for the katana. Black silk wrapped the hilt, and the guard was forged in the shape of a dragon. The blade shone like a viper’s tooth.

It was perfectly weighted. She hurried to the center of the room and sliced the blade through the air in a practice swing, thrilling at the feel of the steel. She swung again, and the muscles in her shoulders loosened.
Home. This feels like home.
Her arm still throbbed where the shadow stalker had broken it, but with the sword in her hand, the dull ache began to ease.

Turning toward the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself and winced. Her auburn hair lay matted to her head. Blood and dirt stained her shirt and jeans, and her black eye makeup formed two dark semi-circles below her hazel eyes.
I look like a goth clown—definitely worse than a drunken KISS fan.

At least the sword was beautiful. With a faint smile, she raised it above her head. She sliced downward with a yell, halting when the blade was parallel to the floor. As she lifted her arms to take another swing, Kester’s voice interrupted.

“I see you’re making yourself at home.” He leaned against the door frame, staring at her. “I would ask how you learned to wield a sword like that, but I’d wager you have no idea.”

“You’d wager right.” She turned and pointed the sword at him. He stood ten feet away, and she could be there in two steps. Before he’d have a chance to blink, she could bury the sword in his chest. After stopping his heart, she’d just take the elevator to the ground floor and disappear into the New York City night. Would it be so hard to start over as a waitress in New York?

But something stopped her. It wasn’t just his pretty face. As insane as he sounded, Kester had actually been telling the truth.
Magic is real.
She’d seen him transform into a hound, summon a shadow stalker, and whisk them to New York through a flaming sigil. She felt it when she lifted the sword, and what was more, some sort of magical fire now flowed in her veins. And if Kester was telling the truth, that meant there was no escape from Emerazel and her infernal flames.

She lowered the blade, wiping the makeup below her eyes on the back of her other wrist.

If Kester suspected that she’d just run through the pros and cons of stabbing him to death, his face didn’t show it.

He nodded at the sword. “I see you’ve acquainted yourself with my friend Honjo Masamune. I know he’s quite charming, but he can wait until morning. Dinner is served.”

With a heavy sigh, Ursula crossed to the racks, placing the katana in the empty spot.
Until we meet again, my friend.