Infernal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demons of Fire and Night Book 1) (8 page)

Kester quirked an eyebrow. “She was. You’d best pick out one of those dresses I bought you. Charm is one of the best weapons we have, though I don’t get the impression it comes naturally to you.”

U
rsula sat
in the back seat of a Bentley, staring out the window at a line of shivering club-goers. She wore a silky cocktail dress that felt gorgeous against her skin. Black—of course, since Kester had picked it out. With her nerves frayed beyond recognition, she’d arrived at her first assignment twenty minutes early.

Outside, snowflakes drifted through the air. A few had melted on the car’s warm windows where they reflected the neon lights of Brooklyn like tiny jewels. In the front seat, the driver hummed tunelessly to the radio, a Mets cap on his head.

“You think the Mets will be any good this season,” she asked. She wasn’t even sure what sort of sports she was talking about, but she needed a distraction, some sense of normalcy.

“Yeah,” he said.

So much for small talk.

She drummed her manicured fingernails over her bare thighs.
Hugo Modes.
She was supposed to claim the soul of Hugo Modes. Could she really send his soul to a fiery afterlife? And what, exactly, did Emerazel plan to do with it down there?

Honestly, if his music was anything to go by, he didn’t have much of a soul. His songs were the melodic equivalent of a white-bread and margarine sandwich. In fact, if she were ever tasked with designing her own personal hell, it would involve listening to The Four Points song “Girl, You Got a Magic Body” on a loop.

Still, it wasn’t like she wanted to murder him for it.

And yet, there were only two options: get the contract signed, or reap his soul. “Just stab him right in the heart with the blade of the pen,” Kester had explained, like it was nothing.

Soul-reaping didn’t seem to bother him. Of course, someone with the nickname
the Headsman
probably didn’t have normal, human emotions. Over a glass of wine, he’d casually declared, “By the way, you can’t contact any old friends, since you’re officially dead. The police notified them yesterday. I say ‘friends’—really it was just the flatmate and an ex-boyfriend. Kind of a sad life you left behind. Anyway, the papers have already reported the Mystery Girl’s overdose. Heroin and crack. Naughty girl.”

Just like that, Kester had told her only friend of her demise.

Three years was the sad sum of her life, according to the tabloids. Found in a church, couldn’t handle the fame, shifted from one foster home to the next. “Unstable,” her former boss Rufus had reported. “Couldn’t be trusted around customers. I had to fire her after she attacked someone.”

The British tabloids now speculated that she’d started the St. Ethelburga fire herself. Though, now that she knew about her fiery hands, that might not be a million miles from the truth.

Bloody Kester.
He couldn’t have orchestrated some kind of heroic death.

She tightened her fists. Two minutes before her first mission was no time to get emotional. She needed to keep a clear head. She had a soul to collect, and she wasn’t going to screw it up, because it sort of seemed like the fire goddess really wanted to slaughter her.

She pulled out the new mobile Kester had given her, and flicked open a web browser, searching for “Hugo Modes” to get a refresher on his face. He grinned at the camera, all white teeth, pink lips, and large brown eyes—virtually indistinguishable from the three other mop-haired boys in his band.

Kester had been clear on the plan. She and Zee were supposed to approach Hugo together. Keep a low profile, and stay in the shadows. That part was easy enough. She liked shadows. It was just the whole
killing
thing that made her uneasy. Hopefully it wouldn’t come down to that. She might be a mortal demon, but she wasn’t a murderer.

Someone rapped on the window, and Ursula jumped. It was Zee, clad in a belted white coat, her breath clouding around her face. Ursula opened the door, stepping into icy air that nipped at her bare legs.

“Zee.” Ursula shut the door behind her. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

The Russian stepped back, surveying Ursula’s black coat and tan heels. “You don’t look as gross as you did before.”

“Thanks.” She hugged herself. “What do you do for Kester, anyway? Are you his employee?”
Or do you just do what he says because you fancy him?

“I have certain skills for which Kester pays me. That’s all you need to know. For one thing, I can get us in anywhere.” Her eye makeup shone gold in the tungsten streetlights. “This place is like my second home.” Behind her, gold-plated lettering read
Club Lalique
.

Ursula’s teeth chattered. “I’m freezing. Shall we get in line?” She stuffed her phone into a small clutch the color of smoke.
Wyrm skin
, Kester had said. Dragon hide was invisible to normal humans, which made the clutch perfect for what she had to carry into the club.

“Come with me.” Zee looped her arm through Ursula’s, leading her to the front of the line.

“Are we just going to jump the queue?” Ursula whispered. She felt like a tit cutting in front of everyone, and she could feel their angry stares burning into her.

“Of course.”

A ruddy-faced bouncer in a long heavy coat stood behind a red rope. “Good evening, Zemfira.”

Zee smiled. “Just my friend and me tonight.”

The bouncer lifted the rope, then pulled open a black door. It led into a short hallway lined with pale marble tiles, and once she was inside its warmth Ursula’s stiff shoulders began to relax. They walked through a narrow hall to a set of gold-plated doors.

Zee pushed a button, and the doors opened to reveal an elevator’s mirrored interior. They both stepped inside.

Ursula took a deep breath.
Calm down. All you need to do is give Hugo the parchment, and ask him to sign. He should be perfectly reasonable about it.
What Emerazel wanted with his soul was a mystery, but she supposed Kester would probably just tell her it was none of her concern.

As the elevator silently climbed fifteen stories, she glanced at a CCTV camera in the corner. This place was probably littered with cameras. A bit tricky to stay in the shadows.

At the top floor, the doors opened to reveal a vast room dripping with opulence: platinum, muted gold, and vibrant amber. It was like something out of a Russian palace before the revolution. No wonder Zee liked it here.

A few patrons clustered around a circular bar, while others lounged in cream leather booths. Above the bar, a gold column branched out like a metal tree, and crystal lights sparkled among its boughs. But the most eye-catching aspect of the room was the view: across the East River, Manhattan’s buildings jutted into the sky, a glittering, steel forest. This place was so far from Rufus’s club that it might as well have been on another planet.
You’ve come a long way, Ursula.

A grey-haired man in a black sweater approached them. “May I take your coats?”

“Yes, please,” said Zee.

Zee wriggled out of her white coat, revealing a pale cocktail dress that hugged her delicate curves. A pearl necklace draped around her neck, and she gripped a small, indigo clutch that matched her shoes.

The man turned to Ursula. “Miss?”

Ursula slipped out of her coat. The black Prada dress hugged her body perfectly. Short and A-line—good for running if she needed to slip away fast. She handed over her coat.

Zee appraised her outfit. “Black. Sophisticated. Very nice.”

You’re not the only one out here who can pick out a dress.
“Thanks.”

“I don’t know about you,” Zee continued, “but I’m dying for a cocktail.” She headed to the bar, nabbing the last gold-cushioned seat. Ursula had to stand awkwardly behind her.

Within moments, a blond bartender leaned across the wooden bar. “The usual, Miss Zemfira?”

“Yes, but make it two.” She turned to Ursula. “You like champagne cocktails.” It was less a question than a directive.
Drink it or else
.

“Sure. Whatever.” With her nerves blazing, Ursula wasn’t really in the mood for drinking, but it would help her blend in. Champagne wasn’t so alcoholic as to get her drunk, and she could slowly nurse it.

“Great.” Zee smiled. “Save my spot. I have to pee.”

After Zee hurried off, Ursula slipped into her seat, watching as the bartender put together their drinks. After dropping two sugar cubes into a pair of champagne flutes, he retrieved a bottle of Angostura. He dropped the bitters onto the cubes—deep red drops, like blood on snow. As he filled the glasses with champagne, Ursula shivered for a moment, thinking of the last hellhound, and the entrails that had decorated a tree.

The bartender slid the glasses across the rich wood.

“Thank you.” When she took a sip, the bubbles tickled her nose.

A thin hand snapped up the other drink. “Just in time,” said Zee.

“When do you think Hugo will get here?” Ursula whispered.

“Soon, I suppose. He’s a regular here.” Zee leaned in close. “I can’t believe he’s your first target.”

“How is it that you know all about this? About what I do?”

Zee’s blue eyes sparkled. “I take it Kester hasn’t told you very much about me.”

Of course not.
He hadn’t told her very much about anything. Before Ursula could asked her what she meant, Zee shushed her. “Hugo’s here.”

“Where?”

“In the corner booth. Three o’clock. No wait. Nine o’clock? Whatever. To your left.”

Ursula shifted in her seat.

“Don’t look. He’s seen me. Did you see him? Don’t look!” Zee paused for what seem like a minute, but was probably only a few seconds. “Ok, you can look now, but don’t be obvious. He’s with a brunette. A lingerie model. I recognize her.” Zee took a sip of her champagne. “Shall we chat with him?”

Zee’s onslaught of directions had left Ursula confused. “Now? I was planning on cornering him here at the bar.”

“He has bottle service. He won’t leave his table.” Zee slipped off her stool and started toward Hugo’s booth. After smoothing down her hair, Ursula followed. Apparently, they were just going to walk up and introduce themselves to the superstar.

Hugo slouched into the pale leather of a large U-shaped booth. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket shaped like a golden egg. Just to the side of the table hovered an enormous bald bodyguard, with a face the color of raw meat. A snake tattoo curled around his scalp. Even with fire magic on her side, Ursula didn’t want to learn how she’d do in a fight against him. She’d have to find a way to leave the hulk behind, and get Hugo on his own.

She stopped just next to Zee at the edge of the table, clutching her champagne. She tried to loosen her shoulders so she didn’t look quite so much like a grim reaper on a death hunt.
Except that’s pretty much what I am.

Zee plonked her champagne on the table, flashing the group a dazzling smile. The model grinned, throwing her hands in the air and trilling in a French accent, “Zee! I’m so glad you’re here. You look amazing, as usual.” She wore a tiny, beaded white dress, so delicate that it reminded Ursula of dew drops on a spider web. The woman draped a thin, tan arm over Hugo’s shoulders.

She knows Zee. Zee didn’t mention that.

The bodyguard turned his head. “Good to see you again, Zee. I was hoping we’d see you tonight.”

And the bodyguard, too?
Ursula frowned, staring at her companion. If Zee was a regular here, maybe she’d know the doorman, the coat man, and the bartender. But what were the chances she would happen to be close friends with a French lingerie model and Hugo Mode’s bouncer?

Is this magic, too?

O
nly Hugo seemed
immune to Zee’s spell. Over a pale green cocktail, he narrowed his eyes. Up close, his features were less plastic than they appeared in the music videos, and his dark blue irises glittered in the dim club’s lights.

The model twirled the stem of her Manhattan glass. “Please. Join us, Zemfira.”

Zee scooted in next to the model, while Ursula took a spot next to Hugo. Yanking a thin straw from his drink, he flicked tiny droplets over the table. “I was in the middle of a story.”

Zee took a sip of her cocktail. “Don’t let us stop you, Hugo.”

Hugo shifted in his seat, looking around the table. “I was explaining why I had to dump Madison. I’m sure you saw it in the papers.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “So my PR guy sent me Virginie here. We’re supposed to go to the opera tomorrow. Like, to be seen together.”

Virginie smiled.

“Oh?” Zee cocked her head, feigning sympathy. “What happened with Madison?”

Hugo frowned. “She bought a one-piece for our vacation in Saint Kitts. And there were going to be paparazzi there, obviously.” His clipped accent and soft Rs suggested he had some history in a British boarding school, but also that he’d lived in the US long enough to give his voice a nasal quality. He sounded a bit like a 1920s radio announcer. Hugo turned to Ursula, dark eyebrows raised. “Do I look like the kind of guy who would date a girl with a one-piece?”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“A one-piece bathing suit. A swimming costume.” He spoke slowly, like she might have a head injury. “Like, not a bikini.”

“Yeah, I get the bathing suit concept. I just didn’t know there was a recognizable type of man whose girlfriend—”

Zee kicked her hard under the table and Hugo glared at her.
Shit. I’m supposed to be charming.

She smiled, widening her eyes. “But of course I never wear swimming costumes—I mean bathing suits.”

“You don’t swim?

She licked her lips in what she hoped was a seductive gesture. “I only swim
au naturel
.”

Hugo shifted toward her, suddenly interested. “What else do you do
au naturel
?” His gaze rested firmly on her breasts before moving to her face.

“Oh, you know.
Things
.” She said it softly, gently placing a hand on Hugo’s knee where Virginie couldn’t see. Hopefully the knee-touching would distract him from the fact that she’d just tried to say “things” seductively.

Hugo stared into her eyes, and little smirk played around the corner of his mouth, before he abruptly looked away, slapping his hands on the table. “I need to go for a slash.”

He pushed his leg against Ursula’s, indicating that he wanted to get up from the table. Ursula scooted out, watching as Hugo and the bodyguard disappeared into the crowd. She took a sip of her champagne cocktail.
Charm him and isolate him. One point for Ursula.

Her cell phone vibrated in her purse and she pulled it out. Zee’s name popped up.

Virginie was gushing to Zee about her upcoming opera date—as if the Russian ice princess were the warmest, friendliest person in the world.
Definitely magic of some sort.
Ursula would have to ask Zee about that later.

Straightening her short dress, Ursula stood and strode toward the bathrooms. She’d read somewhere that British soldiers were given a rum ration before they went over the trenches. She downed the rest of her cocktail. In Club Lalique, champagne would have to do.

She glanced down at the wyrm-skin purse tucked under her arm. It held a credit card, 250 American dollars, a tube of red lipstick, her lucky stone, and her cellphone. But most importantly, it contained a small parchment pact and a bone-colored pen with a razor-sharp nib. All she had to do was remind Hugo of his contract, jab his palm, and get him to sign in his blood.
Simple.

The dance floor had begun to fill, and Ursula wove her way through the crowd of lithe, glittering women and besuited men. She tried not to think about the pen’s second function. Kester had shown her a button hidden in its side that, when clicked, extended the nib into a small blade. That was the soul-reaping blade.

But she wasn’t going to use that. Even by the Headsman’s standards, that was a worst-case scenario. No one would agree to these bargains if word got round that Emerazel’s hellhounds murdered everyone on their eighteenth birthdays. In order for the system to work, they needed signatures, not corpses.

In one of the corners, a gold-plated letter
M
hung above a dark alcove. Hugo’s bodyguard stood just next to the entrance. As Ursula approached, the bodyguard gave her a wink.
Good. Hugo’s definitely expecting me.

She pushed open the door and slipped inside. There was a short, curly-haired man by the sinks with a white towel in his hand. A silver tray of cologne, Club Lalique matchbooks, and breath mints were arranged on the counter behind him. “Miss, this is the men’s—” he started to say, but he fell silent when he glimpsed the one-hundred-dollar bill in Ursula’s outstretched hand.

“Can you give us a few minutes?” she whispered.

He nodded silently, pointing to the end of a row of black stall doors.

Ursula’s heels clacked over the tiles. Steel urinals lined the left wall under tall windows that granted a view of Manhattan. Any man taking a piss in Club Lalique could imagine that he was urinating on all the poor sods below.
Ugh. If the revolution came, I’d be on the wrong side of the palace walls.

As she took a deep breath, she tapped the last door. “Hugo?”
Seductive. Sound seductive
. “It’s Ursula,” she breathed.

He cracked the door open, and she slipped inside, gripping her purse in anticipation. A window filled one entire wall, with only a thin black curtain covering the lower half for discretion. She could only hope no one was spending their evening scanning the Lalique bathrooms with a pair of binoculars.

Hugo pressed himself flat against the window, loosening his shirt collar. “Who are you?”

Ursula tried tossing her hair, but with the awkward jerk of her head it probably came off more like an involuntary twitch. “I’m Ursula. Zee’s friend.”

A cold sweat beaded on his forehead. “But I don’t know who Zee is, or why my date seemed to know her. When I asked my bodyguard, he couldn’t remember where he knew her from either.”

Zee had
definitely
used some sort of spell on them. Time to dispense with the pleasantries. “You’ve just turned eighteen. I’m here about your pact with Emerazel.”

He wiped a hand across his mouth, staring into her eyes. Emerazel’s fire now blazed behind his indigo irises. “No one came on my birthday. I thought I’d gotten away with it.”

She exhaled. So he knew the drill and this wasn’t too much of a shock. “Sorry, no. You didn’t get away. And now it’s time to sign the papers.” She stepped closer, pulling the pen from her bag and popping off the cap.

“And after I sign… I’m just a little fuzzy on what I’m agreeing to.”

“When you die, Emerazel will take your soul to burn in the inferno for eternity.”
Bollocks. I might need to work on my pitch a little.

Hugo’s blue eyes bulged. “I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Of course you don’t. It’s awful—” Ursula sputtered. “—Not ideal, but you don’t have a choice. The deal was, you gave your soul in exchange for—” She pulled the parchment out of her purse. “What was it you asked for? Fame?”

He swallowed hard, eyes open wide. “For people to hear my music and think it’s amazing.”

She thrust the contract toward him. “Hmmm… Well I guess it only works on a portion of the population. Anyway, you made the deal verbally. And now you get all the French models, Grammys, and green cocktails you can consume until you die. Considering most of the world has to live on $6 a day, you’re getting quite lot. I mean sure, the eternal torment—”

“It’s the soul part that concerns me.” The pink had vanished from his cheeks. “It was just a lark with my mates. I thought it was a fairy story.”

Was she going to have to act as a therapist with all the supplicants? She wasn’t very good at this hand-holding stuff. How was she supposed to convince him this was a good idea? This was an
awful
idea. And even if he was a knob, she didn’t want him to burn until the end of time. Bloody hell, she wasn’t a psychopath—she definitely wasn’t cut out for this gig. Still, she’d have to put forth the effort if she didn’t want to face slaughter at Emerazel’s hands—or perhaps Kester’s.

She squared her shoulders. “Well, chin up, and all that. Here’s the pen.” She forced a smile onto her face. “Please sign, and everything will be fine… for a while.” She couldn’t bring herself to outright lie about it. She was a terrible liar.

“I’ll have to spend eternity burning in the inferno,” he sputtered.

This tidbit would likely be a bit of a sticking point in these negotiations. “From what I understand, the other option is starting your sentence now, and I’m sure you can see that’s worse. You’re young. Death is a long way off. Unless you refuse to sign, and then it’s a very short way off.”

Hugo’s shoulders hunched. “What do you mean?”

Ursula gazed into his indigo eyes, trying to convey the gravity of the situation. “If you don’t sign, I have to reap your soul now, and then it’s straight to the fires. The torment can start now, or later.”
God I don’t want to be doing this.

Hugo swallowed hard, his body trembling.

She depressed the button on the knife and the blade popped out with a snapping noise. She pressed the button again, retracting the blade. Hugo’s eyes bulged.

“Of course, Emerazel doesn’t want me to reap your soul now. It’s bad for business if you guys don’t get anything in return for eternity. She needs to keep the bargains coming, you know?”

Hugo tightened his lips, reaching for the pen with a resigned look on his face. But just as he was about to take it, he swung an elbow at her head.