Chapter 10

Kester 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.”