Chapter 6

Ursula swallowed hard, staring out the shattered window. There—under the shadows of the elms lining the park, Ursula caught a glimpse of his golden body, marked by dark tattoos. Bael walked barefoot, a dark sweep of phantom wings down his back. The muscled planes of his body appeared rigid with tension, his fists clenched.

“How the hell did he survive that?” Ursula breathed. “Where did those wings come from?”

“They’re not his proper wings,” said Cera. “But that blood you gave him to drink has restored some of his immortality, strengthening his shadow magic. It won’t last. But for now, he has regained a portion of his former power. He’s not as weak as Emerazel thought.”

Ursula rubbed the soot from her eyes, loosing a breath. Gently, she traced her fingertips over the back of her head where she’d hit it. Her hair was still matted with blood, but she no longer felt the gash in her scalp. And, moreover, an ancient power flowed through her veins now. Emerazel’s fire magic had returned.

Zee touched Ursula’s arm, studying her closely. “How’s your head? That looked bad.”

Ursula stepped away from the window, trying to avoid the broken glass. “I’m fine. Emerazel restored my fire and healed me. How are your burnt feet?”

Zee shrugged. “Fae heal quickly.”

Cera was still staring out the broken window. “What happened to the lord?”

Ursula’s chest tightened. “I have a terrible feeling he’s about to go on a blood-drinking binge.”

“I must go search for him,” said Cera. “He could be hurt.”

“You’re not worried about the humans he’s about to devour, I see,” muttered Zee.

Cera hurried to the door, her white hair streaming behind her. “I’ll be back as soon as I know Bael is safe.” A moment later, the elevator door pinged.

Ursula sucked in a breath. “Humans are at war with demons. Will Cera be safe out there?”

Zee frowned. “Most humans still have no idea what demons really look like, and whatever New Yorkers are remaining in this city won’t look twice at a tiny white-haired lady. She’s far less scary than the dragons.” She studied Ursula, and the breeze toyed with her platinum bob. “So you feel normal now?”

A dull ache throbbed in Ursula’s temples. “It just feels like a mild hangover now.”

“Right. I know how to cure a hangover. Let’s go into the kitchen.”

Fatigue sapped Ursula’s energy, but she followed Zee into the kitchen anyway. Sunlight streamed through the windows, igniting dust motes in the air. Ursula leaned against a countertop, watching as Zee pulled out some American cheese, a bottle of Cholula sauce, and some baby carrots. “So, now we just need to get you out of New York.” She unwrapped the cheese slices, folding them around the baby carrots. “Emerazel said Kester is on a mission in London, though it would have been nice if he’d told me where he was going before he left. He’s not always considerate.” She drizzled hot sauce over the little blanketed carrots, and handed the monstrosity to Ursula.

Dutifully, Ursula took a bite of carrot with hot sauce and cheese, gagging as she forced herself to swallow. “This is supposed to cure hangovers?”

Zee shrugged. “Well, not specifically. But it’s just the only food we have left. The stores have all closed, and that little white-haired lady used up the rest of our food on your psycho boyfriend. Also, I really have no idea how to cook.”

Ursula dropped the plate on the countertop. “About the ‘boyfriend’ thing. We only got engaged so he wouldn’t have to kill me in a duel. It’s some ancient Shadow Demon law. No killing your spouses.”

Zee frowned. “So what was that whole thing about how he killed his wife?”

“Oh. That. Well…” Ursula blinked. “Actually, I have no idea. I think it was a very long time ago. He hasn’t told me about it himself. He’s a bit of a mystery, to be honest.”

“Well, he seems protective of you. Even through his blood fury he was willing to protect you from the fire goddess.” She crossed her arms, leaning against the opposite counter. “If Kester is in London, I think you should go after him there.”

“To find out answers?”

“That, and because there are dragons after you in New York. And I think you need to stay away from your boyfriend until he stops trying to drink your blood.”

Ursula nodded. “Okay. Any idea where Kester’s London apartment is?”

Zee flicked on her phone, frowning at it. “Yeah, looks like it’s on Fournier Street in London. Do you know where that is?”

“I think that’s near Brick Lane, the street with those super-posh Georgian houses.”

Zee bit into a carrot stick. “Time to pack your bags.”

Ursula’s stomach rumbled. She was completely knackered, but at least in London she could get a good sandwich to fill her belly. “I’m on it. Why don’t you come with me? There’s no food here, and Manhattan’s a bit post-apocalyptic right now.”

“I think your little white-haired demon friend will need help with the giant psycho Shadow Lord. Don’t you?”

“Well, I appreciate your help. They’re good demons. I think.” Still barefoot from the blisters incident, Ursula padded over the hardwood floor and climbed the gently curving stairs, trailing her fingertips over the rail. She could only hope that a fae and a tiny oneiroi would be able to contain Bael’s bloodlust long enough for it to wear off, and that he wouldn’t slaughter any humans between now and then.

As she crossed to her bedroom, she tried not to think about the dragons. Whatever it was they knew about her, whatever secret they held, Ursula didn’t want to know. She couldn’t explain why, but she didn’t want to know about her past. If she couldn’t remember her own past, maybe there was a good reason. Maybe she didn’t want to remember.

Sometimes, the past came to her in faded flickers. There were the beautiful memories—the fields of wildflowers, the clouds rolling through a blue sky. A woman, her hair as red as Ursula’s. An old man’s hands, turning the pages of a book as she sat on his lap.

But then there were the flashes of nightmare: the flames, the screams. The smell of burning flesh. A golden-skinned man towering over her, with eyes the color of the Mediterranean skies… She blinked, confused. Her thoughts had become all jumbled since she’d hit her head.

Right?

At the end of the hall, splinters of oak and iron littered the floor. The fact that Bael had been able to tear straight through the door highlighted his staggering power.

She turned, opening the door to her own room. She pulled out a large rucksack from under her bed. She fought the overwhelming urge to crawl up in her bed, to sleep for hours beneath the spray of blue and yellow wildflowers she’d painted on her wall. Turning to her dresser, she began collecting clothes—trousers, shirts, a dress, and enough underwear for a week. She pulled off her own fire-singed clothes, slipping into a fresh set of blue knickers and a bra, her leather leggings, and a black T-shirt. She tied her scabbard around her hips.

As she hurried back down the stairs, she felt the fire magic blazing through her veins. She had to admit, it felt good to have it back.

When she got to the bottom of the stairs, Zee was waiting for her, holding one of her own katanas from the armory. “You’ll want to bring this, I imagine.”

Ursula grabbed the hilt, examining the blade. It wasn’t Honjo, but it would do. Ursula slid it into her scabbard.

“Thanks, Zee.”

Zee leaned over to give her a hug. “Please bring back food for me. And champagne. Mostly champagne.”

“I’ll try. Look after Cera and Bael. They’re a little out of place outside the Shadow Realm.”

Ursula crossed toward the sigil room, and Zee followed behind her. Zee had already prepared the sigil, and it blazed with fire. Zee leaned against the doorframe, folding her arms and watching Ursula.

“The name of the flat is the Knight’s Terrace on Fournier Street. Kester should have a sigil there. Wait!” Zee began frantically digging into her pocket. “You’ll need this too.” She pulled out a keychain and tossed it to Ursula. “It’s the key to Kester’s apartment.”

Ursula began to incant the spell, her lips pronouncing the Angelic words as if she’d known them all her life, and she asked the sigil to direct her to the Knight’s Terrace. She clutched tightly to the straps of her rucksack as Emerazel’s flames blazed all around her. And this time, as she bathed in hellfire, her skin didn’t burn.

Ursula sizzled into a new room,smoke rising from her body. The dying flames at her feet cast a dancing light over a tower room with a brick ceiling. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that encircled the room, she had a view of Fournier Street. Here, several time zones away, night had already fallen. Warm lights glowed through the windows of the three-story Georgian houses, framed by antique wood-shuttered windows. People strolled along the streets below, dressed in trendy clothes, some already drunk. Ursula felt a surge of warmth. At last, she’d come home.

In this glass-walled tower, she’d be completely visible, so she could only assume that Kester had glamoured it somehow. Gripping her rucksack on her shoulders, she crossed into a hall. She moved quietly, unsure what she was walking into, and kept the lights turned off. Light from the streets filtered in through the windows, and Ursula let her eyes adjust as she tiptoed through the halls. Here the walls were a deep cream, and portraits of idyllic scenes hung on the walls—cherry orchards, a lake in autumn.

To her left was a dark stairwell, to her right, a living room. She peered into the dark room. The décor was more modern here: furniture upholstered in dark navy fabrics, the glint of stainless steel railings, and glass table tops. Kester had forgone the cozy feel of his tugboat for a modernist vibe in this part of the house.

She felt a pang of remorse for the demise of that tugboat. Kester loved that old thing, and there was no way it had survived the fall. It was probably at the bottom of the Hudson River.

As she moved quietly through the house, she realized something wasn’t right in here. It didn’t smell like Kester—the air had the lightning-seared-air scent of shadow magic. And when she saw what had been painted on the walls, her heart skipped a beat.

Along the hallway walls, someone had painted silver crescent moons, and the three-pronged sigil of Nyxobas.

It might have been Kester’s house, but shadow demons had made this place their home. So where the hell was he?

She jumped as she heard muffled voices coming from the floor below. Slowly, she crept over to the stairwell, listening.

“Do you smell smoke?” It was a man’s voice—his accent old-fashioned, posh as hell—but not Kester’s.

Footsteps moved over the floor, the hardwood creaking. “I do, actually,” said a second man. Also not Kester. “Now that you mention it.” His voice was moving closer, now at the base of the stairwell.

Ursula’s pulse raced, and she slipped back into the shadows. She strained her eyes to see in the dark, watching as two men moved up the stairwell, crossing toward the sigil room—one with long platinum hair, the other tall with close-cropped hair. The hair rose on the back of her neck as she watched them moving with a strange, preternatural grace. She’d seen creatures that moved like that in New York. Vampires—demons of the night who never mixed with hellhounds like her and Kester. In fact, they were natural enemies.

“There’s fresh ash on the floor,” said the close-cropped one in the sigil room.

Ursula pulled the sword from her scabbard. Moving quietly closer, she watched as the tall one pulled a small pistol from his pocket, while Blondie flicked on a light switch. Ursula blinked at the sudden glare. Just then, the floor creaked under her feet.

The two vamps whirled, staring at her, dark eyes glinting.

The vamp pointed the gun at her. “Put down the sword.” He wore a dark nylon jacket. With his closely-shorn hair, he looked ex-military. Next to him, Blondie pulled out his own pistol, narrowing his eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to be a hellhound, would you?”

Ursula gripped her sword, as power filled her limbs. In theory, vamps were easy to kill. All she had to do was decapitate them with her katana. But their guns made the situation a little more difficult.

“I said put down the blade!” shouted the soldier.

Her heart thudding, Ursula carefully placed the blade on the floor. Even without her blade, she still had Emerazel’s magic. She summoned her fire, and it began blazing through her veins, her body heating.

“Stop that!” Blondie shouted. Just as flames began to lick at her fingertips, two gunshots rang out, the bullets penetrating the floor by her feet.

Okay. So maybe her fire magic wouldn’t work against the bullets either. Slowly, she raised her hands. “What the hell happened to Kester?”

Soldier-vamp spoke first, his fangs flashing. “Lie on the floor and place your hands on top of your head.”

Glaring at them, Ursula lay down. Best not get shot immediately upon arriving in London if she could help it.

“Don’t move,” said one of the vamps. The sound of a pistol cocking echoed through the room.

“A hound of the goddess,” muttered the other.

“The king will know what to do with her.”

A fresh burst of pain ripped through her skull as a boot met her temple, and then, darkness.

Ursula awoke in darkness,the floor below her trembling. A rumbling sound filled the air, the sound of tires on pavement, the distant hum of a radio. When she stretched out her legs, they immediately hit a barrier. Bollocks. I’m in the boot of a car.

Tight manacles bound her wrists behind her back. She might be able to melt them off, but perhaps lighting a fire while locked in the trunk of a car wasn’t the best of ideas.

The car hit a bump and a fresh jolt of pain radiated from her temple as her head smacked against the floor. She could only hope the damn healing spells were fixing her brain, or she’d be losing all her memories sometime soon.

Quietly, she whispered Starkey’s Conjuration Spell—the spell for healing—and the pain ebbed from her temples.

She could hear the engine slowing, the soft jolt of the car stopping. The engine cut, and two doors creaked open. A moment later the trunk swung open, and she stared up at Soldier-vamp, blinking her eyes. He was already pointing his pistol at her chest.

“You slept a long time, my darling,” he purred.

Her mouth felt dry, and she swallowed hard. How long had she been out? Hours?

“Get out,” said the vamp.

Slowly, Ursula crawled to her knees. When she glanced behind her shoulder, she could see the amber glow of Kester’s glowing manacles—the kind that withstood Emerazel’s fire. “Where is Kester?” she pressed.

“Save your questions for the king,” the vamp snapped. “Get out.”

Ursula slowly climbed out of the trunk, awkwardly throwing one leg over at a time, her bound hands making the movement difficult.

As she fumbled her way out of the car and dropped onto her feet, she surveyed her surroundings. They stood in a tiny car park, a patch of green grass to her right and towering brick buildings to her left, like old warehouses. When she looked up, she saw the word OXO on the side of the brick. They were at the Oxo Tower—one of London’s most popular restaurants, right by the Thames. And if it was this quiet here, she’d been unconscious for several hours at least. The closest streetlight flickered a hundred yards away. Ursula shivered. At this time of night, the only people who’d hear her scream would be three sheets to the wind.

“Follow me.” Soldier-vamp jerked his head, leading her onto a dark street along a park. The other took up position behind her, moving soundlessly over the pavement. When they moved onto the South Bank, the wide pedestrianized path by the river, the vamps kept her close to the Victorian brick buildings, moving in the shadows. Across the way, a man in a stained T-shirt stumbled by the railing, not making eye contact.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“You’ll see soon enough,” said the vamp.

Even with the gun trained on her, she could probably just about get away with killing these two vamps if she summoned her magic fast enough. But that would leave her with two problems: one, she wanted to keep them alive long enough to find out what they knew. And two, the damn manacles. Even if she managed to somehow escape, she couldn’t exactly go to the London police and ask them to help unlock the manacles that bound her wrists. They’d ask questions, maybe hand her over to the US demon-hunters desperate to end New York’s dragon siege. She needed to find a way to persuade the vamps to free her hands.

The soldier looked furtively around him, and they crossed the darkened river-walkway toward the railway that overlooked the water. He stopped at a gate, and swung it open with a creak. From there, a concrete stairwell led down to the rocky shore of the Thames, which was at low tide.

Ursula arched an eyebrow. “The king lives on the riverbank?”

Soldier-vamp didn’t answer her, just jerked his head to indicate she should follow him down the stairs.

A cool breeze rippled over the water, and a briny scent caressed her. Ursula shivered, wishing she’d worn something warmer. At the water’s edge, Soldier-vamp turned to face her, his dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. He pointed his gun at her head. “Kneel. And take off your bag. Drop it on the rocks.”

Her stomach swooped. Bloody hell. There is no king. This is an execution. She grimaced, summoning her fire power. Even if it meant losing a lead on Kester, she’d have to take them out before they shot her. She let Emerazel’s magic pool in her core.

“Stop that!” shouted Soldier-vamp, cocking his gun.

The fire blazed through her body, ready to explode. She’d blow these bastards up?—

A new, unfamiliar voice spoke from behind her, deeper and more regal. “Is this the hound you found in the Headsman’s apartment?”

Ursula turned her head, her body blazing with heat. A man stood at the top of the steps—another vampire, this one with a faint crown of moonlight blazing from his fair hair. Maybe they weren’t lying about a king, and maybe His Royal Majesty knew where Kester was. The fire in her veins began to dissipate.

He was taller and older than the other two vamps. He wore a crimson cloak around his shoulders cinched with a golden clasp shaped like an apple, but it was his hair that drew her eye. A blond so pale it was nearly silver, hanging sleekly to his shoulders. His ancient power whispered over her skin, singing of oak groves and dark magic. He looked a lot like the blond vamp standing to her right, only far more powerful. Almost beautiful.

“Yes father,” said Blondie. “This is the hound.”

The vamp king arched a black eyebrow. “You can quench your fire, hound. My sons will not kill you.”

A million questions ran through her mind. “Who are you? What were you doing in Kester’s apartment? Where is Kester? And why am I here?”

The two younger vamps now flanked the king.

“I am Mordred, and these are my sons,” said the king vamp.

Ursula sucked in a sharp breath. “Mordred. From the King Arthur legends?”

Blondie grimaced at the mention of King Arthur. “My father is the true king of Britain.”

Mordred cocked his head. “Relax. The hound has no way of knowing that the throne was stolen from me.”

The three vampires studied her carefully as the Thames washed over the rocky shore. Cold mist rolled off the river bank.

It was time to get some answers. “And what does this have to do with Kester?”

Mordred’s tongue flicked over his lips. “We believe Kester may have found the way to Avalon. You will help us find him.”

Ursula shook her head. “Why should I help you with that?”

Mordred’s sons aimed their guns at her chest. “Helping us is your only option if you want to live.”

“I hate to disappoint the true king, but I don’t know anything about the location of Avalon, or where Kester is. I came to London to find him. And I was frankly hoping you might know where he was.”

“Is that right?” Mordred’s dark eyes bored into her, the air around him darkening with whorls of black. “Well, we’ll see what Agnes has to say about that.”

Mordred turned to the river, holding out his hands toward the water as he began incanting a spell. The dark water flowed by, reflecting the city lights, then a pale blue sheen glimmered over the surface. Goosebumps rose on Ursula’s arms as the temperature dropped.

The river’s gentle ripples intensified into waves, until a dark form rose slowly from the water, half-enshrouded in mist. Ursula’s fingers curled into fists behind her back, and she took an involuntary step backward. Slowly, emerging from the foam, rose a crone. Long black hair covered her face, and her skin glowed like moonlight. She wore a tattered cloak over her shoulders, but it was open in the front, exposing drooping breasts, and her skeletal hands were clasped together.

“You have called upon me, Mordred?” Agnes’s voice gurgled as she spoke. “You know the undead cannot answer the three questions.”

“I have someone alive who wishes to speak to you.”

Agnes sniffed the air, through her curtain of hair. “So you do. I smell one of Emerazel’s hounds.”

Ursula stared at the crone, half-mesmerized. A chill snaked up her spine at the sight of her. Ursula took another step back until one of Mordred’s sons cocked a gun.

Inch by inch, Agnes glided closer through the fog. When she moved out of the dense mists, Ursula could see that the hag’s cloak was the color of seaweed. Reaching into the shadows of her cloak, Agnes pulled out a faded gray rag. She kneaded the tattered fabric between her gnarled fingers.

“This blouse belonged to Emmeline. Beaten to death in her kitchen by her lover.” Agnes raised her face, peering at Ursula through the hanks of her hair. Now Ursula could see a glimpse of milky white eyes. “What is your name, dearie?” Something in her voice compelled Ursula to answer.

“I’m Ursula.”

“No surname?”

Ursula shook her head. “That’s all I can remember.”

Leaning back on her haunches, Agnes wrung the fabric between her hands, and blood dripped from it into the water. Ursula cringed.

Mordred sidled up to Ursula, and she felt him pull the manacles off her. He leaned in, whispering, “Ask her where Kester is.”

At last her hands were free—yet she didn’t want to run. She wanted to know where Kester was, too. “Where’s Kester?”

The crone pushed her hair from her face, and Ursula’s mouth went dry. Her face was marred by a dark hole where her nose should have been. Her milky eyes searched Ursula’s face, and she lowered herself down to her hands and knees, crawling from the water.

“Kester?” hissed the crone, at the river’s edge. She drew another cloth from her bundle and began kneading it over the rocks. “Kester has gone to the Castle in the Sea.” She stopped working the cloth, looking up at Ursula. “Why did you forsake your betrothed?”

Ursula shook her head. “I’m going back for him. I can’t help him right now.”

“He needs you.”

“I’m going to return. I just?—”

Blondie jabbed Ursula with his elbow. “Ask her if she can be more specific about Kester’s whereabouts.”

“Where exactly is this Castle in the Sea?” she asked.

“The entrance rises from the sea of the great horn. Dumnonia. Only the pure may enter.”

Soldier-vamp stepped forward, holding up a cell phone. His finger brushed the screen. A moment later he announced, “She’s referring to Saint Michael’s Mount. The entrance is there.”

Mordred smiled, his hand going to the gold clasp at his throat. “Now we have everything we need to reclaim my rightful place as King of the Britons.”

Something touched Ursula’s knee. She looked down to see Agnes’s hand, the fingers webbed. “Why did you try to kill your father?”

“I—” It took Ursula a moment to process the implications of the question. Her father? She had no idea who her father had been. In the wisps of memories that curled through her brain like smoke, she’d never remembered a father. An old man, yes, but he’d always seemed more like a grandfather. “I don’t remember. I don’t know why I tried to kill him.”

“I can see the stain upon your soul,” hissed the crone, rising to her full height. She towered above Ursula, staring down at her through rheumy eyes.

“I don’t know…” said Ursula. “I don’t remember.”

Agnes spoke in a gurgling, sing-song voice.

“The end starts, when magic thickens the air,

The lost, as if unburied from the soil

Uncovered from the dankest roots of oaks.”

The strange words rang in Ursula’s skull like a curse. Agnes was half-crazy, but maybe she had some answers in all her nonsense. The crone’s pointed tongue flicked out, and she licked her lips, then pulled another piece of rag from her cloak—this one dark purple with a gold filigree. She lifted it into the moonlight, squinting at it. “I’d almost forgotten about this one. The betrayed and the betrayer. Met a fate she didn’t deserve.” She knelt again, rubbing it against the river rocks. “You may ask a final question,” she said without looking up.

Ursula’s mind raced. There was so much she wanted to know. Why had she lost her memory? Why had she tried to kill her father? Were her parents still alive? Where did she come from? The crone rose, turning to the river.

“Wait!” Ursula almost shouted. Slowly, the crone turned to face her. Ursula drew in a sharp breath. “Where do I come from? What happened to my parents?”

Agnes’s black hair draped over her shoulders. “I can only answer one. Mount Acidale is where you took your first breath.”

The words nearly knocked the breath out of Ursula. Mount Acidale? The crone began to slip into the fog, wading into the Thames again.

Ursula’s heart raced, the floodgates opening. Suddenly she wanted to know everything. She needed the answers, now. She ran after Agnes, icy water soaking her boots. “Please. Tell me about my parents. Are they still in Mount Acidale?”

Foam rose around the crone, and she turned to Ursula a final time.

“This was your mother’s.” She handed the purple and gold rag to Ursula.

Ursula gripped the rag in her shaking hands, hardly aware of Agnes slipping beneath the surface of the river again.

Icy water rushed around her legs as she gaped at the cloth, running her fingers over the fabric, her legs trembling. In the moonlight, she could barely make out the texture of velvet, embroidered with gold-colored thread. Water ran in dark rivulets down between her fingers, and she stiffened when she realized it was blood. Her mother’s blood.

Ursula’s world tilted, and she stared at the blood on her fingertips. Did this mean her mum was dead? The woman she’d glimpsed in ghostly flashes in her mind, the woman with red hair who wielded a sword like a goddess? Cold sorrow crept over her mind like a dark mist, and yet not a single tear wetted Ursula’s eyes. This was an icy, empty sorrow for a woman she couldn’t remember, whom she must have loved but didn’t know.

She stared at the sorry rag—the last remnants of her mum. This could be her only connection to her parents. Emptiness gnawed at her chest, and she knelt, dipping the cloth in the freezing river water, and gently rinsed the blood from it.

When Ursula rose and faced the shore again, she found that only the stony riverbank awaited her. Mordred and his sons had vanished, taking her things with them.