Chapter 13

In the armory, Ursula faced herself in mirror, staring at her glossy locks. Luis hadn’t cut off much—just enough that her hair now fell above her shoulders. He’d been a little creepy—in fact, he’d pressed his cell phone number into her palm and demanded that she call him for a scalp massage—but at least he’d done a wonderful job with the cut.

She was already feeling much better about her insane new life. After she’d returned that afternoon, she’d finished painting a small mural of wildflowers on her bedroom wall, making it feel a little more like home. And when she’d strode downstairs, covered in smudges of periwinkle and honey-hued paints, she’d found bags of clothes waiting for her on the living room floor.

Inside one of the bags, there was a handwritten note from Kester explaining that she’d need the clothes for work. Whoever had bought them had exquisite taste. Apart from some gorgeous dresses, they were, unfortunately, all black—not exactly her thing. But still, she wasn’t going to complain about Louboutin boots and Burberry trousers.

If only she could have ignored the whole eternal torment thing—not to mention the shredded hellhounds thing—she’d be having a wonderful time in New York.

As she gripped Honjo in front of her, she pointed the blade straight at the mirror, her feet planted in a fighting stance. She now wore a new pair of black trousers—real leather this time—and a black tank top. She looked like some sort of American action hero.

She sliced the katana to the side, eviscerating an imaginary assailant. She resumed the ready position with the blade parallel to the floor. As she watched her form for precision and balance, she slowly raised the sword above her head. She slashed it down. Thanks ever so much for the work clothes, Kester, but did you forget to mention that bit about the entrails in the park trees?

Beyond the evisceration and public display of intestines, Zee had known no more about who or what had killed the last hellhound. She didn’t know if the murderer was still a threat, or if he was likely to come for Ursula.

The steel glinted in Ursula’s hands. If someone was after her, she’d be prepared.

Footsteps echoed behind her, and she turned to find Kester standing in the doorway, dressed in a fitted black suit.

She gripped the sword’s hilt. “When were you planning on telling me the last fellow was gutted in Central Park?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Zee has a little problem with discretion. And tact.” His green eyes lingered on her a little too long; something feral flickered in them. “You clean up nicely. Black suits you.”

“It does not suit me.” At the carnal look in his eyes, heat burned her cheeks. “I’m more of a spring colors girl.”

“You’re not a ‘spring colors girl.’ You’re a god-damned demon. Do you understand that? You’re going to have to kill people.”

Dread tightened her chest. She hadn’t really thought about that. “Speaking of killing people…” She strode across the room and pointed the blade at his chest. “I want to know what’s going on. Why was the last hellhound murdered?”

He didn’t flinch. Apparently, even when she was armed with a katana, he didn’t view her as dangerous. His eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t know why he was murdered. You’re here to help me find out, once you’ve calmed down a bit.”

“I’m perfectly?—”

In a fraction of a second, he’d moved behind her, swift as the wind—one powerful arm wrapped tightly around her, and the other hand gripping her sword arm. Heat from his body warmed her. He squeezed her wrist, and she gasped at the pain, dropping the sword. “Don’t take on an opponent you have no chance of beating, Ursula,” he whispered in her ear. “Not unless you have a really good plan.”

Her frustration lent her boldness. “Oh, right. I hear you’re ‘the Headsman.’ Quite the nickname you have.” Her heart raced. She shouldn’t be prodding this beast, but she wasn’t so sure she could cope with being a hellhound. What did she really have to lose at this point? “Your colleague was gutted, his intestines strewn about like holiday decorations, and you have no idea why?”

He loosened his grip on her, slipping away. “It could have been any number of things. Some demons enjoy dispatching their prey with a dramatic flair. Sometimes a curse can rebound, injuring the caster. A lot of things could have led to Henry’s demise.”

Demons. Curses. All in a day’s work around here. “Hellhounds use curses, too?”

“We do what Emerazel tells us. Usually it’s signing pacts and reaping souls, but sometimes she has more specific requests.”

“Such as?”

“When you get one, you’ll know.” Something wicked glinted in his eyes. “And if you must know, I really don’t mourn Henry’s loss. He was something of a psychopath.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of psychopaths, Headsman, why are you in my apartment?”

He flashed her a wolfish smile. “I couldn’t resist your warm and inviting company.”

She crossed her arms, eyeing the sword on the ground. “Seriously. What did you come for?”

“I left a box of gold ingots on your kitchen table—your annual stipend—and I’m here to teach you how to summon Emerazel.” He turned toward the hallway. “Follow me.”

She snatched Honjo from the ground, returning it to the rack, and stalked after Kester.

He spoke over his shoulder. “When you meet the goddess of passion and wrath, please don’t mouth off. She can compel you to do whatever she wants, including throwing yourself through a window, so I’d advise you to be pleasant and charming.” He slid a cold gaze her way. “In other words, don’t be yourself.”

“I’m perfectly charming to people who haven’t abducted me and threatened my life,” she shot back.

“You asked for this.” They stopped at the door to the sigil room, and Kester continued. “Summoning her is simple. You just need three ingredients. The first is her symbol.”

“The encircled triangle. I’ve got that one memorized.” She followed him into the sigil room, glancing out the windows at the snow-covered city. She was about to meet an immortal goddess of fire, yet her blood had turned to ice. She hugged herself tight.

Kester pulled the rug aside to reveal the symbol on the floor. “The second ingredient is fire.” He produced a box of matches and the small silver flask from inside his jacket.

He unscrewed the top, taking a swig. “Glorious.” After pouring a few ounces of scotch on the sigil, he struck a match and dropped it. His voice took on a professorial tone. “If you’re using alcohol, be sure that it’s high enough proof to take a flame. You don’t want to be caught with your hand on a pact and a sigil that won’t light.”

“High proof. Got it.” It didn’t have to be expensive, just alcoholic.

“Lastly, you need to intone the summoning spell.” Kester reached into his pocket and produced a small scrap of parchment. “I’ve memorized it, but here’s a copy so you can follow along. You’ll need to repeat after me.”

Ursula looked at the paper. Spidery letters crowded its surface. Kester started to speak, and though she didn’t know the name of the language, she found she could read it phonetically. F.U. was just full of surprises.

As they worked their way through the spell, the words began to roll off her tongue.

When they finished the final line, fire blazed like an erupting volcano, and Ursula shielded her face from the heat. The flame died abruptly, revealing a dark, smoky form crouched in the sigil’s center.

A feminine figure rose. Dark tendrils of smoke curled off her, and her eyes burned like supernovas. Wincing, Ursula looked away before her retinas burned out.

A raspy voice, crackling with fire, spoke. “Is this the girl you told me about?”

“This is Ursula.”

Ursula shielded her eyes, but Emerazel’s heat filled the room. Plumes of smoke wafted through the air like tentacles, encircling the two hellhounds. Outside, Ursula thought she caught a glimpse of Central Park now blazing with spewing lava and ash. That isn’t real, is it?

She couldn’t breathe. What had happened to the air? She wanted to get the hell out of here. Ash seemed to fill her lungs. It was too hot.

“Interesting,” whispered the goddess. “Very interesting. I see something in her.”

“She is… feisty,” said Kester.

“There’s something else. Something I didn’t notice before, the day she carved herself.”

The day I carved myself. Does she know me? Nausea welled in Ursula’s gut. Something felt wrong. It was too hot in here—too bright. She needed the cool night air, needed to slip into the shadows, to ride the dark wind into cool, quiet space. Her body trembled, and she clamped her eyes shut. She wasn’t sure she could speak, even if she wanted to.

“You remember her?” asked Kester. “She doesn’t know where she came from.”

“That’s for the best,” Emerazel spat. “I want to see her kneel before me.”

The words rang in Ursula’s head, and without thinking, she fell, her knees cracking against the floor. Her body trembled. Emerazel had complete control over her, just as Kester had told her she would.

“A loyal subject to do with as I please. How delicious.” The goddess’s voice hissed like water on a hot stone.

Ursula had no reply, couldn’t meet the goddess’s eyes. Nausea and dread wound through her, curling around her thoughts. I don’t belong here.

“Tell me you’re my subject,” whispered Emerazel.

Ursula felt her mouth moving. “I am your loyal subject,” she intoned. “I am yours.”

A deep laugh rumbled through the room, shaking the floor. “You burn for me.”

With a great force of will, Ursula dared to raise her eyes, though not high enough to meet the goddess’s shining gaze. She stared instead at Emerazel’s lips, cracked into a cinder-flecked smile. She knows something about me. If Ursula had had any control over her own body, she’d have asked what it was.

“Do you remember when she carved herself?” Kester pressed.

“I remember the day, though I didn’t know who she was then. So many souls came to me that day. It was glorious.” An ashy smile played about the goddess’s lips. “That’s all you need to know. I have an assignment for my sniveling little subject.”

Ursula fought against the urge to scream. Her skin was on fire, and she was in the center of a volcano. Pain ripped her mind apart. Why didn’t Kester mind the heat? How could he stand this?

Emerazel’s smile widened. “The target is a particularly delectable soul. He allied himself with me a few months ago. You might have heard of him—Hugo Modes. You’re to collect his soul for me. Do not disappoint me. Kester, give her a ledger. One thousand pages. One page for each task, until the book is full.”

Ursula’s body trembled. Did she say a thousand pages?

Kester nodded. “She’s had no training, so I will go with her on her first assignment.”

“No,” Emerazel bellowed. “I want to see what she can do on her own. And, Kester, when you train her, make sure she remains submissive. Do not go gentle on her. I want this one to obey.”

“Of course,” he said, his tone flat.

“If she needs to die,” Emerazel mused. “Be sure you bring her to me first. I will dispose of her myself. In fact, I rather look forward to it.” Emerazel’s lips began to crumble, and her body collapsed into a pile of ash.

Ursula gasped as cool air filled the room, and the icy winter day returned through the windows. Shaking, she hunched over on her hands and knees, fighting the urge to vomit. Her body twitched uncontrollably. A strong taste of creosote filled her mouth, and sandpaper seemed to line her eyelids. Coughing and gagging, she blinked, trying to force some moisture from her tear ducts.

“That was awful. You didn’t tell me it would be that awful.” She hated the way her voice broke. She didn’t want Kester to see her weakened like this. He already had far too much control over her life.

“Gods below,” said Kester, his voice low. “Your first lesson is never to look directly at her.”

He held out a hand, lifting her up. “Are you all right?”

Too tired to care about her pride, she leaned into him. “I won’t make that mistake again,” she managed. She needed a cool bath, and a long sleep.

Kester slipped an arm around her waist, holding her up, and studied her. “I didn’t know that would happen,” he said quietly. “I’ve never seen her act that way before. And her flames shouldn’t burn one with the mark. I don’t feel her heat when she appears. You were in agony.”

“I thought I was dying.”

“You’ve certainly earned that Mystery Girl nickname.”

She straightened, pulling away from him as the nausea subsided. “I don’t suppose I can convince Emerazel to tell me what she knows about me.”

“She clearly hates you for some reason, so no.”

Trapped in the constant desperation of trying to pay her rent and buy food, she’d ignored the most fundamental question for so long: Who am I? And now it blazed in her mind like Emerazel’s terrifying eyes. “Why would she hate me? What did I do?”

Kester’s gaze bored into her. “I can tell you that your Angelic incantation was very clear. In fact, your accent is perfect. You were a scholar, once. How can you remember Angelic if you can’t remember anything about yourself?”

“Same reason I can speak English and know how to use a knife and fork. It’s a different type of memory.” She frowned. Scholar was not a word she’d ever associated with herself. “But an Angelic scholar? Where would I have learned it?”

“No idea. I guess that’s what makes you the Mystery Girl.”

She swallowed hard. “What did she mean by a ledger?”

“Every hellhound has a book—a ledger to track your progress. One page per task. When it is full, your soul is free. I’ll have one ready for you when you return from your assignment. I haven’t even begun training you, and I honestly have no idea why Emerazel has given you an assignment already. You’re not ready for it. But she has it in for you, so you’d better get it right, because it seemed like she wanted to kill you.”

Cold dread bloomed in her mind. My assignment. Right. “I was in too much pain to focus when she was talking. I almost thought she was talking about Hugo Modes—the lead singer of Four Points. But that can’t be right.”

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.”