Chapter 14

Ursula 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?