Chapter 19

Teeth chattering, she squeezed through on her stomach, tumbling onto the floor of a pitch-black room. She crouched, clutching the dagger, and listened. All she could hear was a soft hiss of air from the window behind her head. Otherwise, the room lay silent as a tomb.

She rose to her feet, holding the dagger defensively. She still shivered, and it shook in her hand. When nothing leapt at her from the darkness, she pulled open the curtains, letting light fall on the room.

She almost dropped her knife when she saw what lay before her.

The interior looked like some sort of alchemical laboratory, with a rib-vaulted ceiling that arched high above. A small forge stood in a hearth, and shelves of strange glassware lined the walls: rows of delicate Alembic flasks, Dimroth condensers, Thiele tubes, and Thistle funnels.

How in God’s name do I even know these words?

Tentatively, she crossed the room to the shelves, reading the hand-written labels on the flasks. They bore names like nigredo, aqua regia, dragon’s blood, and philosophic mercury. She sniffed the air. Stale creosote. This laboratory hadn’t been used in a long time.

She turned, surveying the rest of the room. The walls were painted a deep indigo blue, patterned with golden astrological symbols and strange alchemical glyphs that twinkled and drifted like stars in the sky.

Ursula crossed back to the window, pulling it closed. If she left it open, Kester would know she’d been in here. With no breeze, an eerie silence descended and the tension returned to her shoulders. Ursula let out a slow breath. She could hear her heart thrumming in her chest. Why am I so nervous? There’s no one here.

Slipping the dagger into her belt, she crossed to another rack of shelves. A thin layer of dust covered the flasks. She slid her fingers around one of the containers, picking it up. As she blew off the dust, she held it in the pale of light of the window. Her face reflected in its surface, and behind her the laboratory. Even an old bed, tucked into the shadows.

A cold chill slithered up her spine. In the glass’s reflection, it almost looked like a dark shape lay on the bed. A body.

Ursula hardly dared to breathe. She turned, placing the flask back on its shelf as quietly as she could. Slowly, she drew the dagger from her belt again.

She approached the bed, gripping her weapon. An enormous, muscled man lay atop a deep crimson bedspread. He was huge. Bloody hell, is he even human?

“Hey?” she called out in a low whisper.

He didn’t move.

“Hey!” She said it louder this time, but he remained motionless.

She moved closer, hardly daring to breathe. The dagger trembled violently in her fist.

His eyes were closed and raven black hair framed his face—his perfect, sublimely beautiful face. He had the most stunning features Ursula had ever seen: sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and perfect, kissable lips. His body was strong and muscled, and his skin had a deep Mediterranean tan, rich and warm, even in the faint light. Her dagger stopped its frantic shaking.

He must be asleep, right? Surely I don’t fancy a corpse.At least, his warm olive color suggested that he lived.

“Hello?” She shouldn’t be here. She should turn around, wrench open the door, and never come back into the forbidden chamber again. But something drew her toward him. Maybe it was his thrilling masculine allure, or maybe it was simple compassion. What if he needed her help?

She stared at the stranger’s chest. It neither rose nor fell, and the only sounds of breathing were her own anxious breaths. “Who are you?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Muscular arms lay crossed on his chest, and his feet were bare. He looked like an effigy carved on a medieval tomb. He wore dark jeans and a grey t-shirt. Thin iron chains snaked around his body. When she looked closer, she could see tendrils of dark air curling off him, like black smoke.

What the hell is that?

If he was dangerous, at least he was bound, but she still clutched the dagger in case he sprang to life, desperate for her blood.

Slowly, she reached for his wrist, tracing her fingers over his warm skin. As soon as she touched him, something sparked like an electrical charge. It coursed through her body—a thrilling vibration of dark and ancient power.

She exhaled, trying to focus. Definitely a magical creature. She touched his wrist again, trying to ignore that rush of magical energy. The man had no actual pulse.

You don’t feel dead, but you don’t breathe, and your heart doesn’t beat.

Her mind turned over the possibilities. He could be a fresh corpse that Kester had stored after a recent kill—but the warmth of his skin and that energy that radiated from him seemed so alive. Plus, there was a certain tautness to his muscles, a look of composure in his perfect face.

Perhaps he was a vampire? Heartless, strong, and gorgeous. With the way things were going, vampirism didn’t seem like such a stretch, but it was the middle of the night, and weren’t vampires nocturnal? Maybe he’d been subdued with some sort of sleeping spell, and he wouldn’t awake until the right person kissed him. Tempting, but if the corpse scenario turned out to be accurate, there wouldn’t be enough soap in the world to clean off her mouth.

She took another step closer, studying the man. With a burst of horror, she realized the crimson wasn’t the color of the bedspread beneath him. Her heart threatened to gallop out of her chest.

It was blood. Gallons of dried blood.

Ursula leapt back from the bed, almost tripping on the rug. The blood stained the sheets in a crimson halo. She scanned the body for wounds, but whatever had injured him had left no visible mark. Something very bad had happened to the stranger, but she didn’t know what. Maybe the Headsman had murdered him.

A terrifying reality settled over her like a burial shroud: she was in way over her head.

Gripping the dagger, she moved to the door. She could see no sign of the magical lock and she desperately hoped that meant it would open from the inside. She twisted the handle and relief washed over her when it turned in her grasp. A gentle push cracked the door open and she slipped out, shutting it behind her.

She crouched in the doorway of her bedroom, watching the door. Her eyes were beginning to water, but she didn’t blink. The dagger remained ready at her side.

Even though his chest didn’t rise and he had no pulse, the beautiful man had felt alive when she’d touched him. His warm skin had seemed to exude a powerful, shadowy magic. If he was alive, then she had to consider the possibility that she might have disturbed his slumber. What sort of a creature could lose that much blood and live? She’d actually been able to feel the intensity of his power. Hadn’t Kester said something like “there might be worse monsters than hellhounds?” She had a bad feeling that she might now know what he was talking about.

The stranger could burst through the door at any moment and rip her to shreds. In fact, maybe he was the monster who had slaughtered the last hellhound. Then again, if he was such a threat, Kester would have locked the door from the inside too. Her pulse began to slow. She was probably safe for now.

Ursula slid the dagger into her belt before she got up from her crouch and walked to the conservatory. Her hands were still shaking as she shut the window and collected her empty champagne flute. She couldn’t have Kester discovering her unsanctioned nocturnal activity, or he’d send her straight to Emerazel.

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, her mind flashed with an image of her body burning in hellfire, her skin blistering and blackening. She shuddered, shoving her fingers into her hair. I’m going to lose my mind.

Maybe Kester was right about her. Maybe she’d quickly shove her moral qualms aside to do what she needed to save herself. After all, she only had herself to rely on in this world.

She tightened her fists, sighing. Tomorrow, she would hunt down Hugo Modes at the opera, even if it meant she’d become a monster herself.