Chapter 21

Ursula leaned against the balcony’s railing and looked down into the crowd, ten minutes before the start of Act One. She wore a long gown, the slate-grey color of a winter sea, which slid silkily against her bare legs. She’d accessorized with a necklace of black pearls, and finished off the ensemble with a spray of lavender perfume. The scent should have encouraged a sense of calm, but it did nothing for her nerves right now.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Just before she’d left for the opera, Kester had stopped by her apartment again—knocking this time—and had cast a long, approving glance over her outfit, that carnal look sparking in his eyes again. If only he weren’t a psychotic headsman with boundary issues, he’d be my kind of guy.

She opened her eyes, scanning the lobby. From her perch on the upper level, she had a view of the lower floor and the marble stairs, curving below like the inside of a sea shell. Her hand rested lightly on the wyrm-skin purse, Emerazel’s pen and a pact tucked safely inside, along with her white stone and opera glasses. Not to mention the small dagger. Silk and steel were her weapons, just as Kester had said.

In theory, she had everything she needed—except Hugo. And where the hell is Zee? She’d arrived early with the hope that she might extract Hugo’s signature before the opera began, but as the minutes ticked by that became less likely. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, pushing out all thoughts of hellfire and shadow demons. Tonight, she needed to focus, or she’d have to face Emerazel and submit to those horrific flames again. The thought curdled her stomach. Maybe someday she’d figure a way out of this—maybe even a way to save Hugo—but right now, she had more immediate problems. Like avoiding the wrath of a bloodthirsty goddess.

Someone brushed her elbow and she moved to make room.

“Thanks, miss,” said a melodious voice.

She glanced at her neighbor, and found herself staring into the face of a gorgeous, man, immaculately dressed in a black tuxedo. Golden skin and pale grey eyes contrasted with his dark hair, and he flashed her an inviting smile. This was the kind of gorgeous man she should be lusting after—a normal, human man who wouldn’t attack her with swords and tell her friends she’d overdosed on heroin.

The man adjusted his cufflinks, and the way his eyes raked over her body made her want to blush. “My name is Abe. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ursula,” she said, trying to keep her eye on the lobby.

“Is this your first time at the opera?”

With a great deal of effort, she pulled her gaze away from his beautiful face. She wasn’t here to socialize, and she needed to focus on her target. “First time. Yes.” She stared at the lobby, desperate for a sign of the pop star.

“You seem a little overwhelmed.”

Act normal, Ursula. “Just excited, and a bit preoccupied by work.” Condemning people to hell isn’t a walk in the park, you know. Her hands tightened around the railing.

He kept his gaze fixed on her. “Well, I think you’ll find the opera is the perfect place to set aside life’s anxieties and experience something extraordinary.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” If only she could set aside her anxieties—her overwhelming fear of Emerazel’s flames, the gnawing guilt at her new role. And what were those images she’d seen when she thought Kester was going to slaughter her—the crumpled body on the floor, drenched in blood? She shuddered.

Whatever they were, this wasn’t the time to delve into it. Focus, Ursula.

The crowd below quieted, all turning to look at the entrance. Ursula’s heart skipped a beat as she watched the crowd part. Hugo and Virginie stepped into the lobby, flanked by three security guards. Ursula’s breath caught. This was her moment to save her own life.

“Ah,” said the man by her side, tapping his fingers on the railing. “A celebrity has joined us.” The lights above flickered, and the lobby quieted. He turned to her. “I think that’s our cue. I do hope you enjoy the show.”

But as she thought of what she needed to do tonight, her blood roared in her ears. She’d come to condemn a man to hell.

Ursula hurriedthrough a warren of red carpeted hallways before finding her seat. Enormous chandeliers hung from the gold-leaf ceiling, glimmering like icy fireworks.

Although the opera was sold out, Kester had managed to buy an entire set of box seats on the second level. Since Zee hadn’t bothered to show, Ursula had it entirely to herself. She plopped into a seat in the front row.

From here, she had an expansive view of the opera hall. Beneath her, patrons in suits and gowns filled rows of red velvet seats. Ushers directed a few stragglers down the aisles. Next to the stage the orchestra readied itself with trills, scales, and arpeggios.

Ursula dug around in her purse and found the set of opera glasses. The miniature brass binoculars would give her a view of Hugo, and she’d be able to intercept him after the first act. With Zee’s help to distract Virginie, Ursula could blink her eyes and lure him into signing.

She took a deep breath, trying to relax. But where the hell is he sitting? And where is Zee? She lifted the binoculars to her eyes, scanning the room, but only found row after row of stuffy older couples.

As the chandeliers began to dim, the hall fell silent. In thirty seconds, the entire room would be dark. Bollocks. Everyone had stared at Hugo when he’d arrived, but now he’d gone invisible.

She bit her lip. Perhaps they’d still be staring at him.

She glanced at the box to her left. A woman in her fifties, crammed into a red corseted dress, focused her binoculars on an upper balcony.

Ursula followed her gaze. Sure enough, there was Hugo, his cheeks slightly paler than they’d been when she first met him. Maybe he knew what waited for him—that death had come for him at the opera tonight, scented with lavender and dressed in a gown of grey silk.

She loosed a long breath. She’d found her target. Now she just needed to wait for the first act to end, and then she’d sidle up to him and try her whole silk routine, all verbal caresses and whispers of eternal happiness.

Only, there weren’t many private places for a tête-à-tête in this place. Was she going to have to follow him into the loo again? When Kester had told her she would need to “keep a low profile, and stay in the shadows,” she hadn’t realized that meant working next to urinals.

The hall was completely dark until, after a few moments, a spotlight beamed onto the orchestra, illuminating a grey-haired conductor. He bowed, and the audience roared with applause. Then, turning to face the orchestra, he raised his hands. With a flick of his wrist, the musicians were off.

As the first notes sounded through the hall, an enormous gold curtain lifted to reveal the set. She’d been expecting something opulent, but saw instead a stage set with a shabby room—a hovel, as Kester would call it.

But the music itself was as lush as the theater, and the violins and trumpets washing over Ursula in a glorious wave. As the music swelled, she leaned forward in her seat. A man with dark hair walked to the center of the stage and began to sing in a rich baritone, full of passion. Another man strode onto the stage, joining him in a clear tenor voice. If only I knew what they were singing about.

By their costumes, she could tell the characters were poor, but the way they sang to each other suggested warmth between them. As the music flowed around her, she thought of Katie, and how they’d spent their weekends exploring London’s forgotten canals, too broke to do anything else. She’d been happy enough then, right? Perhaps, in her isolation, she was romanticizing, but at least she hadn’t had a bounty on her head and a goddess of hellfire who wanted to torture her to death. And, moreover, at least she’d had Katie. Right now, her loneliness threatened to swallow her whole.

On the stage, the tenor was joined by a young woman, wrapped in a woolen shawl and rubbing her arms as he serenaded her. Amore. That was a word she recognized: love. The tenor’s emotional outpouring held no artifice, no silk or steel—he simply bared his soul. The music built, and Ursula nearly forgot to breathe, her chest aching.

As the aria reached its climax, she couldn’t help but imagine someone looking at her the way the tenor looked at his beloved. For just a second, she closed her eyes, and an image rose from the back of her mind—a painfully beautiful man with star-flecked eyes, deep and dark as the night sky.

With a jolt, she realized exactly who she was picturing—the injured demon who lay asleep in her apartment.

What the hell?