Chapter 3

Ursula skulked along Bow Road, her hands jammed in the pockets of her leopard-print coat, fingers curled up for warmth. With the beer-drenched shirt plastered to her skin, the winter air was brutally cold. At least her feet were warm in her boots, though she’d probably have to sell them soon for cash. She had only one more paycheck coming in, and it wouldn’t cover the rent that was due in two days.

Disappointment crushed her. If she didn’t figure something out, she’d be homeless soon, sleeping on the streets through the freezing winter. How long, exactly, did it take for a landlord to evict someone? And how long would it take for another homeless person to rob her of her leopard-print coat?

A biting wind nipped at her ears. She could have used a bit more of that fever now. Skint and unemployed, she’d chosen to walk from Brick Lane back to Bow—nearly two miles. She wasn’t spending the last of her money on a bus. And, more importantly, it had given her time to think. Well, time to stew, really. Her chest ached with a familiar hollow feeling.

She could have done without meeting Madeleine, with her beautifully coiffed blond hair, French-manicured nails, and all the letters she’d have after her name when she graduated.

Ursula shivered. My eighteenth birthday. This should have been a night for a celebration, but apart from her flatmate she hardly had any friends left. After her breakup with Rufus, he seemed to have taken her whole clique with him—probably because he could lavish them with champagne and pick up the tabs at fancy restaurants.

Or maybe it was just like Rufus had always said: she wasn’t very good with people.

She pulled her coat tighter as she passed the warm lights of a pub, wishing she’d had the foresight to wear a scarf. Break-up aside, she’d been expecting something a little more momentous for her eighteenth birthday. This was the night something big was supposed to happen—she just had no idea what.

Apart from her birthday, there weren’t many things Ursula knew about herself. Her background was so outlandish, it was like something out of a soap opera: a rare case of amnesia that had rendered her childhood a complete blank slate. There was simply nothing in her memory before the age of fifteen.

What she knew for certain was that a few years ago she’d turned up in a burnt-out church, with a strange, triangular scar on her shoulder and a piece of paper in her pocket. The paper had read:

On your 18th birthday,

March 15, 2016,

ask for a trial.

- Ursula (You)

She’d startedto think of herself as two people: Former Ursula and New Ursula. Former Ursula was a complete mystery, and her one link to Former Ursula was the white stone in her pocket, its surface now worn smooth from constant rubbing. It was a strange little anchor to her old life.

Occasionally, glimpses of a bygone life appeared in her dreams: fields of wild thyme and orchids, skylarks and adders. She had no idea what it meant, except that she’d probably grown up in the countryside.

Here she was, waiting for her life to change by some sort of magic on her eighteenth birthday, but that was obviously a sad joke. At what point in this disaster of a day was she supposed to have asked for a trial? On the crowded bus she took to work, burning with a fever? Midway through losing her job? Or while meeting Rufus’s new girlfriend? The whole day had been a series of ordeals, one trial after another, but none of them particularly momentous.

It didn’t matter. She’d been gradually losing faith in the idea that her fortunes would magically turn around, that someone or something would waltz into her miserable life bearing a gift of a diamond or a secret bank account.

And now, she had to figure out how to save herself from complete destitution.

She shivered, hugging herself tighter. A normal life would be nice: a family and a steady income. Maybe some childhood memories, and hands that didn’t spontaneously ignite.

She stalked past a row of crooked Victorian homes, warmly lit from within. She didn’t even want to think about what had happened with her hands. Madeleine had called her a witch, for crying out loud. Maybe there was a trial in her future.

Her door came into view—the one she could always pick out from the rows of identical houses, by the chipped red paint on the doorframe. She jammed her key into the lock. Thank God I’m home.

She stepped inside, hoping to hear a welcoming Hello from her flatmate Katie, but the flat was as dark and quiet as a grave. She flicked the switch by the door, but the lights didn’t turn on. Shit. The electric key must have run out. It would remain dark and cold until she got to the shop tomorrow. She shook her head. Maybe the point of the note was that her whole life was a trial.

Sighing with frustration, she steadied her hand along the wall as she crept down the carpeted stairs.

It wasn’t a stunning place—a one-bedroom basement flat—but it was home nonetheless. Katie had the bedroom, since she paid more in rent, and Ursula slept in the living room, tidying up an air mattress every morning. With Katie’s help, she’d brightened up the woodchip wallpaper with canary-yellow paint and some posters of wildflowers—forget-me-nots and golden aster—that reminded her of her most soothing dreams.

Ursula pulled out her phone, flicking open a text from Katie.

Happy Birthday Ursula! I’m coming home soon. Let’s go out.

A pit opened in her stomach. She was going to have to tell Katie about her little rent problem. She dropped her phone on the sofa, then peeled off her leopard-print coat and the beer-soaked shirt and bra, still shivering, before yanking a black shirt and bra off the drying rack. Might as well have an outfit to match my mood.

She slipped into her dry clothes, then crossed to the kitchen, a cupboard-sized space with a tiny vinyl countertop. As she flipped open the blinds, she let a little light in from the streetlamp outside. Crouching before a kitchen drawer, she rifled around for a box of matches.

After lighting two tea candles by the stove, she felt her stomach rumble. When was the last time she’d eaten?

Yanking open the fridge door, she grabbed the last smear of butter. Bread and butter for dinner.

Just as she reached for the loaf of bread, the hair on her neck prickled. Someone was watching her. She could always tell when she was being observed. And right now, someone was most definitely lurking in the shadows of her tiny flat.

Slowly, she turned, and her heart nearly leapt from her chest. Moving silently through the living room was a broad-shouldered man, his face hidden in the gloom. Probably her flatmate’s latest conquest, but better safe than sorry. She slid open the knife drawer.

Carefully, so as not to alarm the stranger, she gripped a knife’s hilt, her hand hidden in the drawer.

The man prowled closer, his movements smooth and almost inhuman.

Ice licked up her spine. Just outside the doorframe, the stranger paused in the shadows.

She swallowed. “Who’s there?”

His green eyes seemed to glow in the dark, and the word witch flitted through her mind.

“My name is Kester.” His deep voice slid through her bones.

When he stepped into the flickering candlelight, she gasped in recognition. Rich chestnut hair, sharp cheekbones, and perfect lips. The hot bloke from the club. What the hell is he doing here?

Cold fear tightened her chest. Ursula tightened her fingers around the knife’s hilt. “You followed me.” A tendril of horror curled around her heart. “Did you just watch me take off my shirt?”

“I averted my eyes. I’m not here to disturb you. I’m just here for your signature.” He raised his arms over his head, holding on to the door frame. Candlelight flickered over his golden skin, dancing in his green eyes. Despite his beauty, there was something predatory in the way he stared at her, like he was about to devour her.

“Signature? What are you on about?” Any fast movements, and she’d fling the knife at him. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police.” She couldn’t call the police, since she’d just chucked her phone across the room, but he didn’t need to know that.

His gaze slid over her, as if he were memorizing her. “I won’t linger any longer than you want. I just need you to sign the contract. You must have been expecting me.”

“What contract?” Slowly, she lifted the knife in front of her. Only instead of looking at the tip of a blade, she was staring at the soft silicone paddle of a spatula. Bloody hell.

He smiled, and white teeth gleamed in the candlelight. “If you want to make me pancakes first, I won’t object.”

“I don’t have the ingredients,” she said lamely.

Where are the kitchen knives? They must be dirty. If she could inch over to the sink, she could get a proper blade, one with an edge that could slash his throat.

“Look, I can see you’re having a bad night. And I’d truly love to help you.” Dropping his arms from the doorframe, he widened his eyes, all sincerity. “But you committed yourself years ago, and it’s your eighteenth birthday. All you need to do is sign the contract, and I’ll be on my way.”

There it was again. How did he know it was her birthday? She didn’t know him. Hell, she didn’t know anyone remotely like him. There was a strange edge to his plummy voice, one that reeked of old money and private clubs with three-hundred-year-old mahogany bars. Not exactly Ursula’s sort of crowd.

She eyed the stove to her right. A dirty cast-iron pan rested on the nearest burner. Perfect for frying sausages, or for smashing skulls, depending on the occasion.

“Ursula. You don’t need to be scared,” he soothed, his emerald eyes drinking her in. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

If he weren’t such an obvious nutter, the guy would be seriously seductive. She laid the spatula down on the countertop with feigned casualness. “Look, I’ve had an awful day. I’m tired, and I want to finish my bread and go out for one little drink with my flatmate, who will be here any minute.” She paused. “And she’s huge, by the way, and lethal. I’m sure you’ve got somewhere better to be. I’m advising you to leave me alone. I can be a little… unpredictable when I’m irritated, and I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Unpredictable? Sounds exciting. But I’m afraid I cannot leave until I get your signature. For Emerazel. Then I’ll leave. Unless you want me to stay to attend to your other needs, of course.”

“I have no idea who Emerazel is. But if you’re here because you think I owe you something for helping me out at the club, that’s not going to happen. I don’t have anything. I can’t afford electricity. I can’t afford socks. My boyfriend just dumped me last week, and then fired me. So on top of all the other shit, I’m unemployed. I’m eating sodding bread and butter for dinner on my eighteenth birthday. So if you’re planning on robbing me, have a wonderful time. Take the spatula. Take my threadbare socks. Take the moldy shower curtain. Whatever you desire.” She could feel her cheeks burning as anger flooded her. “Then fuck right off.”

“I’m not here about the club, and I’m not here to rob you.”

“So what are you? Some sort of pervert?” Her body grew hot, her pulse quickening. Pure strength surged through her muscles, and she wanted to break something. If he thought he was going to get his hands on her, she would choke the life out of him.

He opened his palms, eyes widening, all innocence. “Ursula, you’re not listening. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here about that triangular mark you carved somewhere on yourself, the one that gives you the fire. You do understand the bargain you made, don’t you?”

My scar.So he did see me without my shirt on. There was no air left in the room. “You said you looked away.”

“I did. Emerazel sent me, and that’s how I know you have a scar. You owe her your signature. It’s fine. There’s nothing to panic about,” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice a dangerous caress. “Everything will be fine, Ursula.”

She shook her head. Who was this Emerazel he kept talking about? She had no idea where the scar had come from, or what it meant. All she knew was that only stalkers and serial killers followed women home from work.

Her heart raced faster, adrenaline surging. For some reason she wanted to believe him, but he’d trapped her in her own kitchen. If there was one thing she hated, it was being trapped. She balled her hands into fists, overcome by the need to fight.

She pulled back her arm for a punch, but with a lightning-fast motion, he clamped his hand on her wrist, fingers piercing her flesh. Not fingers, she realized with growing terror. Claws.He has claws. What the fuck?

Her blood roared in her ears, and she could feel fire run through her, hot and molten. With her free arm, she grasped his shoulder. Her palm glowed. Somehow, her body knew what it was doing—knew how to burn him—and she waited to hear him cry out in pain.

Instead, he stared deep into her eyes. No longer a bright green, his irises now blazed a deep, smoldering red. Terror ripped her mind apart. What the hell is going on?

His gaze trailed over her body. “Ursula, my dear. There’s no need for fighting. Emerazel’s power won’t burn me,” he purred in a velvety tone. But underneath the softness, there was an edge to his voice—a sharp command. Kester was used to getting what he wanted. “The goddess’s fire runs in my veins just as it does in yours. You can’t fight me.”

His voice was husky, a lethal lullaby. His beautiful gaze hypnotized her, rooting her in place.

A part of her felt tempted to do whatever he wanted just to make him happy. “What do you need me to do?” She rasped, half hating herself as she said it. What was happening to her?

“I’m not here to hurt you.” He leaned in closer and whispered, his breath caressing her ear. “Sign,” he commanded.

He seemed so sure of himself. Her hand relaxed on his shoulder, and she stared into his fiery eyes. She should be terrified of those preternatural flames, but something about his masculine scent and his beautiful lips was intoxicating. But the strange fire in his eyes… Is that magic? Do I care?

His claws retracting, Kester reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a fountain pen the color of bone. Her gaze landed on a tiny symbol carved into the pen—an encircled triangle, just like her scar.

Holding her gaze, Kester popped off the cap, revealing a razor-sharp nib, and gripped her palm. “This will only hurt for a moment,” he said, his voice seducing her, sliding over her skin.

As she stared into his beautiful eyes, he pressed the pen into her hand. A sharp pain pulled her attention down, and she watched as the point depressed her skin. Something in the back of her mind rebelled at this imposition. He pushed the nib further, into her flesh, and she snapped out of the spell he’d woven. What was I thinking, mooning over this posh twat?

“Ow!” She yanked her arm backward, gripping the cut. Blood dripped between her fingers.

“Apologies for that, Ursula.” A seductive smile played over his lips, but she wasn’t falling for his act anymore.

He produced a small, yellowed piece of parchment from his other pocket, pushing it toward her along with the blood-inked pen. “Please. I need you to sign.”

Her hand throbbed, and she shook it, trying to focus her thoughts. Everything about this man was alluring, but right now only one angry thought burned in her mind: This entitled wanker thinks he can get whatever he wants. Just like Rufus.

She blinked, trying to clear her mind. Of course she shouldn’t trust the psycho who’d stalked her into her kitchen. And did he want her soul? She wasn’t signing that away. She had no idea what a soul was for, or even if it was real, but she didn’t want to find out what happened when you gave one away.

She glanced down at the parchment, at the faded beige writing. Only a few words were legible in the candlelight, and though the language wasn’t English, the looping letters looked strangely familiar. She almost had the sense that if she concentrated hard enough, she could read it. In fact, she could translate a few of the words: soul, contract, eternal. The longer she looked at it, the clearer the words became.

“What’s this language?”

“Angelic.”

“What?” She glared up at the towering stranger. “What happens if I sign it?”

“You’ve really never been told this?” He seemed genuinely curious. “How did you come to carve yourself in the first place if you don’t know who Emerazel is?”

“I have no idea.” She nodded at the parchment. “It says something about an eternal contract.”

His brow shot up. “You can read this?”

“Yes. Don’t ask me how. Is this some sort of pact with the devil?”

He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as though marshaling an extreme amount of patience. “No. There is no devil.” He gazed up again, a charming smile playing about his lips. “I understand this must be confusing for you. I will leave you as soon as you do what I ask.”

She crossed her arms. “Look, I have a little memory problem. I don’t know anything about the first fifteen years of my life. You may have heard of me; it was all over the news after I turned up in a burning church in London. The tabloids called me the Mystery Girl.” Wherever the scar had come from, that was a secret only Former Ursula could unravel. Not the clueless, unemployed girl trying to eat bread and butter for dinner.

“Mystery Girl? Never heard of you.” He studied her carefully, the candlelight flickering over his smooth, golden skin. “I can tell you this. Emerazel is not the devil. Some mortals call her that, but she is a goddess. Her domain is the volcanic magma in the center of the earth and, when angered, she destroys cities. She is neither good nor evil. She is love, power, rage, and light. You cannot fight her. You cannot win this.” All signs of softness left his face, and his gaze grew fierce, almost feral. “Do not fight her, and do not fight me. You will not win.”

The hair rose on the back of her neck. “Right. According to the crazy bloke who followed me home and broke into my house, I owe my soul to an all-powerful goddess of rage and power.” She clamped her hands on her hips, trying to ignore the chill running up her spine. “I’m not signing your stupid paper.”

“That’s really a shame.” Kester tilted his head, almost apologetic. “Then I must reap your soul for Emerazel now.”

Ursula forced a smile onto her face. “Whatever that means, it’s not happening either.” She grabbed the tea candles from the counter, flicking the hot wax in his face.

Kester hardly flinched.

Her panic rising, she grabbed the cast-iron skillet and swung for his head. He reached up to block it, and it slammed against his arm with a crunch. He emitted a low, inhuman growl that rumbled through her gut. As he glared at her, eyes blazing bright green, his forearm swung down at an awkward angle, a mangled mess that should have had him screaming in agony.

She steadied her breath. “I’m not signing your devil’s pact tonight. I don’t care if you work for Satan, or Emerazel, or if you’ve escaped from a psychiatric hospital. I’m not giving up my soul. Whoever you are, you need to leave now before I shatter your skull.”

Kester’s eyes slid to his arm, and he whispered softly—words at once strange and familiar. A chill licked up Ursula’s spine.

She stared as Kester’s arm straightened with a cracking sound. With the arm fully repaired, he raised his hand again, wiggling his fingers.

Her heart skipped a beat, and the word demon rang in her head again.

“That really hurt.” His eyes, now the color of blood, met hers.

Her mind screamed, Not human!

He unleashed a low growl that trembled over her skin, and she became keenly aware of each of her breaths.

He lunged for her.Instantly, she brought her knee up and into his chest, redirecting his momentum into the cabinets next to the kitchen counter. Wood splintered with the impact.

He started to stand, but she kicked him in the head. Her boot shattered his nose, spraying blood on the kitchen tile. He fell back holding his face.

“Ursula,” he purred, slowly getting to his feet. His eyes wild, he unleashed a wicked set of claws from his fingertips, and Ursula’s mind screamed with panic. He pressed the end of the pen, and a thin blade protruded from one end. “You should have signed.”

He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react before he’d pinned her against the wall, gripping her wrists in one hand. The tips of his claws tore her skin, and a low growl escaped his throat, rumbling through her core.

His teeth—his fangs—lengthened, and he pressed in closer, leaving no room for her to kick him. Cold fear stole her breath as she struggled to free her wrists, but this freak was terrifyingly strong. What is he?

He leaned in closer, his breath warming her skin. His eyes roamed down her body, and candlelight flickered off his pen’s sharp blade. “It’s a shame you’re going to make me do this. There’s something about you I like.”

She tried to yank her wrists free. “You don’t have to do anything. You can just leave me alone.” She could hardly breathe. This was it—the last few moments of her life. What do I say about a sad life like mine? She was nothing—a complete loser. No family, no job, no money, no future. Her whole life was just a name, a date, and a piece of paper…

A trial.

Ursula, you idiot.

“I request a trial,” she breathed into his neck.

Surprise flickered across his beautiful features, and his fangs retracted. “What did you say?”

“A trial,” she said more firmly.

Still pinning her to the wall, he clenched his jaw. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His eyes returned to their emerald green color, and he began muttering in that strange language again. His words transfixed her, soothing her racing heart. A strange sense of calm flooded her body, until her world began to dim.