Chapter 33

Ursula opened her eyes, staring at the library ceiling, her head resting on Lenus’s Healing Spells. Her gaze darted to the window—still dark outside. Wind rattled the pane.

I’m not burning in an inferno. I must be alive.

She sat up, examining her arms and legs. Not a single scar remained, and her muscles felt strong enough to run a mile. If it weren’t for the bloodbath around her and the shredded gown, she might have been able to convince herself it had all been a terrible dream.

She rose, surveying the room. Blood everywhere. It looked like a crime scene, red spattering the rug and books. Stepping into the hall, she eyed the trail of gore that led back to the sigil room, overcome by a desperate desire to clean it all up. She didn’t know what sort of killer F.U. had been, but the sight and smell of it turned her stomach. Worse, the trail of blood in the hallway sparked something in the darkest recesses of her memory, something she didn’t want to remember…

Frantically, she rushed to the kitchen, yanking open the closet and grabbing a mop and bucket. Her hands still shaking, she filled the bucket with water from the sink, and a hefty dollop of soap. I need to get rid of the blood.

She nearly spilled the bucket in her rush to drag it back into the hall, where she manically pushed the mop over the boards, sopping up vomit and gore. I need this gone. She’d killed someone tonight, and she’d seen Kester die. She hadn’t known him long and hadn’t liked him most of that time, yet she had the strange feeling that she’d miss him terribly if he were truly gone. She could envision his perfect face, his lips as he’d kissed her. Please, Kester, don’t be dead. Maybe he’d bust through the door unannounced at any minute.

What the hell had happened in the fae realm? She didn’t even know what Abrax had been doing there in the first place. Kester had said the fae were unaligned—they had nothing to do with the god of night.

She scrubbed the crimson-stained floor, trying to push out the image in her mind—Kester falling over the ledge—but the horrible vision kept returning to her. Abrax had slaughtered him viciously, without waiting to hear what they’d needed. They hadn’t come to the fae realm to hurt anyone, just to get Zee’s soul back. And she’d failed—miserably. Again.

Something cold and primal chilled her heart. She wanted revenge.

She’d lost not one but two souls tonight. She glanced down the hall at the sigil room, hoping to see Kester’s athletic frame suddenly appear by some magical stroke of luck. But she was an idiot for counting on things like luck to save her—things like her stupid white stone. Luck was for the desperate, not for those with any sense of control over their lives.

A harsh, gnawing emptiness welled in her chest, and she threw down the mop. She needed to get control for once in her life, before Emerazel showed up and dragged her to the underworld. Maybe she could still reclaim Zee’s soul. She could at least try. And maybe—with Zee’s help—she could find out what happened to Kester. If she was the one missing, Kester wouldn’t just sit around mopping floors and crying. He’d do something about it, for fuck’s sake.

Adrenaline coursed through her blood. She would be different—a New Ursula, one who took the hand she was given and dealt with it.

First, she needed to get out of her tattered, stained gown. She raced upstairs to the bathroom, stripping off her dress and turning on the shower. She stepped in, letting the hot stream of water wash the blood into the drain. She was already feeling better. After just a minute, she turned it off and toweled dry before crossing to her bedroom.

She rifled through her drawers for some of the black clothes Kester had bought her. If I’m going to be an assassin, might as well own it. Kester had been right—she wasn’t a “spring colors” girl anymore. She was a demonic killer, and it was time to get used to it. If nothing else, she wanted to hunt down Abrax and rip out his claws, one by one.

She slipped into a pair of black leather pants, her black boots, and a dark top before pulling on a jacket.

She needed to hunt down the incubus. She’d get Zee’s soul back, and then she’d slaughter him for what he’d done to Kester. Or, at least, she’d die trying.

Except—hadn’t Kester said he’d been searching for Abrax for years with no success, and that tonight had been their only chance? So where the hell was she supposed to start? She didn’t know the first thing about demonic lairs.

She crossed through the hall, thundering down the stairs. Whatever the case, she needed to start by reclaiming Zee’s unconscious body.

She hurried to the armory, grabbing Honjo from the rack. A sense of strength flooded her as soon as she picked him up.

In a drawer under the rack of weapons, she found the Kevlar sheath that allowed her to attach the sword to her back. As she armored up, she stole a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked like an angel of death. Good. That was what she was tonight.

On her way to the sigil room, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, taking a long slug and grimacing as it burned her throat. This would do to light the sigil.

As she poured the whiskey into the furrows of Emerazel’s sigil, she chanted the words she’d learned the first night she’d met Kester. At the last word, flames engulfed her, burning her body to cinders.

Moments later, she was hunched over on her hands and knees in Kester’s boat, coughing. Dammit, why can’t I remember to hold my breath?

Only moonlight lit the inside of the boat. The cold stove stood in the center of the room, its fire now dead. As the sigil flames cooled around her, she caught Kester’s scent—his warm, cedar smell, and her heart ached.

Her jaw tightened. There was no time for sentiment now. She had a mission to accomplish. But before she could rise, she saw the blade of a sword coming right for her head.