Chapter 42

Abrax stood in a tall stone hall, resting against an oak table, arms folded. Starlight glittered through arched windows. Wisteria and honeysuckle climbed the stones, their sweet scents filling the air, and grass carpeted the ground. It was a beautiful, idyllic scene—a stark contrast to the slaughter that was probably about to unfold.

Abrax looked at his nails, seemingly bored. “I don’t have time for this.”

Bael pointed his sword at Abrax, his rage almost palpable. “Where are my wings?”

“Someplace safe.”

“Return them to me.”

“Mortal,” Abrax spat, “you and Nyxobas have no dominion over me. Not anymore.”

Bael lunged, his sword on a lethal trajectory. But the incubus slipped away, and the blade cut through the air. Like a toreador dodging a charging bull, Abrax directed Bael’s momentum into the table. Bael was an astounding fighter, but weakened without his wings. Ursula’s mouth went dry. We might not make it out of this.

Bael spun, his sword slashing ferociously, but the incubus slipped away again in a blur of black smoke. He emerged in solid form, hands clamped around Bael’s throat. Ursula’s heart skipped a beat. This is it.

Black smoke swirled off Abrax. “I never understood your allegiance to Nyxobas. The things he’s done to you. To me. He’s not a god—he’s a tyrant.” Something crunched as he squeezed Bael’s neck. “A tyrant that understands only strength and power, and depends on you to enforce it. This is why I will bring him your wings.” Bones crunched in Bael’s neck, and Ursula’s stomach swooped. “And your head.” Shadows gathered around him, midnight tendrils reaching hungrily around Bael.

Time to get involved. Ursula readied Honjo, but as she stepped forward, Abrax casually flicked a finger at her. Dark filaments raced across the room, tightening around her chest. They squeezed the breath from her lungs. Agony gripped her chest, her body shaking. Air. I need air.

Abrax’s grey eyes flashed. “I will create a new realm of the night without you.”

Air. Please, let me breathe.

Bael clutched Abrax’s arm, straining to break the grip, but his eyes were locked on Ursula, almost pleading as the light in them faded. His eyelids closed.

Air before I die… Ursula thrashed against the magical bonds, desperate for release. I can’t die yet, not before I’ve done something. Something simmered within her, and the fire began to simmer, her veins blazing. The air around her crackled with infernal magic.

Abrax dropped Bael, spinning to face her. “Don’t even think?—”

Her scream cut him short, as the fire poured from her like an exploding star, burning through the filaments.

Right now, only one thought screamed in her mind: kill Abrax. He’d torn her legs to shreds, stolen Zee’s soul. He’d thrown Kester to his death—and right now, it looked like he’d killed Bael.

Ursula lifted her sword, the blade glowing. She pointed it at Abrax. Flames licked along the steel, and she pressed forward. “I don’t believe you’ve met Honjo,” she said. She slashed—a short, controlled swing, carving an eight-inch gash across Abrax’s chest. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

The demon bared his teeth. “You honestly think you can defeat me?”

“No,” she snarled. “But I can hurt you before I die.”

Abrax backed away as she advanced, her blade sparking with heat. She knew it was futile; she’d seen his power. At any moment he’d transform and rip her limb from limb. Still—this time, at least, she’d make him work for it.

Flames twisted and writhed along her blade, and its heat warmed her face. She slashed at him again, but he dodged, and Honjo only cut through wisps of smoke where he’d been standing. He tended to dodge to the right; she could use that.

“Come and get me then,” he said, a lascivious grin on his lips. “A little pain just whets my appetite.”

She feinted and stabbed to the right, where she knew he’d dodge. Honjo sizzled, the sword’s burning tip plunging through his gut.

The smile disappeared from his lips. He started to speak, but she twisted the blade, wrenching it up towards his heart.

Abrax unleashed a chilling scream.

“Got you,” she said.

But before she could finish the job, he dissipated again, leaving Honjo stabbing only vapor.

She heard a voice behind her—speaking Angelic—and she whirled. Horror wrapped its cold fingers around her heart as she stared at Abrax in his true form. Black wings beat the air, and the temperature dropped ten degrees. His talons clattered on the floor; the wounds on his chest and stomach were gone, replaced by rippling muscle.

Abrax roared, and the sound sent a chill racing up her spine. He slashed at her with a talon, but she dove under the table. When she rolled to her feet, he was gone. Heart thrumming, she searched the starlit room. Where was he?

Agony seared her shoulder as a claw pierced clean through her. With a jerk she was lifted off her feet, skewered like a piece of meat at a slaughterhouse. One of Abrax’s arms slipped around her waist, and he breathed into her ear. “Now, I’ve got you.”

The pain stole her breath. She needed to call on her fire—to burn him off her, but she couldn’t think straight. My sword… where is my sword? She glanced down at Honjo on the floor. In the shock of the pain, she’d dropped him.

Abrax tore at her shoulder again, and she let out an agonized scream.

“I have someone you need to meet,” he said in his honeyed voice. The talon had punched out under her collar bone, and agony burned through her mind, her vision blurring.

“You’ve disrupted my plans,” he said.

She closed her eyes, trying to manage the pain. She heard Abrax open a door, and then he ripped his talon from her shoulder. When her body hit the floor, her vision went dark for a few moments. When it cleared again, she found herself staring at bare stone walls.

Gasping, she tried to take a deep breath, but her chest ached. Blood bubbled from under her shirt. Abrax must have punctured a lung. At least she knew Starkey’s Conjuration spell now.

As she whispered the spell, a soothing magic washed over her, healing her injured shoulder. She gasped with relief, all the pain ebbing from her body. I will never again take the absence of pain for granted.

Standing shakily, she surveyed the gloomy cell. Iron bars blocked the windows, and iron plates lined the walls. The door behind her was solid metal. There was even an iron cot in the corner. She looked closer, her blood chilling. A body lay on it.

“Hello?”

No response. Ursula dug out the dagger from her boot. It’s probably a corpse, but better safe than sorry.

A dirty blanket covered the figure—a man by the shape of him, his head turned to the wall.

“Hello?” She said it louder this time.

Holding the dagger ready, she rolled him onto his back and stifled a scream.

Kester.