Chapter 13

Curled up on the sofa, Ursula awoke with a start, adrenaline flooding her veins. What had roused her?

She scanned the room. Nothing seemed amiss—nothing had moved, not a single Grecian urn out of place. And yet, the hair on her neck stood on end.

An uneasy feeling licked at the back of her mind, telling her that someone was watching her.

Could someone have entered the room while she’d slept? She lay perfectly still, pretending to sleep, searching the darkness through slitted eyes. Had one of the demon lords come for revenge?

You’re just paranoid, Ursula. Probably Emerazel’s mind tricks, fucking with you.

Then, she caught a flicker of movement in the darkness outside her window. Shadow magic. Her pulse raced.

Not paranoid after all.

She opened her eyes wider, straining to see through the swirls of magic. She pushed up onto her elbows, desperately searching for a plan. Without so much as a corkscrew, what would she use to fight? Urns? Not to mention the fact that she was wearing nothing but lace knickers and a bra under her blanket. Please don’t let it be Nyxobas or any of the other perverts. As she stared outside, the magic thinned, revealing an enormous lunar bat.

It hovered in front of the window, wings beating silently, blood-red eyes and wings of the color of bone. Something moved on its back—a rider dressed in gray. He straightened, then flung a sticky black substance against the window in front of her. Then, in a single silky motion, he aimed a small crossbow at her.

Panic stole her breath. What the fuck is going on?

She threw herself from the sofa.

The black tar exploded, shattering the window in a spray of glass that ripped into her skin.

Curling into a ball, Ursula tried to shield her body from the crossbow. Her stomach clenched as she heard the soft whirr of the arrow flying through the air.

Her heart raced. She waited for the thunk of the bolt when it struck her, the searing jolt of pain, the tearing of her flesh.

Instead, she felt only the sharp ringing in her ears from the blast.

When she opened her eyes, the rider had disappeared into the night. She gaped at the remaining shards of glass. The bolt had missed her. Why? It’s not like she’d been a moving target.

She rose to her knees and glanced down at her body, at the crimson streaks cutting across her pale flesh. She’d been cut all over by the glass. But at least that was the worst of it.

Still, she couldn’t exactly forget about it. The rider had left a gaping hole in the bottom of the window, and anyone could return to finish her off. She slipped into her shoes, then slipped behind the sofa. Blood dripped from her cuts, staining the floor. Injured or not, she had to protect herself. Now.

Using the couch as a shield, she pushed it closer to the window, grunting as she shifted it. Not only can they enter into my quarters, she thought, but they can see me here, too. Suddenly, she felt very exposed.

When she’d finished pushing the couch, it blocked the bottom of the hole, but she still had more work to do. A thin sheen of sweat rose on her forehead. A moth hunted by the creatures of Nyxobas.

With one eye on the window in case the rider returned, she crossed to an armchair on the other side of the room. She pushed it across the floor, straining her muscles. Sweat dripped down her skin, mingling with the blood. A combination of adrenaline and brute strength allowed her to lever it on top of the sofa with a pained groan.

The sofa and chair together covered most of the window, and a second armchair added extra support to the structure. Not ideal, but better than nothing.

She stepped back and took a shaky breath. With the adrenaline draining from her system, the cuts in her skin began to burn. She ran a hand over her bare abdomen, smearing blood across her fingers.

What the hell had just happened? The rider had practically been at point-blank range, but still missed. Could this be only the first volley before a second attack?

Or maybe, someone wanted to frighten her, to flush her out of the quarters. Nothing protected the bridge to the lion atrium—an ideal spot for an assassin to hide.

Ursula turned in a slow circle, searching for the bolt. She’d heard it fly from the crossbow. Maybe it would hold some sort of clue.

As she turned toward the portrait of that dark-eyed woman, she froze. There, in the center of the painting, a bolt jutted into the air.

She crept cautiously closer, examining the weapon. It was carved from black wood. Ebony maybe. As she stepped closer, she could see that something had been wrapped around it—parchment.

This hadn’t been an attempt on her life. Someone had wanted to deliver a message.

Ignoring the pain that seared her skin, she pulled the bolt from the wall and peeled off the parchment. When she unfurled it, she found a message scrawled in black ink:

YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE, HOUND. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING. NEXT TIME, WE WILL NOT MISS.