Chapter 7

Despite the cold, sweat dampened her brow, and she gripped the sword hard. This blade would be her savior.

She strained to see in the dark, but she could no longer make out the monster’s hunched form. The wind picked up again, spraying snow between gaps in the ringstones.

She lifted her weapon, trying to keep the fear at bay. I’m a sitting duck here. Her mind raced. She was at a serious disadvantage, since she had no idea where or what this shadow stalker was. At least a stone could guard her back. She backed into the shelter of the nearest one.

To her right, something scratched at one of the stones, and she spun to face it. She held the sword in front of her, her breathing ragged. Ice flaked off the boulder, drifting to the ground, and fear stole her breath. Snow crunched behind her, and she whirled again. More fragments, crumbled off the stones. Where was this monster? A low growl spread through the circle, rumbling through her gut, followed by a sharp, scraping sound.

The fiend is sharpening its claws.

Without the orb, darkness enshrouded her. She pressed her back against the basalt rock, her sword wavering as she peered into the darkened center of the circle. How did one see something made of shadows?

In the center of the stones, something whirled—tendrils of black on a phantom wind, deeper and darker than the night sky. Please let me get through this.

From two feet above her head, yellow eyes flickered into existence, as large as dinner plates. Panic inched up her spine. The fiend was at least eight feet tall. Following the eyes, its body shimmered into view, shoulders as broad as a ringstone.

A wave of fear slammed into her. Sure, she knew how to swing a blade, but did she know how to fight a giant?

She clutched the sword, pulse racing as the fiend lurched forward. It balanced on the knuckles of a long arm, like a monstrous gorilla. She readied herself for its attack.

It lunged, swiping at her with a clawed hand. She dove to the side, slashing upward, but the blade cut only air. Scrambling to her feet, she searched frantically for the monster, but it was gone.

Bollocks bollocks bollocks.It had only feinted to draw her away from the safety of the stone. She whipped her head around, searching for her opponent—but not fast enough. The creature’s arm flew from the darkness behind her, slamming into her side like a cudgel.

The sound of her arm and ribs snapping cracked through the air, and she was lifted off her feet. She slammed into the frozen earth next to one of the blue stones, and pain shot through her like a white-hot knife. She screamed.

A wet, guttural sound drowned out her cries. Laughter.

Agony pulled her apart. I can’t die here. I can’t die alone, not knowing who I really am. She gritted her teeth and pulled herself to her feet, lifting her sword. The monster had smashed her left arm, and something warm and metallic dripped from her mouth. Blood.

She turned her head toward a movement. The fiend was creeping into the circle again, eyes blazing yellow.

She glared back, her jaw set tight. If I’m going to die tonight, it’s going to be on my terms. She slashed at its ribs, but despite its enormous size the shadow stalker dodged easily. Fighting this thing was like trying to grip a plume of smoke.

A third option,Kester had called it, but this trial was just a slow and terrifying execution. The moor fiend was toying with her. Kester was probably enjoying every minute of it. He’d sacrificed her to this monster, before she’d even come to grips with the existence of magic.

She tried to block out the pain coursing through her shattered side. Hell of a birthday. She’d been fired, stalked, assaulted, kidnapped, and now she’d be mauled to death by a creature made of smoke and wrath.

I didn’t even get a chance at life.Rage roiled inside her, simmering away her fear.

“It’s my bloody eighteenth birthday!” she shrieked.

As far as she knew, no one had ever baked her a cake. That somehow seemed like the worst offense of all, and anger simmered. Three years. I only had three years. As her right hand grew hot, heat burned through her veins. From her palm, fire surged into the sword and flames licked along the blade.

The fiend shrank back, and Ursula stepped forward, emboldened by the flaming sword. I am an angel of death, her mind whispered.

The pain in her side threatened to rip her apart, but she held the blade before her like a priest holding a cross to ward off evil. Fire engulfed the whole blade. The few snowflakes that drifted onto the metal sputtered and popped in the heat. I am wrath.

The fiend took another step away, pressing its back against a stone. Despite the glow of the fire, the beast’s edges were still difficult to make out—a mass of dark hair, muscle, and sinew surrounded by shadows. Its yellow eyes blazed, but no longer just with hunger. She saw fear there, too.

The fiend’s shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly, then it leapt. She thrust the sword up just in time to shield herself as the wight grabbed for her. She was ready for it this time, and her blade sliced into its forearm.

Grunting, the fiend slammed its arm into her, sending the sword skittering across the circle. She turned to run for the weapon, but a strong hand grabbed her ponytail and flung her to the ground.

She landed on her broken ribs, and agony fractured her body. I’m broken. Gasping for breath, she tried to roll onto her front, desperate to stand, but the fiend leapt on top of her, crushing her lungs and shattered ribs into the icy soil. Long, clawed fingers reached for her throat, and Ursula gasped for breath.

In desperation, she kicked her feet, struggling to free herself, but the fiend slipped its fingers around her throat. It squeezed, like a snake constricting its prey.

Inching toward her face, its golden eyes stared at her with a primitive intelligence. This is the face of my executioner: bestial and merciless. Slowly, it opened its mouth, revealing jagged rows of nubby teeth. She braced herself for the bite, until she realized this repugnant display was a smile.

It squeezed harder. Ursula’s windpipe flattened with a soft popping noise, and pain splintered her mind.

They say that in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes—a series of still images projected from your subconscious to your dying mind. For Ursula, it began at fifteen: the firefighter pulling her from the rubble of St. Ethelburga’s Church, the flashbulbs as she left the courthouse with her first foster family. The next few scenes were a blur, one family after another, accompanied by a soundtrack of tutting, screaming, and finally shrieks of “I can’t take this girl anymore!”

When her lungs were close to bursting, the filmstrip slowed. Her tiny apartment in Bow flickered past. Those two arsehole students fighting in the club. Last of all, Rufus’s words reverberated through her skull: “You’re a sad cow who won’t make anything of your life.”

He’s right.Because now her shitty life was over in a flash of shattered bones and burning lungs. Burning.

A final burst of rage inflamed her—rage at the unfairness and the futility of it all. She hadn’t asked for any of this—to be a mystery girl with no family and an infernal fire inside her. Anger flowed, a hot magma in her veins. It erupted from her, broiling and volcanic. She pressed her blazing hands into the wight’s shining eyes.

Its hands wrenched off her throat, and she heard her own scream.