Chapter 8

Hot blood gurgled from Ursula’s throat, bubbling into her lungs. Drowning in her own fluid, she was kept conscious only by the agony wracking her body. Then her vision blurred, and she no longer cared about the injustice of her short life. She just wanted to sleep, to rest peacefully in silence, free of this mind-shattering agony.

But instead of silence, a melodious sound drifted into her ears. Kester, speaking in Angelic again—but she understood the words, something about healing waters and leaching out the pain. Her sight began to clear. She caught a flash of green eyes above her. Kester kneeled over her, changing, his brow furrowed with concern.

As he spoke, she could feel her bones shift and slide into place, the pain slowly dulling. Gently, she touched her neck. It still throbbed, but the skin was smooth, healed over. She rolled over, hacking a crimson spatter of blood onto the blackened earth.

Still crouching, Kester quirked a smile. “I imagine this hasn’t been the best birthday celebration you’ve ever had. But you made it.”

He’d called up a demonic and lethal creature without warning her, and now he was smiling about it. “Wanker.” She choked out the word, her voice box still raw.

“Is that any way to talk to the man who just saved your life?”

Ursula rose to her knees, gasping. Though her ribs and left arm were healed, they still throbbed with pain. “That wasn’t a trial. That thing almost killed me.” She was fresh out of patience.

“I told you. I’m not in control of these things; Emerazel is. I’m not actually a god, even if I look like one.”

Arrogant wanker. She wanted answers. Now. Another foxfire orb burned above them, illuminating the scorched and charred earth around her. At the edge of its glow, something glinted in the shadows. The sword. She rushed toward it, plucking it from the frozen earth before whirling to point it at Kester.

“You need to tell me what is going on, or I will slice you in half.”

Kester tilted his head thoughtfully. “Fine. I brought you to the Avebury Henge for a trial. To become a hellhound, you must defeat a demon.”

She stalked closer, still pointing the sword. Had he said hellhound? “I thought fighting the demon—shadow stalker, whatever you call it—I thought that would resolve my debt.”

Kester shook his head. “The trial merely gave you the opportunity to repay your debt. Your soul still belongs to Emerazel until you pay it off.”

The frigid air stung her cheeks and fingers. “So I’m not free?”

“Not free.” The tip of his nose had grown pink in the cold. “But on the bright side, you’re employed, so that’s a step up from a few hours ago. Your new job is to collect either souls or signatures from those who owe a debt to Emerazel. Plus, you’re alive, and to be honest my money was on the shadow stalker.”

Finally having got an answer, she lowered the sword. “Why didn’t you just reap my soul, like you threatened?”

“A request for trial is always honored.” His breath clouded around his head. “And now, we need to go. Sunrise is in an hour, and I don’t want to have to explain to a warden of the National Trust why you desecrated a Neolithic monument.”

“We’re going back to London?” Ursula turned to walk back to the car, but Kester’s voice stopped her.

“Not the car, Ursula. We’ll be traveling by Emerazel’s sigil.” He strode toward her and gently pulled the sword from her grasp. Gripping it in both hands, he pointed the tip toward the scorched earth. “And no. Not London.”

Ursula jammed her hands in her pockets, trying to warm them. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re going.” Apparently that fire had burned the fever right out of her, because her hands were freezing now. Shivering, she watched as Kester carved a triangle in a circle in the snow and soil—the same symbol that marked her shoulder.

Kester slid the sword into its sheath, and reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. With a half-smile, he pulled out a silver flask.

He unscrewed the cap and took a slug, then offered it to her. “Want a sip? It’s Glenfiddich, 1937.”

Ursula shook her head. “No thanks.” She swiped a hand below her eyes. Her eye makeup must be halfway down her face at this point. At best, she probably looked like a drunken KISS fan, but at least she was alive.

“Suit yourself.” He poured the contents of the flask into the furrows he’d scratched in the soil. He knelt for a moment, his hand glowing white hot, then flames snaked along the lines in the dirt.

As he straightened, his gaze lingered on Ursula. “You will need to stand right in front of me.”

Shoulders hunched in the cold, she edged closer to him. She tensed as he reached for her, pulling her into a tight hug. He smelled faintly of cedar wood—and somehow, the warmth of his body was oddly comforting.

“You’ll want to hold your breath,” he whispered into her ear.

He chanted an Angelic spell softly, and she listened to the words, understanding each one. He spoke of a portal of fire, and Emerazel’s eternal grace. Now, she knew something else about F.U.—she’d apparently been some sort of witch.

As he finished the short spell, the flames blazed high above them. For a moment, her skin seared in an exquisite agony, then she crumbled to ash.