Infernal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demons of Fire and Night Book 1) (7 page)

A
s her nails
dug into her palms, Ursula stood by the empty reception desk of Ostema, a hair salon near the Plaza Hotel. Around the room, tall mirrors gleamed over bamboo countertops. The air had a faint citrus sent. The place was designed to lull customers into a sense of peace, but Ursula’s head was a war zone. Her mind burned with everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours: her newfound wealth, Kester’s hound form, a soul that was no longer quite her own.

And her new, icy companion wasn’t doing anything to calm her nerves.

That morning, Kester had brought with him a slender young woman named Zemfira. With platinum-blond hair cut in a chic bob, and a patterned mini dress, she looked like some sort of retro supermodel. Ursula, on the other hand, wore the same black clothes from the day before, her red hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She’d been too overwhelmed to care how she looked this morning.

Before Kester had left, he’d explained that Zemfira—or Zee, as she called herself—would be getting Ursula settled. And, at Zemfira’s insistence, their first
crucial
stop was a hair salon.

“Try to look cool,” said the girl, her accent faintly Russian.

“I don’t even know what that means.”
Be nice, Ursula.
This girl was frosty, but if Ursula could get on her good side, maybe Zee would be a little more forthcoming than Kester. Like, about what had happened to the last guy who had Ursula’s job.

Working at Rufus’s bar, Ursula had met glamorous girls like Zee before. They
loved
to gossip.

Zee leveled cobalt blue eyes at her. “I don’t enjoy being seen around the city with someone who looks like she drank twenty wine coolers at a skanky art student party last night.”

Or maybe not.
For some reason, Zee had decided she hated Ursula. Something had obviously struck a nerve, and Ursula needed to figure out what it was. “That’s how you’d describe me? A drunk art skank?”

“I suppose.” Zemfira’s eyes flicked to her steel-grey nails, as though they were the most fascinating things in the room. “But Luis is a master with hair. He’ll be able to help you with… the thing you’ve got going on with your head. Is it a British thing?”

“Is
what
a British thing?” Ursula asked, no longer trying to hide the irritation in her voice. Zee was a nightmare.

“Having your hair plastered flat to your head like that. Like it wants to escape its miserable existence on your head, and you won’t let it.”

Ursula gritted her teeth. She would find a way to be nice to Zee, even if it killed her. She could do this. “I don’t know, but your hair is pretty.” She’d been trying for a compliment, but with her jaw clenched like that, it had somehow come out sounding like a threat. Like she’d just proposed scalping Zee and wearing her platinum hair as a wig.

“It is pretty,” Zee agreed cautiously.

“Absolutely. Very… straight. And blond.”

“At least you noticed. Kester did not.”

Aha.
“Oh. Is he your boyfriend?”

Zee cut her a cold look. “He is not. He likes to pick up strays. Women who are beneath him.” Her narrowed eyes implied that this included Ursula.

And I’ve just found the raw nerve.
“I hope you don’t think
I’m
one of his strays. We’ve only just met, and he’s my mentor. I work with him, as of last night, but our relationship is purely professional. In fact, I’m fairly certain he doesn’t like me.” That was certainly true.

“Right. Like he ‘worked’ with that orange-skinned girl from Hoboken he met at Tatty O’Rourke’s. And yet he doesn’t seem interested in ‘working’ with me. Because he likes
skanks
.” She picked up a magazine, flipping a page with a ferocity that suggested she had a vendetta against paper. “He likes slumming it.”

“I wasn’t using ‘working’ as a euphemism. I mean actual
work
.” Sure, it involved reaping souls and traveling through a fire portal, but it was work all the same. “Do you know what we do for work, by any chance?”

“Of course I do.” Zee arched a thin eyebrow and snapped her magazine shut. “Ah. Here is Luis.”

A dark-haired young man approached them, his crisp white shirt vibrant against his bronze skin. He was nearly as big as Kester, and he’d accessorized beautifully with a gold watch and chunky glasses. He peered over them, staring at Ursula’s hair. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Ursula straightened.
Odd behavior for a hairdresser, but okay.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Luis,” said Zee. “She works for Kester.”

“I’ll behave.” He smiled at Zee. “So glad you could bring in this beauty. I love redheads.”

“Beauty?” Zee glared at Ursula. “Her head is an aesthetic crime scene. I was hoping you could clean it up. I told her you were the best. And very discreet, of course.”

Luis brightened and waggled a finger. “I never tell Emerazel’s secrets.”

Ursula raised an eyebrow.
Does everyone know about Emerazel but me?

“Of course you don’t tell our secrets. You wouldn’t want to land on the Headsman’s bad side.”

The Headsman.
A shiver crawled up Ursula’s spine. She didn’t like the sound of that. Of course, life among the demons was bound to be unnerving.

Luis pursed his lips, studying Ursula. “The cut is all wrong, but her auburn hair is simply delicious.” He reached out, wrapping a tendril of her hair around his fingers. He stared at it, licking his lips in a way she could only describe as lascivious, as a glazed look overtook his eyes.
What the hell?
He took a shuddering breath before dropping the lock of her hair, his eyes becoming alert again. “A treatment with my Brazilian conditioner will really bring out the color.” He beckoned her to a room in the back, his gaze still lingering on her hair.

He seated Ursula in a soft leather chair, easing her head into a shampoo sink. Warm water trickled through her hair, and his fingers lathered her scalp with sensual swirls. “Red hair is my favorite.”

Ursula almost thought she heard Luis moan, but she shut out that disturbing thought.

Zee plopped into the chair next to her. “Oh, Luis. You and your redheads. As if you don’t get enough of them at Oberon’s.”

Ursula had no clue what they were talking about, but she breathed in the calming aroma of the pineapple-scented shampoo. Maybe she could get used to this life if she absolutely had to. As soon as she left the salon, she was going to buy paints to brighten up her new bedroom. She’d paint bluebells and aster, to make herself feel at home again.

Then again, there was that whole
Headsman
thing. Whoever that was, he sounded terrifying.

She opened her eyes, glancing at Zee. “Zee. Did you say something about a
Headsman
?”

Luis stopped lathering her hair.

Zee let out a long sigh. “Oh. That’s Kester’s nickname.”

Goose bumps raised over Ursula’s skin. “Why the Headsman?”

“It means
executioner.
He’s Emerazel’s most senior hellhound. Kester gets the most difficult cases, and his numbers are unparalleled. He has sent more souls into Emerazel’s flames than you can imagine. He’s lethal, and practically like a god himself.”

And she’d fought him last night. She was lucky to have survived her eighteenth birthday at all. No wonder he’d warned her that she wouldn’t win in a fight against him.

Luis’s fingers resumed their massage.

At least I got Zee talking.
What she was hearing was terrifying, but at least she was hearing something. “So what you’re saying is that I’m in good hands?”

“As long as you stay on his good side. You’ll need his protection, you know.” Zee sighed loudly. “All this effort to make you look presentable, and you’ll probably just be shredded anyway.”

Ursula’s pulse raced.
This is getting worse.
“What do you mean,
shredded?
”

Zee straightened, peering over at Ursula’s face. “You mean Kester didn’t tell you why there was an opening in New York?”

Her stomach clenched. “No, he was a little quiet on that point.”

“Ugh, it was ghastly. Someone gutted the last guy, and strung his entrails over the trees in Central Park. They looked like Christmas tree ornaments, only made of flesh.” Zee smiled sweetly. “And now you have his job.”

Bloody hell. Pictures of bluebells and asters won’t be nearly enough to help me sleep soundly tonight.

I
n the armory
, Ursula faced herself in mirror, staring at her glossy locks. Luis hadn’t cut off much—just enough that her hair now fell above her shoulders. He’d been a little creepy—in fact, he’d pressed his cell phone number into her palm and demanded that she call him for a scalp massage—but at least he’d done a wonderful job with the cut.

She was already feeling much better about her insane new life. After she’d returned that afternoon, she’d finished painting a small mural of wildflowers on her bedroom wall, making it feel a little more like home. And when she’d strode downstairs, covered in smudges of periwinkle and honey-hued paints, she’d found bags of clothes waiting for her on the living room floor.

Inside one of the bags, there was a handwritten note from Kester explaining that she’d need the clothes for work. Whoever had bought them had exquisite taste. Apart from some gorgeous dresses they were, unfortunately, all black—not exactly her thing. But still, she wasn’t going to complain about Louboutin boots and Burberry trousers.

If only she could have ignored the whole
eternal torment
thing—not to mention the
shredded hellhounds
thing—she’d be having a wonderful time in New York.

As she gripped Honjo in front of her, she pointed the blade straight at the mirror, her feet planted in a fighting stance. She now wore a new pair of black trousers—real leather this time—and a black tank top. She looked like some sort of American action hero.

She sliced the katana to the side, eviscerating an imaginary assailant. She resumed the ready position with the blade parallel to the floor. As she watched her form for precision and balance, she slowly raised the sword above her head. She slashed it down.
Thanks ever so much for the work clothes, Kester, but did you forget to mention that bit about the entrails in the park trees?

Beyond the evisceration and public display of intestines, Zee had known no more about who or what had killed the last hellhound. She didn’t know if the murderer was still a threat, or if he was likely to come for Ursula.

The steel glinted in Ursula’s hands. If someone was after her, she’d be prepared.

Footsteps echoed behind her, and she turned to find Kester standing in the doorway, dressed in a fitted black suit.

She gripped the sword’s hilt. “When were you planning on telling me the last fellow was gutted in Central Park?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Zee has a little problem with discretion. And tact.” His green eyes lingered on her a little too long; something feral flickered in them. “You clean up nicely. Black suits you.”

“It does not suit me.” At the carnal look in his eyes, heat burned her cheeks. “I’m more of a spring colors girl.”

“You’re not a ‘spring colors girl.’ You’re a gods-damned demon. Do you understand that? You’re going to have to kill people.”

Dread tightened her chest. She hadn’t really thought about that. “Speaking of killing people…” She strode across the room and pointed the blade at his chest. “I want to know what’s going on. Why was the last hellhound murdered?”

He didn’t flinch. Apparently, even when she was armed with a katana, he didn’t view her as dangerous. His eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t know why he was murdered. You’re here to help me find out, once you’ve calmed down a bit.”

“I’m perfectly—”

In a fraction of a second, he’d moved behind her, swift as the wind—one powerful arm wrapped tightly around her, and the other hand gripping her sword arm. Heat from his body warmed her. He squeezed her wrist, and she gasped at the pain, dropping the sword. “Don’t take on an opponent you have no chance of beating, Ursula,” he whispered in her ear. “Not unless you have a really good plan.”

Her frustration lent her boldness. “Oh, right. I hear you’re ‘the Headsman.’ Quite the nickname you have.” Her heart raced. She shouldn’t be prodding this beast, but she wasn’t so sure she could cope with being a hellhound. What did she really have to lose at this point? “Your colleague was gutted, his intestines strewn about like holiday decorations, and you have no idea why?”

He loosened his grip on her, slipping away. “It could have been any number of things. Some demons enjoy dispatching their prey with a dramatic flair. Sometimes a curse can rebound, injuring the caster. A lot of things could have led to Henry’s demise.”

Demons. Curses. All in a day’s work around here
. “Hellhounds use curses, too?”

“We do what Emerazel tells us. Usually it’s signing pacts and reaping souls, but sometimes she has more specific requests.”

“Such as?”

“When you get one, you’ll know.” Something wicked glinted in his eyes. “And if you must know, I really don’t mourn Henry’s loss. He was something of a psychopath.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of psychopaths, Headsman, why are you in my apartment?”

He flashed her a wolfish smile. “I couldn’t resist your warm and inviting company.”

She crossed her arms, eyeing the sword on the ground. “Seriously. What did you come for?”

“I left a box of gold ingots on your kitchen table—your annual stipend—and I’m here to teach you how to summon Emerazel.” He turned toward the hallway. “Follow me.”

She snatched Honjo from the ground, returning it to the rack, and stalked after Kester.

He spoke over his shoulder. “When you meet the goddess of passion and wrath, please don’t mouth off. She can compel you to do whatever she wants, including throwing yourself through a window, so I’d advise you to be pleasant and charming.” He slid a cold gaze her way. “In other words, don’t be yourself.”

“I’m perfectly charming to people who haven’t abducted me and threatened my life,” she shot back.

“You asked for this.” They stopped at the door to the sigil room, and Kester continued. “Summoning her is simple. You just need three ingredients. The first is her symbol.”

“The encircled triangle. I’ve got that one memorized.” She followed him into the sigil room, glancing out the windows at the snow-covered city. She was about to meet an immortal goddess of fire, yet her blood had turned to ice. She hugged herself tight.

Kester pulled the rug aside to reveal the symbol on the floor. “The second ingredient is fire.” He produced a box of matches and the small silver flask from inside his jacket.

He unscrewed the top, taking a swig. “Glorious.” After pouring a few ounces of scotch on the sigil, he struck a match and dropped it. His voice took on a professorial tone. “If you’re using alcohol, be sure that it’s high enough proof to take a flame. You don’t want to be caught with your hand on a pact and a sigil that won’t light.”

“High proof. Got it.” It didn’t have to be expensive, just alcoholic.

“Lastly, you need to intone the summoning spell.” Kester reached into his pocket and produced a small scrap of parchment. “I’ve memorized it, but here’s a copy so you can follow along. You’ll need to repeat after me.”

Ursula looked at the paper. Spidery letters crowded its surface. Kester started to speak, and though she didn’t know the name of the language, she found she could read it phonetically. F.U. was just full of surprises.

As they worked their way through the spell, the words began to roll off her tongue.

When they finished the final line, fire blazed like an erupting volcano, and Ursula shielded her face from the heat. The flame died abruptly, revealing a dark, smoky form crouched in the sigil’s center.

A feminine figure rose. Dark tendrils of smoke curled off her, and her eyes burned like supernovas. Wincing, Ursula looked away before her retinas burned out.

A raspy voice, crackling with fire, spoke. “Is this the girl you told me about?”

“This is Ursula.”

Ursula shielded her eyes, but Emerazel’s heat filled the room. Plumes of smoke wafted through the air like tentacles, encircling the two hellhounds. Outside, Ursula thought she caught a glimpse of Central Park now blazing with spewing lava and ash.
That isn’t real, is it?

She couldn’t breathe. What had happened to the air? She wanted to get the hell out of here. Ash seemed to fill her lungs. It was too hot.

“Interesting,” whispered the goddess. “Very interesting. I see something in her.”

“She is… feisty,” said Kester.

“There’s something else. Something I didn’t notice before, the day she carved herself.”

The day I carved myself.
Does she know me? Nausea welled in Ursula’s gut. Something felt wrong. It was too hot in here—too bright. She needed the cool night air, needed to slip into the shadows, to ride the dark wind into cool, quiet space. Her body trembled, and she clamped her eyes shut. She wasn’t sure she could speak, even if she wanted to.

“You remember her?” asked Kester. “She doesn’t know where she came from.”

“That’s for the best,” Emerazel spat. “I want to see her kneel before me.”

The words rang in Ursula’s head, and without thinking, she fell, her knees cracking against the floor. Her body trembled. Emerazel had complete control over her, just as Kester had told her she would.

“A loyal subject to do with as I please. How delicious.” The goddess’s voice hissed like water on a hot stone.

Ursula had no reply, couldn’t meet the goddess’s eyes. Nausea and dread wound through her, curling around her thoughts.
I don’t belong here.

“Tell me you’re my subject,” whispered Emerazel.

Ursula felt her mouth moving. “I am your loyal subject,” she intoned. “I am yours.”

A deep laugh rumbled through the room, shaking the floor. “You burn for me.”

With a great force of will, Ursula dared to raise her eyes, though not high enough to meet the goddess’s shining gaze. She stared instead at Emerazel’s lips, cracked into a cinder-flecked smile.
She knows something about me.
If Ursula had had any control over her own body, she’d have asked what it was.

“Do you remember when she carved herself?” Kester pressed.

“I remember the day, though I didn’t know who she was then. So many souls came to me that day. It was glorious.” An ashy smile played about the goddess’s lips. “That’s all you need to know. I have an assignment for my sniveling little subject.”

Ursula fought against the urge to scream. Her skin was on fire, and she was in the center of a volcano. Pain ripped her mind apart. Why didn’t Kester mind the heat? How could he stand this?

Emerazel’s smile widened. “The target is a particularly delectable soul. He allied himself with me a few months ago. You might have heard of him—Hugo Modes. You’re to collect his soul for me. Do not disappoint me. Kester, give her a ledger. One thousand pages. One page for each task, until the book is full.”

Ursula’s body trembled.
Did she say a thousand pages?

Kester nodded. “She’s had no training, so I will go with her on her first assignment.”

“No,” Emerazel bellowed. “I want to see what she can do on her own. And, Kester, when you train her, make sure she remains submissive. Do not go gentle on her. I want this one to obey.”

“Of course,” he said, his tone flat.

“If she needs to die,” Emerazel mused. “Be sure you bring her to me first. I will dispose of her myself. In fact, I rather look forward to it.” Emerazel’s lips began to crumble, and her body collapsed into a pile of ash.

Ursula gasped as cool air filled the room, and the icy winter day returned through the windows. Shaking, she hunched over on her hands and knees, fighting the urge to vomit. Her body twitched uncontrollably. A strong taste of creosote filled her mouth, and sandpaper seemed to line her eyelids. Coughing and gagging, she blinked, trying to force some moisture from her tear ducts.

“That was awful. You didn’t tell me it would be that awful.” She hated the way her voice broke. She didn’t want Kester to see her weakened like this. He already had far too much control over her life.

“Gods below,” said Kester, his voice low. “Your first lesson is never to look directly at her.”

He held out a hand, lifting her up. “Are you all right?”

Too tired to care about her pride, she leaned into him. “I won’t make that mistake again,” she managed. She needed a cool bath, and a long sleep.

Kester slipped an arm around her waist, holding her up, and studied her. “I didn’t know that would happen,” he said quietly. “I’ve never seen her act that way before. And her flames shouldn’t burn one with the mark. I don’t feel her heat when she appears. You were in agony.”

“I thought I was dying.”

“You’ve certainly earned that
Mystery Girl
nickname.”

She straightened, pulling away from him as the nausea subsided. “I don’t suppose I can convince Emerazel to tell me what she knows about me.”

“She clearly hates you for some reason, so no.”

Trapped in the constant desperation of trying to pay her rent and buy food, she’d ignored the most fundamental question for so long:
Who am I?
And now it blazed in her mind like Emerazel’s terrifying eyes. “Why would she hate me? What did I do?”

Kester’s gaze bored into her. “I can tell you that your Angelic incantation was very clear. In fact, your accent is perfect. You were a scholar, once. How can you remember Angelic if you can’t remember anything about yourself?”

“Same reason I can speak English and know how to use a knife and fork. It’s a different type of memory.” She frowned.
Scholar
was not a word she’d ever associated with herself. “But an Angelic scholar? Where would I have learned it?”

“No idea. I guess that’s what makes you the Mystery Girl.”

She swallowed hard. “What did she mean by a ledger?”

“Every hellhound has a book—a ledger to track your progress. One page per task. When it is full, your soul is free. I’ll have one ready for you when you return from your assignment. I haven’t even begun training you, and I honestly have no idea why Emerazel has given you an assignment already. You’re not ready for it. But she has it in for you, so you’d better get it right, because it seemed like she wanted to kill you.”

Cold dread bloomed in her mind.
My assignment. Right
. “I was in too much pain to focus when she was talking. I almost thought she was talking about Hugo Modes—the lead singer of Four Points. But that can’t be right.”