Shadows & Flame Complete Boxed Set: Demons of Fire and Night Novels

by C. N. Crawford

  Returning to the library, she read the spines of every book in the room. There were first editions of all the modern classics: Melville, Poe, Dickens, and Brontë. She even found older works by Chaucer, Dante, and Shakespeare—many of them written on parchment and beautifully illustrated in the margins.

  Strangely, a lower shelf seemed to be protected by the same golden glow that blazed from the door upstairs. When she reached for the books, her hand was repelled by an invisible force. So of course, those were the ones she most wanted to read. Gold lettering looped up their faded blue and maroon spines: Fasciculus Chemicus, Iconologia, and Picatrix. She had no clue what any of that meant, just a strong desire to do whatever she wasn’t supposed to do.

  After giving up on the enchanted books, she rose to take one last peek in the armory. When she stepped into the room, she caught a glimpse of the clock mounted above the mirror. It was past midnight. That was, what, five or six a.m. in the UK? She really needed to get some rest.

  She trudged up the stairs to her new bedroom and crawled under the coverlet. As she lay in the darkness, she closed her eyes, trying to calm the thoughts blazing through her mind.

  Muppet’s singed shirt, Kester’s fiery eyes and clawed fingers, the moor fiend’s leering grin.

  She’d never fall asleep with these thoughts whirling in her skull. She imagined one of her favorite places: a ruined church near the tower of London, its crumbling stone walls covered in ivy. But even with that serene image in her mind, Kester’s words rang in her head: You’re a demon.

  The concept was horrifying. She’d always known she was different, but… a demon? A mortal one, no less. You’d think that one of the benefits of demonhood would be immortality, but no. Not only was she an abomination and a bringer of death, but she had to die, just like everyone else. She rubbed her white stone between her fingers, but it wasn’t giving her comfort tonight.

  She pulled her bedsheets tighter. She hadn’t asked for any of this. At least, she didn’t think she had. As long as she could remember, the strange scar had marred her shoulder. Who knew how she got it? She was a Mystery Girl all right—a Mystery Girl who’d made a terrible decision she couldn’t even remember. And now she was stuck in a foreign country, permanently cut off from her best friend.

  That was the thing that really bothered her. More than anything, she wanted to find a way to phone Katie, just to hear a friendly voice again. But she really didn’t want to find out what Kester’s threat meant. And what could she even say to Katie without sounding like a complete and utter lunatic? Heat rose in her chest, and sweat beaded on her face.

  She rolled onto her back, staring up at the blue ceiling flecked with gold stars. There was something oddly comforting about the night sky. At times like this, when the world seemed to suffocate her, she felt like she wanted to throw herself into the freezing night air, to drift along in the wind, riding a night storm…

  Basically, she was a lunatic, trapped with her own thoughts.

  And as if they weren’t enough to keep her awake, a glowing, spiked door lurked just outside her room.

  She threw off her covers and rose from the bed. Shivering, she returned downstairs and snatched a dagger to slip beneath her pillow.

  Chapter 12

  As 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.

  Chapter 13

  In 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 god-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 tell
s 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.