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

by C. N. Crawford

  But as she stared into the vengeful face of the fae king, something else began to surge, coursing through each of her muscles: a sharp sense of sureness, as if she knew exactly how each of her joints needed to move. Primal wrath hit her like a wave, imbuing her body with a dark power. I will avenge him.

  Oberon reached behind him and drew a wicked looking sword from the sheath on his back. His eyes locked on hers, his grin a thing of terror.

  But hot battle fury overtook Ursula, and she grinned back, cutting her sword through the air in a display of her skill. She was no longer Ursula. She was Vengeance, ancient and primal. When Oberon lunged, she was ready for him. His blade struck hers, and the sound of clanging swords rang out. The king was fast—almost too fast for her—and his sword slashed above her head with a whoosh.

  I will avenge him.

  Wrath flooded her nerve endings. She began to circle Oberon, her movements fast and precise, and she saw a glint of fear in the king’s eyes. In a lethal dance, they whirled and ducked, fast as the wind. The air rushed over her body, until the king began to falter. She scented his fear, wanted his blood.

  As the king tired, his guards moved in, swords drawn, and she was no longer fighting one fae, but three. She spun, her sword clashing in a blur of steel, slicing into muscle and flesh. Arcs of red blood sprayed through the air, and she no longer knew who she was fighting; she only knew that she wanted to kill.

  Another guard swung for her and she ducked, her sword slashing for his legs. But the fae leapt into the air, bringing the pommel of his sword down on the back of her head.

  Pain exploded through her skull; she stumbled back, dropping her blade. Her vision darkened and rough hands grabbed her, pulling her to the floor.

  When her vision cleared, the king and Abrax stood above her while six fae guards pinned her to the ground.

  “You stupid bitch,” Oberon spat. “Once I’m done using you for pleasure, I will flay you alive.”

  Rage stole her breath. Kester is dead. And they’re going to kill me. Bastards.

  Wild with fury, she struggled to free herself, but the grip of the fae’s hands were too strong. Abrax bent low, narrowing his eyes. He touched her cheek, purring. “What kind of thing are you?” He ran his fingers over her skin, and bile rose in her throat.

  “Strip her,” said Oberon.

  Fire. In her panic she’d forgotten to use Emerazel’s fire. She let the volcanic rage blaze white-hot, and the fae released her.

  Just as she was scrambling to her feet, a growl rumbled through the hall. A dark beast crashed into the crowd of fae, green eyes blazing. The female fae screamed, running for the movable dais. As soon as they crowded on, it began to lower.

  Kester? The hound circled her, snarling at the fae who surrounded her with swords drawn. He was protecting her.

  Relief flooded her. How the hell was he alive?

  It struck her like a bolt of lightning. The spell. Whatever spell they’d chanted before leaving had actually worked. Not only that, but it must have changed his hound form. He was ten feet tall at least.

  She rose, snatching the fallen sword from the ground.

  Kester’s eyes blazed; blood dripped from his jaw. A guard swung for him, and he roared, picking up the fae in his teeth and flinging him across the room.

  The king drew his sword again, his eyes locked on Ursula. “Filthy animals.”

  Kester snarled at the king, who now stood surrounded by a troop of fae guards.

  “Get him to safety,” one of them shouted. As they closed in around the king, their bodies shimmered away, leaving behind only a pale, iridescent glimmer. The temperature in the room chilled by ten degrees.

  Ursula whirled, gripping her sword and scanning the room for Abrax. The incubus stood near the balcony, gripping the king’s halberd. Blood dripped from his fingers—Kester must have bitten him before lunging into the crowd.

  Kester’s lip curled back from his teeth, and his deep growl resonated through her bones. Abrax swung the halberd in a tight figure eight, his eyes locked on the hound. The incubus’s blade began to glow, charging with some kind of magic. When he slashed it, a bolt of blue light shot straight at the hound. But Kester had already leapt away. Snarling, he charged the incubus. Abrax dodged, moving like a cloud of curling black smoke and reappearing a few feet away. Kester skidded to a stop, just missing him.

  Just as Abrax swung the halberd’s blade, Ursula heard footfalls behind her. Sword ready, she whirled to find one of the king’s guards remaining, his platinum hair swirling around his head like a living thing. “The king will enjoy playing with you once I subdue you.” His pale eyes flashed, and he slashed his blade, but the battle fury already burned through Ursula, and she parried.

  That sense of precision filled her muscles, warming her like a desert wind. They think I’m an animal. He was fast, but she was faster. They want to slaughter me like a pig. Their swords clanged as she attacked and he parried. She backed him against the bar until he faltered. Kill. She drove her sword through his chest.

  As she watched blood bubble from his mouth, horror hit her. She’d just killed someone. But there wasn’t time to think about what she’d done—not with Kester’s growl filling the hall. She spun to find his jaws locked on Abrax’s arm, snapping the incubus’s bones.

  Her hands shaking, Ursula stared down at her crimson blade. What kind of killer was F.U.?

  The incubus’s roar called her attention back to the fight, and she watched as his halberd skittered across the floor. Her heart sped up—they were too close to the edge.

  Kester leapt for the incubus’s throat, but he curled away in a cloud of black smoke, appearing again at the platform’s edge. Kester pounced, and Ursula’s world tilted as she watched them both plummet over the edge.

  “Kester!” she screamed, running to the ledge. Her blood roaring in her ears, she peered into the abyss. Desperately, she hoped to see Kester clinging by his fingertips to one of the tree roots, but there was no sign of him. Far below she could see the orbs swirling, and the music thumped in the distance. Panic stole her breath, and for just a moment, the steep drop into oblivion called to her, like a magnetic pull.

  But oblivion did not await her at the other end of death. Eternal hellfire awaited her.

  All the blood rushed from her head, and she fell to her knees. He’d survived the neck snapping, but surely even magic couldn’t save a body from a fall like that. Her chest welled with an aching sadness, before pure terror overcame her. There’s no way out. She was stuck in a fae’s subterranean lair with an army of soldiers who wanted to rape and murder her. Even death wasn’t an escape.

  There was no air. I can’t breathe.

  Please let this be a terrible nightmare—there was no fight, no fae, no incubus. Kester didn’t fall to his death. In a few moments she’d wake up in her East London flat, ready to drink tea on the couch while Katie regaled her with details of all the guys she’d kissed the night before.

  Ursula closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The floor of the hall was still a thousand feet below her, the abyss oddly inviting in her desperation.

  She turned back to the balcony. Apart from the crumpled body of the guard she’d slaughtered, it was empty. Blood stained the wood, and the sweet, metallic smell was overwhelming. She scanned the floor for her wyrm-skin purse, but she couldn’t see it anywhere. It must have gotten knocked off the ledge in the fight. Her heart hammered against her ribs. My white stone. She had nothing now.

  She glanced down again at her bloodied hands. She’d killed someone tonight, with a great degree of skill. What the hell kind of monster had F.U. been? A trained killer? An assassin? And what had happened to Kester?

  A hollow opened in the pit of her stomach. Kester’s fall would have landed him right in a crowd of fae who wanted him dead. And what did that mean for his soul? He hadn’t paid off his debt yet, even after four hundred years. Tears stung her eyes, but she clenched her jaw, marshaling her resolve. This was not the time to cry
.

  Distantly she could hear the beat of the music. Thump. Thump. She couldn’t tell where her pounding heart ended and the music began.

  The fae king wanted her dead, and at any moment he and his guards could return to finish the job. Even if she was some sort of master swordsman, she couldn’t fend them off forever. But with the dais gone, there was no way out. Thump. Thump.

  The sigil. If only she could find something flammable.

  Her eyes darted to the bar in the back, and she rushed across the blood-slicked floor, stepping over the guard’s corpse. Bottles lined the back shelves, and with a shaking hand she snatched a bottle of a dark-looking spirit. She popped the cork and gave the bottle a sniff, then grimaced. It had to be at least a hundred proof.

  The bass deepened. Thump. Thump. Thump. Distantly, the crowd cheered, the party still raging. Maybe incubi and hellhounds falling to their deaths from the king’s balcony was an everyday occurrence here. She wanted out of this awful place.

  In the center of the room, she poured the whiskey in the shape of Emerazel’s sigil.

  Thump. Thump. The bass was so loud it rattled the floor. How could they continue to dance, with the two pulverized bodies in their midst?

  The beat was almost deafening. Something was happening in the hall, but just as she started toward the edge, a gust of icy wind rushed over her skin. She stared in horror as enormous wings rose above the balcony. Thump. Thump. Thump. She stared into Abrax’s cold, beautiful face.

  He looked glorious and terrifying at the same time, like a medieval painting of the Angel of Darkness. His body had transformed, and claws and talons had grown from his hands and feet. All around him, black mist twisted and swirled like ink in water. His frigid gaze fixed on hers.

  “Did you think I forgot about you?” Gracefully, he landed on the edge of the balcony and stalked closer.

  Ice ran up her spine, and she stumbled back. Where the fuck is that sword? Her gaze landed on the king’s halberd, discarded on the floor. She dove for it just as the incubus swooped in, his talons raking the wood. She slid across the floor, grasping for the weapon, but the incubus caught her leg with one of his talons, yanking her toward him, ripping through her flesh. As the pain pierced her, she unleashed an agonized scream.

  Abrax flipped her over, yanking her under him and pinning her to the floor, claws piercing her wrists. He was going to tear all the flesh from her bones, and the agony blinded her. She arched her back, screaming.

  “Really, Ursula. That blade wouldn’t have stopped me,” he growled, his leathery wings spread out above her, and pressed his claws further into her flesh. Pain screamed through her forearms.

  Her pulse raced, the pain so intense she couldn’t think straight. She wouldn’t be able to fight him anymore, not with her muscles torn apart. “What do you want from me?” she managed.

  He leaned closer, whispering, “I want to know who you are.” His voice was soft, seductive.

  She gritted her teeth, trying to think through the agony. “You and me both,” she choked out. Fury flooded her, and she let Emerazel’s fire blaze, burning like the sun’s core, until it seared the incubus’s hands, igniting his clothes. He leapt up, his wings beating the air. Embers sparked from his wings, and he swooped over the main hall, circling like a beast of prey. He wasn’t finished with her.

  Blood poured from her wrists, and flames licked at her body. Emerazel’s fire had ignited the whiskey, and the sigil blazed brightly around her.

  Her eyes flicked to Abrax, who was diving right for her, his face etched with cold wrath. She closed her eyes and chanted the sigil spell, just before the incubus’s powerful body had the chance to slam into her.

  Chapter 32

  Ursula reconstituted on the floor of the sigil room. For once, she’d remembered to hold her breath, but the pain that tore through her arms and legs was far worse than the soot in her lungs. She glanced down at her ravaged forearms, and the gashes in her leg from Abrax’s talons. They had ripped right into the muscle, and blood pumped from the wounds. Dizzy, she tried to stand, pain splintering her limbs, and only made it to her knees. Her body shook violently, and nausea overwhelmed her. An image flashed in her mind of the slumped fae corpse—the man she’d so casually killed.

  She couldn’t give in yet. What if Kester was still in the fae realm, still alive somehow and being tortured to death? Nauseated, she stayed on all fours, watching the blood pour from her wounds.

  Kester could have saved his own skin at least once by giving her up to Emerazel after her failure. Was that why he’d been so reckless tonight—because he knew he’d probably die anyway? Her stomach heaved, and she vomited.

  Suppressing a scream, she forced herself up, her legs shaking. How long until Emerazel comes for me? Her right leg had been shredded by the talons, and she only lasted a few seconds before she was on the floor again, crawling this time. Slowly, each movement torture, she dragged herself into the hall. There was an extra cellphone in her bedroom. It would be agonizing climbing the stairs, but she’d get there eventually. As long as I don’t bleed out first.

  Blood smeared the hall as she crawled. If anyone wanted to fight her now, she’d just roll over and give up. Just get to the phone, Ursula. As soon as she dialed 911, help would be on the way. They’d stitch her up in the ER, maybe sew her veins back together. The gashes went straight through to the bone, but it would give her some time.

  She paused, gasping for breath. I’m not going to make it that far…

  What other options did she have? Kester had used a healing spell after the fight with the moor fiend. A healing spell would get her, quite literally, on her feet.

  Focus, Ursula. Could she recall the spell, like she had with the sigil spell in Club Lalique? Probably not. She’d been unconscious when he’d chanted it over. She closed her eyes, racking her brain. Maybe it was somewhere in that procedural memory of hers. But, she had nowhere to begin.

  The pain drowned out nearly all rational thought. She leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths to manage the agony.

  She could read Angelic, even if she couldn’t produce a spell out of thin air. What she needed was a spell book. Her eyes snapped open. The library. Those books had to be Henry’s collection of grimoires, and she’d seen Kester unlock the books on his shelf. All she had to do was recite the unlocking spell and skim through their pages.

  With a shock of pain, she forced herself onto her hands and knees again and crawled down the hall to the library. The hallway had never seemed so long before—but she’d never felt like she had knives piercing her bones before.

  Kester. He had some sort of history with Abrax, she was pretty sure. He’d had an intense reaction when she told him about the incubus. He’d already wanted to kill him. Whatever their history, she wanted to hunt down Abrax and finish the job for him. She shuffled forward, groaning as she reached the library.

  Almost there.

  She dragged her broken body to the locked books. They stood just as she remembered them, lined up on the bottom shelf with that familiar glow emanating from their bindings. Grimacing, she reached for one, but the force field pushed her hand away.

  She grunted, trying to think clearly. How did Kester do it? He’d simply held his hands out and recited a spell.

  Not a spell, she thought. That word—like a woman’s name. Gasping, she rolled onto her side and held out her shaking hands. She closed her eyes, picturing Kester’s mouth as he spoke the word, his deep voice caressing her skin, and she repeated after him. “Oriel.”

  As soon as she finished, a magical aura whispered over her skin, just like it had when she’d chanted the spells with Kester. The glow around the books flickered for a moment but didn’t disappear. Bollocks.

  She slumped back to the floor, the pain in her legs pure agony. Her breath came in short gasps, and the blood continued to pump from her wounds, staining the rug. There wasn’t much time left.

  She closed her eyes. If Oriel was a nam
e, then maybe each of these locking spells were personalized, like a password on a computer. And if this apartment had belonged to Henry… How the fuck was she supposed to guess Henry’s password? She knew nothing about the man apart from the festive state of his organs after his death. Her heart thrummed. Had she seen anything in the apartment, any photographs…?

  The painting. There was a painting in the living room of a beautiful woman named Louisa. And if Kester had named his spell after a woman…

  She reached out her hands again, choking out the name. “Louisa.”

  For a moment she thought she’d guessed wrong, but then the yellow glow faded. Relief washed over her. Finally getting somewhere.

  Her eye raced along the titles on the books’ spines. There were copies of the Fasciculus Chemicus and the Theatrum Chemicum Britannicum, an ancient-looking book simply called DAEMONS, and an Angelic book that translated to “Lenus’s Healing Spells and Poultices.” Bingo. She pulled it from the shelf with a thud, barely able to lift herself off the floor. She flipped through it, translating the Angelic spell names at the top. God, she was so tired. She needed to sleep…

  But if she fell asleep, she’d wake again bathed in flames.

  Fear pushing her on, she refocused her attention. Spells for curing rashes, tinctures for alleviating gout, and conjurations by Ashmole, Norton, and Starkey. She flipped through an entire section on bovine maladies and crop sickness, rapidly losing the will to live.

  Her hands were beginning to shake uncontrollably, and she glanced back at the shelf. One book was different from the others—smaller and made of leather, with no name on the spine. It looked more like a journal than a spell book. Henry’s ledger. She pulled it from the shelf and flipped through page after page of Henry’s adventures as a hellhound—each soul he’d claimed, rendered in his spindly handwriting. Desperately, her eyes searched for anything about injuries or a healing spell, until at least she neared the end of the book.