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

by C. N. Crawford

  Outside, Asta’s glow burned brighter, washing the cabin with violet light. They seemed to be on a collision course with the spire, and just when she was sure they would crash into it, the carriage veered to the right. It jerked to a stop so abruptly that Ursula lurched from her seat, tumbling into Bael’s lap.

  Instantly, his powerful hands were around her waist, steadying her. She breathed in. Sandalwood and sea air.

  “We’re here,” he said quietly, his breath warming her throat.

  “Right. Sorry.” She stood, smoothing out her hair.

  Bael leaned over, opening the door. Ursula stepped onto a balcony by the side of the spire, pulling her cloak closer around her. Here, the wind felt ten degrees colder, seeming to cut through even the heavy woolen shawl.

  As Bael stepped from the carriage, she surveyed her surroundings, trying not to peer over the side of the balcony. Violet light washed over her, like she was standing in front of an enormous gemstone. On the other side of the balcony, an arched doorway interrupted the smooth crystal. From what she could tell by looking up, they’d landed about midway up the spire. Great walls of purple crystal rose up before her, shimmering in the starlight. Scattered balconies jutted into the air.

  When she looked closely, she could see that scars marred the crystal’s surface. In other places, great chips had flaked off. When she strained her eyes, she could a jagged scar that bisected the crystal, as if it had been severed and reattached. What the hell had happened here?

  They stepped out and the carriage pulled away from the balcony with the great beating of bat wings. Bael crossed to the opening in the wall. Before following him in, she pulled the hood more tightly over her head.

  In the door’s opening, he turned to her. “Remember, if you want to live, you must do everything I say. Even if it doesn’t make sense to you. Do you understand?”

  Do I have a choice? “I’ve got it.”

  “Good. Now, your first command is to be silent. Absolutely no talking. Keep your hood over your head. Use the dagger only if your life is at risk.”

  He turned, striding into a dark hall. She hurried after him, keeping her face downcast. Could he tell where they were going? Surely shadow demons had amazing night vision.

  A moment later, his strong hand grabbed hers, drawing her next to him. They’d stopped walking.

  A voice boomed from somewhere in front of her. “Was that your carriage, Bael?” The tone changed, growing soft and mocking. “I can’t imagine getting dragged around in one of those things. You must miss your wings.” A chorus of laughter echoed around them, but there was no mirth in it.

  Quiet fury tinged Bael’s voice. “Yes, Hothgar. It is I.”

  The familiar urge to identify an escape route began to take hold, tightening her muscles. The Forgotten Ones may have snuffed out her fire, but apparently they’d left her instincts intact.

  Too bad she couldn’t see anything. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out only the faint sheen of gray marble below her, but she kept her head tucked down, hiding her face.

  “Then let us convene this council. Do we have a quorum?” said Hothgar.

  Another voice answered. “All twelve lords are here, sir.”

  A cracking noise like metal against stone made Ursula flinch, the sound echoing through the space. It was only after the third crack that she realized someone was banging a gavel.

  Hothgar’s voice boomed again. “The quorum is convened. Bael, have you brought the cur?”

  “I have,” he replied. She heard his footsteps circling behind her, and he ripped the hood from her head. In the next second, he had forced her to her knees.

  Her stomach clenched. He did tell me to be submissive, but this is a bit much. Still, she forced herself to keep her eyes on the floor.

  “Good, I see that she is obedient,” said Hothgar.

  Fury simmered. I hate these people. She let her gaze rise, taking in a granite, semicircular table twenty feet in front of her. Behind it sat eleven demons. And not merely mortal demons, like she was. No—these were high demons, ancient and powerful. The dim light of luminescent mushrooms cast their bestial faces in violet light.

  At the center of the table sat the man with the gavel—Hothgar, she presumed. He wore a shirt of thin chainmail. His hoary beard and white eyebrows marked him as older than the rest. From his left, Abrax glared at her, his gray eyes glacially cold.

  On Hothgar’s right sat a literal giant. Snowy skin, horned temples, flared nostrils. Demon-Bull, she’d call him.

  She scanned the other lords, trying not to show her alarm at the array of muscled demons before her. Through eyes the color of obsidian, ice, and starlight, they stared at her with a mixture of disgust and hatred.

  Mostly hatred.

  Terrifying as they were, they paled in comparison to what perched behind them. An ancient throne, shrouded in shadow magic, so thick it almost looked tangible. An enormous form sat there, cloaked in darkness.

  There’s Nyxobas, the god of my nightmares.

  For just a moment, his magic thinned, and she caught a glimpse of his head lolling to one side. Is he asleep? No. Not quite. His eyes were open—not their usual pale gray, but black as obsidian.

  Hothgar leaned over the table. “Why are you in the Realm of Shadows, hellhound?”

  Her chest tightened. Hadn’t Bael told her not to speak? Was she supposed to answer Hothgar’s question or not? She didn’t feel like she’d been properly prepared for this encounter. A soft nudge of her shins from Bael cleared it up for her.

  Kneeling, she said, “Nyxobas struck a deal with Emerazel. I’m to spend six months of every year here.”

  “If that’s a lie,” growled Hothgar, “I will tear your guts out myself and use them to decorate my mansion.”

  Ursula’s mouth went dry.

  “She speaks the truth,” said Bael. “I was there.”

  “Why should I trust your word, mortal?” asked Hothgar.

  “You don’t have to trust it.” His voice boomed. “Abrax can tell you.”

  Dread filled Ursula’s gut. Bael had just put her life in the hands of Abrax—the one demon who most wanted her dead after she’d ruined his plans of world domination.

  Abrax spoke so softly, it was almost inaudible. “I can confirm Bael’s story.”

  “So it is true?” asked Hothgar. “Your father summoned her?”

  “Yes,” said Abrax.

  “Why would the god invite one of Emerazel’s curs to his Realm?”

  Abrax’s eyes bored into her. “I don’t know.”

  Hothgar studied her carefully with a look that suggested he was still thinking about decorating his house with her entrails. “Let me see her more closely.”

  Before Ursula could stand on her own, Bael picked her up by the collar of her cloak and threw her on the granite table. Her head smacked the stone so hard, she saw stars. It took every inch of her mental strength to lay still.

  Be submissive, Bael had said. At this point, with the concussion he’d just given her, she didn’t have many other options. Her head throbbed. Hothgar leaned over her, stroking the side of her face with a cold finger. “She’s a pretty one. Maybe Nyxobas wanted her for himself.”

  “Gross.” Dizzy from the blow to the head, the word was out of Ursula’s mouth before she could stop herself.

  Bael squeezed her wrist.

  Hothgar glared at Bael. “But what I want to know is why he put her in your care. You lost your wings. Your house is in ruins.” He emphasized the next set of words: “You are unfit to hold a manor of the night.”

  What the hell? Why don’t they just ask Nyxobas, who was sitting about ten feet away? He seemed to be in some sort of catatonic state. Asleep or in a mystical trance.

  “Nyxobas chooses his lords,” said Bael.

  “And yet he hasn’t given you a new set of wings.” Hothgar leaned back in his chair. “We have decided to give your manor to Abrax.”

  Bael’s eyes darkened, and a cold,
dark aura whipped from his body like hurricane winds. “No. Only Nyxobas himself may appoint a lord to a manor.”

  “The choice was unanimous,” said Hothgar.

  “It’s not your province—” Black tendrils of magic snapped around Bael’s throat, cutting him short. Ursula’s eyes flicked to Demon-Bull, who chanted in Angelic. He was choking Bael with magic.

  “We are tired of listening to a mortal,” Hothgar snarled. “Your time as lord has come to an end. Prepare to enter the void.”

  Around Bael’s neck, the filaments began to constrict. His eyes were dark as voids, and his fingers strained at the threads twisting about his neck.

  Panic stole Ursula’s breath, but she lay flat on the stone, trying to go unnoticed. Whatever she was going to do, she didn’t want to telegraph her actions.

  Her pulse racing, she glanced at Nyxobas, still wrapped in shadows, unmoving. Why isn’t he doing anything?

  Bael hadn’t explicitly told her what constituted “an emergency,” but she was pretty sure this was it. While the demons watched Bael suffocate, she slowly drew the dagger from the sheath on her thigh. Just as she managed to extract it, she felt Hothgar’s fingers grab the corners of her cloak. In a single motion he picked her up and heaved her across the room. She slammed into a crystal wall with a bone-jarring smack. Her dagger clattered on the floor.

  Bollocks.

  “The hound had a blade,” Hothgar roared.

  Demon-Bull flicked his wrist, and black tendrils raced across the room. She ducked, diving for the dagger. Just as she gripped its hilt, dark magic slammed into her chest. She flew back against the wall, grunting from the pain.

  Pinned to the wall, shadow magic coiled around her chest. Demon-Bull was crushing her lungs, her blood roaring in her ears. Air. Please. How long would it take for her ribs to shatter and pierce her heart? Please. I can’t die here.

  Ten seconds, maybe twenty.

  “You have disrespected our hospitality,” Hothgar roared. “You tried to assassinate the Sword of Nyxobas.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but the pain ripped her mind apart. She doubled over as the magical bonds began to crack her ribs. Across from her, Bael hung limply, suffocating. He dropped to the ground, his large body twitching.

  Air.

  Her vision darkened, and for just a moment, she caught a glimpse of a woman with vibrant nectarine hair, wielding a sword with expert skill—her face like Ursula’s, but her eyes a deep shade of brown...

  A voice in the hollows of her mind whispered, Kill the king. A clear voice, ringing like a bell, reverberating off her skull. A voice so familiar, it was like a part of her soul. Kill the king. Kill the king.

  With the last of her strength, she lifted the blade.

  Hothgar laughed. “We are immortal—you cannot hurt us with that.”

  It’s not meant for you, fuckwit.

  It’s for the king.

  With the last of her strength, she hurled the dagger at Nyxobas’s slumped body.

  Chapter 11

  The blade sank into Nyxobas’s chest. The lords froze, staring at the god of night. Time seemed to slow, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

  The filaments around Ursula’s chest loosened, and she gasped. Air.

  She sensed the terrifying presence of the void, flickering in the edge of her consciousness. Watching her.

  “Who has done this?” Nyxobas’s voice boomed through the silence. His eyes had shifted from black to a glacial gray—the icy gaze of her most terrifying nightmares.

  Black blood bubbled around the hilt of the dagger in his chest.

  Hothgar slowly turned, pointing at Ursula.

  “The hound?” Nyxobas roared.

  At the sound of his voice, a vast emptiness filled her mind. She stood at the edge of the precipice. Black and bottomless, it drew her closer. She only had to step off the edge, to give herself into eternal descent.

  No sound, no light, no sensation. Just Ursula and the unending darkness.

  Distantly, she felt the pain of her broken ribs. I can leave this wrecked body behind, this withering carcass.

  Is this what the Forgotten Ones had meant when they told her the darkness would save her? She could join Nyxobas now. Supplicate herself to him—become one of his brethren. He would give her power she couldn’t begin to imagine. She just needed to accept the void, to give up this decaying flesh.

  To give up the broken ribs and burning walls, the rapacious hunger that could eat her alive...

  Give up the tall grasses, beams of light through yew trees, the salty taste of sea air on her lips...

  No, she thought. I want to live.

  Before her, the darkness thinned. Her heart thrumming, she stared as Nyxobas slowly drew the blade from his chest. He crushed it between his fingers. “Why have you roused me?”

  “They were murdering Bael.” Her voice was rough and strained. Agony still pierced her chest where the cords bound her.

  From the floor, Bael moaned, no longer enshrouded by dark magic.

  Still alive.

  Nyxobas turned his gaze on Hothgar. “You chose to murder one of my lords?” Ice tinged his voice.

  Hothgar straightened. “He has lost his wings. Since we last spoke with you, he has proven himself unable to protect Albelda Manor. The palace has been destroyed, half his men slaughtered. As a mortal, he has been unable to fulfill his duties as lord. Abrax, your son, can hold the manor until another lord is appointed.”

  Nyxobas’s glacial eyes bored into him. “Is this true?”

  Bael pushed up onto his elbows, blood dripping from his lips. “The other lords attacked. I defended. Albelda Manor stands, and I live.”

  Hothgar’s eyes flicked to Ursula. “He wasn’t able to control his captive very well either. The hound is out of control, as you have seen.”

  Ursula’s mouth went dry. This is not going well. “Isn’t there a way for Bael to get his wings back? When I became a hound, I was offered a trial—”

  “A trial,” said Nyxobas, lifting a finger. “The wretched hound has the blood of a warrior.”

  Hothgar and Abrax both turned to glare at her. Shit. What did I just suggest?

  Shadows coiled around the god of night. “The code of the warrior has always allowed for a trial. If Bael wishes to keep his manor, he must fight for it. Win, and all is forgiven.”

  Bael rose to his feet. “I will kill whomever I need to. I may be mortal, but you know my strength.”

  The god’s silver eyes narrowed. “There will be a tournament. The lords may nominate five champions each—their greatest warriors. For the tournament, all demons shed their immortality. And if you, Bael, wish to reclaim your status, you must win the trial.”

  Bael nodded. He spoke through bloody teeth. “So be it.”

  “Then it is settled,” said Nyxobas. “When the shadows grow long above Lacus Mortis, and the sun sets, we will conduct a melee. Those who survive will join the race. Finally, a duel. The prize is the remnants of Albelda manor, and a position as lord. If Bael wins, I return his wings.”

  An icy silence fell over the room, then Hothgar slammed his gavel onto the stone. “A trial for all the lords. A just ruling.” His voice boomed, echoing off the crystal ceiling. After a moment, the room filled with rumbling cheers.

  Hothgar stood. “Before the melee, we will hold a feast. We will present our champions. Then, the bloodletting begins.”

  Bael stared out the window of the carriage, his jaw set tight. He kept his eyes fixed on the gray horizon. In the distance, his ruined manor glittered faintly.

  The bats’ wings beat the air, an oddly soothing sound after her close brush with death.

  Bael hadn’t spoken for the entire carriage ride. He’d regained his regal bearing, and blood no longer dripped from his mouth. But his demonic stillness sent a chill up her spine.

  She was quickly learning that the stiller a demon’s body, the more unquiet his mind.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

/>   Bael fixed his eyes on her, his irises shading over. “I told you to be subservient,” he spoke in a guttural growl. “Not to put a dagger in the god of night.” Dark magic whorled from his body, skimming her skin like an ice breath of wind.

  Anger inflamed her cheeks. “I was about to die. And if you hadn’t noticed, I saved you from suffocating to death. If stabbing Nyxobas is what it took to save us both, then so be it. I owe him nothing. He might be your god, but he’s not mine.”

  It took only a second for Bael to cross the carriage in a blur of black smoke. He boxed her in, one hand on either side of her head. “That’s right. You worship Emerazel, the wretched beast of hell. You have bathed in the fires of her evil heart.”

  Anger simmered. She’d never had a choice in aligning with Emerazel—at least, not one she could remember. She lifted her legs, kicking him in the chest. He slammed against the other side of the carriage, emitting a low growl.

  Ursula’s lips curled. She no longer had Emerazel’s fire in her veins, but her own rage blazed through her blood. “I do not worship Emerazel. I’m a pawn in the game of the gods. Like we all are. I don’t remember carving the mark in my chest, or why I thought it was a good idea, or anything about my life before three years ago.” She pulled down the shoulder of her dress. “The only thing I know is that this stupid scar is the worst mistake I ever made.” She yanked it up again. “I’m not Emerazel’s worshipper. I’m her slave, and I don’t know why. That’s the truth.”

  Shadows still clouded his eyes, and his nostrils flared. His cold magic thrummed over her skin. “You don’t belong here. The god of night has asked me to protect you, but I hate this job with every fiber of my being. He’s making a mistake. As a fire demon, you’re naturally inclined to destroy Nyxobas. To destroy all of us. Tonight proves it. You do not deserve my protection.”

  The coldness of his words pierced her chest.

  Brilliant. Her only true ally here hated her. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away. I’m not going to cry in front of him. “I was about to die,” she said through clenched teeth, trying to gain mastery over herself.