Nocturnal Magic (Demons of Fire and Night Book 2)

by C. N. Crawford

  Sweet mother of hell. I could have slaughtered Massu, the boy with the spaceship drawings.

  Cera cocked her head. “Are you okay? You look ill.”

  “I’m—I’m okay.” Ursula put down her fork, staring at the now empty tray of food. “I’m just feeling a bit queasy from everything that happened today.”

  “Of course.” Cera plopped the dome back on the tray. “I’ll let you get some rest.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be back later with some food. I must check on the lord now.” Tray in hand, Cera slipped out of the room.

  But Ursula knew she wouldn’t get any rest, not with her thoughts roiling like storm clouds. Bael hated her, the lords wanted her dead, and she may have killed the beloved brother of her only ally.

  And what the hell had happened earlier, with that voice in her head? Kill the king? It had sounded so familiar, like it was a part of her very being.

  Ursula pulled off her dress, dropping it on the floor, then kicked off her shoes. Exhaustion burned through her body, and she longed for sleep. In her underwear, she curled up in the corner of the sofa and pulled a downy white blanket over herself.

  Loneliness tightened its fingers around her heart. If she’d been a normal person—one with memories—she’d probably take this opportunity to recall the times that her mother had looked after her, bandaged skinned knees or quieted her fears. Those sort of memories would soothe her soul, she imagined.

  Instead, the best she could do was think of Zee, with a champagne cocktail and a fashion magazine. She missed her friend terribly.

  In the darkness beyond the windows, Astra glowed faintly, and the clouds still twisted and writhed around it. Now that she’d learned what they were, the clouds no longer seemed quite so beautiful. Each vortex, each tendril, was a flock of moths fleeing in terror from a hungry bat.

  She closed her eyes, and in her mind’s eye, streams of moths whirled in frantic eddies.

  She was one of them now—a moth hunted by Nyxobas’s creatures.

  Chapter 13

  Curled up on the sofa, Ursula awoke with a start, adrenaline flooding her veins. What had roused her?

  She scanned the room. Nothing seemed amiss—nothing had moved, not a single Grecian urn out of place. And yet, the hair on her neck stood on end.

  An uneasy feeling licked at the back of her mind, telling her that someone was watching her.

  Could someone have entered the room while she’d slept? She lay perfectly still, pretending to sleep, searching the darkness through slitted eyes. Had one of the demon lords come for revenge?

  You’re just paranoid, Ursula. Probably Emerazel’s mind tricks, fucking with you.

  Then, she caught a flicker of movement in the darkness outside her window. Shadow magic. Her pulse raced.

  Not paranoid after all.

  She opened her eyes wider, straining to see through the swirls of magic. She pushed up onto her elbows, desperately searching for a plan. Without so much as a corkscrew, what would she use to fight? Urns? Not to mention the fact that she was wearing nothing but lace knickers and a bra under her blanket. Please don’t let it be Nyxobas or any of the other perverts. As she stared outside, the magic thinned, revealing an enormous lunar bat.

  It hovered in front of the window, wings beating silently, blood-red eyes and wings of the color of bone. Something moved on its back—a rider dressed in gray. He straightened, then flung a sticky black substance against the window in front of her. Then, in a single silky motion, he aimed a small crossbow at her.

  Panic stole her breath. What the fuck is going on?

  She threw herself from the sofa.

  The black tar exploded, shattering the window in a spray of glass that ripped into her skin.

  Curling into a ball, Ursula tried to shield her body from the crossbow. Her stomach clenched as she heard the soft whirr of the arrow flying through the air.

  Her heart raced. She waited for the thunk of the bolt when it struck her, the searing jolt of pain, the tearing of her flesh.

  Instead, she felt only the sharp ringing in her ears from the blast.

  When she opened her eyes, the rider had disappeared into the night. She gaped at the remaining shards of glass. The bolt had missed her. Why? It’s not like she’d been a moving target.

  She rose to her knees and glanced down at her body, at the crimson streaks cutting across her pale flesh. She’d been cut all over by the glass. But at least that was the worst of it.

  Still, she couldn’t exactly forget about it. The rider had left a gaping hole in the bottom of the window, and anyone could return to finish her off. She slipped into her shoes, then slipped behind the sofa. Blood dripped from her cuts, staining the floor. Injured or not, she had to protect herself. Now.

  Using the couch as a shield, she pushed it closer to the window, grunting as she shifted it. Not only can they enter into my quarters, she thought, but they can see me here, too. Suddenly, she felt very exposed.

  When she’d finished pushing the couch, it blocked the bottom of the hole, but she still had more work to do. A thin sheen of sweat rose on her forehead. A moth hunted by the creatures of Nyxobas.

  With one eye on the window in case the rider returned, she crossed to an armchair on the other side of the room. She pushed it across the floor, straining her muscles. Sweat dripped down her skin, mingling with the blood. A combination of adrenaline and brute strength allowed her to lever it on top of the sofa with a pained groan.

  The sofa and chair together covered most of the window, and a second armchair added extra support to the structure. Not ideal, but better than nothing.

  She stepped back and took a shaky breath. With the adrenaline draining from her system, the cuts in her skin began to burn. She ran a hand over her bare abdomen, smearing blood across her fingers.

  What the hell had just happened? The rider had practically been at point-blank range, but still missed. Could this be only the first volley before a second attack?

  Or maybe, someone wanted to frighten her, to flush her out of the quarters. Nothing protected the bridge to the lion atrium—an ideal spot for an assassin to hide.

  Ursula turned in a slow circle, searching for the bolt. She’d heard it fly from the crossbow. Maybe it would hold some sort of clue.

  As she turned toward the portrait of that dark-eyed woman, she froze. There, in the center of the painting, a bolt jutted into the air.

  She crept cautiously closer, examining the weapon. It was carved from black wood. Ebony maybe. As she stepped closer, she could see that something had been wrapped around it—parchment.

  This hadn’t been an attempt on her life. Someone had wanted to deliver a message.

  Ignoring the pain that seared her skin, she pulled the bolt from the wall and peeled off the parchment. When she unfurled it, she found a message scrawled in black ink:

  YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE, HOUND. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING. NEXT TIME, WE WILL NOT MISS.

  Chapter 14

  The door to her quarters flung open with a bang.

  Instinctively Ursula dove behind the bar, her knees and palms scraping over glass shards. She groaned in pain.

  “What in the seven hells is going on in here?” Bael’s voice boomed through the room. Ursula exhaled, rising unsteadily. Maybe Bael hated her for being the enemy, but he viewed it as his job to protect her. She rose unsteadily and crossed in front of the bar.

  He stood in the living room, dark magic swirling around him, wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts. He held an enormous broadsword, and the cold battle fury blazing in his eyes made her stomach clench. “Are they gone?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  His chest was bound in bandages, but it didn’t hide his perfect, chiseled body. And peeking out from the bandages, she could see glimpses of his tattoos—a crescent moon, a pointed star, a lightning bolt, sharp as a blade. Terrifying—but magnificent to behold nonetheless.

  He gazed at her, some of the fury fading
from his eyes. Concern flickered across his features. “You’re hurt.”

  She nodded. As the adrenaline left her body, her teeth began to chatter. “There was a lot of broken glass.”

  He crossed the room in a blur of shadow, dropping his sword on a chair. In the next second, Bael’s strong hands were around her waist.

  Surprise flickered through her. Gently, he lifted her onto the top of the bar, careful not to touch her wounds. He examined her skin, pulling out a shard of glass from just below her ribs. She clenched her teeth, trying not to cry out at the pain. A warrior like Bael wouldn’t be impressed by a load of whining. For a man with such large hands, she had to marvel at the nimbleness of his fingers as he plucked one tiny shard of glass after another from her skin. A deep concentration furrowed his brow, and he worked silently, like an expert craftsman.

  When he’d finished, he gazed into her eyes, resting his hands on the counter on either side of her legs. For the first time, she saw a hint of softness in his glacial eyes. “You’re withstanding the pain remarkably well.”

  She swallowed hard. His otherworldly beauty was distracting, and she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. If she hadn’t been covered in blood and cuts, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to stop herself from pressing herself against him.

  Flustered, she blurted the first thing that came to her mind. “I’m quite badass, actually.”

  She cringed. Idiot.

  His brow knitted with confusion. “Right. Well, I’m going to heal you with my magic. When I’m done, I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”

  She nodded, watching as he traced his fingertips just below some of the cuts in her skin. His magic caressed her skin, soothing her pain. As she closed her eyes, the shadow magic licked at her skin, then seeped deeper into her body. Her heart sped up, and the waves of pleasure dizzied her. An image rose in her mind of a sandstone temple, gleaming in the sun.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and before she could think better of it, she touched the palm of her hand to his cheek.

  Nearly imperceptibly, he leaned into her. His gray eyes roamed over her bare skin. With a hoarse voice, he asked, “What happened? What did they do to you?”

  She dropped her hand. “A bat flew up to the window and threw some sort bomb against it.”

  His brow furrowed. “A bat threw a bomb on your window?”

  “No... No, I mean.” Bael’s bare skin and his closeness was distracting. Her pulse raced, and her cheeks flushed. Could a demon tell when you were turned on? Probably. “Someone rode it.”

  “The rider didn’t come in to attack you?”

  “No. He just sent a bolt through the window with a warning about how I don’t belong.”

  Bael backed away from her, glancing at the punctured portrait. “What happened to your clothes?”

  She shrugged. “I was asleep. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”

  “Are you okay now?”

  “Completely knackered, but unharmed. Now that you’ve healed me.”

  He turned, studying the broken window. “You made a barricade from the sofa and chairs.”

  “I was worried they might try to come in, and I didn’t want them to see me.”

  “That was smart.” Suddenly shy, he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Without the cuts, her nudity seemed to bother him. “Where’s the note?”

  She slid off the bar, then pointed at the floor where she’d dropped it. “It’s right there.”

  He reached down, snatching it off the floor, along with the bolt. “I hope you didn’t touch it. It could be cursed.”

  “But it’s okay for you to hold it?”

  Ignoring her, he inspected the wood. “So he blew out the glass and then shot at you with the crossbow.”

  “Exactly.” Why do I get the feeling that Bael knows more about this particular method of assassination than he’s letting on?

  “And he didn’t hit you?” Bael scanned the room.

  “No.”

  He shook his head, still searching the floor for something. “That rider is a dead man.”

  “You’re going to kill him for trying to murder me?”

  “I don’t need to. His lord will.” He glanced again at the painting of the dark-eyed beauty.

  “For not assassinating me?” Ursula asked. Blood still covered her body, and a chill washed over her skin. Shivering, she crossed her arms.

  “It is the law here. Failure to complete a mission is punishable by death.” For a second, his gaze flicked to her, then he sucked in a sharp breath, glancing at the painting of the beautiful woman. His pale eyes shined in the dim light of the candle.

  “Have you executed any oneiroi because they didn’t complete a mission?”

  “I follow the law.” Slowly, he crossed to the painting. He reached out to touch the canvas, running his fingertips over the tear.

  Ursula frowned. “Why are the laws so draconian?”

  “Nyxobas provides order in the chaos. Before he arrived here, the oneiroi were lawless. Vengeance and blood feuds ruled the darkness. The god of night has civilized them.”

  “Yeah, it seems really civilized here, with all the murder and assassinations.”

  “We have our own code.” His fingers traced over the hole in the painting.

  “Why can’t the oneiroi speak your name? I don’t see what that has to do with security.”

  His gaze slid to Ursula, his eyes so black they might have been direct conduits to Nyxobas’s void. “My name was given to me by the god himself. Only the brethren may utter it.” Bael crossed his arms over his mammoth chest. “The bolt tore the painting.”

  “Right. I hope it wasn’t valuable.”

  He fell silent for a moment, his jaw working. “Perhaps you should get dressed.”

  “You’re not dressed, either,” she pointed out. She glanced down at herself, at the sticky blood still covering her skin. “I need to bathe before I put anything on. But I still have questions for you. Come with me.”

  “You want me to bathe with you?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “That’s not what I meant. I’ll leave the door open. You can stand outside.”

  He nodded curtly. “I’ll be staying here tonight. To stand guard.”

  A wave of relief washed over her. “Perfect. Thank you.” She crossed to the bathroom, leaving the door partially open. Bael’s presence both unnerved and calmed her at the same time, but she still had a million things to ask him. She leaned over the bath, turning on the water. Steam filled the room, and she unhooked her bra, sticky with blood, then stepped out of her knickers.

  As the bath filled with warm water, she stepped in. “I saw your bandages,” she said, calling to him. “Are you hurt?”

  He paused a moment before answering. “Without my wings, I can’t use magic to heal myself.”

  She grabbed the bar of lavender soap, lathering her arms. Bael’s healing magic had left not a single scar on her skin. “I don’t understand how you plan to fight the champions with two bloody holes in your back. You know you’re not invincible. You could die trying to keep your manor.”

  “It’s not like I have any other choice. If I lose, Hothgar and Abrax will hunt me down. My existence will always be a threat to them.”

  She splashed the water over her soapy skin, and her blood stained the water pink. Suds dripped off her shoulders and breasts. “Why would your existence be a threat to them?”

  “Because Nyxobas chose me to be his Sword. He didn’t chose them. And I am the strongest warrior the Shadow Realm has ever known.”

  “Not really big on humility, are you?” He was silent for a moment. “I’m starting to learn. I’m no longer as strong as I was.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll return in a moment.”

  Outside the bathroom, the faint sounds of tinkling glass filtered through the air.

  Ursula’s mind churned. Bael was obviously trying to fulfill his role as protector—whether he liked her or not, it was his duty. But how much could he really do�
�especially with this tournament hanging over his head? He might have been the best fighter the shadow world had ever known at one point. But now, he wasn’t a match for immortals.

  She pushed the thoughts to the back of her skull, and rose from the bath. Water trickled from her skin. She leaned over, unplugging the bath.

  As goosebumps rose on her skin, it occurred to her that she’d failed to bring any clothes inside the bathroom. Idiot.

  She grabbed a towel, drying off. “I don’t suppose you could grab me some clothes?”

  He cleared his throat. “Right. Clothes.”

  Clearly, a lord of Nyxobas was unused to fetching women’s dresses.

  She shivered. If the lords were going to keep coming after her, maybe she’d have to find a new place to live. The manor was huge—surely there were some hidden depths where she could remain unnoticed.

  The door creaked open another inch, and Bael thrust a dress through.

  She grabbed it from him. “Thank you.”

  She unfurled the dress—black lace with embroidered swirls that climbed up the sheer bodice. Way too fancy for hanging around in a half-demolished house, but she couldn’t expect Bael to be an expert on women’s clothes. Nor could she have expected him to include knickers and a bra—which he didn’t.

  She stepped into the living room, eying the floor. He’d cleared up all the glass. Starlight washed his deep golden skin in silver.

  For just a moment, Bael’s eyes roamed over her body, then he nodded at the remaining sofa. “Get some rest. I’ll keep watch to make sure no one returns for you.”

  “This place is huge. Why don’t we go to another part of the building?”

  “You’re safe as long as I’m here.”

  “You need to sleep, too.”

  He cut her a sharp look. “I have lived over twenty-two thousand years. I can survive a night without sleep.”

  As she crossed to the sofa, he sat in an armchair facing the window, arms folded.

  She dropped into the sofa, pulling a soft blanket over her body. “Twenty-two thousand years?” The number made her dizzy. “Where do you come from, anyway?” “Canaan.”