Nocturnal Magic (Demons of Fire and Night Book 2)

by C. N. Crawford

  Chapter 17

  The carriage plunged lower and lower through the air, and Ursula gripped the seat to steady herself. They were descending all the way to where Asta met the crater floor.

  With a lurch, the carriage touched down on a rocky avenue.

  She peered out the window at a long line of carriages. As the bats inched forward slowly on their claws, Ursula gazed out at the desolate lunar landscape. Apart from Asta’s violet light, darkness shrouded the land. Deep fissures cut into the stone around the base of the spire.

  Their carriage slowly pulled forward to a covered entrance, and two footmen in gray jackets hurried out to open their door.

  Bael stepped out, holding open the door for her. He offered her his hand as she stepped out.

  Ever the gentleman.

  This close to the ground, Asta’s crystal was a deep mulberry, the color of a bruise. Above them, gray clouds of moths swirled and danced, blotting out the stars.

  “This way,” said Bael.

  A walkway, lit by glowing mushrooms, led to the arched entrance. Ursula walked by Bael’s side, rubbing the silver ring between her fingers.

  Through the doorway, she stepped into an enormous hall, carved from the purple crystal. The walls arched at least two hundred feet above them, and great clusters of glowing mushrooms hung from the ceiling like chandeliers. Long, onyx tables, populated by demons filled much of the hall. An open space had been left in the center, like a dance floor. By Bael’s side, she walked further into the center of the hall.

  At the far end of the massive room, a single table stood on a dais. Eleven lords sat at the table, proudly enthroned in silver chairs. Abrax glared at her, licking his lips, and a shudder ran up her spine. No one here seemed to know or care that he’d tried to overthrow the entire Shadow Realm. Apparently, losing your wings was unforgivable, but a full-fledged divine coup was okay, assuming you were a demigod.

  In the center of the table, in the largest chair, sat Hothgar. A gavel lay on the table before him.

  Ursula frowned. That should be Bael’s spot. Until Abrax had ripped off his wings, Bael was Nyxobas’s Sword, the most senior of all the lords.

  Ursula looked at the whorls of shadow magic behind the table. Nyxobas. Behind the powerful clouds of magic, she’d nearly missed him. He sat in a silver throne, half-shrouded by writhing shadows. As a swirl of magic cleared, his eyes—two dark abysses—seemed to stare right at her. At the sight of him, dread tightened its grip on her heart.

  A small oneiroi hurried up to them.

  “Milord,” she said with a deep bow to Bael before turning to Ursula. Her eyes trailed down to Ursula’s dress, and the shockingly sheer fabric that hung below her cloak. The oneiroi scowled, then plastered a smile on her face once again. “Please follow me, milady. The lord will be seated at the table of nobles.”

  Ursula looked to Bael for help, but he was already moving toward the dais, leaving her behind.

  “Right this way,” the oneiroi chirped, beckoning her forward.

  Ursula took a deep breath. Let’s do this.

  She quickened her pace to keep up with the oneiroi, who navigated between the sea of demons, seated at the tables. Some appeared entirely human—and shockingly beautiful. Others sported more demonic features: horns, talons, or even eyes the color of blood. And yet they were beautiful in their own ways, too. Men with chiseled features, women in glittering gowns, their bodies lithe and delicate. Since arriving here not long ago and spending time with Cera, her definition of beauty seemed to be expanding.

  She surveyed the guests—gowns of dusky purple, midnight blue, or shimmering black seemed to be the favored colors. Some women had jewels threaded into their hair, and many of the men wore dark suits with silver accents.

  And each one of the demons stared at Ursula as she passed their tables.

  Obviously, word had spread about her presence. The hellhound harlot. Wait till they see the whole dress.

  Avoiding their stares, Ursula followed the oneiroi deeper into the hall, closer to the platform. Finally the oneiroi stopped, and gestured to an empty chair at a long table, filled with female demons sporting totally demonic features: horns, talons, white eyes, sharp teeth. All beautiful. All dripping with diamonds. And all staring right at her.

  The oneiroi pulled out a chair by a striking woman whose jet-black hair tumbled over a white gown.

  “Your seat, milady.” The oneiroi held out a hand. “May I take your cloak?”

  Ursula unclasped the cloak, pulling it off. Before she handed it to the oneiroi, she snatched the silver ring from her pocket.

  As the other women took in Ursula’s daring gown, they gasped audibly.

  Ursula’s shoulders tensed. That’s me. The hellhound harlot. She rubbed the ring between her fingers.

  She tried to force what she imagined was a pleasant expression onto her face and sat down next to the raven-haired woman. Immediately to the right of her sat a striking woman with flowing black hair. Her skin was so pale, it could have been carved from marble or alabaster. Ursula almost mistook her for human until she glimpsed a flash of sharp fangs. A goth princess.

  To Ursula’s left sat a woman in a dark blue dress. Two long blond braids draped over her formidable bosom—appropriately covered in opaque fabric. Unlike my gown. But what most drew Ursula’s eye were the delicately curled horns growing from the woman’s forehead. Their tips had been capped with gold. Overall, she looked like some kind of terrifying Viking.

  As Ursula sat, the women turned away from her. Her eyes flicked up to the dais, and she watched Bael take his seat at the end of the nobles’ table. It must really irk him to watch Hothgar steal his role as Sword.

  The goth princess raised a delicate white arm. “So who will be joining the pool?”

  Around the table, the demonesses began plucking off their jewelry, tossing them onto a plate in the center of the table—enormous diamonds, black opals, and deep violet gemstones so rare, Ursula didn’t even know what to call them.

  Her eyes widened. There, on a silver plate in the center of the table, lay a pile of carelessly discarded jewels that were probably worth more than the GDP of a small nation.

  Goth Princess rubbed her hands together. “Is everyone clear on the rules?”

  The Viking raised a hand. “The one who picks the winner gets the whole pot. Yes?”

  Goth Princes sighed. “No, a quarter of the pot goes to whomever chooses the most finalists in the melee, a quarter goes to the one who picks the winner of the race, and the remaining half goes to whomever picks the winner of the duels.”

  The Viking grinned. “This is going to be so exciting. We haven’t had a proper tournament in ages.”

  A woman whose silver hair tumbled over a black gown narrowed her eyes at Ursula. She drummed long, pearly talons on the table. “Did you want to join the pool, hellhound?” The woman’s eyes were nearly as pale as her skin, framed by black lashes. “You’ll have to contribute if you want to join.”

  Ursula tried to flash a friendly smile. She knew how rich, glamorous chicks worked. They were perfectly happy to be your best friend, as long as you never threatened to outshine them. Best to be humble in this crowd. “I’m afraid I have nothing of value to offer.”

  Talons nodded approvingly.

  The Viking’s brow furrowed. “So what do we do about Bael?”

  “What about him?” asked Goth Princess.

  Viking cocked her head. “He’s already won a tournament before. He’s older than the rest. I don’t think it’s fair to pick him for the final winner.”

  The princess nodded. “Excellent point. Can we all agree to leave the Lord of Albelda off the ballot, mortal as he might be?”

  Around the table, the women nodded. No one wanted to annoy Goth Princess.

  Viking flick one of her braids behind her shoulders. “I still can’t believe that he lost his house. Such a shame. From what I understand, he was the only one of the lords who actually knew how to pleasure a woman.�
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  “Not that his skill in bed made a difference.” Talons sighed, eying Ursula. “He was never going to marry again. I believe he never quite got over Elissa.”

  Viking’s eyes widened. “I heard one of Borgerith’s ogres ripped his wings out. Two millennia, and he was felled by an idiot ogre.”

  Ursula’s chest clenched. It was Abrax, you twats. Abrax ruined him.

  Goth Princess took a sip of champagne. “I’m not sure it was a wise decision for Nyxobas to appoint him Sword in the first place. You all know his background, I’m sure.” She let her dark eyes wander to Ursula. “He was bound to snap at some point.”

  Ursula’s face heated. This arsehole knows he hasn’t told me about his background. She is throwing some serious demon shade.

  The princess cocked her head, staring right at Ursula. “Bael might be a legendary warrior, but he’s broken inside. Always has been.”

  They all nodded, then clinked their glasses in some kind of fucked-up toast.

  Please get me out of here. She was quickly getting the impression that it was going to be very difficult to get through the night without hurting someone. For Bael’s sake, she kept her mouth shut.

  Viking stroked one of her braids. “Worst of all, my husband lost a third of his legion trying to drive Bael from his manor.”

  Goth Princess twirled the delicate stem of her glass between her fingers. “A travesty we weren’t successful. Bael should have been sent to the void months ago—”

  A loud banging from the dais interrupted her. All heads turned as Hothgar slammed his hammer down again, his eyes flicking to the Viking for just a moment.

  “Tonight, the lords select their champions to determine who is worthy of Abelda mansion,” he roared. “But now, it is time to feast!”

  Chapter 18

  A crew of oneiroi waiters bustled into the hall, carrying silver platters laden with food. A waiter pushed one of the trays between Ursula and Goth Princess, and her gaze slid to the roasted meat, seasoned with rosemary and garlic. At least they know how to eat here.

  Her mouth watered at the sight of meat and potatoes—and the bowls of luminescent mushroom soup.

  The waiter placed a bowl in front of Ursula, and she breathed in the rich, earthy scent. It looked terrifying, but smelled amazing, and her mouth was already watering. As he dropped a bowl before Goth Princess, he leaned in to ask, “Would you like bottle of wine for the table?”

  Goth Princess’s lip curled back from her fangs, and she snarled, “Would you like a bottle of wine for the table, milady.”

  The waiter nodded frantically, avoiding eye contact. “Milady, I’m sorry—”

  “Stop talking and fill my glass,” she snapped.

  “Of course, milady.”

  Ursula glared at her. Wanker. Too bad there would be no tournament between the women of this table.

  Ursula focused all her energy on keeping her mouth shut. A waiter bustled around the table, slicing up the meat and serving it on plates. Ursula waited until Goth Princess began cutting into her food and then followed suit. The meat tasted as delicious as it smelled. Roast beef maybe? It wasn’t ham, she was certain.

  Viking raised her hand, snapping her fingers at one of the waiters. She pointed to her plate. “Is it from Nyxobas’s stables?”

  The waiter bowed. “Yes, milady. Strictly moth-fed around Asta, no supplements or additives.”

  Ursula stopped mid-chew, her stomach turning. “What kind of meat is this?”

  The waiter bowed again. “Milady, it’s bat-shoulder. Just slaughtered this afternoon.” He flashed a proud smile.

  She swallowed the lump of flesh in her mouth. Maybe I’ll just stick to the mushroom soup.

  She lifted a spoonful into her mouth, savoring the woodsy, garlicky flavor. Perfect.

  She tried not to stare at Viking, who ripped through the bat-shoulder with the terrifying ferocity of a pit bull. Maybe it’s for the best we’re not part of a tournament.

  Talons leaned across the table, her eyes locked on Goth Princess. “How was your vacation on Earth?”

  “Glorious. We rented a little cottage on a private atoll in the Maldives. The water was amazing—beautiful night swimming. The locals were delicious.”

  “I’m so jealous,” Viking cut in. “Hothgar’s idea of romance is drinking five pints of blood and asking me to watch him rut with a human in a hayloft. He likes to control their minds, you know. Make them supplicate themselves before him. He makes them call him Nyxobas and praise his lunar staff.”

  “We know,” said Talons. “The entire Shadow Realm knows.”

  Goth Princess shrugged. “Abrax does that, too. It’s just what demon males do. Especially incubi, of course. He can’t get enough of his little human playthings.”

  “I hate Hothgar,” muttered Viking. “The last time he showed me any affection was our claiming ceremony. But it isn’t a woman’s place to complain to a husband. At least, not to his face.”

  “All demons want to dominate humans,” said Goth Princess. She turned to Ursula. “You’re basically human. I mean, you’re a mortal demon. You have no powers here in the Shadow Realm.”

  Ursula paused, mid-spoonful. “What, now?”

  “We know you’re here to be someone’s whore.” Talons poked a finger in her face. “Is it Bael? Are you his consolation prize for the loss of his wings and his manor?”

  Ursula cringed. “Can we go back to when you were ignoring me?”

  Goth Princess narrowed her eyes. “What depraved things has he been making you do in that ruined manor of his?” She licked her fangs. “He is quite gorgeous, so I’m not sure that I’d mind if I were you.”

  Talons licked the soup off one of her curled claws. “He is reputed to be an amazing lover, you know. Not like Hogarth. Long ago, he was worshipped as a god in his home country. It could be worse for you.”

  Ursula frowned, and she glanced at Bael on the dais, sitting silently by the other lords. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

  Viking snorted. “You’re an idiot. They don’t exist.”

  Talons raised her champagne flute, smiling. “Demon males view all women as their property and playthings. And when it comes to weak little human women, that goes double. You’re here as a harlot, my dear. We all know that.”

  Ursula could feel her face heating from anger. Just as she was about to indulge in a tirade, Hothgar banged his gavel from the dais.

  “It is time to begin the Selection of the Champions. We will start with the most junior lords.” He turned to the lord furthest from him, a cloaked man with milky-white skin and eyes like black pearls.

  Hothgar raised his gavel. “Lord Vepar. you may nominate your five.”

  Vepar stood and spoke in a firm voice. “I nominate Inth from my legion.”

  A lanky demon in a full suit of silver armor entered from a side entrance, gripping a long spear. He strode into the empty space in the center of the hall, then bowed deeply toward the dais.

  “Inth of the Vepar Legion. May Nyxobas grant you the grace of a shadow and the strength of a warrior.”

  As Inth finished bowing, inky tendrils of magic lifted from his body, curling toward Nyxobas.

  “What is that?” asked Ursula.

  “His immortality,” said Talons. “It’s not much of a fight to the death if no one can die.”

  “He’ll get it back if he wins,” said the Viking. “Except, he won’t win.”

  His voice booming through the hall, Lord Vepar nominated the rest of his champions—all enormous men, shielded in silver armor.

  Without seeing them fight, she couldn’t quite gauge their prowess. Somehow, none of them seemed quite as formidable as Bael, but you couldn’t always tell just by looking at someone. Some skinny men were just psychotic enough to put up a terrifying fight. In London, she’d once seen a slender Millwall F.C. fan bite the ear off a man in a Chelsea Football Club shirt.

  Hothgar called upon one lord after
another to nominate their five, and Ursula stared at the stream of muscled champions filling the center of the hall with a growing sense of dread. Bael must kill all of them. He must cut through each warrior, and he’s not even at full strength.

  Her panic only worsened as Hothgar called on the senior champions, whose warriors grew in stature. One—a near giant—sent trembles over the floor as he walked.

  When Hothgar reached Bileth—the Demon-Bull— he paused for just a moment. “Lord Bileth. Are you prepared to nominate a champion?”

  “I am,” said Bileth, his deep voice filling the room. “I nominate my son, Sallos.”

  An enormous beast of a demon strode into the center of the room. Like his father, his white skin had an almost bluish tinge. He wore only a white fur kilt about his waist, revealing a muscled torso. In one hand, he gripped a massive axe. Ursula’s stomach flipped. His weapon was as least five feet long, with a head of blue steel. She’d never seen Bael wield a weapon like that.

  “Congratulations, Sallos. May Nyxobas—”

  A door slammed open at the other end of the hall, cutting off Hothgar. Completely dressed in gray cloth, a stranger strode through the hall. A scarf covered most of his face, apart from a thin slit for his eyes. The entire hall stared.

  “What is this interruption?” Hothgar bellowed.

  He strode into the center of the hall, taking his place among the champions. “I wish to compete in the tournament.” His scarf slightly muffled his voice, but his words were clear nonetheless.

  “Who are you and on what grounds do you claim the chance to compete for Bael’s manor?” roared Hothgar, rising from his chair. His cheeks had reddened, and fury sparked in his eyes. “This tournament is only open to the champions of the lords of Nyxobas.”

  “I am not a member of a lord’s legion,” said the intruder. “But by the law of the warrior, I request the chance to challenge a champion. I will take another’s position.” He turned to Sallos. “If there are any here brave enough to take on this challenge.”

  Before Hothgar could respond, Sallos raised his axe. “I accept.”