As she crossed to the bar, Ursula forced a smile. “All better.” Until he severs my head from my body. No. He wouldn’t do that. He’d said a painful death, and that wasn’t painful enough.
Ursula took a seat at the bar beside Cera and pulled a plate in front of her. She bit into the fresh bread, and the lightly salted mushroom flesh. Her fight against the caterpillars had certainly given her an appetite.
Cera chewed thoughtfully, her eyes glistening. She seemed subdued today. After a few moments, she turned to Ursula. “I don’t like the thought of you dueling against the lord. There is no way for this to end well.”
A sharp pang pierced Ursula’s chest. Cera was right. She shrugged. “At least he said he’d kill me swiftly, if it came down to it.”
Unless he figures out I’m his intruder.
Cera nodded.
“Would you describe him as a merciful sort?” asked Ursula. Like, is he likely to go back on his swift death promise if he gets mad enough? Will he be stabbing me to death with my own ribs.
Cera tilted her head. “To his enemies? Not particularly.”
Wonderful. She took another bite of her sandwich.
Cera frowned at her. “You seem awfully relaxed.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The duel is in two hours.”
Panic clenched Ursula’s heart, and she jumped up. “What? The fight is in two hours?” she practically shouted. “I thought I had twelve hours or something. I can’t read the bloody lunar clock.”
“Relax,” said Cera, nodding at the bag on the floor. “I cleaned and re-stitched your fighting gear.”
Ursula’s pulse began to race, and she stripped out of her nightgown. It took her only a few minutes to slip into the reinforced leather.
Her hands trembled as she buttoned up the corset. “Thanks, Cera.”
Sadness shone in Cera’s eyes. “Will you kill the lord?”
A lump rose in Ursula’s throat. “If I have to. I know you care for him.”
“It’s not just that.” Cera bit her lip, one of her sharp teeth piercing the skin. “If you kill him. Will you keep me as your servant?”
“Of course!” She touched Cera’s shoulder. “Or at least, I’ll make sure you’re safe. I’ll take you with me back to New York.”
Cera wrapped her arms around Ursula, squeezing her. “Thank you. Otherwise, the other lords would probably kill me.”
Ursula pulled away from Cera, looking her in the eye. “There will always be a home for you in New York. You’ve seen where I live. If both Bael and I die, take Sotz and fly there. Tell Zee you were my friend. She’ll look out for you.”
“Thank you.” Cera squeezed her hand. “But I’d like you to find a way for neither of you to die.”
Ursula’s heart ached. She couldn’t help but feel that she’d already witnessed her fate—Bael, shoving a blade into her heart. The life leaving her eyes, her jaw slackening, lips turning blue. Red hair stamped into the dirt. Dread coiled around her heart.
Her gaze flicked to the door where she kept her katana, but the sword wasn’t there. Her pulse began to race. “Where’s my sword?”
“I saw the lord take it,” Cera said softly.
A hot tendril of rage coiled through Ursula’s body. “I’m going to be in a fight to the death in less than two hours, and Bael has taken my only weapon?” Angry heat warmed her cheeks. “I thought he was trying to help me. He helped me in the melee. He trained me to shadow run.”
“Don’t get too upset. You’ll have to think clearly in the fight.”
“What fight?” she shouted. “He just left me without a weapon? What was the point of everything he’s done? Why not just kill me in the melee instead of giving me two weeks of false hope? What kind of person does that?”
Of course, he wasn’t a person. He was a demon—a predator. He’d told her as much.
Was he even capable of human-like emotions? Love or empathy? Or was he like all the other demon lords deep down—driven by a dark impulse to conquer and dominate? To screw with people’s heads for sport?
Surely, if he kept his wife’s wedding ring around his neck, he must have loved her. Ursula pointed at the spot on the wall where his wife’s portrait had hung. “Cera, you know the portrait of that woman that used to hang there?”
“Elissa, yes. The lord’s wife.”
“What happened to her?”
Cera’s face blanched, and she looked at the floor. “He wouldn’t want me to tell you.”
“Tell me.” Ursula’s stomach turned. “I need to know.”
Cera’s eyes glistened. “She died.”
“I know that. But how?”
“Stabbed, I think. With a sword.”
A growing sense of dread crept up Ursula’s throat. “Who stabbed her?”
Cera spoke so softly, Ursula nearly didn’t hear. “The lord.”
“Bael?”
Cera nodded mutely, and Ursula’s world tilted. Her heart thumped hard, and she ran upstairs, snatching the silver ring from its spot on the dresser. Frantically, she rubbed it between her fingers.
But this time, it brought her no relief.
As Cera called for her, she ran out the door.
Chapter 44
Ursula gripped Sotz tightly with her thighs, guiding her toward the arena. The icy lunar wind whipped over her skin as she arced lower. Here, on the other side of the moon, no sun burned in the sky. Only the silver glimmer of stars lit her way, and the bright glow of the Earth, hanging in the sky like a vibrant gemstone.
As before, torches burned before the platform, held by oneiroi. The crater’s seats crawled with demons and oneiroi. Oneiroi with great hunks of meat walked the aisles, shouting the price of a slice of roast. Oneiroi maidservants held trays laden with steins of beer.
All along the benches, demons waved banners with the insignia of the houses they supported—a lion for Bael, a scorpion for Abrax, a satyr for Bileth...
As she descended over the arena’s floor, a great whoop rose from the crowd. To her shock, the crowd began chanting her name. Apparently, they don’t hate the hellhound harlot as much as they once did.
In fact, maybe someone from the crowd had a weapon they could lend her...
Sotz touched down on the ground and she stepped off, surveying the space. As before, she stood alone in the center. She still wasn’t clear where they were supposed to go before the start of the duel, so she might as well start here.
Hothgar stood on the platform, a silver cape billowing in the wind. He stared at her, his eyes completely black.
And by his side, Abrax sat in a dark throne, just below the statue of his father. Abrax’s eyes had that same eerie, silver sheen as his father’s.
Ursula turned, scanning the crowd, searching for a weapon. Didn’t any spectators bring swords to death matches? She couldn’t find a single sheathed weapon—not even a dagger. Panic stole her breath.
Before she had the chance to give in to her fears completely, Hothgar sounded the gong. The knell reverberated through her bones, and her pulse began to speed up.
Hothgar’s voice boomed across Lacus Mortis. “The dueling commences soon, a fight to the death. Only one man will remain standing.”
He didn’t even bother to correct himself, to add in the possibility of a woman remaining standing. Anyone watching at this point would realize she didn’t have a weapon—that she was basically here to be slaughtered.
Hothgar raised his hands to the night sky. “I call upon Zoth of the giant of Pleion, Inth of Alboth.”
As Hothgar called out the names, the fighters strode from a dark tunnel on the side of the arena.
“Bernajoux of Zobrach,” Hothgar continued. Ursula glanced at her opponent—her lanky, and apparently sadistic opponent—dressed in a starry doublet. As he took his place, he bowed to Ursula.
“Valac of Phragol Mocaden,” Hothgar boomed. “Chax of Azimeth, our Phantom Rider, now known as the Gray Ghost.”
Ursula’s stomach cl
enched. Bael hadn’t taken him out of the running? What the hell was his game?
Hothgar smirked. “Ursula, the Harlot of Hellfire.
“And, our last champion, is the reason we’re all here to today. The lord of Abelda, formerly the Sword of Nyxobas, will be fighting to retain his manor. Bael the Fallen.” Hothgar solemnly intoned.
Ursula turned, her heart squeezing, and she watched Bael charge from the tunnel like an ox entering a bull-fighting ring. He wore a silver lion helm and a pair of thick leather trousers. No such protection guarded his tattooed chest, however. He strode into the arena shirtless, his godlike physique on full display. He’d left the bandages at home, and she got a full view of his lethal-looking tattoos: stars, lightning, a razor-sharp thunderbolt.
How could someone blessed with such beauty and physical grace be so dead inside? Too much time in the void, obviously. The betrayal felt like a punch to her gut.
But as he moved into the center of the arena, she studied him closer. In one hand, he clasped a silver broadsword, the same color as his helm. But in the other, the katana.
He stopped just by her side, a thin sheen of sweat on his tawny skin, and she looked up at him, her heart slamming against her ribs. Beautiful and terrifying at the same time. A man who looked like a god, but had murdered his own wife.
He held out the sword by the hilt. “Here.”
Hope bloomed in her chest. For just a moment, she had the strongest impulse to throw her arms around him, but she remembered what Cera had said about his wife.
She took the sword from him, her eyes moistening with tears of relief. “Why did you take it? I thought you were trying to get me killed.”
He shook his head. “You still think I have no honor? I had it cleaned and sharpened.”
She stroked her fingers over the hilt. “Thank you. You could have told me, I guess.”
“I thought you’d have understood me better by now,” he said softly.
“I don’t understand you at all.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she turned away to wipe it off her cheek. She did not want the other fighters to see her crying, but her emotions were churning out of control.
Ursula held up the sword, watching it flash wickedly in the starlight. She studied the steel for a moment—it did look sharper. She turned back to Bael, but he’d already taken his place at the end of the line of champions, just on the other side of Bernajoux.
Hothgar held out his hands once more. “The eight that remain have proven their skill in battle and air. Today, the duels will test their prowess in single combat.”
All around her, the crowd roared, baying for blood.
* * *
“The contest begins with Bael and Zoth.” Hothgar nodded at the two demons. “Proceed to the field of blood.”
Ursula’s mouth went dry. Not big on euphemisms here, are they?
Along with the rest of the champions, Ursula stepped away from the center of the arena. She glanced at Zoth—a massive demon, his arms as thick as tree trunks. Furs and metal breastplates encased his gargantuan chest. In one hand, he held an iron buckler. In the other, a short bastard sword.
He grinned, revealing a ragged row of teeth.
Bael stepped forward, drawing his sword. Although Bael stood at least six and a half feet tall, the behemoth had a good foot on him. Still, Bael didn’t appear in the least bothered, despite the monster looming over him.
“When I sound the gong,” Hothgar bellowed, “the duel begins.”
An icy wind whipped over the arena, and a deathly silence fell. Even though she’d learned that Bael had slaughtered his own wife, she wanted him to survive this. Maybe he wasn’t a sociopath. Maybe there was some valid reason, like his wife was a monster who needed to be put down.
But then, why would he keep her painting on his wall? And the wedding ring around his neck?
What possible reason could someone have for slaughtering someone he loved?
So that was the memory he was so desperate to run from, the one that tormented him.
She watched as Hothgar lifted his mallet and slammed it into the brass gong. The crowd roared.
Zoth slammed the flat edge of his sword against his own shield, in an apparent attempt to intimidate Bael. Zoth shifted his weight from one foot to another.
His tactic didn’t appear to be working. Bael stood perfectly still. He held his sword loosely, his body perfectly relaxed. Only his eyes betrayed any tension as they carefully tracked the demon’s movements. Watching that penetrating alertness in his gray eyes, she began to understand the true meaning of predator.
The air seemed too thin around her and then suddenly Zoth charged. Propelled forward by shadow magic, he aimed his sword straight at Bael’s heart. At the last possible moment, Bael swiftly stepped aside, like a toreador dodging a charging bull. But his sword remained steady.
In a beautifully savage motion, he ripped it through Zoth’s torso. The demon slumped forward, and Bael pulled his sword from the creature. Blood and gore pooled in the dirt.
Zoth mutely opened his mouth to scream, but in a swirl of shadows, Bael was standing over him. His silver sword flashed in the starlight, and he slammed the blade through Zoth’s neck.
Ursula’s blood ran cold. The whole fight had taken maybe two seconds. Bael displayed a level of skill she wouldn’t be able to match if she practiced for a thousand years.
Her knees began to shake. She could only hope her own death would be just as quick.
For a few pregnant moments, the crowd fell completely silent. Then, a chorus of boos filled the air, and a team of oneiroi ran out to clear the body. Zoth’s blood left a thick streak of crimson across the crater floor.
The crowd was not happy. They’d wanted a duel. This had been an execution.
Hotghar approached at the front of his stage. “That was—” He paused to think. “Very efficient.”
Bael nodded silently, his face perfectly still. For just a moment, his icy glaze flicked to her as he took his place at the end of the line.
Definitely a sociopath. Ursula reached into her pocket, her fingers coiling around the silver ring. She rolled it between her fingers. What would he do to me if he learned I’d crept into his quarters?
Hothgar banged his gong again, silencing the crowd.
Of course, no one had bothered to tell them the order of duels, so she had no idea when she’d have to fight Bernajoux. Nervously, she glanced down the line at him. Something about the smug grin he wore infuriated her.
Hothgar’s booming voice summoned Valac of Phragol Mocaden and Inth of Alboth to the field of blood. Inth stepped forward, wearing a full suit of armor and carrying a long pole arm. Valac—a muscular demon whose skin had a bluish hue—stood across from him, gripping a battle axe.
The crowd fell silent as the two demons faced each other. Slowly, Inth wove the end of his spear in the air, and a magical charge crackled form the point. Valac growled, a deep sound that seemed to rumble over the dirt.
Deep in her pocket, Ursula rolled the silver ring in the palm of her hand. Even though both men were large, the match was clearly unbalanced—a knight in armor versus an unprotected barbarian. Her fingers tightened around the ring.
A magical charge erupted from the pole arm with a loud crack. Just as the bolt of magic was ready to strike Valac, he twisted sideways, dodging the attack.
Snarling, Inth began recharging the pole arm by swinging it in the air. But before he could strike again, Valac closed the gap between them, stepping safely past the tip of the pole arm. He slammed his axe through the pike, hacking off the tip. The crowd roared.
Inth had just been thoroughly emasculated.
Inth’s armor creaked as he drew a sword from its sheath. But Valac slammed his axe into Inth’s shoulder, denting the metal. Inth bellowed in pain, but his armor had saved him from losing his arm.
Inth lifted his sword to swing, but his armor slowed him and he was unable to land a blow. Valac’s ax slammed against his armor again and again. T
hunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Inth spun, trying to keep Valac in sight, but he seemed unstable on his feet. Now, Ursula understood the strategy. Less armor meant greater agility.
Just as she thought all was lost for poor Inth, he whirled in a one-eighty. He slammed his metal-encased fist into Valac’s head. The crack of skull reverberated across the crater.
How did he manage a blow like that?
A burst of cold air struck Ursula’s face. Ah. He used shadow magic.
Valac fell to his knees, blood pouring between his fingers. Inth raised his sword and Ursula closed her eyes.
Bile rose in her throat. I can’t say I was ever overcome by the desire to watch someone’s head split open. By the full-throated roar of the crowd, they did not share her sentiment.
When she opened her eyes again, she stared at Valac’s limp, blue body on the dirt. The sword had cleaved through his skull.
The field of blood was aptly named.
Hothgar’s announced, “Well fought, Inth.”
The knight pulled off his helm. Sweat slicked his platinum hair, and blood oozed from the joints of his armor.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly. Limping slightly, he returned to his spot at the end of the line.
Ursula’s stomach dropped as she stared at Hothgar. The Sword of Nyxobas seemed to stare right at her, his eyes dark as onyx. And above him, Nyxobas’s statue stared into the void, eyes gleaming like cold starlight.
Any moment now, it will be my turn.
Hothgar slammed his mallet into his gong. “And now, a fight that should prove extremely satisfying for us all.” The wind toyed with his silver cape. “Bernajoux the Unvanquished and Ursula the Whore. Can you please step into the field of blood?”
The crowd’s screams pierced her to the bone.
* * *
Instead of a suit of armor, Bernajoux wore a velvet doublet. He neither looked like a medieval knight, nor an unhinged barbarian giant. He’d slicked back his dark hair, and straightened his thin mustache into a perfect line. He carried a narrow sword at his hip.
Nocturnal Magic (Demons of Fire and Night Book 2) Page 23