At the bottom of the dank tower, Bael tried a doorknob. When he found it locked, he broke it with a sharp kick just above the lock. The door swung open to reveal the interior of a church. Or a temple, perhaps—one covered in dust and cobwebs, with symbols of flames etched into stained-glass windows.
They crossed into the center of a sanctuary, where Emerazel’s sigil hung above them. Rows of church pews faced them. Carved into the stones on the far wall was a Latin inscription: Hodie mecum eris inferno.
“Well, we’re in the right place,” said Bael.
“How do you know?”
“The inscription,” he said, pointing at the Latin text. “‘This day you shall be with me in the infernos.’ The words Emerazel speaks to her followers when she personally reaps their souls. This is definitely the Church of Laverna.”
Given that the king had forbidden the use of fire magic, it was no wonder the place seemed a bit shabby.
Bael started down the central aisle toward a pair of large wooden doors, and Ursula followed, her crinoline gown practically trailing on the dusty floor.
As they neared the exit, the sound of creaking wood pierced the silence, and a small door opened in one of the walls. A man stepped into the sanctuary, dressed in a dark robe. He looked like a priest, but apparently he was a priest of Emerazel. One forbidden from using her magic.
“Who are you?” he asked. Ursula could sense the fear in his voice.
“We were just leaving,” said Bael, starting toward the doors.
The priest’s eyes widened as he looked past them toward the sanctuary and the broken bell tower door. “You must leave at once,” he said in a sharp whisper. “If Midac were to learn of the sigil—”
“Just on our way out,” said Ursula.
And with that, Bael pushed open the church doors. Outside, a bitterly cold wind nipped at Ursula’s skin, and they crossed onto a narrow street, the houses crowded over a cobbled road. Mist curled through the air. Ursula shivered, pulling the wool cloak tightly around her.
“Should we be worried about the priest?” she asked.
“No,” said Bael. “Laverna is a goddess of thieves and deceivers. He won’t be compelled to tell the truth.”
“Well, that is reassuring.”
If Bael heard her, he didn’t show it, instead starting across the small churchyard at a brisk trot. Graves jutted out of the bumpy grass at odd angles, and Ursula hurried to catch up with Bael.
“What now?” she asked.
Bael paused for a minute, squinting his eyes. “This way.”
Ursula walked briskly to keep up with him, taking in the scene around her. Three-story, rickety houses loomed over the street, built so close together they blotted out most of the moon. Although they’d left the Grotto, Ursula still felt that sense of dark claustrophobia. She followed Bael down streets so narrow she could practically touch both sides if she stretched out her arms. Not that she had any desire to actually do so. A misting rain had left the cobbles slick with ice, and it took her full concentration not to slip on the stones.
Bael peered at her, his gray eyes glinting in the gloom. “Do you recognize anything here? Anything familiar?” His voice was nearly inaudible.
She shook her head. “Maybe a vague sense that I’ve been here before, but that’s about it.”
“I haven’t been to my home in centuries,” he said. “My real home. I don’t like what it makes me remember.” He slid his gaze to Ursula. “You might not like what you remember here, either.”
A chill snaked up Ursula’s spine. “I know. But I have to try. You once told me I shouldn’t run from my painful memories. I think you were right.”
Silence fell over the pair again. As they made their way through the maze of streets, Ursula felt a familiar prickling of the hair on her arms. Somewhere in the darkness behind them, someone was watching.
“Bael,” she whispered as loudly as she dared. “I think we’re being followed.”
Bael’s hand immediately went to the blade at his belt, and they both picked up their pace as the street opened onto a larger avenue. The fog thickened around them, and a misty rain fell. Bael grabbed Ursula’s hand, pulling her into the shadowy entrance of a store. A horse neighed in the distance.
Ursula was pressed up close to Bael’s powerful chest. Warmth radiated from his body, and the intoxicating scent of sandalwood curled around her.
“What are you doing?” Ursula whispered, half tempted to just rest her head against his body and close her eyes.
Bael pressed a finger to his lips.
A clattering sound echoed off the buildings, and Ursula peered around the corner. A black carriage was emerging from the fog. Pulled by a brace of horses, it barreled over the cobbles. From its roof, a coachman slapped the reins, urging the horses onward.
Bael pulled her closer, enveloping her in his shadowy magic to cloak her. It took Ursula a moment to see why. Armed with a long rifle, a footman rode next to the coachman. As the carriage passed, Ursula caught a brief glimpse of a young couple sitting inside. Then the carriage disappeared back into the fog.
She rested against Bael for a moment, drinking in his soothing smell and enjoying the feel of his powerful arms around her.
Still, she couldn’t really enjoy the close contact when she realized that across the avenue, stood a pair of men dressed in long black coats. One wore a bowler hat, while the other sported a thick set of muttonchops. Bowler Hat’s hand moved inside his coat and drew out a revolver. Ursula’s pulse raced.
“Thieves, I think,” said Bael. “They must have followed us from the Church of Laverna.”
Bael spoke softly, his voice nearly husky. “We should go.” Almost reluctantly, he pulled away and peered onto the street. “Now.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her after him.
About twenty feet into their sprint, a voice interrupted them.
“Don’t move,” Bowler Hat barked.
Bael stopped, turning to face them. “Put down your gun,” he said slowly.
The mugger laughed, moving closer. “You’ll have to pay first. Empty your pockets.” He had an old-fashioned sort of Cockney accent—one Ursula had only ever heard used by the octogenarian set in London.
“I’ll only say it one more time,” said Bael. “Put down your gun.”
Muttonchops muttered something to his partner, who began to raise his revolver. Fire began to kindle within Ursula, but Bael was already moving in a flicker of shadows. Breaking bone cracked the air—then a scream—as Bael snapped Bowler’s wrist. The revolver skittered into the street. Bael stepped behind the man, then pressed the edge of his sword against his throat in a blur of shadows and steel.
Bowler’s hat fell to the cobbles, revealing thinning hair. He struggled, but Bael pressed his sword harder against the man’s throat. Muttonchops scrambled around for the revolver.
“Stay where you are,” said Bael, his voice glacial. “Or your friend dies.”
Muttonchops lifted his terrified eyes to meet Bael’s. “Let him go.”
Bael’s sword remained pressed against the man’s throat.
“We are only trying to feed our families,” Muttonchops whined.
“You would have killed us,” said Bael.
“We had no choice. There is no food.” Tears welled in Muttonchops’ eyes, and his voice was thick. “Don’t kill my brother.”
Ursula looked from Bowler to Muttonchops. She had to admit, they seemed genuinely upset. Of course, Bowler had a sword pressed to his throat, but Muttonchops’s tears looked authentic.
Ursula bent to pick up the revolver from the cobbles, finding the metal grimy and wet with rain. Rearing back, she threw it with all her strength down the empty street. It disappeared into the fog and gloom with a distant clatter.
“I think we should let them go,” she said.
Bael studied her for a moment, as if trying to determine if she was serious, then released the pressure on his sword. As Bowler moved away, Bael shoved him hard, sending him s
prawling into his brother’s arms. Both men fell onto the mucky street.
“If you follow us, I will kill you both,” said Bael. “And it won’t require any effort on my part.”
He nodded at the winding road, and led Ursula away into the thickening fog.
Chapter 14
They walked along the avenue for a few blocks, and Ursula’s skin no longer prickled with the sense of hidden eyes.
“You don’t hear accents like that often,” she said softly.
“This place never really left the nineteenth century.” Bael’s eyes seemed to be searching the fog for signs of hidden danger.
“So if I open my mouth, everyone will know I’m not from here?”
Bael shook his head. “No, they’ll think you’re rich. Your accent is courtly. Not that that’s a good thing. A courtly accent means they will rob you, and worse. Before they kill you.”
They reached an intersection, and Bael stopped to study the misty road.
“We’re in Spickwithe. We’re close,” he said to himself.
“Beg your pardon?” asked Ursula.
“The Black Friars.”
So he’s just speaking in ominous-sounding phrases now.
Bael cocked his head, his eyes flashing. Then he grabbed Ursula’s hand. “Run!”
They sprinted along the new road, and were just ducking inside an alley when a gunshot rang out and a bullet whistled over their heads. Down the road, Ursula caught a glimpse of a soldier—dressed in purple and gold. The king’s uniform. Shadows whirled around Ursula and Bael—Bael’s magic. But it was too late. They’d been spotted.
“This way,” Bael hissed, sprinting down the alleyway.
More gunshots echoed in the rainy night.
“Why are they shooting at us?”
“There’s a curfew,” said Bael. “Anyone out after sundown can be shot on sight.”
Ursula raced after him, her lungs burning as she struggled to run in the stupid crinoline dress. Next time, she’d come in disguise as a man.
A gunshot rang out again, and the whistling noise of a rifle ball. Plaster splintered a few feet above their heads. As they turned a corner, Ursula shot a quick glance behind them at a small contingent of soldiers.
Bael grabbed her arm, pulling her into another tiny alley.
“They’ll find us in here,” she whispered frantically.
Bael shook his head, and pointed to a sign above their heads. Despite the flaking paint, the shape of a man dressed in a black smock was clearly visible. The Black Friar.
She lifted her skirts, hurtling down the curving alley behind Bael until it ended abruptly at a red door. Bael knocked sharply on the wood. After what seemed like an eternity, a panel was pulled aside.
“What do you want?” said a woman’s voice.
“Qui bibit, sanctus est,” said Bael.
The window snapped shut. And the shouting of soldiers echoed off the buildings. It was only a matter of time before they were found.
“Bael, we can’t stay out here,” she whispered frantically.
“It’s an old password.” Bael met her gaze. “She needs to confirm it in the ledger.”
“Ledger?” Ursula said incredulously. It seemed an entirely inappropriate concept for the current situation.
A moment later, the door swung open. Bael grabbed Ursula by the hand, pulling her inside with him. The door slammed shut behind them.
Ursula blinked, then coughed. Thick smoke filled the room, its scent drowned by an overpowering floral smell. A kerosene lamp flickered on a table next to them.
The dim light fell on a skinny young woman standing before them. “You got brass?” She crossed her arms over her chest. With a shock of red hair, she might have been pretty once, but now her front teeth were missing, and pink blotches mottled her skin. The poor thing looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.
Bael pushed past her. “We’re here to see Pasqual.”
The woman touched Bael’s arm. “Wait here, love.”
She slipped past him, disappearing into the smoky haze.
Ursula grabbed Bael’s arm. “What is this place?”
“The Black Friars.”
Ursula sighed. “I know that. I mean what is this place?”
Before Bael could answer, the girl returned through the gloom. “This way.”
They followed her into the miasma, and Ursula resisted the urge to cover her mouth and nose with her forearm to mask the smell. Wouldn’t exactly be polite.
She nearly tripped over the first body—a man sprawled across the floor. At first she thought he was dead, until he slowly moved his leg out of her way, mumbling something incomprehensible.
She followed Bael and the toothless woman into a second room, where the smoke grew thicker. She rubbed her eyes. Here, the pungent floral odor only grew stronger. A light flickered near her knees, and she glanced down to see a small man crouched next to another sleeping body. He held a candle in one hand, which he used to light a long pipe.
Understanding began to dawn in Ursula’s mind. Oh. Is this an opium den?
“This way.” Already, the woman was leading them onward, through a narrow door and into a red-walled room. A flickering oil lamp stood on a small desk, and stained, shiny pillows littered the floor. A black door stood inset into one of the walls.
“Wait here,” the woman said before disappearing back into the hallway.
It was only another moment before a man appeared out of the curling smoke. He wore a dark purple robe, and a small velvet hat sat atop his dark hair. He had long, thin fingers, and lips that appeared a little too red against his olive skin. Ursula stepped back instinctively. Definitely a vampire.
Bael put his hand reassuringly on her shoulder as he greeted the man. “Hello, Pasqual.”
Fangs glinted when he smiled. “Bael, what brings you to my home?”
“My friend and I need a place to stay.”
“You can’t stay in the Silver Lair?”
“We’re here in secret,” said Bael.
Pasqual nodded. “So it’s true what I hear from the Shadow Realm? You’ve lost your wings?”
“Unfortunately.”
Pasqual’s dark eyes fell on Ursula, studying her. “Who is she?”
“A friend of mine,” said Bael.
Pasqual frowned. It was obvious to Ursula that he wasn’t satisfied with this response.
“A friend,” Pasqual repeated.
Of course, anyone who knew Bael at all would know that he didn’t have any friends.
“Well,” the vampire drawled, “I guess you can stay in my quarters.”
“Can I have your assurance that you’ll keep our presence discreet?” asked Bael.
“You have my assurance.”
“Thank you, Pasqual.”
“This way.” Pasqual pulled open the black door.
Ursula tried not to grimace as she imagined how the vamp’s quarters might look. The state of the opium den didn’t give her high hopes for the blood den, but she followed the two men into the soporific haze.
The door led to a narrow stairwell, and the stairs groaned under their weight as they climbed upward through the murky air. At the top of the stairs, Pasqual pushed open a creaking door into a single loft-style room.
Oak cabinets nestled in one corner, and a few high-backed chairs stood around a circular table. Moonlight streamed over a loft bed that overhung bookshelves, crammed with old tomes. But it was the row of windows spanning the far wall that drew Ursula’s eye.
“This is beautiful,” said Bael. “And familiar.”
“Thank you. I hope you aren’t offended, but I was most impressed with one of the rooms in your manor. The space you kept for Elissa after she left this world. I always loved that room, and her portrait.”
That’s…weird.
“You’ve been in Bael’s manor?” asked Ursula. Even though Elissa had died millennia ago—in ancient Canaan—Bael had kept a little space for her in his manor on the moon. Since Emeraze
l had forced Bael to murder his own wife, the guilt must have eaten at him terribly over the years, every time he walked into her quarters. Did it hurt him now to be here?
Bael and Pasqual exchanged a look. “Yes. I was Bael’s servant for many years,” said Pasqual.
So they did go back a long way. Ursula crossed to the window, running a finger along the cool glass. Here, she had a full view of King Midac’s ruined castle—closer now than Laverna’s church. Ursula could clearly see the burnt husks of what once had been splendid towers.
“You should have seen it before the great fire,” said Pasqual from behind her. “It was magnificent.”
Ursula nodded. “I can imagine.”
Pasqual sighed softly—a strangely human sound. “In any case, my home is your home. You must sleep here.”
Ursula raised her eyebrows. “And where will you sleep tonight?”
Pasqual grinned. “You mean when the sun comes up? I’ll be in the basement. I have a cozy little coffin down there.” He grinned, flashing a razor-sharp pair of canines. “But trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to see it.”
Bael smiled from where he stood near the doorway. “Thanks, Pasqual. We’ll be fine up here.”
Pasqual sauntered over to one of the oak cabinets, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Would either of you care for a drink?”
Bael nodded. “We’d love a drink.”
In a series of graceful moves, Pasqual drew the cork from the bottle. As he poured the wine, Ursula read the label: Chateau Margaux 1983. With wine like that, she had a feeling Kester would be disappointed he’d been left behind to recuperate in the Grotto.
Pasqual sat at the table, motioning for each of them to join him.
“So. What is your business in Mount Acidale? After the great battle, I never thought you’d return.”
“We’re here to retrieve Excalibur from Lucius, and to find Ursula’s family.”
Pasqual’s eyebrows flicked up at Ursula. “You’re from Mount Acidale?”
Ursula looked to Bael, not sure how much she should say. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
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