It was the floor of King Midac’s hall, and her gaze went to the king’s table. King Midac sat at one end of the table, near the queen and Kester.
But it was the woman next to the queen that drew Ursula’s attention, her auburn hair tumbling over a purple velvet gown. Bright blue eyes, a heart-shaped face—the woman who’d once rubbed her back at night when she had nightmares about dragons. The woman who’d baked her favorite bread on her days off, who’d patiently taught her to wield a sword. The woman who’d pulled Ursula onto her lap, reading her stories about faraway lands, before she went to bed at night. My mother. Ursula wanted to run to her, to ask her not to leave.
She knew what was coming next, and a sense of betrayal pierced her ribs like a dozen arrows.
Ursula stared as her mother drew a steak knife, driving it into the queen’s heart. Blood poured from her chest.
Why did you choose to leave me? They’d been members of the king’s guard together. Ursula had been proud of her uniform—the purple and gold. She’d been a proud soldier, like her grandfather. Her mother was ripping her world apart.
The woman who’d combed her hair, who’d soothed her tears when the other children had called her a fatherless child.
Once, her mother had been her world.
Time seemed to slow down, and grief slammed into Ursula. Her mum lunged for the king, but Kester was already reaching for his blade. For the briefest of instants, Ursula’s mother turned toward the hellhound, her eyes black as Nyxobas’s void. Ursula’s mind screamed.
Then everything sped up again. Bael leapt over the table. Across from him, Kester drew his sword. Pushing the king aside, Kester drove his blade into her mother’s stomach.
The world went dark again.
“How did that feel?” asked Nyxobas. “Now you see why you rid yourself of your own memories.”
“She left me,” said Ursula. “She betrayed me, and I was ashamed of her. But I can’t stay here.” Grief threatened to swallow her whole—but she could take it. She didn’t need the void now.
Gasping, she pulled herself from Nyxobas’s shadows once more, and light shone in her eyes again. Across from her, Abrax lay stunned, his eyes filled with shadows. Still lost in the void.
Those emotions from her memory—the shame, the pure sorrow—still ripped her mind apart, threatening to drive her mad. My mother was once my world—and she left me.
Ursula snarled, picking up Excalibur from the marble floor. She swung it once—clean through Abrax’s neck. Blood arced over the floor, and his body slumped to the marble.
“Sorry, Dad,” she whispered. “But he had to go.”
When she looked up at Nyxobas, she found him lost in the void once more. She slid her fingertips under the collar of her shirt, finding the skin smooth.
The mark of Emerazel was gone.
Chapter 46
Ursula sat at the dining room table in her old apartment. Across from her, Cera sipped from a glass of wine, her eyes locked on Lucius.
The chandelier bathed them in warm light, and Ursula relaxed into her chair. By her side, Zee twirled a champagne glass, marveling at the pink flower in the bottom. “Let’s not leave New York any time soon, okay? I’ve had enough mushroom stew and disgusting prison food to last me a lifetime. And more importantly, the humans have already rebuilt my favorite Thai place.”
Since the dragons had destroyed half of New York, humans were already reconstructing the city, piecing their lives back together, one building at a time.
At Zee’s side, Kester ran his finger over the rim of his wineglass, meeting Ursula’s gaze. “You do realize that since you no longer work for Emerazel, you won’t be able to keep this apartment, right? You’re off the payroll, darling. No more gold for you.”
Ursula frowned. “But you can keep it, right? Maybe I can just…sublet from you. Except without the exchange of money, because I won’t have any.”
Kester arched an eyebrow. “I suppose there’s not much work available for an ex-hellhound demigod of night, is there?”
Ursula shrugged. “I don’t suppose there are any demigod temp agencies.”
Lucius leaned back in his chair, folding his fingers behind his ginger hair. “Tell me again how you freed yourself from the bonds of Emerazel.”
Ursula took a sip of her Châteauneuf-du-Pape, rolling it around on her tongue. “Nyxobas did that for me. It seems that all this time, he’d wanted me to prove myself before he was willing to step in. He wanted to test my mettle in the battles of Lacus Mortis, and he needed to see if I was willing to accept my own memories, or if I belonged in the void with him.”
Cera blinked, her silver eyes wide. “He’s not angry that you slaughtered his son?”
Ursula nearly felt a twinge of guilt. She’d executed her own brother, right in front of their dad.
Nearly felt guilty—but not quite. “Abrax would have found a way to kill his father at some point if he’d lived,” said Ursula. “In any case, Nyxobas has been lost in the void. Didn’t have to feel a thing.”
Since she’d killed her brother, Nyxobas had become even more remote than ever.
She understood. He was escaping. Like father, like daughter.
Cera cocked her head. “Do you think Nyxobas even knows that the oneiroi have been freed in the Shadow Realm, and that some of us sit on the council of lords now?”
“No,” said Ursula. “I don’t think he’ll be coming out of the void for quite some time.”
“Bael is Nyxobas’s Sword now,” said Kester. “Shouldn’t he be in the Shadow Realm? And you with him, if you’re his bride-to-be?”
Ursula shook her head. “If I have anything to say about it, we’ll simply finish rebuilding in the Shadow Realm, and then we’ll leave. The longer we spend there, the more time there is for some other lord to decide it’s his turn to be Sword, and then I have to kill more people. And granted, I may be a demigod—”
“Are you going to keep mentioning that?” Zee cut in.
“I may be a demigod,” Ursula continued, ignoring her. “But I don’t want to have to keep killing people. I’d rather just live out my immortal, demigod life in peace.”
The scent of acrid smoke curled through the air—a mixture of burning flesh and something else—something bitter. Ursula’s stomach clenched.
Cera leaned across the table, her silver eyes shining with concern. “Do you really think the lord is ready for this? For what you’re asking him to do?”
Ursula sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t know. But we had to try.”
In the next moment, Bael glided into the room, carrying an enormous oak tray crammed with silver domes. Before each of them, he laid out a covered plate. The smell nearly choked Ursula as Bael slid a dish in front of her, his gorgeous face beaming with pride, gray eyes shining.
“Smells wonderful,” Ursula lied.
Across from her, Lucius was mumbling something that sounded like, “Smells like Pasqual’s basement.”
Ursula pulled the dome off her plate, staring wide-eyed at what she found. In a small bowl, Bael had poured half a can of Spaghettios. By the side of the bowl, Ursula found small pieces of hot dog, cut up and charred. At least, she thought they were hot dog pieces. They sat next to a lump of blackened marshmallows and three graham crackers, smeared with butter and crushed peanuts.
A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the scraping noise of Cera pushing marshmallows around on her plate.
Ursula swallowed hard. “Maybe I should have helped you a bit more. I thought with the simple recipe books…”
Bael’s dark eyebrows rose, and he dug into the Spaghettios. “I didn’t look at the books. Is this not right? I got these food products from a human supermarket. Is this not typical food for your realm?”
Zee sighed. “I’m calling the Thai place.”
Ursula lay on Bael’s chest, staring at the ceiling of the room that had once been hers. His powerful torso rose and fell slowly beneath her head. It seemed like ages ago that
they’d first met, when she’d found him chained to a table upstairs. She’d been terrified of him then, the ancient and wounded warrior. Now, he felt like home.
Bael stroked a hand down her hair, and she breathed in the scent of sandalwood.
So maybe he couldn’t cook. He was perfect all the same.
Ursula shifted, her gaze trailing over the wildflowers she’d once painted on the walls. The memory had always been there under the surface of her mind—the forget-me-nots and golden aster, the smudges of periwinkle and honey-hued blossoms, exactly like the fields in Mount Acidale. She’d always had glimpses—the flowers, the auburn-haired woman who taught her to wield a blade.
And there—on the ceiling—the image of the star-flecked, midnight blue zodiac that had made her feel at home. Now, she knew why. Once, she’d been the Mystery Girl—a lost and adrift outcast. Now, she saw that she’d found little ways to keep her parents around her. To root herself in her past, in her history.
Her gaze trailed over the flowered fields once more, and a vivid image burned in her mind—her mother’s face. Her mum was leaning over her, brushing a strand of red hair from her face. It still hurt that her mother had chosen Nyxobas over her, a betrayal that even now gnawed at her chest. Once, her mother had been her world.
Bael stroked his hand over the back of her hair again, and she reached behind him, lightly touching the tip of his black wings. His dark magic thrummed over her body, mingling with her own power, her own shadows.
A sly smile curled his lips. He liked that. “When will we marry?” he asked.
She looked up at him, her gaze lingering over his chiseled features, his stormy gray eyes, the color of the skies over Byblos. “We’re both immortal. We have all the time in the world.”
“Soon,” he said. “I don’t want to wait.”
She smiled. “Soon, then.”
Ursula wasn’t the same person she had been in Mount Acidale. Now, she was strong enough to feel, to let herself remember. In this life, she had Bael—and Kester, Zee, and Cera. And she intended to keep them close.
Thank you so much for reading Eternal Magic.
For more of the dark, seductive world of C.N. Crawford, please check out the best-selling Spy Among the Fallen Series - which takes place in the same world as Eternal Magic.
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Acknowledgments
We thank our editor Robin Marcus, our proofreader Lindsey Loucks, and our cover designer Rebecca Frank. We also thank our ARC team and Author’s Corner for their feedback, inspiration, and moral support.
About
C. N. Crawford is not one person but two. We write our novels collaboratively, passing our laptops back and forth to edit each other's words.
Christine (C) grew up in New England and has a lifelong interest in local folklore - with a particular fondness for creepy old cemeteries. Nick (N) spent his childhood reading fantasy and science fiction during Vermont's long winters.
In addition to writing fiction, we love to hear from our readers and can be reached at any of the following links. We always reply to our readers.
Dedication
For Ronan.
Eternal Magic Page 24