And she’d fought him last night. She was lucky to have survived her eighteenth birthday at all. No wonder he’d warned her that she wouldn’t win in a fight against him.
Luis’s fingers resumed their massage.
At least I got Zee talking. What she was hearing was terrifying, but at least she was hearing something. “So what you’re saying is that I’m in good hands?”
“As long as you stay on his good side. You’ll need his protection, you know.” Zee sighed loudly. “All this effort to make you look presentable, and you’ll probably just be shredded anyway.”
Ursula’s pulse raced. This is getting worse. “What do you mean, shredded?”
Zee straightened, peering over at Ursula’s face. “You mean Kester didn’t tell you why there was an opening in New York?”
Her stomach clenched. “No, he was a little quiet on that point.”
“Ugh, it was ghastly. Someone gutted the last guy, and strung his entrails over the trees in Central Park. They looked like Christmas tree ornaments, only made of flesh.” Zee smiled sweetly. “And now you have his job.”
Bloody hell. Pictures of bluebells and asters won’t be nearly enough to help me sleep soundly tonight.
Chapter 13
In the armory, Ursula faced herself in mirror, staring at her glossy locks. Luis hadn’t cut off much—just enough that her hair now fell above her shoulders. He’d been a little creepy—in fact, he’d pressed his cell phone number into her palm and demanded that she call him for a scalp massage—but at least he’d done a wonderful job with the cut.
She was already feeling much better about her insane new life. After she’d returned that afternoon, she’d finished painting a small mural of wildflowers on her bedroom wall, making it feel a little more like home. And when she’d strode downstairs, covered in smudges of periwinkle and honey-hued paints, she’d found bags of clothes waiting for her on the living room floor.
Inside one of the bags, there was a handwritten note from Kester explaining that she’d need the clothes for work. Whoever had bought them had exquisite taste. Apart from some gorgeous dresses they were, unfortunately, all black—not exactly her thing. But still, she wasn’t going to complain about Louboutin boots and Burberry trousers.
If only she could have ignored the whole eternal torment thing—not to mention the shredded hellhounds thing—she’d be having a wonderful time in New York.
As she gripped Honjo in front of her, she pointed the blade straight at the mirror, her feet planted in a fighting stance. She now wore a new pair of black trousers—real leather this time—and a black tank top. She looked like some sort of American action hero.
She sliced the katana to the side, eviscerating an imaginary assailant. She resumed the ready position with the blade parallel to the floor. As she watched her form for precision and balance, she slowly raised the sword above her head. She slashed it down. Thanks ever so much for the work clothes, Kester, but did you forget to mention that bit about the entrails in the park trees?
Beyond the evisceration and public display of intestines, Zee had known no more about who or what had killed the last hellhound. She didn’t know if the murderer was still a threat, or if he was likely to come for Ursula.
The steel glinted in Ursula’s hands. If someone was after her, she’d be prepared.
Footsteps echoed behind her, and she turned to find Kester standing in the doorway, dressed in a fitted black suit.
She gripped the sword’s hilt. “When were you planning on telling me the last fellow was gutted in Central Park?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Zee has a little problem with discretion. And tact.” His green eyes lingered on her a little too long; something feral flickered in them. “You clean up nicely. Black suits you.”
“It does not suit me.” At the carnal look in his eyes, heat burned her cheeks. “I’m more of a spring colors girl.”
“You’re not a ‘spring colors girl.’ You’re a gods-damned demon. Do you understand that? You’re going to have to kill people.”
Dread tightened her chest. She hadn’t really thought about that. “Speaking of killing people…” She strode across the room and pointed the blade at his chest. “I want to know what’s going on. Why was the last hellhound murdered?”
He didn’t flinch. Apparently, even when she was armed with a katana, he didn’t view her as dangerous. His eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t know why he was murdered. You’re here to help me find out, once you’ve calmed down a bit.”
“I’m perfectly—”