In a fraction of a second, he’d moved behind her, swift as the wind—one powerful arm wrapped tightly around her, and the other hand gripping her sword arm. Heat from his body warmed her. He squeezed her wrist, and she gasped at the pain, dropping the sword. “Don’t take on an opponent you have no chance of beating, Ursula,” he whispered in her ear. “Not unless you have a really good plan.”
Her frustration lent her boldness. “Oh, right. I hear you’re ‘the Headsman.’ Quite the nickname you have.” Her heart raced. She shouldn’t be prodding this beast, but she wasn’t so sure she could cope with being a hellhound. What did she really have to lose at this point? “Your colleague was gutted, his intestines strewn about like holiday decorations, and you have no idea why?”
He loosened his grip on her, slipping away. “It could have been any number of things. Some demons enjoy dispatching their prey with a dramatic flair. Sometimes a curse can rebound, injuring the caster. A lot of things could have led to Henry’s demise.”
Demons. Curses. All in a day’s work around here. “Hellhounds use curses, too?”
“We do what Emerazel tells us. Usually it’s signing pacts and reaping souls, but sometimes she has more specific requests.”
“Such as?”
“When you get one, you’ll know.” Something wicked glinted in his eyes. “And if you must know, I really don’t mourn Henry’s loss. He was something of a psychopath.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of psychopaths, Headsman, why are you in my apartment?”
He flashed her a wolfish smile. “I couldn’t resist your warm and inviting company.”
She crossed her arms, eyeing the sword on the ground. “Seriously. What did you come for?”
“I left a box of gold ingots on your kitchen table—your annual stipend—and I’m here to teach you how to summon Emerazel.” He turned toward the hallway. “Follow me.”
She snatched Honjo from the ground, returning it to the rack, and stalked after Kester.
He spoke over his shoulder. “When you meet the goddess of passion and wrath, please don’t mouth off. She can compel you to do whatever she wants, including throwing yourself through a window, so I’d advise you to be pleasant and charming.” He slid a cold gaze her way. “In other words, don’t be yourself.”
“I’m perfectly charming to people who haven’t abducted me and threatened my life,” she shot back.
“You asked for this.” They stopped at the door to the sigil room, and Kester continued. “Summoning her is simple. You just need three ingredients. The first is her symbol.”
“The encircled triangle. I’ve got that one memorized.” She followed him into the sigil room, glancing out the windows at the snow-covered city. She was about to meet an immortal goddess of fire, yet her blood had turned to ice. She hugged herself tight.
Kester pulled the rug aside to reveal the symbol on the floor. “The second ingredient is fire.” He produced a box of matches and the small silver flask from inside his jacket.
He unscrewed the top, taking a swig. “Glorious.” After pouring a few ounces of scotch on the sigil, he struck a match and dropped it. His voice took on a professorial tone. “If you’re using alcohol, be sure that it’s high enough proof to take a flame. You don’t want to be caught with your hand on a pact and a sigil that won’t light.”
“High proof. Got it.” It didn’t have to be expensive, just alcoholic.
“Lastly, you need to intone the summoning spell.” Kester reached into his pocket and produced a small scrap of parchment. “I’ve memorized it, but here’s a copy so you can follow along. You’ll need to repeat after me.”
Ursula looked at the paper. Spidery letters crowded its surface. Kester started to speak, and though she didn’t know the name of the language, she found she could read it phonetically. F.U. was just full of surprises.
As they worked their way through the spell, the words began to roll off her tongue.
When they finished the final line, fire blazed like an erupting volcano, and Ursula shielded her face from the heat. The flame died abruptly, revealing a dark, smoky form crouched in the sigil’s center.
A feminine figure rose. Dark tendrils of smoke curled off her, and her eyes burned like supernovas. Wincing, Ursula looked away before her retinas burned out.
A raspy voice, crackling with fire, spoke. “Is this the girl you told me about?”
“This is Ursula.”
Ursula shielded her eyes, but Emerazel’s heat filled the room. Plumes of smoke wafted through the air like tentacles, encircling the two hellhounds. Outside, Ursula thought she caught a glimpse of Central Park now blazing with spewing lava and ash. That isn’t real, is it?
She couldn’t breathe. What had happened to the air? She wanted to get the hell out of here. Ash seemed to fill her lungs. It was too hot.
“Interesting,” whispered the goddess. “Very interesting. I see something in her.”
“She is… feisty,” said Kester.