But he was already gone. Just a rush of air and dark magic, and the sound of the door slamming. She started after him, and something heavy crashed outside the door. He’d locked her in. The fucker.
She tested the door anyway, but it wouldn’t budge. Muffled noises echoed through the wood—doors opening and shutting and unidentified banging, a demonic rampage through her apartment. As she was deciding whether to try her luck on the ledge, she heard a scraping sound by the door. She whirled, just in time to see the door ripped from its hinges.
Bael stood in silhouette, shadowy magic curling from his enormous body in dark tendrils. Backlit by the crystal chandelier, he filled the doorframe. The man was a mountain of muscle. In one hand he clutched one of the Zhanmadao swords. The blade was close to five feet long, but looked smaller in his grip. In his other hand, he held Honjo.
“The wings aren’t here.”
Ursula had to fight every instinct to run for the window and throw herself off the ledge. “You said Abrax has them.”
“I had to be sure you weren’t lying about Henry—that you weren’t secretly working for him. I had to be sure that my wings weren’t hidden here.”
“And now you’re sure that I’m not working for Henry?”
“Yes. I can hardly smell Henry’s stench anymore. He hasn’t been in this apartment in months. Kester has been here, though.”
Ursula’s eyes locked on the sword in Bael’s hand. Why had he brought it? She was defenseless with the stupid dagger. He could hack her to pieces in an instant. Don’t antagonize him. That’s what Kester would have told her. And don’t let him see your fear. “I admire your taste in weaponry.”
“I feel more comfortable with a blade in my hand.” He tossed Honjo to her, and it spun through the air. She caught the hilt nimbly, and relief flooded her. He wasn’t going to murder her. Shockingly, her plan was working for once.
“I smelled you on that one. Please understand that you can’t use it against me, or you will die.” He spoke matter-of-factly.
“That is fairly obvious.” As she followed him out the door, her eyes flicked to her overturned dresser. Apparently, he’d used it to barricade her in.
As they walked through the hall, the sword hanging loosely in his grasp, his eyes followed her every move. She had the distinct impression he was calculating and recalculating how quickly he could decapitate her if Honjo so much as twitched in her grip.
Up close, he was downright terrifying. Where Abrax was all lethal grace, Bael was pure, shadowy power. His arms were massive, knotted with muscle. She was certain he could tear her limb from limb without breaking a sweat. He’d certainly rearranged her entire apartment in only a few minutes.
“How do you move so quickly?”
“Emerazel gives you access to her infernal flame, Nyxobas lets me draw upon his shadows.” It wasn’t much of an answer, but his expression told her that she wasn’t going to get any more than that. He cast her another disgusted look. “Your natural smell is polluted by Emerazel. It sickens me.”
“You know, in the human world, it’s kind of weird to comment on how people smell.”
“You’re not human.”
As they walked down the stairs, Bael continued to glare at her, but didn’t speak. God, he was unnerving.
She cleared her throat, watching as he pushed the elevator button. “How are we getting to this lair?”
“We drive.”
Drive? “We’re not using some kind of magic method?”
“I can’t fly, and without my wings…” As they stepped into the elevator, he studied her carefully, a look of uncertainty on his face. “I don’t have all the magic we need, since one of your brethren mutilated me.”
“I guess it’s a good thing we’ve got Joe.”
His pale eyes slid to her, as if he was staring right through to her soul. “I must warn you that you’re in way over your head.”
She nodded grimly. That much was clear.
Ursula and Bael stood on a crumbling pier, completely alone. A row of industrial tanks roughly the size of two story buildings towered over them. The black waters of the East River flowed nearby.
Chilled by the winter winds, she hugged herself. “So this is the lair?”
Bael growled. He hadn’t said much in the car, beyond giving basic instructions to the driver—“right,” “left,” and “next exit” being the entirety of his dialog. Not that Ursula had been in the mood for talking. While the streets had flickered by, cold and desolate in the early morning darkness, she’d rested her head against the window and shut her eyes. She desperately needed sleep at this point.
Now she stamped her feet to stay warm in the cold. Out of habit, she took a mental inventory of the weapons she carried. One, Honjo strapped to her back. Two, Kester’s reaping pen stuffed in her pocket. Three, a kaiken dagger hidden in her boot.
Lastly, zipped into her jacket were a flask of scotch and a plastic lighter.