Chapter 39
The vampire’s body crumpled to the ground. Bloody hell, do I really need to cut out his heart? Maybe F.U. had been a trained killer, but New Ursula didn’t feel like a full-blown psychopath. Just a few days ago, she’d been painting wildflowers on a wall and clothes shopping like a normal person, and now she stood over a vampire’s headless body, trying to decide if she should mutilate it further.
So F.U. had been some sort of master swordsman, but organ carving took her into serial-killer territory. How exactly would a vampire’s head return to his body, anyway? Surely it would take some effort. Maybe a vampire doctor. Perhaps she didn’t really need to kill him; maybe it was enough just to keep him out of her way. She ran to grab one of his katanas from the clearing, before running back to stab it hard through his shoulder blade, pinning him to the ground like she’d done with the fae.
She turned to Bael, kneeling by his side. The demon’s enormous chest rose and fell slowly, his head resting against the root of a fir. His dark eyelashes lay closed, just as when she’d first seen him in the Plaza Hotel. Around the base of the bolt, his blood bloomed in a crimson circle.
She knelt next to him. “Bael,” she whispered. He didn’t move. Dammit, you need to wake up. If she was going to return to Oberon’s, she’d need his help. And more than that, she didn’t want to be responsible for sending his soul to Emerazel. Shit. Why had she forced him to give up his soul?
“Bael.” She said it louder this time, pushing his shoulder. His pale eyes opened, locking on her.
“Get it out of me,” he whispered, eyes closing again.
She looked at the bolt. The wood’s grain was twisted and coiled. Was it enchanted? Hesitantly, she touched it, but no flash of pain shot up her arm.
Setting down Honjo, she drew the dagger from her boot. Carefully, she cut away Bael’s shirt, revealing his muscled chest. Every inch was inscribed with tattoos, astrological and alchemical symbols intermixed with Angelic script. Her eyes flicked to the wound. Blood bubbled from where the bolt had impaled him, just under his collar bone. A few inches to the left, and it would have punctured his heart.
What was her plan? It wasn’t like she could call an ambulance. She’d need to heal him with Starkey’s Conjuration spell. She just needed to rip this thing out first.
Ursula gripped the blood-soaked bolt. This wasn’t going to come out easily. She slid her leg over him, straddling his chest, and closed her eyes. I’m only pulling a piece of wood from a man’s chest. It’s not as bad as cutting out someone’s heart. With a jerk, she yanked it free, then tossed it into the woods.
Bael howled, thrashing. Smoke rose from his wound. He arched his back, and she pressed her palms against his shoulders, trying to calm him. “Bael, you need to lie still, so I can heal you.”
The demon’s eyes had gone black, glinting with primal violence, but his body went still.
She leaned over him, touching his skin lightly with her fingertips. “Relax. I pulled out the bolt.” Like you asked me to.
At the touch of her fingers, he sat up with a start. He gripped her shoulders so hard she thought they might break, pulling her to him. “You tried to kill me.” He spoke quietly, but quiet rage laced his voice.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Abrax, you bastard. You tried to kill me.”
Bollocks. He’s lost it. “I’m Ursula. Abrax isn’t here.”
His eyes remained as dark as night, and he growled. “You will never possess the house of Albelda. As the Sword of Nyxobas, I will slay you.”
“Bael, relax. I’m going to heal you.”
He rose, throwing Ursula off him. “The god of night granted me immortality. I was chosen by him—” He swayed, then fell forward, the ground trembling at the impact. His body twitched, and she looked closer at his back.
She gaped in horror. Through his ripped shirt, she could see that fresh blood covered his back. Between sodden bandages, blood poured from the two huge wounds where his wings had been. The fight with Fiore must have re-injured them. Nauseated, Ursula looked away.
What had Bael told her about the wings? He couldn’t be healed, or he’d lose his chance to reattach them. That meant Starkey’s Conjuration was out. Still, she needed to do something to staunch the bleeding. It wasn’t like she’d ever taken a first aid course, but maybe she could just jam up the wound somehow, stop them from leaking blood everywhere. Whatever he’d done back at the Plaza wasn’t working anymore. She took off her jacket. The high-tech fabric didn’t look very absorbent, but her shirt was all cotton. She pulled it over her head, as an icy wind whipped at her bare skin.