Abrax’s eyes bored into her. “I don’t know.”
Hothgar studied her carefully with a look that suggested he was still thinking about decorating his house with her entrails. “Let me see her more closely.”
Before Ursula could stand on her own, Bael picked her up by the collar of her cloak and threw her on the granite table. Her head smacked the stone so hard, she saw stars. It took every inch of her mental strength to lay still.
Be submissive, Bael had said. At this point, with the concussion he’d just given her, she didn’t have many other options. Her head throbbed. Hothgar leaned over her, stroking the side of her face with a cold finger. “She’s a pretty one. Maybe Nyxobas wanted her for himself.”
“Gross.” Dizzy from the blow to the head, the word was out of Ursula’s mouth before she could stop herself.
Bael squeezed her wrist.
Hothgar glared at Bael. “But what I want to know is why he put her in your care. You lost your wings. Your house is in ruins.” He emphasized the next set of words: “You are unfit to hold a manor of the night.”
What the hell? Why don’t they just ask Nyxobas, who was sitting about ten feet away? He seemed to be in some sort of catatonic state. Asleep or in a mystical trance.
“Nyxobas chooses his lords,” said Bael.
“And yet he hasn’t given you a new set of wings.” Hothgar leaned back in his chair. “We have decided to give your manor to Abrax.”
Bael’s eyes darkened, and a cold, dark aura whipped from his body like hurricane winds. “No. Only Nyxobas himself may appoint a lord to a manor.”
“The choice was unanimous,” said Hothgar.
“It’s not your province—” Black tendrils of magic snapped around Bael’s throat, cutting him short. Ursula’s eyes flicked to Demon-Bull, who chanted in Angelic. He was choking Bael with magic.
“We are tired of listening to a mortal,” Hothgar snarled. “Your time as lord has come to an end. Prepare to enter the void.”
Around Bael’s neck, the filaments began to constrict. His eyes were dark as voids, and his fingers strained at the threads twisting about his neck.
Panic stole Ursula’s breath, but she lay flat on the stone, trying to go unnoticed. Whatever she was going to do, she didn’t want to telegraph her actions.
Her pulse racing, she glanced at Nyxobas, still wrapped in shadows, unmoving. Why isn’t he doing anything?
Bael hadn’t explicitly told her what constituted “an emergency,” but she was pretty sure this was it. While the demons watched Bael suffocate, she slowly drew the dagger from the sheath on her thigh. Just as she managed to extract it, she felt Hothgar’s fingers grab the corners of her cloak. In a single motion he picked her up and heaved her across the room. She slammed into a crystal wall with a bone-jarring smack. Her dagger clattered on the floor.
Bollocks.
“The hound had a blade,” Hothgar roared.
Demon-Bull flicked his wrist, and black tendrils raced across the room. She ducked, diving for the dagger. Just as she gripped its hilt, dark magic slammed into her chest. She flew back against the wall, grunting from the pain.
Pinned to the wall, shadow magic coiled around her chest. Demon-Bull was crushing her lungs, her blood roaring in her ears. Air. Please. How long would it take for her ribs to shatter and pierce her heart? Please. I can’t die here.
Ten seconds, maybe twenty.
“You have disrespected our hospitality,” Hothgar roared. “You tried to assassinate the Sword of Nyxobas.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but the pain ripped her mind apart. She doubled over as the magical bonds began to crack her ribs. Across from her, Bael hung limply, suffocating. He dropped to the ground, his large body twitching.
Air.
Her vision darkened, and for just a moment, she caught a glimpse of a woman with vibrant nectarine hair, wielding a sword with expert skill—her face like Ursula’s, but her eyes a deep shade of brown...
A voice in the hollows of her mind whispered, Kill the king. A clear voice, ringing like a bell, reverberating off her skull. A voice so familiar, it was like a part of her soul. Kill the king. Kill the king.
With the last of her strength, she lifted the blade.
Hothgar laughed. “We are immortal—you cannot hurt us with that.”
It’s not meant for you, fuckwit.
It’s for the king.
With the last of her strength, she hurled the dagger at Nyxobas’s slumped body.
Chapter 11
The blade sank into Nyxobas’s chest. The lords froze, staring at the god of night. Time seemed to slow, and the temperature in the room plummeted.
The filaments around Ursula’s chest loosened, and she gasped. Air.
She sensed the terrifying presence of the void, flickering in the edge of her consciousness. Watching her.
“Who has done this?” Nyxobas’s voice boomed through the silence. His eyes had shifted from black to a glacial gray—the icy gaze of her most terrifying nightmares.
Black blood bubbled around the hilt of the dagger in his chest.