The rest of their journey passed in silence as Bael brooded over whatever nightmares plagued his mind.
After their elevator had touched down, he’d disappeared into the shadows without a goodbye.
When she finally reached her quarters, her ribs were throbbing. Gingerly, she sat on the sofa, staring through the window.
The crater looked the same as it had when she’d left. In this desolate place, loneliness gnawed at her. Bael was right about one thing—she didn’t belong here. And now, she’d landed herself in a whole new shitstorm.
Tension turned her stomach. Hothgar, Abrax, and Bileth would want vengeance. Worse, she’d attacked a god. Obviously a major breach of protocol. And what if Bael was right—that Emerazel could still somehow control her? It would make sense. Help explain why Emerazel had been willing to give her up in the first place. Though it didn’t explain what Nyxobas wanted from her.
What she needed was a stiff drink. She rose, sucking in a short breath as she was greeted by a jolt of pain in her chest. Her ribs felt like they were on fire where Bileth’s black tendrils had crushed them. Wincing, she carefully pulled off her dress, inspecting the damage. Deep bruises encircled her ribs.
Grimacing, she searched her mind for the Angelic spell—Starkey’s Conjuration Spell. She remembered how it would feel—the familiar burst of pain as the spell knitted her bones back together, then blessed relief.
Only, she couldn’t remember the bloody thing.
What the hell? She’d properly memorized it, having used it dozens of times to heal herself.
In fact, when she closed her eyes, she couldn’t bring to mind a single Angelic word, the divine language of magic. Not even the spell for light.
The Forgotten Ones hadn’t just stolen her fire magic. They’d ripped all the magical knowledge from her mind.
Dead-fingered bastards.
When she touched her ribs again, pain shot through her chest. She winced. She’d have to find some other way to heal.
A banging noise at the door turned her head, and she practically jumped out of her skin. Rising, she lifted the dress from the couch and slipped it over her head. If Bael were at the door, she didn’t need to shock him by the sight of her naked flesh, though something about the idea amused her.
As she crossed the room, a part of her actually hoped it was Bael, even if he hated her. Suddenly, she had a deep desire to know why he hated Emerazel so much.
But instead, when she pulled open the front door, she found Cera, dressed in a woolen cardigan and holding a dome-covered tray. The rich smell of meat wafted into the room.
Ursula’s mouth watered, and she gripped her chest. “I’m starving.”
Cera’s pale brow furrowed. “Oh my, what happened to your dress? It’s been rumpled and torn.”
“Bileth attacked me.”
Cera’s jaw dropped. “What happened?”
“Hothgar demanded my presence at the meeting of the lords. Bileth attacked Bael—”
“Is the lord okay?” Cera pushed inside. The door slammed behind her.
“I think he’s okay. His throat is injured. He nearly died, and so did I. I did end up stabbing Nyxobas, which I realize overstepped a boundary or two. But in my defense, it was an emergency.”
The tray in Cera’s hands trembled violently. “You did what?”
“Did you hear the bit about the emergency?” Ignoring the throbbing pain in her chest, she grabbed the tray from Cera, carrying it to the bar. Her stomach twisted with a mixture of panic and hunger. “Anyway, now, in order for Bael to get his wings back, there’s got to be a tournament. When the sun next bleeds into the sky. Bael must fight and win if he wants to live and get his manor back.” She dropped the tray on the bar, cautiously eyeing Cera for her reaction.
“This is a disaster.” Cera’s eyes were wild. “If he was injured tonight, he won’t have much time to heal. How will he fight?”
“He can’t use magic to heal himself?”
Cera shook her head. “No. He must keep the wounds on his back fresh so he can reattached the wings when he wins them back.”
That didn’t sound good. “Can’t he choose five champions, like everyone else?”
Cera shook her head, her eyes glistening. “Who would he choose? His men have all been killed.”
“So each lord gets five champions, and he only has himself? That doesn’t seem fair.” She cocked her head. “Given those odds, he seemed pretty confident, though.” She winced as a sharp spear of pain stabbed her ribs.
Cera studied her. “Are you injured?”
Ursula touched her ribs. “It hurts. I think I may have cracked a rib. Or three. And those Forgotten Arseholes erased all the healing spells I memorized.”
Cera hurried to her side, her features pinched with concern. “Let me see. Lift your dress.”
Ursula pulled her dress over her head, draping it over a chair.
Cera bent lower, letting out a low whistle at the purple bruises darkening her skin. “A lord did this to you?” Ursula could hear the hatred in Cera’s voice.