“You think you saw him in the fae realm?” asked Cera hopefully.
Ursula’s chest tightened. I can’t tell her now—not until I know the truth. It would only worry her. “I can’t be sure.” Feigning calm, she plucked a fingerling potato from the plate, biting into it. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
“It was before the attack on the manor. He said he was going on a special mission. He wouldn’t say where.”
Sweet mother of hell. I could have slaughtered Massu, the boy with the spaceship drawings.
Cera cocked her head. “Are you okay? You look ill.”
“I’m—I’m okay.” Ursula put down her fork, staring at the now empty tray of food. “I’m just feeling a bit queasy from everything that happened today.”
“Of course.” Cera plopped the dome back on the tray. “I’ll let you get some rest.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be back later with some food. I must check on the lord now.” Tray in hand, Cera slipped out of the room.
But Ursula knew she wouldn’t get any rest, not with her thoughts roiling like storm clouds. Bael hated her, the lords wanted her dead, and she may have killed the beloved brother of her only ally.
And what the hell had happened earlier, with that voice in her head? Kill the king? It had sounded so familiar, like it was a part of her very being.
Ursula pulled off her dress, dropping it on the floor, then kicked off her shoes. Exhaustion burned through her body, and she longed for sleep. In her underwear, she curled up in the corner of the sofa and pulled a downy white blanket over herself.
Loneliness tightened its fingers around her heart. If she’d been a normal person—one with memories—she’d probably take this opportunity to recall the times that her mother had looked after her, bandaged skinned knees or quieted her fears. Those sort of memories would soothe her soul, she imagined.
Instead, the best she could do was think of Zee, with a champagne cocktail and a fashion magazine. She missed her friend terribly.
In the darkness beyond the windows, Astra glowed faintly, and the clouds still twisted and writhed around it. Now that she’d learned what they were, the clouds no longer seemed quite so beautiful. Each vortex, each tendril, was a flock of moths fleeing in terror from a hungry bat.
She closed her eyes, and in her mind’s eye, streams of moths whirled in frantic eddies.
She was one of them now—a moth hunted by Nyxobas’s creatures.
Chapter 13
Curled up on the sofa, Ursula awoke with a start, adrenaline flooding her veins. What had roused her?
She scanned the room. Nothing seemed amiss—nothing had moved, not a single Grecian urn out of place. And yet, the hair on her neck stood on end.
An uneasy feeling licked at the back of her mind, telling her that someone was watching her.
Could someone have entered the room while she’d slept? She lay perfectly still, pretending to sleep, searching the darkness through slitted eyes. Had one of the demon lords come for revenge?
You’re just paranoid, Ursula. Probably Emerazel’s mind tricks, fucking with you.
Then, she caught a flicker of movement in the darkness outside her window. Shadow magic. Her pulse raced.
Not paranoid after all.
She opened her eyes wider, straining to see through the swirls of magic. She pushed up onto her elbows, desperately searching for a plan. Without so much as a corkscrew, what would she use to fight? Urns? Not to mention the fact that she was wearing nothing but lace knickers and a bra under her blanket. Please don’t let it be Nyxobas or any of the other perverts. As she stared outside, the magic thinned, revealing an enormous lunar bat.
It hovered in front of the window, wings beating silently, blood-red eyes and wings of the color of bone. Something moved on its back—a rider dressed in gray. He straightened, then flung a sticky black substance against the window in front of her. Then, in a single silky motion, he aimed a small crossbow at her.
Panic stole her breath. What the fuck is going on?
She threw herself from the sofa.
The black tar exploded, shattering the window in a spray of glass that ripped into her skin.
Curling into a ball, Ursula tried to shield her body from the crossbow. Her stomach clenched as she heard the soft whirr of the arrow flying through the air.
Her heart raced. She waited for the thunk of the bolt when it struck her, the searing jolt of pain, the tearing of her flesh.
Instead, she felt only the sharp ringing in her ears from the blast.
When she opened her eyes, the rider had disappeared into the night. She gaped at the remaining shards of glass. The bolt had missed her. Why? It’s not like she’d been a moving target.