A dresser stood against one wall. Candles and a jewelry box resting on the top, but unfortunately, nothing so handy as a knife. She pulled open the jewelry box, finding only actual jewels. Of course. People didn’t tend to keep weapons among their diamonds, but you never knew.
Her pulse racing, she yanked open a drawer, cursing when she found it empty. One drawer after another, each completely weaponless. Not only was this place completely weapon-free, like a psychiatric facility, but she hadn’t even been given clothes.
So much for “providing everything you need.”
She hurried into the hall, flinging open another door to find another bathroom. An enormous porcelain tub stood before the curving windows. Not a lot of privacy here.
She crossed to a white porcelain sink, yanking open the cupboard below it. She rifled through a few extra rolls of toilet paper, and some ancient-looking vials of green and blue liquids. Not even a toothbrush she could file down to a point.
Her heart racing, she stood and patted the corkscrew in her pocket. Its thin twist of steel was all she had to protect herself.
Somehow, it did not reassure her.
Ursula trudged down the stairs again. Of course there weren’t any real weapons in the apartment. Abrax, Nyxobas—whoever was in charge here—didn’t want a hellhound able to defend herself. As a hound of Emerazel’s she was simply too dangerous to the night demons.
In the living room, she headed for the bar, then popped the cork off the carafe of wine. She grabbed a wine glass, filling it nearly to the top, then crossed to one of the sofas.
She plopped down onto the rich, velvet fabric and took a long sip. She’d have to keep the glass nearby. In a pinch, she could smash it and stab someone with the shards.
Her stomach tightened. One of these days, she’d like to have a normal Friday night. Though hoping for an ordinary night in the Shadow Realm was probably a bit of a stretch. The alcohol warmed her stomach, soothing the tension from her shoulders.
Abrax or Nyxobas...
Somehow, Nyxobas didn’t seem like he’d have a golden lion mosaic in his atrium or a suite of rooms filled with classical art. Abrax seemed more like the type to relish intimidation through luxury. She shivered. He was also the kind of perv who’d put her in a glass cage so he could watch her every move.
She tucked her feet underneath her. If Kester were here, he’d probably have a clear idea of what she should be doing. He’d stretch out on the sofa, full of confidence. He’d level his green eyes on her and tell her precisely what spells she needed to be practicing and how to evaluate her true threat. Then again, she’d hardly seen him in the past six months. After she’d saved him from Nyxobas, she’d gone to visit him on his tugboat. And that’s when she’d learned the truth—that Kester was in this to save his sister’s soul. She felt so close to him that night, like she’d made a true friend. And yet, since then he’d been a ghost. He’d stopped by the flat once or twice with Zee. He turned on his usual arrogant charm. Flirting, double entendres, references to his prowess with a sword. But when she’d asked what he’d been doing, he’d just shrugged. “On a special assignment given to him by Emerazel,” was all he’d said. And then, he’d disappeared again for another month.
When she’d asked Zee about it, the fae girl had shaken her head. “That’s Kester for you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. It’s how he operates.”
But that didn’t explain it at all. She and Kester had neither whammed nor bammed. Sure, she’d thought about it. How could she not, given his chiseled beauty? But nothing had happened…yet.
And meanwhile, she’d been missing a mentor. Kester was supposed to teach her how to become a hellhound, but there’d been no magic lessons, no practice sessions in the armory to build her skill. In the last six months, she’d learned virtually nothing new about the job.
Sure, she’d kept busy in other ways. There was the mob boss assignment in Hell’s Kitchen—a first-rate wanker who’d been forcing his thugs to sign over their souls. Ursula had been tasked with hunting down each of the Mafiosi.
Because they’d signed over their souls involuntarily, her job had been to nullify pacts. She’d thought it’d be easy—who actually wanted to burn in the Emerazel’s inferno for eternity? But once the Mafiosi had tasted Emerazel’s power, they seemed to stop caring about eternal damnation. She’d been forced to reap more of their souls than she cared to think about. It had been brutal work, but at least she’d filled a good number of pages in her ledger.
And each page was another step toward freedom. Once she managed to fill her ledger, it was goodbye to the hellhound life.