Shadows & Flame Complete Boxed Set: Demons of Fire and Night Novels

by C. N. Crawford

  He unscrewed the top, taking a swig. “Glorious.” After pouring a few ounces of scotch on the sigil, he struck a match and dropped it. His voice took on a professorial tone. “If you’re using alcohol, be sure that it’s high enough proof to take a flame. You don’t want to be caught with your hand on a pact and a sigil that won’t light.”

  “High proof. Got it.” It didn’t have to be expensive, just alcoholic.

  “Lastly, you need to intone the summoning spell.” Kester reached into his pocket and produced a small scrap of parchment. “I’ve memorized it, but here’s a copy so you can follow along. You’ll need to repeat after me.”

  Ursula looked at the paper. Spidery letters crowded its surface. Kester started to speak, and though she didn’t know the name of the language, she found she could read it phonetically. F.U. was just full of surprises.

  As they worked their way through the spell, the words began to roll off her tongue.

  When they finished the final line, fire blazed like an erupting volcano, and Ursula shielded her face from the heat. The flame died abruptly, revealing a dark, smoky form crouched in the sigil’s center.

  A feminine figure rose. Dark tendrils of smoke curled off her, and her eyes burned like supernovas. Wincing, Ursula looked away before her retinas burned out.

  A raspy voice, crackling with fire, spoke. “Is this the girl you told me about?”

  “This is Ursula.”

  Ursula shielded her eyes, but Emerazel’s heat filled the room. Plumes of smoke wafted through the air like tentacles, encircling the two hellhounds. Outside, Ursula thought she caught a glimpse of Central Park now blazing with spewing lava and ash. That isn’t real, is it?

  She couldn’t breathe. What had happened to the air? She wanted to get the hell out of here. Ash seemed to fill her lungs. It was too hot.

  “Interesting,” whispered the goddess. “Very interesting. I see something in her.”

  “She is… feisty,” said Kester.

  “There’s something else. Something I didn’t notice before, the day she carved herself.”

  The day I carved myself. Does she know me? Nausea welled in Ursula’s gut. Something felt wrong. It was too hot in here—too bright. She needed the cool night air, needed to slip into the shadows, to ride the dark wind into cool, quiet space. Her body trembled, and she clamped her eyes shut. She wasn’t sure she could speak, even if she wanted to.

  “You remember her?” asked Kester. “She doesn’t know where she came from.”

  “That’s for the best,” Emerazel spat. “I want to see her kneel before me.”

  The words rang in Ursula’s head, and without thinking, she fell, her knees cracking against the floor. Her body trembled. Emerazel had complete control over her, just as Kester had told her she would.

  “A loyal subject to do with as I please. How delicious.” The goddess’s voice hissed like water on a hot stone.

  Ursula had no reply, couldn’t meet the goddess’s eyes. Nausea and dread wound through her, curling around her thoughts. I don’t belong here.

  “Tell me you’re my subject,” whispered Emerazel.

  Ursula felt her mouth moving. “I am your loyal subject,” she intoned. “I am yours.”

  A deep laugh rumbled through the room, shaking the floor. “You burn for me.”

  With a great force of will, Ursula dared to raise her eyes, though not high enough to meet the goddess’s shining gaze. She stared instead at Emerazel’s lips, cracked into a cinder-flecked smile. She knows something about me. If Ursula had had any control over her own body, she’d have asked what it was.

  “Do you remember when she carved herself?” Kester pressed.

  “I remember the day, though I didn’t know who she was then. So many souls came to me that day. It was glorious.” An ashy smile played about the goddess’s lips. “That’s all you need to know. I have an assignment for my sniveling little subject.”

  Ursula fought against the urge to scream. Her skin was on fire, and she was in the center of a volcano. Pain ripped her mind apart. Why didn’t Kester mind the heat? How could he stand this?

  Emerazel’s smile widened. “The target is a particularly delectable soul. He allied himself with me a few months ago. You might have heard of him—Hugo Modes. You’re to collect his soul for me. Do not disappoint me. Kester, give her a ledger. One thousand pages. One page for each task, until the book is full.”

  Ursula’s body trembled. Did she say a thousand pages?

  Kester nodded. “She’s had no training, so I will go with her on her first assignment.”

  “No,” Emerazel bellowed. “I want to see what she can do on her own. And, Kester, when you train her, make sure she remains submissive. Do not go gentle on her. I want this one to obey.”

  “Of course,” he said, his tone flat.

  “If she needs to die,” Emerazel mused. “Be sure you bring her to me first. I will dispose of her myself. In fact, I rather look forward to it.” Emerazel’s lips began to crumble, and her body collapsed into a pile of ash.

  Ursula gasped as cool air filled the room, and the icy winter day returned through the windows. Shaking, she hunched over on her hands and knees, fighting the urge to vomit. Her body twitched uncontrollably. A strong taste of creosote filled her mouth, and sandpaper seemed to line her eyelids. Coughing and gagging, she blinked, trying to force some moisture from her tear ducts.

  “That was awful. You didn’t tell me it would be that awful.” She hated the way her voice broke. She didn’t want Kester to see her weakened like this. He already had far too much control over her life.

  “Gods below,” said Kester, his voice low. “Your first lesson is never to look directly at her.”

  He held out a hand, lifting her up. “Are you all right?”

  Too tired to care about her pride, she leaned into him. “I won’t make that mistake again,” she managed. She needed a cool bath, and a long sleep.

  Kester slipped an arm around her waist, holding her up, and studied her. “I didn’t know that would happen,” he said quietly. “I’ve never seen her act that way before. And her flames shouldn’t burn one with the mark. I don’t feel her heat when she appears. You were in agony.”

  “I thought I was dying.”

  “You’ve certainly earned that Mystery Girl nickname.”

  She straightened, pulling away from him as the nausea subsided. “I don’t suppose I can convince Emerazel to tell me what she knows about me.”

  “She clearly hates you for some reason, so no.”

  Trapped in the constant desperation of trying to pay her rent and buy food, she’d ignored the most fundamental question for so long: Who am I? And now it blazed in her mind like Emerazel’s terrifying eyes. “Why would she hate me? What did I do?”

  Kester’s gaze bored into her. “I can tell you that your Angelic incantation was very clear. In fact, your accent is perfect. You were a scholar, once. How can you remember Angelic if you can’t remember anything about yourself?”

  “Same reason I can speak English and know how to use a knife and fork. It’s a different type of memory.” She frowned. Scholar was not a word she’d ever associated with herself. “But an Angelic scholar? Where would I have learned it?”

  “No idea. I guess that’s what makes you the Mystery Girl.”

  She swallowed hard. “What did she mean by a ledger?”

  “Every hellhound has a book—a ledger to track your progress. One page per task. When it is full, your soul is free. I’ll have one ready for you when you return from your assignment. I haven’t even begun training you, and I honestly have no idea why Emerazel has given you an assignment already. You’re not ready for it. But she has it in for you, so you’d better get it right, because it seemed like she wanted to kill you.”

  Cold dread bloomed in her mind. My assignment. Right. “I was in too much pain to focus when she was talking. I almost thought she was talking about Hugo Modes—the lead singer of Four Points. But that can’t b
e right.”

  Kester quirked an eyebrow. “She was. You’d best pick out one of those dresses I bought you. Charm is one of the best weapons we have, though I don’t get the impression it comes naturally to you.”

  Chapter 14

  Ursula sat in the back seat of a Bentley, staring out the window at a line of shivering club-goers. She wore a silky cocktail dress that felt gorgeous against her skin. Black—of course, since Kester had picked it out. With her nerves frayed beyond recognition, she’d arrived at her first assignment twenty minutes early.

  Outside, snowflakes drifted through the air. A few had melted on the car’s warm windows where they reflected the neon lights of Brooklyn like tiny jewels. In the front seat, the driver hummed tunelessly to the radio, a Mets cap on his head.

  “You think the Mets will be any good this season,” she asked. She wasn’t even sure what sort of sports she was talking about, but she needed a distraction, some sense of normalcy.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  So much for small talk.

  She drummed her manicured fingernails over her bare thighs. Hugo Modes. She was supposed to claim the soul of Hugo Modes. Could she really send his soul to a fiery afterlife? And what, exactly, did Emerazel plan to do with it down there?

  Honestly, if his music was anything to go by, he didn’t have much of a soul. His songs were the melodic equivalent of a white-bread and margarine sandwich. In fact, if she were ever tasked with designing her own personal hell, it would involve listening to The Four Points song “Girl, You Got a Magic Body” on a loop.

  Still, it wasn’t like she wanted to murder him for it.

  And yet, there were only two options: get the contract signed, or reap his soul. “Just stab him right in the heart with the blade of the pen,” Kester had explained, like it was nothing.

  Soul-reaping didn’t seem to bother him. Of course, someone with the nickname the Headsman probably didn’t have normal, human emotions. Over a glass of wine, he’d casually declared, “By the way, you can’t contact any old friends, since you’re officially dead. The police notified them yesterday. I say ‘friends’—really it was just the flatmate and an ex-boyfriend. Kind of a sad life you left behind. Anyway, the papers have already reported the Mystery Girl’s overdose. Heroin and crack. Naughty girl.”

  Just like that, Kester had told her only friend of her demise.

  Three years was the sad sum of her life, according to the tabloids. Found in a church, couldn’t handle the fame, shifted from one foster home to the next. “Unstable,” her former boss Rufus had reported. “Couldn’t be trusted around customers. I had to fire her after she attacked someone.”

  The British tabloids now speculated that she’d started the St. Ethelburga fire herself. Though, now that she knew about her fiery hands, that might not be a million miles from the truth.

  Bloody Kester. He couldn’t have orchestrated some kind of heroic death.

  She tightened her fists. Two minutes before her first mission was no time to get emotional. She needed to keep a clear head. She had a soul to collect, and she wasn’t going to screw it up, because it sort of seemed like the fire goddess really wanted to slaughter her.

  She pulled out the new mobile Kester had given her, and flicked open a web browser, searching for “Hugo Modes” to get a refresher on his face. He grinned at the camera, all white teeth, pink lips, and large brown eyes—virtually indistinguishable from the three other mop-haired boys in his band.

  Kester had been clear on the plan. She and Zee were supposed to approach Hugo together. Keep a low profile, and stay in the shadows. That part was easy enough. She liked shadows. It was just the whole killing thing that made her uneasy. Hopefully it wouldn’t come down to that. She might be a mortal demon, but she wasn’t a murderer.

  Someone rapped on the window, and Ursula jumped. It was Zee, clad in a belted white coat, her breath clouding around her face. Ursula opened the door, stepping into icy air that nipped at her bare legs.

  “Zee.” Ursula shut the door behind her. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

  The Russian stepped back, surveying Ursula’s black coat and tan heels. “You don’t look as gross as you did before.”

  “Thanks.” She hugged herself. “What do you do for Kester, anyway? Are you his employee?” Or do you just do what he says because you fancy him?

  “I have certain skills for which Kester pays me. That’s all you need to know. For one thing, I can get us in anywhere.” Her eye makeup shone gold in the tungsten streetlights. “This place is like my second home.” Behind her, gold-plated lettering read Club Lalique.

  Ursula’s teeth chattered. “I’m freezing. Shall we get in line?” She stuffed her phone into a small clutch the color of smoke. Wyrm skin, Kester had said. Dragon hide was invisible to normal humans, which made the clutch perfect for what she had to carry into the club.

  “Come with me.” Zee looped her arm through Ursula’s, leading her to the front of the line.

  “Are we just going to jump the queue?” Ursula whispered. She felt like a tit cutting in front of everyone, and she could feel their angry stares burning into her.

  “Of course.”

  A ruddy-faced bouncer in a long heavy coat stood behind a red rope. “Good evening, Zemfira.”

  Zee smiled. “Just my friend and me tonight.”

  The bouncer lifted the rope, then pulled open a black door. It led into a short hallway lined with pale marble tiles, and once she was inside its warmth Ursula’s stiff shoulders began to relax. They walked through a narrow hall to a set of gold-plated doors.

  Zee pushed a button, and the doors opened to reveal an elevator’s mirrored interior. They both stepped inside.

  Ursula took a deep breath. Calm down. All you need to do is give Hugo the parchment, and ask him to sign. He should be perfectly reasonable about it. What Emerazel wanted with his soul was a mystery, but she supposed Kester would probably just tell her it was none of her concern.

  As the elevator silently climbed fifteen stories, she glanced at a CCTV camera in the corner. This place was probably littered with cameras. A bit tricky to stay in the shadows.

  At the top floor, the doors opened to reveal a vast room dripping with opulence: platinum, muted gold, and vibrant amber. It was like something out of a Russian palace before the revolution. No wonder Zee liked it here.

  A few patrons clustered around a circular bar, while others lounged in cream leather booths. Above the bar, a gold column branched out like a metal tree, and crystal lights sparkled among its boughs. But the most eye-catching aspect of the room was the view: across the East River, Manhattan’s buildings jutted into the sky, a glittering, steel forest. This place was so far from Rufus’s club that it might as well have been on another planet. You’ve come a long way, Ursula.

  A grey-haired man in a black sweater approached them. “May I take your coats?”

  “Yes, please,” said Zee.

  Zee wriggled out of her white coat, revealing a pale cocktail dress that hugged her delicate curves. A pearl necklace draped around her neck, and she gripped a small, indigo clutch that matched her shoes.

  The man turned to Ursula. “Miss?”

  Ursula slipped out of her coat. The black Prada dress hugged her body perfectly. Short and A-line—good for running if she needed to slip away fast. She handed over her coat.

  Zee appraised her outfit. “Black. Sophisticated. Very nice.”

  You’re not the only one out here who can pick out a dress. “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Zee continued, “but I’m dying for a cocktail.” She headed to the bar, nabbing the last gold-cushioned seat. Ursula had to stand awkwardly behind her.

  Within moments, a blond bartender leaned across the wooden bar. “The usual, Miss Zemfira?”

  “Yes, but make it two.” She turned to Ursula. “You like champagne cocktails.” It was less a question than a directive. Drink it or else.

  “Sure. Whatever.” With her nerves b
lazing, Ursula wasn’t really in the mood for drinking, but it would help her blend in. Champagne wasn’t so alcoholic as to get her drunk, and she could slowly nurse it.

  “Great.” Zee smiled. “Save my spot. I have to pee.”

  After Zee hurried off, Ursula slipped into her seat, watching as the bartender put together their drinks. After dropping two sugar cubes into a pair of champagne flutes, he retrieved a bottle of Angostura. He dropped the bitters onto the cubes—deep red drops, like blood on snow. As he filled the glasses with champagne, Ursula shivered for a moment, thinking of the last hellhound, and the entrails that had decorated a tree.

  The bartender slid the glasses across the rich wood.

  “Thank you.” When she took a sip, the bubbles tickled her nose.

  A thin hand snapped up the other drink. “Just in time,” said Zee.

  “When do you think Hugo will get here?” Ursula whispered.

  “Soon, I suppose. He’s a regular here.” Zee leaned in close. “I can’t believe he’s your first target.”

  “How is it that you know all about this? About what I do?”

  Zee’s blue eyes sparkled. “I take it Kester hasn’t told you very much about me.”

  Of course not. He hadn’t told her very much about anything. Before Ursula could asked her what she meant, Zee shushed her. “Hugo’s here.”

  “Where?”

  “In the corner booth. Three o’clock. No wait. Nine o’clock? Whatever. To your left.”

  Ursula shifted in her seat.

  “Don’t look. He’s seen me. Did you see him? Don’t look!” Zee paused for what seem like a minute, but was probably only a few seconds. “Ok, you can look now, but don’t be obvious. He’s with a brunette. A lingerie model. I recognize her.” Zee took a sip of her champagne. “Shall we chat with him?”

  Zee’s onslaught of directions had left Ursula confused. “Now? I was planning on cornering him here at the bar.”

  “He has bottle service. He won’t leave his table.” Zee slipped off her stool and started toward Hugo’s booth. After smoothing down her hair, Ursula followed. Apparently, they were just going to walk up and introduce themselves to the superstar.