Nocturnal Magic (Demons of Fire and Night Book 2)

by C. N. Crawford

Ursula’s body hummed with raw nerves. He didn’t look like much of a match, but Bael had described him as a sadist. She took her spot, about six feet from him.

  As the sound of her heart pounded in her ears, the gong reverberated through the crater.

  Bernajoux drew his blade—a rapier. The thing looked flimsy—a long piece of narrow steel, no thicker than a ruler.

  Ursula pulled her katana from its sheath, feeling its comforting weight in her hand.

  Turning his body sideways, he pointed the blade at her. He arched an eyebrow. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course.”

  Bernajoux’s licked his lips. The sight of his long, pointed tongue distracted her.

  Bernajoux took the opportunity to strike, springing forward like a venomous serpent. Reflexively, Ursula parried, her sword clanking against his.

  “Very nice,” said Bernajoux. “I see you’ve trained in the Shinduro technique.”

  So that’s what it’s called. Instead of responding, Ursula kept her full attention on his blade. It glided through the air in a slow serpentine motion, interrupted by an occasional twitch that made her heart jump.

  “But have you trained in the style of Calvacabos of Bologna?” he hissed.

  She had no idea what he was talking about. But it didn’t matter. He was already lunging again. Pain ripped through her thigh as his blade pierced her muscle. She grunted as he ripped the blade out again.

  “Did you like that?” asked Bernajoux. “Did you like feeling the tip inside you? Do you want it a bit deeper?”

  Bile rose in her throat. What the fuck?

  Bernajoux darted back, the bloodied tip of his sword dancing before her eyes. He’s toying with me. Her leg screamed with pain.

  Bernajoux attacked again, and she just barely parried it.

  “Do you want some more?” he asked. “If only I could take my time with you. Really get to know your body with my blade.”

  The tip of his sword twitched, and she jumped back. The demon laughed, his tongue flicking between elongated canines.

  He pressed in on her, his blade extended. She faltered, stumbling back.

  One thing was becoming clearer—her katana was a slashing weapon. It didn’t have the reach or precision of his rapier. If she fought on his terms, she’d loose.

  The pointed tip of Bernajoux’s sword glinted in the pearly light. Still, the sides of the blade were dull.

  Adrenaline raced through her body, lighting her muscles on fire. I need to get out of his reach. She needed to shadow run. Maybe she could get close enough to slash him with her katana, while avoiding the rapier.

  She focused on a spot near him, letting the shadows gather within her. Riding on the wind, she raced forward—right into the tip of the rapier.

  It felt like a punch to her stomach, but when she looked down, she saw the blade had pierced clean through her abdomen. Horror ripped her mind apart.

  Bernajoux licked his lips. “Does that fill you up nicely? Want a bit more?”

  Pain screamed through her gut, stealing her breath. She tried to breathe. I haven’t even managed to attack. This was a massacre.

  She gripped her katana tighter, swinging for Bernajoux. She struck him hard in the side, just below his ribs. He screamed, losing the grip on his sword. He staggered back.

  His sword still impaled her stomach, and Bernajoux was muttering in Angelic, trying to staunch the blood flow from his side.

  She had to attack while he was still weakened. But first, she needed to get the godforsaken blade out of her gut.

  Dropping her katana, she gripped the rapier in two hands, piercing her fingers. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the hilt away from her. Pain splintered through her.

  With tears streaming from her eyes, she tugged on it again. With a final, agonized scream, she ripped it free. Just as Bernajoux finished the final words of the healing spell, she flung the sword away. It arced into the air in a whirl of blood and metal.

  Too bad he doesn’t have a weapon.

  “My blade!” Bernajoux screamed.

  Hot blood poured from her stomach, but she kept her focus on him.

  “Do you like that?” she snarled. “Do you want me to take my time with you?”

  Bernajoux’s face twisted with rage, and he leapt for her. She jammed her katana up, piercing his throat. The attack speared his brainstem.

  Bernajoux the Unvanquished no longer lived up to his name.

  His body went limp, spasming as it fell to the ground. She pulled her sword from his neck.

  Agony rippled down her body, and she glanced down at the wound in her gut. Staring at the pumping blood, her vision began to darken. The crowd’s frantic cheers sounded a million miles away.

  A chill seeped into her bones, and it wasn’t shadow magic.

  She fell back against the cold dirt, staring at the bright blue and green of the Earth. In the next moment, Bael’s face appeared, eclipsing the Earth. He lifted her in his arms, and she could smell the scent of sandalwood.

  Chapter 45

  Bael brushed his fingers over her cheek. “Ursula? I need you to wake up.”

  She opened her eyes, blinking at the starlight. The Earth, nearly full, hung bright in the sky.

  Her throat felt dry, her mind foggy. Around her, the crowd roared.

  Hothgar’s voice cut the braying crowd like a foghorn.

  I’m still here. Lacus Mortis.

  She licked her lips, then swallowed. I need water. “What happened?”

  “You slayed Bernajoux, but he injured you terribly. I healed you, but you missed an entire round.”

  “Who fought?”

  “The Gray Ghost and Chax of Azimeth.”

  She was pretty sure she already knew the answer, but she asked anyway. “Who won?”

  “The Gray Ghost.” He frowned. “I’ll be fighting next. I don’t expect it to last long. Will you be ready to fight after?”

  No bloody way. “Of course.”

  “Good. You fight the Gray Ghost—”

  Hothgar’s voice cut him off, announcing his name. “I must go.” His pale gaze pierced her, and she watched as he rose, pulling on his silver helm. “You’ll be fine.”

  She didn’t get a chance to ask him what exactly he knew about the Gray Ghost. As she pushed up onto her elbows, he was already walking toward the center of the arena.

  Ursula rose unsteadily to watch the fight. She shot a nervous glance at the man next to her. Despite having already fought a battle, the Gray Ghost’s clothes still shone a pale gray, like the skin of a corpse.

  A shudder crawled up her spine, and she turned her attention back to the duel. Inth—the knight—stood opposite Bael. He held a new, unbroken pole arm. His armor gleamed in the starry light, good as new. I guess I wasn’t the only one who’s been healed.

  Hothgar gripped his gong. “For the next battle, Inth of Alboth versus Bael the Fallen.” He slammed the mallet into the gong with a thunderous clang.

  Immediately, Inth began to charge up his weapon, twisting the spearhead in a complicated pattern. Bael stood opposite him, his body perfectly still, sword held casually.

  Inth’s pike sparked with dark magic. He swung it in a sharp arc, blasting magic from the tip. But Bael effortlessly sidestepped, holding his sword loosely at his side.

  Inth unleashed another bolt. Again, Bael sidestepped. Didn’t break a sweat, nor use shadow magic. Didn’t even bother to wear armor. Cocky bastard. She was beginning to understand why he’d been so confident before the battle.

  Worse, a growing certainty bloomed in her mind. The vision of herself lying against the dirt, Bael’s knife pressed against her heart.

  It wasn’t just a fear. It was a premonition.

  Inth’s pole arm glowed white-hot, and he took a tentative step toward Bael. Meanwhile, Bael stood still as the statue of Nyxobas

  Ursula had learned that the stiller Bael’s body, the more deadly his thoughts.

  When the knight lunged, thrusting his blade at Bael’s ch
est, Bael leapt into the air. Wisps of shadow magic trailed behind him as he cleared the tip of the pole arm. He soared over Inth’s head, gripping his sword with the blade’s tip pointing down. With a single, vicious thrust, he plunged it through the top of the knight’s helm.

  Bael landed gracefully on the sand. As Inth crumpled, Bael wrenched his blade from the knight’s skull with a sickening crunch of bone.

  The oneiroi ran onto the field of blood to drag the body away, and the crowd booed. Another execution.

  As with Zoth, the entire fight had lasted only seconds. Bael turned, stalking back to his spot at the edge of the field of blood. Again, his glacial gaze flicked to her for just a moment, his face devoid of emotion.

  Her knees were going weak. This was it—she had to defeat two more demons before she could live. The Gray Ghost—a reanimated corpse.

  And Bael.

  “Congratulations, Bael, on reaching the final duel,” said Hothgar, his voice quavering. Was that fear? If Bael were going to resume his position as the Sword of Nyxobas, Hothgar had every reason to be afraid. Bael’s vengeance against those who had wronged him would be swift and ruthless.

  “Emerazel’s whore will now fight the Gray Ghost on the field of blood. The winner of this round will fight Bael the Fallen.”

  Ursula’s heart pounded like a battle drum, her blood pumping hard as she stepped into the center of the arena.

  The Gray Ghost prowled forward, taking his spot across from her.

  Hothgar sounded the gong, and her nerves blazed with anticipation.

  She gripped her katana, keeping her gaze on her opponent. Her stomach throbbed where she’d been stabbed, but otherwise it seemed to be fully healed.

  She’d seen the Gray Ghost fight when he’d first announced his participation in the tournament. She’d seen him slay five demons in the melee, and not one of them had touched him.

  And yet, she’d also seen Bael revive him in the mushroom forest. So what the hell had happened there?

  The wind toyed with the gray scarf wrapped around the Ghost’s face and he stood, still as a corpse. Which, perhaps, he was.

  When she’d seen him fight before, every movement had been precise, like he was thinking multiple steps ahead of his adversary. Just like Bael, he’d waited for his opponents to attack first, then countered.

  Maybe she could throw him off.

  Hothgar’s voice boomed over the field of blood. “The fight is supposed to begin.” He sounded the gong again.

  The Gray Ghost raised his blades. Pearly light sparked off them, but he didn’t move.

  Ursula lifted her katana, her palms sweating. Any minute now.

  The icy lunar wind rippled over her skin, and she could hear her blood pounding in her ears.

  Maybe I can goad him into attacking.

  She pointed her blade at his chest, slowly approaching. When she got within striking distance, he stepped back. She followed him, but he stayed just out of range.

  She feinted, and he immediately parried—one of his blades flashing up to deflect hers, metal sparking against metal. Her sword vibrated in her grip.

  For a corpse, he was strong. Very strong.

  She backed away. Maybe he will come after me now. Instead, he simply stood there waiting. She feinted again, and he parried, their blades clashing.

  “Why won’t you fight me?” said Ursula.

  The Gray Ghost simply watched her from behind his scarf. She’d seen how he’d baited Vepar into tiring himself out. Only when his opponent was thoroughly exhausted did he attack—diving for the tendons behind his ankles to immobilize him.

  A brilliant thought sparked in her mind—what if she faked fatigue?

  She feinted again. When he parried, she immediately followed up with another strike. To conserve strength, she didn’t attack with full velocity, but with each strike, she allowed herself to be a little wilder.

  The brethren loved it, chanting her name: “Ursula! Ursula! Ursula!”

  Slowly, she began to drive the Gray Ghost toward the far wall. When they reached it, she pretended to falter at the end of a particularly wild strike.

  She’d made herself an inviting target. Would he take the bait?

  He dove at the ground, but she’d anticipated his strike, leaping into the air. She swung her katana low, but the Ghost had rolled out of reach.

  He crouched, blades drawn, ready to strike.

  She began backing away from the wall. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  The Ghost stalked toward her. His daggers didn’t have nearly the reach of her katana, but he had two of them, which meant he could throw one. Also, she might need to dodge if he launched a swift counter-strike.

  Abruptly, she lunged forward, slashing at his head. He ducked, then dove for her ankles again. She leapt to the side—but not fast enough. One of his blades slashed into her calf, and the pain shrieked up her leg.

  Hot blood dripped down her skin inside her trousers.

  The Ghost advanced on her. His posture had changed. He leaned forward now, his knives pointed straight at her. He’d wounded her. Like any good predator, he sensed when a kill was imminent.

  And maybe she could make him a little more confident then he needed to be...

  Grimacing, she forced herself to yelp with pain, hobbling on her leg. Without a moment of hesitation, he dove into his roll—just as she’d expected.

  As soon as he was in range, she slashed down, ramming her blade through his throat. And not a single drop of blood spilled from the wound.

  Her hand shook as she leaned down and pulled the scarf from his face, and her stomach turned at what she found beneath the cloth.

  The thing that looked up from the sand wasn’t human, and Ursula was pretty sure it wasn’t a demon, either.

  So that was why they called him the Gray Ghost. He had no face, just a smooth expanse of gray skin. No eyes. No nose. He had a mouth—now hanging open—but no teeth.

  Her blood ran cold.

  “A golem!” Hothgar’s voice boomed. “Who has entered a golem into the tournament?”

  Ursula yanked her sword from the creature’s neck. A sticky, gray substance covered the blade.

  She glanced at Bael, her next opponent.

  She’d seen him raising one of these creatures in the mushroom forest. So what, exactly, did he know about this? From what she could remember of the demon books in her New York library, golems did as their masters commanded.

  As she walked across the field of blood, Hothgar’s demon guards circled the golem where it lay on the sand.

  “Destroy it,” Hothgar shouted.

  Ursula turned to watch the action.

  Around the golem, the guards chanted in Angelic. A chill rippled over the crater as air thickened with shadow magic. When the demons incanted the final words of the spell, the magic condensed into a sphere no larger than a marble.

  The sphere hovered above the golem’s body. The gray flesh seemed to lift and bend up toward the marble. A crack reverberated over the crater, the golem’s body snapped, condensing. The sphere of magic sucked the golem into its darkness. An instant later, nothing remained of the golem but a few lonely pieces of gray cloth fluttering on the sand.

  Chapter 46

  The soldiers cleared the field of the golem’s ichor.

  It was just her and Bael, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Right now, the thought of him terrified her.

  Pain splintered up her leg. The cut in her calf wouldn’t kill her on its own, but it would slow her down considerably. That in and of itself was probably a death sentence. Especially given her opponent.

  She stole a glance at him.

  He kept his eyes on the horizon. He didn’t want to look at her, either.

  Hothgar spoke, “Great men—and a golem—have bled their last on the sand today. Before the final duel begins, let us honor the sacrifice of these champions of Nyxobas.”

  A great cheer rose from the crowd.

  Hothgar continued,
“I would have never believed it myself, but the final duel will be between Bael, the Lord of Abelda, and Ursula, the hound of Emerazel.”

  Finally, at least, he was using respectable names.

  “This will be a clash of the fallen versus the filthy…” Hothgar continued.

  Anger simmered. Okay. Fuck this guy.

  “...Of night versus fire.” His voice boomed over the crater. “Neither worthy of the House of Abelda.” He raised his hands to the sky. “But let us hope that it will be epic!”

  Ursula glanced up at the Earth, bathing the crater in a blue light.

  From beneath Nyxobas’s statue, Hothgar declared, “Step forward onto the field of blood.”

  Ursula looked down at the blood-streaked sand as she walked, her heart a hunted animal. Only when she’d taken her place in the center of the arena did she look up at Bael. He wasn’t even bothering with his helmet for this fight, and she could see his grim expression, his lips pressed tight. She tried to catch his eye, but he looked past her like she wasn’t there.

  Instinctively, she scanned his weapons a final time. The silver sword, still stained with Inth’s blood. Right now, he was probably thinking about how much power he was about to regain. He’d claim back his wings, his manor. His immortality. All he had to do was slaughter her.

  And given everything she’d seen tonight, he hardly had to break a sweat.

  Dark terror clawed at her ribs, and her legs began to shake. She knew what was coming—Bael’s dagger in her chest. The slackened jaw, her skin as gray as the golem’s. And then, the void.

  Don’t give up yet, Ursula.

  Her teeth chattered, and she gripped the katana tighter, her palms sweating.

  “The final duel.” Hothgar gripped his mallet.

  Ursula’s calculations gave way to raw panic, and her mind raced, desperately searching for an escape. But this place wasn’t built for an escape, and it wasn’t like she could flee unnoticed with this crowd watching.

  The katana shook in her hand. I need to focus. I need calm so I can think straight again.

  She imagined her fingers wrapping around the silver ring in her pocket, feeling its smooth solidity. Just like her white rock. Her breathing slowed, and her gaze flicked to Hothgar.