Infernal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demons of Fire and Night Book 1) by C.N. Crawford Page B
Authors: C.N. Crawford
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interested. “What else do you do au naturel ?” His gaze rested firmly on her breasts before moving to her face.
“Oh, you know. Things .” She said it softly, gently placing a hand on Hugo’s knee where Virginie couldn’t see. Hopefully the knee-touching would distract him from the fact that she’d just tried to say “things” seductively.
Hugo stared into her eyes, and little smirk played around the corner of his mouth, before he abruptly looked away, slapping his hands on the table. “I need to go for a slash.”
He pushed his leg against Ursula’s, indicating that he wanted to get up from the table. Ursula scooted out, watching as Hugo and the bodyguard disappeared into the crowd. She took a sip of her champagne cocktail. Charm him and isolate him. One point for Ursula.
Her cell phone vibrated in her purse and she pulled it out. Zee’s name popped up.
“r u going to follow him????”
“should I?”
“He wants u 2. Now is ur chance.”
Virginie was gushing to Zee about her upcoming opera date—as if the Russian ice princess were the warmest, friendliest person in the world. Definitely magic of some sort. Ursula would have to ask Zee about that later.
Straightening her short dress, Ursula stood and strode toward the bathrooms. She’d read somewhere that British soldiers were given a rum ration before they went over the trenches. She downed the rest of her cocktail. In Club Lalique, champagne would have to do.
She glanced down at the wyrm-skin purse tucked under her arm. It held a credit card, 250 American dollars, a tube of red lipstick, her lucky stone, and her cellphone. But most importantly, it contained a small parchment pact and a bone-colored pen with a razor-sharp nib. All she had to do was remind Hugo of his contract, jab his palm, and get him to sign in his blood. Simple.
The dance floor had begun to fill, and Ursula wove her way through the crowd of lithe, glittering women and besuited men. She tried not to think about the pen’s second function. Kester had shown her a button hidden in its side that, when clicked, extended the nib into a small blade. That was the soul-reaping blade.
But she wasn’t going to use that. Even by the Headsman’s standards, that was a worst-case scenario. No one would agree to these bargains if word got round that Emerazel’s hellhounds murdered everyone on their eighteenth birthdays. In order for the system to work, they needed signatures, not corpses.
In one of the corners, a gold-plated letter M hung above a dark alcove. Hugo’s bodyguard stood just next to the entrance. As Ursula approached, the bodyguard gave her a wink. Good. Hugo’s definitely expecting me.
She pushed open the door and slipped inside. There was a short, curly-haired man by the sinks with a white towel in his hand. A silver tray of cologne, Club Lalique matchbooks, and breath mints were arranged on the counter behind him. “Miss, this is the men’s—” he started to say, but he fell silent when he glimpsed the one-hundred-dollar bill in Ursula’s outstretched hand.
“Can you give us a few minutes?” she whispered.
He nodded silently, pointing to the end of a row of black stall doors.
Ursula’s heels clacked over the tiles. Steel urinals lined the left wall under tall windows that granted a view of Manhattan. Any man taking a piss in Club Lalique could imagine that he was urinating on all the poor sods below. Ugh. If the revolution came, I’d be on the wrong side of the palace walls.
As she took a deep breath, she tapped the last door. “Hugo?” Seductive. Sound seductive . “It’s Ursula,” she breathed.
He cracked the door open, and she slipped inside, gripping her purse in anticipation. A window filled one entire wall, with only a thin black curtain covering the lower half for discretion. She could only hope no one was spending their evening scanning the Lalique bathrooms with a pair of binoculars.
Hugo pressed himself flat against the window, loosening
“Oh, you know. Things .” She said it softly, gently placing a hand on Hugo’s knee where Virginie couldn’t see. Hopefully the knee-touching would distract him from the fact that she’d just tried to say “things” seductively.
Hugo stared into her eyes, and little smirk played around the corner of his mouth, before he abruptly looked away, slapping his hands on the table. “I need to go for a slash.”
He pushed his leg against Ursula’s, indicating that he wanted to get up from the table. Ursula scooted out, watching as Hugo and the bodyguard disappeared into the crowd. She took a sip of her champagne cocktail. Charm him and isolate him. One point for Ursula.
Her cell phone vibrated in her purse and she pulled it out. Zee’s name popped up.
“r u going to follow him????”
“should I?”
“He wants u 2. Now is ur chance.”
Virginie was gushing to Zee about her upcoming opera date—as if the Russian ice princess were the warmest, friendliest person in the world. Definitely magic of some sort. Ursula would have to ask Zee about that later.
Straightening her short dress, Ursula stood and strode toward the bathrooms. She’d read somewhere that British soldiers were given a rum ration before they went over the trenches. She downed the rest of her cocktail. In Club Lalique, champagne would have to do.
She glanced down at the wyrm-skin purse tucked under her arm. It held a credit card, 250 American dollars, a tube of red lipstick, her lucky stone, and her cellphone. But most importantly, it contained a small parchment pact and a bone-colored pen with a razor-sharp nib. All she had to do was remind Hugo of his contract, jab his palm, and get him to sign in his blood. Simple.
The dance floor had begun to fill, and Ursula wove her way through the crowd of lithe, glittering women and besuited men. She tried not to think about the pen’s second function. Kester had shown her a button hidden in its side that, when clicked, extended the nib into a small blade. That was the soul-reaping blade.
But she wasn’t going to use that. Even by the Headsman’s standards, that was a worst-case scenario. No one would agree to these bargains if word got round that Emerazel’s hellhounds murdered everyone on their eighteenth birthdays. In order for the system to work, they needed signatures, not corpses.
In one of the corners, a gold-plated letter M hung above a dark alcove. Hugo’s bodyguard stood just next to the entrance. As Ursula approached, the bodyguard gave her a wink. Good. Hugo’s definitely expecting me.
She pushed open the door and slipped inside. There was a short, curly-haired man by the sinks with a white towel in his hand. A silver tray of cologne, Club Lalique matchbooks, and breath mints were arranged on the counter behind him. “Miss, this is the men’s—” he started to say, but he fell silent when he glimpsed the one-hundred-dollar bill in Ursula’s outstretched hand.
“Can you give us a few minutes?” she whispered.
He nodded silently, pointing to the end of a row of black stall doors.
Ursula’s heels clacked over the tiles. Steel urinals lined the left wall under tall windows that granted a view of Manhattan. Any man taking a piss in Club Lalique could imagine that he was urinating on all the poor sods below. Ugh. If the revolution came, I’d be on the wrong side of the palace walls.
As she took a deep breath, she tapped the last door. “Hugo?” Seductive. Sound seductive . “It’s Ursula,” she breathed.
He cracked the door open, and she slipped inside, gripping her purse in anticipation. A window filled one entire wall, with only a thin black curtain covering the lower half for discretion. She could only hope no one was spending their evening scanning the Lalique bathrooms with a pair of binoculars.
Hugo pressed himself flat against the window, loosening
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