A harsh, gnawing emptiness welled in her chest, and she threw down the mop. She needed to get control for once in her life, before Emerazel showed up and dragged her to the underworld. Maybe she could still reclaim Zee’s soul. She could at least try. And maybe—with Zee’s help—she could find out what happened to Kester. If she was the one missing, Kester wouldn’t just sit around mopping floors and crying. He’d do something about it, for fuck’s sake.

Adrenaline coursed through her blood. She would be different—a New Ursula, one who took the hand she was given and dealt with it.

First, she needed to get out of her tattered, stained gown. She raced upstairs to the bathroom, stripping off her dress and turning on the shower. She stepped in, letting the hot stream of water wash the blood into the drain. She was already feeling better. After just a minute, she turned it off and toweled dry before crossing to her bedroom.

She rifled through her drawers for some of the black clothes Kester had bought her. If I’m going to be an assassin, might as well own it. Kester had been right—she wasn’t a “spring colors” girl anymore. She was a demonic killer, and it was time to get used to it. If nothing else, she wanted to hunt down Abrax and rip out his claws, one by one.

She slipped into a pair of black leather pants, her black boots, and a dark top before pulling on a jacket.

She needed to hunt down the incubus. She’d get Zee’s soul back, and then she’d slaughter him for what he’d done to Kester. Or, at least, she’d die trying.

Except—hadn’t Kester said he’d been searching for Abrax for years with no success, and that tonight had been their only chance? So where the hell was she supposed to start? She didn’t know the first thing about demonic lairs.

She crossed through the hall, thundering down the stairs. Whatever the case, she needed to start by reclaiming Zee’s unconscious body.

She hurried to the armory, grabbing Honjo from the rack. A sense of strength flooded her as soon as she picked him up.

In a drawer under the rack of weapons, she found the Kevlar sheath that allowed her to attach the sword to her back. As she armored up, she stole a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked like an angel of death. Good. That was what she was tonight.

On her way to the sigil room, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, taking a long slug and grimacing as it burned her throat. This would do to light the sigil.