This time, he didn’t telegraph his strike, and she had to dodge behind the stove. He stalked after her, armor creaking, backing her into a corner. She sliced Honjo, but the fae parried, sparks showering from their swords. He rounded the edge of the stove, swinging for her face. She ducked, and his blade whistled through the air only inches above her head. She had to do something offensive, but she didn’t know how to penetrate that fae armor without room to wind up in the cramped corner.

The image of Kester’s falling body blazed through her mind again, and fury flooded her. She lowered her shoulder and charged.

The force felt like tackling a steel beam, but she’d gotten the leverage right. The guard toppled back, hitting the floor with a crash that sent his sword skittering across the room.

Ursula stood over him, pointing Honjo at his throat, piercing the skin just enough to draw a small drop of red blood. “I did warn you.”

Fear shone in his eyes, his grin gone. “Have mercy.”

“A coup de grâce then?”

“Please don’t kill me…”

“What happened to Kester?”

“I don’t know…” he stammered.

“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice came out in a cold roar, almost foreign to her.

“He died,” the fae yelled. “He fell to the ground and died. His body was mangled. He’s with his beloved fire goddess now, which I’m sure is what the filthy dog always want—”

Ursula stabbed downward, but not into his throat. Instead she drove Honjo into the gap between breast plate and pauldron, her blade tugging on the sinews of his shoulder until it thunked against the wooden boards. He screamed piteously, but dark fury filled her. “I didn’t like where that sentence was going.”

The guard moaned.

“Don’t worry. You’ll live.” She wasn’t sure where this cold, icy Ursula had come from.

She crossed to the other end of the boat, pushing open the door to Kester’s room. She cast one last glance at the moaning fae. “If I hear any spells or incantations, I’ll be back to reap your soul.”

Dim light from two portholes illuminated Kester’s bedroom. Tucked into his bed, Zee slept, her chest rising and falling slowly.

Ursula scanned the room, her throat tightening. The walls were steel blue and the bed was covered in a grey duvet. The room was tidy, and a small bookshelf hung on the wall above his bed, lined with more old novels. This was Kester’s home. He’d been alive for four hundred years, and she’d led him to his death tonight.