For the briefest of moments Bael stared at her. Was that incredulity she saw in his eyes? Red welts were seared into his arms where the chains had burned his skin. Then, like smoke caught in a breeze, he slipped free. In an instant, he gripped her shoulders, his face taught with fury, and he slammed her into the wall with the speed of a gale-force wind. His strength was terrifying. He slipped a hand around her throat and snarled, “You gave my soul to the fire goddess. You deserve to die a painful death.”

Ursula’s heart hammered against her ribs. This is it. I’m going to die. “You can’t kill me,” she stammered. “I have your soul.”

“You’re lucky I’m not at my full power, or I’d compel you to do as I pleased,” he growled. He relaxed his grip on her, but his eyes continued to bore into her. “Of course one of Emerazel’s dogs would act dishonorably.” He stepped away, glaring at her with disgust. “Stay here.”

Ursula raised her dagger in a shaking hand. “You need to take me to—”

But he was already gone. Just a rush of air and dark magic, and the sound of the door slamming. She started after him, and something heavy crashed outside the door. He’d locked her in. The fucker.

She tested the door anyway, but it wouldn’t budge. Muffled noises echoed through the wood—doors opening and shutting and unidentified banging, a demonic rampage through her apartment. As she was deciding whether to try her luck on the ledge, she heard a scraping sound by the door. She whirled, just in time to see the door ripped from its hinges.

Bael stood in silhouette, shadowy magic curling from his enormous body in dark tendrils. Backlit by the crystal chandelier, he filled the doorframe. The man was a mountain of muscle. In one hand he clutched one of the Zhanmadao swords. The blade was close to five feet long, but looked smaller in his grip. In his other hand, he held Honjo.

“The wings aren’t here.”

Ursula had to fight every instinct to run for the window and throw herself off the ledge. “You said Abrax has them.”

“I had to be sure you weren’t lying about Henry—that you weren’t secretly working for him. I had to be sure that my wings weren’t hidden here.”

“And now you’re sure that I’m not working for Henry?”

“Yes. I can hardly smell Henry’s stench anymore. He hasn’t been in this apartment in months. Kester has been here, though.”