“I told you. I’m not in control of these things; Emerazel is. I’m not actually a god, even if I look like one.”

Arrogant wanker. She wanted answers. Now. Another foxfire orb burned above them, illuminating the scorched and charred earth around her. At the edge of its glow, something glinted in the shadows. The sword. She rushed toward it, plucking it from the frozen earth before whirling to point it at Kester.

“You need to tell me what is going on, or I will slice you in half.”

Kester tilted his head thoughtfully. “Fine. I brought you to the Avebury Henge for a trial. To become a hellhound, you must defeat a demon.”

She stalked closer, still pointing the sword. Had he said hellhound? “I thought fighting the demon—shadow stalker, whatever you call it—I thought that would resolve my debt.”

Kester shook his head. “The trial merely gave you the opportunity to repay your debt. Your soul still belongs to Emerazel until you pay it off.”

The frigid air stung her cheeks and fingers. “So I’m not free?”

“Not free.” The tip of his nose had grown pink in the cold. “But on the bright side, you’re employed, so that’s a step up from a few hours ago. Your new job is to collect either souls or signatures from those who owe a debt to Emerazel. Plus, you’re alive, and to be honest my money was on the shadow stalker.”

Finally having got an answer, she lowered the sword. “Why didn’t you just reap my soul, like you threatened?”

“A request for trial is always honored.” His breath clouded around his head. “And now, we need to go. Sunrise is in an hour, and I don’t want to have to explain to a warden of the National Trust why you desecrated a Neolithic monument.”

“We’re going back to London?” Ursula turned to walk back to the car, but Kester’s voice stopped her.

“Not the car, Ursula. We’ll be traveling by Emerazel’s sigil.” He strode toward her and gently pulled the sword from her grasp. Gripping it in both hands, he pointed the tip toward the scorched earth. “And no. Not London.”

Ursula jammed her hands in her pockets, trying to warm them. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where we’re going.” Apparently that fire had burned the fever right out of her, because her hands were freezing now. Shivering, she watched as Kester carved a triangle in a circle in the snow and soil—the same symbol that marked her shoulder.

Kester slid the sword into its sheath, and reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. With a half-smile, he pulled out a silver flask.

He unscrewed the cap and took a slug, then offered it to her. “Want a sip? It’s Glenfiddich, 1937.”