This was a kitchen made for something a little more delectable than buttered bread. Her stomach rumbled, but Kester had already moved on.

Down the hall, he flicked on a light through a doorway. “The armory.”

Ursula’s pulse quickened. Weapons. She’d grown quite fond of that sword tonight.

She peeked inside. The armory was as large as the main hall. A mirror lined one wall, and beige tatami mats covered the floor. A wooden sparring dummy stood in a corner. Across from her, a magnificent collection of daggers, swords, and spears hung on wooden racks. Grinning, Ursula hurried across the room to inspect them.

“Take your time,” said Kester. “I’m going to see about some food. I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.”

Ursula’s eyes went wide at the gleaming collection. There was a Viking sword like the one she’d so recently used to fight the shadow stalker, pointed blades for puncturing hearts and lungs, stubby Roman swords, and even a Scottish claymore. But it was the rack of Asian weapons that most drew her eye: a sword for chopping the legs off of charging horses, a pair of daggers, two long spears, and a wicked-looking katana. She had no idea why, but these swords called to her.

She bit her lip, fighting the urge to steal a few daggers. She didn’t know where she’d be resting her head tonight, but sleeping with a cold blade by her side might not be a bad idea. Especially since her new mentor had the disturbing tendency to grow claws and fangs. Maybe he was being civil to her now, but he was clearly dodgy as hell.

She reached for the katana. Black silk wrapped the hilt, and the guard was forged in the shape of a dragon. The blade shone like a viper’s tooth.

It was perfectly weighted. She hurried to the center of the room and sliced the blade through the air in a practice swing, thrilling at the feel of the steel. She swung again, and the muscles in her shoulders loosened. Home. This feels like home. Her arm still throbbed where the shadow stalker had broken it, but with the sword in her hand, the dull ache began to ease.

Turning toward the mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself and winced. Her auburn hair lay matted to her head. Blood and dirt stained her shirt and jeans, and her black eye makeup formed two dark semi-circles below her hazel eyes. I look like a goth clown—definitely worse than a drunken KISS fan.

At least the sword was beautiful. With a faint smile, she raised it above her head. She sliced downward with a yell, halting when the blade was parallel to the floor. As she lifted her arms to take another swing, Kester’s voice interrupted.