At least I got Zee talking. What she was hearing was terrifying, but at least she was hearing something. “So what you’re saying is that I’m in good hands?”

“As long as you stay on his good side. You’ll need his protection, you know.” Zee sighed loudly. “All this effort to make you look presentable, and you’ll probably just be shredded anyway.”

Ursula’s pulse raced. This is getting worse. “What do you mean, shredded?”

Zee straightened, peering over at Ursula’s face. “You mean Kester didn’t tell you why there was an opening in New York?”

Her stomach clenched. “No, he was a little quiet on that point.”

“Ugh, it was ghastly. Someone gutted the last guy, and strung his entrails over the trees in Central Park. They looked like Christmas tree ornaments, only made of flesh.” Zee smiled sweetly. “And now you have his job.”

Bloody hell. Pictures of bluebells and asters won’t be nearly enough to help me sleep soundly tonight.

Chapter 13

In the armory, Ursula faced herself in mirror, staring at her glossy locks. Luis hadn’t cut off much—just enough that her hair now fell above her shoulders. He’d been a little creepy—in fact, he’d pressed his cell phone number into her palm and demanded that she call him for a scalp massage—but at least he’d done a wonderful job with the cut.

She was already feeling much better about her insane new life. After she’d returned that afternoon, she’d finished painting a small mural of wildflowers on her bedroom wall, making it feel a little more like home. And when she’d strode downstairs, covered in smudges of periwinkle and honey-hued paints, she’d found bags of clothes waiting for her on the living room floor.

Inside one of the bags, there was a handwritten note from Kester explaining that she’d need the clothes for work. Whoever had bought them had exquisite taste. Apart from some gorgeous dresses they were, unfortunately, all black—not exactly her thing. But still, she wasn’t going to complain about Louboutin boots and Burberry trousers.

If only she could have ignored the whole eternal torment thing—not to mention the shredded hellhounds thing—she’d be having a wonderful time in New York.

As she gripped Honjo in front of her, she pointed the blade straight at the mirror, her feet planted in a fighting stance. She now wore a new pair of black trousers—real leather this time—and a black tank top. She looked like some sort of American action hero.