She sliced the katana to the side, eviscerating an imaginary assailant. She resumed the ready position with the blade parallel to the floor. As she watched her form for precision and balance, she slowly raised the sword above her head. She slashed it down. Thanks ever so much for the work clothes, Kester, but did you forget to mention that bit about the entrails in the park trees?

Beyond the evisceration and public display of intestines, Zee had known no more about who or what had killed the last hellhound. She didn’t know if the murderer was still a threat, or if he was likely to come for Ursula.

The steel glinted in Ursula’s hands. If someone was after her, she’d be prepared.

Footsteps echoed behind her, and she turned to find Kester standing in the doorway, dressed in a fitted black suit.

She gripped the sword’s hilt. “When were you planning on telling me the last fellow was gutted in Central Park?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Zee has a little problem with discretion. And tact.” His green eyes lingered on her a little too long; something feral flickered in them. “You clean up nicely. Black suits you.”

“It does not suit me.” At the carnal look in his eyes, heat burned her cheeks. “I’m more of a spring colors girl.”

“You’re not a ‘spring colors girl.’ You’re a gods-damned demon. Do you understand that? You’re going to have to kill people.”

Dread tightened her chest. She hadn’t really thought about that. “Speaking of killing people…” She strode across the room and pointed the blade at his chest. “I want to know what’s going on. Why was the last hellhound murdered?”

He didn’t flinch. Apparently, even when she was armed with a katana, he didn’t view her as dangerous. His eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t know why he was murdered. You’re here to help me find out, once you’ve calmed down a bit.”

“I’m perfectly—”

In a fraction of a second, he’d moved behind her, swift as the wind—one powerful arm wrapped tightly around her, and the other hand gripping her sword arm. Heat from his body warmed her. He squeezed her wrist, and she gasped at the pain, dropping the sword. “Don’t take on an opponent you have no chance of beating, Ursula,” he whispered in her ear. “Not unless you have a really good plan.”

Her frustration lent her boldness. “Oh, right. I hear you’re ‘the Headsman.’ Quite the nickname you have.” Her heart raced. She shouldn’t be prodding this beast, but she wasn’t so sure she could cope with being a hellhound. What did she really have to lose at this point? “Your colleague was gutted, his intestines strewn about like holiday decorations, and you have no idea why?”