He loosened his grip on her, slipping away. “It could have been any number of things. Some demons enjoy dispatching their prey with a dramatic flair. Sometimes a curse can rebound, injuring the caster. A lot of things could have led to Henry’s demise.”

Demons. Curses. All in a day’s work around here. “Hellhounds use curses, too?”

“We do what Emerazel tells us. Usually it’s signing pacts and reaping souls, but sometimes she has more specific requests.”

“Such as?”

“When you get one, you’ll know.” Something wicked glinted in his eyes. “And if you must know, I really don’t mourn Henry’s loss. He was something of a psychopath.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of psychopaths, Headsman, why are you in my apartment?”

He flashed her a wolfish smile. “I couldn’t resist your warm and inviting company.”

She crossed her arms, eyeing the sword on the ground. “Seriously. What did you come for?”

“I left a box of gold ingots on your kitchen table—your annual stipend—and I’m here to teach you how to summon Emerazel.” He turned toward the hallway. “Follow me.”

She snatched Honjo from the ground, returning it to the rack, and stalked after Kester.

He spoke over his shoulder. “When you meet the goddess of passion and wrath, please don’t mouth off. She can compel you to do whatever she wants, including throwing yourself through a window, so I’d advise you to be pleasant and charming.” He slid a cold gaze her way. “In other words, don’t be yourself.”

“I’m perfectly charming to people who haven’t abducted me and threatened my life,” she shot back.

“You asked for this.” They stopped at the door to the sigil room, and Kester continued. “Summoning her is simple. You just need three ingredients. The first is her symbol.”

“The encircled triangle. I’ve got that one memorized.” She followed him into the sigil room, glancing out the windows at the snow-covered city. She was about to meet an immortal goddess of fire, yet her blood had turned to ice. She hugged herself tight.

Kester pulled the rug aside to reveal the symbol on the floor. “The second ingredient is fire.” He produced a box of matches and the small silver flask from inside his jacket.

He unscrewed the top, taking a swig. “Glorious.” After pouring a few ounces of scotch on the sigil, he struck a match and dropped it. His voice took on a professorial tone. “If you’re using alcohol, be sure that it’s high enough proof to take a flame. You don’t want to be caught with your hand on a pact and a sigil that won’t light.”

“High proof. Got it.” It didn’t have to be expensive, just alcoholic.