But before she could detail Hugo’s misogynistic attitude towards woman’s swimwear, Kester cut in. “I don’t care what he said. My point is: you need to lure people in. Make them think they can trust you, that they want to please you.” He flicked his blade, and she had to leap to the side to avoid being skewered.

“He seemed to like it when I told him I prefer to swim nude.”

She caught a flicker of interest in Kester’s eyes. Two can play at the distraction game. She hadn’t failed to notice his eyes lingering on her cleavage whenever he got the chance.

“Nude?” He parried, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead. “Is that so? You like the feel of the water against your bare skin?”

You’ve got him, Ursula. Keep going. “Yes, and I eat ice cream nude, because I like when it melts and drips down my breasts.”

Nope. That was just weird. Really, really weird.

Weird or not, Kester faltered. With him off balance, Ursula stabbed at him. He dodged, but not before the tip of her katana nicked his ribs.

“Touché,” Kester swiped the blood from the hole in his shirt and sucked it off his finger. He lifted his sword again. “We’re not done.”

“You want more of that?”

His sword clashed off Honjo. “You got off on the wrong foot with Hugo.” He began to circle her, fire flashing in his eyes.

“Is this some sort of interrogation?”

“Yes.”

Kester feinted at her head and then slashed at her knees. Ursula just barely deflected the blow with a downward swipe. He moved out of range before she could counter. She couldn’t keep up with him.

His fiery gaze was hypnotic. “To succeed as a hellhound, you need both steel and silk, weapons and charm. You can’t always force a signature. Sometimes you must lure in a debtor, convince him it’s in his best interest to sign over his soul.”

She thrust her sword at him, but he dodged. “You think I can’t do that?”

“Zee said you have all the social graces of a water buffalo.”

What. A. Bitch. “That’s a load of bollocks.” Ursula said it confidently, but inwardly she knew he’d touched on something. How many foster families had she been through? Four? Five? She’d lost count. Even the people she’d loved had told her the same thing.

Rufus’s voice rang in the hollows of her mind: “The truth is, you’re a sad cow who won’t make anything of your life.” Hollowness welled in her chest. Worst of all was the dawning realization that this character deficit might explain her amnesia. Was she some sort of magical reject? Forced to forget her past and then cast aside because she put everyone off? Was it possible that no one had ever loved her?