“I’m pretty enough as it is. And I was trying to teach you how to use your power to fight. Remember, Zornhau’s oil won’t let me hurt you.” He raised his sword, wrapping his fingers around the razor sharp blade. With a grunt of pain, he yanked the sword from his fist. Blood poured from his fingers, and Ursula gasped. But when he opened his hand, the wound had already healed. “It still hurts, but you can’t seriously injure yourself. But if you don’t learn to channel the hellfire, you’ll find yourself trapped in a burning building.”

“I think I need a lot of practice.” She wiped the white foam off her cheeks. “What kind of spell did you cast on me?”

“Not a spell,” he nodded at a fire extinguisher.

“Ugh. I’m going to make use of that shower.” She turned to walk out of the room.

“Ursula. You did well, at least until you exploded. Use that charm on Hugo tonight, and everything will be fine. But if anything happens—if you need me, just use that mobile I gave you.”

“I thought Emerazel wasn’t letting you help me.”

“I can help you. I just can’t go with you.”

“That is good to know.” She flashed him a tentative smile.

Even with her aching muscles, as she strode up the stairs to the bathroom, she felt a little better than she had that morning.

Chapter 21

Ursula leaned against the balcony’s railing and looked down into the crowd, ten minutes before the start of Act One. She wore a long gown, the slate-grey color of a winter sea, which slid silkily against her bare legs. She’d accessorized with a necklace of black pearls, and finished off the ensemble with a spray of lavender perfume. The scent should have encouraged a sense of calm, but it did nothing for her nerves right now.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Just before she’d left for the opera, Kester had stopped by her apartment again—knocking this time—and had cast a long, approving glance over her outfit, that carnal look sparking in his eyes again. If only he weren’t a psychotic headsman with boundary issues, he’d be my kind of guy.

She opened her eyes, scanning the lobby. From her perch on the upper level, she had a view of the lower floor and the marble stairs, curving below like the inside of a sea shell. Her hand rested lightly on the wyrm-skin purse, Emerazel’s pen and a pact tucked safely inside, along with her white stone and opera glasses. Not to mention the small dagger. Silk and steel were her weapons, just as Kester had said.