Arranged about the room, glass cabinets held clay urns and vases, painted with symbols from dead languages and geometric designs. Apparently, moon demons had major hard-ons for the Classical era.
Possibly the hots for human men too, given the choice of statues.
She scanned the walls, eyeing the fine glassware. She tried not to stare at the black velvet couches that were nestled into the corner of the room, or she’d give in to temptation and sleep in one for days.
Water portal travel did a number on a person’s body.
Her eyes lingered on a silver clock on the wall that looked like an antique ship’s clock. It featured a complicated lunar cycle of waxing and waning moons that she couldn’t quite figure out.
Before she could move on to another room, her gaze landed on a portrait, framed in silver. The subject—a woman—had gorgeous dark eyes, and long brown hair that curled over a delicate white dress. She wore a solemn, regal expression. Olive skin, sharp cheekbones, full lips. Beautiful as hell. Something about the vulnerability in her eyes seemed remarkably human.
She wasn’t exactly an art history expert, but it looked like something from the Renaissance. From one of those painters who depicted gorgeous women—Botticelli, maybe.
So maybe Classical Art Demon was into women, too.
Her rumbling stomach turned her attention away from the beauty. I’m starving.
She spotted a small bar tucked in another corner of the room. On it was a platter of cheese, grapes, and a carafe of wine.
Cera might have locked her in here, but at least she’d left something to eat.
As Ursula drew closer to the food, she noticed a beige envelope resting against the carafe. Someone had scrawled her name in deep red ink. She popped a grape in her mouth, then snatched the envelope, tearing it open. She scanned the letter.
I have asked Cera to look after you during your stay. She will be able to provide anything you need. This apartment is yours, and you are free to move about as you wish. For your own safety, I cannot give you free rein of the entire manor at this time. We will speak in the morning.
She crushed another grape between her teeth, letting the sweet juice run down her throat.
Had Nyxobas written this letter? She’d been expecting to meet him here upon her arrival, but now the idea that a god would greet her personally seemed completely stupid.
Then again, she hadn’t quite understood Nyxobas’s power until she’d come here. Now she could see it, visually represented. Total domination over an entire planetary body, not to mention the demons he controlled on the earth.
Grabbing a chunk of bread, she walked over to the window. Nyxobas’s spire glinted in the starlight. She’d been expecting to stay with him, that he had some sort of purpose in mind for her. But clearly, she hadn’t been brought to his palace. So what the hell was she doing here?
A hollow opened in the pit of her stomach. She was in some sort of manor, and she had no clue who owned it. And the first name that came to her mind was Abrax. The incubus had tried to murder her more than once, and she was pretty sure he was a rapist. He’d pulled some kind of mind-control seduction trick on her. At least, until he’d become disgusted by her and moved on to the attempted murder. Clearly, the guy had issues with women.
A chill snaked up her spine. Not only did he hate her, but she had an unsettling feeling she hadn’t even begun to witness Abrax’s power.
Suddenly, her appetite deserted her. I want Honjo.
Her hand was shaking as she placed her bread on the coffee table, and her old, familiar instincts kicked in. If there was one thing that came naturally to Ursula, it was self-preservation.
I need to find a weapon in case Abrax shows up. Her pulse racing, she scanned the room for something that could be used for skull-smashing or organ-puncturing.
Bars had knives sometimes, didn’t they?
She hurried across the room and began pulling open the drawers. Coasters, fancy napkins, toothpicks. Bugger all, basically. Not a lot of damage you could do with toothpicks.
She yanked open another drawer. A corkscrew. Bloody hell. I won’t get very far fighting an ancient demon with a corkscrew, but it’s better than nothing.
She shoved the corkscrew into the robe’s soft pocket. Maybe I can find something a bit better.
She crossed to a door off the living room, pushing through into a bathroom. She scanned the gray tile. The silver, claw-footed bath looked amazing, she had to admit, but she found not a single toilet plunger or towel rack that could be used to smash someone’s head in.
She ran back to the front hallway, her frantic gaze landing on the spiral staircase. She bounded up it, two steps at a time. At the top, more doors lined a long hall. She flung open the first and walked into a luxurious bedroom: floor-to-ceiling windows and a large bed covered with a violet bedspread.