Fiery Edge of Steel (A NOON ONYX NOVEL) Read online

  Praise for

  DARK LIGHT OF DAY

  “A spectacular debut novel.”

  —Faith Hunter, USA Today bestselling author

  “A great debut from the urban fantasy world. Ms. Archer is now down on my ‘never miss’ author list.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “A fascinating story line . . . Archer has created a dark world that will grab your attention from the very start.”

  —The Reading Cafe

  “[A] well-written and fast-paced urban fantasy with unique characters and a multilayered plot.”

  —A Dream Within a Dream

  “There is a fresh new voice in urban fantasy, and she has a unique take on Armageddon . . . With her unusual heroine, Noon Onyx, Archer has created a brilliant character who struggles against fate to find her place in the world. Set against the backdrop of university life, there is an abundance of adventure, mystery, and passion!”

  —RT Book Reviews (4 stars)

  Ace Books by Jill Archer

  DARK LIGHT OF DAY

  FIERY EDGE OF STEEL

  FIERY EDGE OF STEEL

  JILL ARCHER

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  FIERY EDGE OF STEEL

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Black Willow, LLC

  Copyright © 2013 by Black Willow, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62388-6

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / June 2013

  Cover art by Jason Chan.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Acknowledgments

  In writing this book, I was inspired by a number of things, among them an old French imposter case, two children’s songs, and a fairy tale. Chapter 8 includes portions of the international student hymn “Gaudeamus Igitur,” chapter 17 includes a traditional Irish toast, and chapter 18 includes portions of John Milton’s “On the Death of a Fair Infant Dying of a Cough.”

  Continued thanks to my agent, Lois Winston, for her timely advice and never-ending encouragement. To my editor, Jessica Wade, for her insightful comments and astute suggestions. It’s great to work with someone who knows your characters almost as well as you do and who always has their best interests at heart.

  To the rest of the team at Ace: Brad Brownson, my publicist; Michelle Kasper, production editor; Mary Pell, copy editor; Jesse Feldman, assistant editor; Lesley Worrell, art director; and cover artist Jason Chan—thank you! There are myriad things that need to be done behind the scenes to produce a quality novel, and I am grateful to have had help with all of it.

  Thank you to Joan Havens for assisting me with the Latin phrases again. This time, I modified one of the loose translations to fit the story. Any and all errors of interpretation are mine.

  A big, huge thanks to my family and friends, who support me in ways too numerous to list. Without you, this book would not have been possible.

  And, finally, to my readers, thank you for choosing to read Fiery Edge of Steel. I hope you enjoy it!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  PART II

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  I

  A woman knows the face of the man she loves like a sailor knows the open sea.

  —HONORÉ DE BALZAC

  Chapter 1

  In pre-Apocalyptic times humans stoned their criminals to death by throwing rocks, sharp pieces of metal, and other debris at the wrongdoer until they were so bloody and beaten, death was inevitable. It was said that, until jaws were broken or skulls were smashed, all wrongdoers cried for it to end.

  Everyone got their wish.

  Stoning demons is impossible, of course. Trying to kill a demon by throwing rocks at it would be like trying to take down an alligator by blowing soap bubbles at it. So, in modern times, public executions call for a Carne Vale—a “farewell to the flesh” ceremony where waning magic is thrown instead of stones. The practice is even more brutal than its ancient counterpart, but just as cowardly.

  Ari Carmine and I stood elbow to elbow in Timothy’s Square, waiting for the awful thing to begin. Beside me, Ari squeezed my hand. He likely meant the gesture to be reassuring, but it made me feel trapped and I pulled my hand free. I glanced up at him, quirking my mouth in a half smile meant as an apology. He looked down at me, expressionless, but I could feel his signature, that wispy magical aurora that allowed uncloaked waning magic users to sense one another’s presence. Ari’s signature was warm, as always, but today it was laced with blistery bits, as if the glowing embers of a dying fire had been kicked at me. It made standing next to him uncomfortable.

  Around us, the crowd of Hyrkes—humans with no magic—continued to build as students from both St. Lucifer’s and the Joshua School gathered. The heat from the unrelenting overhead sun was oppressive. Since there were no trees in Timothy’s Square, there was no shade. There was no cover. Nowhere to hide from what was to come.

  Peering over my shoulder to check for possible unobserved routes of escape, I made the mistake of catching Sasha de Rocca’s gaze. Sasha was a distant cousin of mine, but that didn’t mean we were close.

  He sneered openly at me.

  “Dressed for a funeral, Noon? Do you really think mourning is appropriate for a Carne Vale?”

  Automatically, I glanced down at my indigo sheath. In Halja, midnight blue—the color of the sky when Lucifer was struck with the lance that killed him over two millennia ago—was the color of mourning.

  “The thing deserves to die,�
� Sasha said, his low voice burbling up out of his thick barrel chest. Suddenly his cold, crinkly eyes and dirty blond beard seemed far too close. I stepped back.

  It wasn’t that I was afraid of Sasha. My power was far greater than his. But, unlike Sasha, I hated using mine, and he knew it. I hadn’t thrown magic since last semester when my demon client had almost killed me. The St. Lucifer’s faculty had given me leave to table my magic use over the semester break, but now that classes were back on, my “recovery” was officially over. I was expected to come out of my self-imposed dormancy today, and I was expected to come out of it so that I could participate in the one thing I abhorred.

  Killing.

  Sasha, Ari, and I were Maegesters-in-Training here at St. Lucifer’s, which meant we were being taught to become demon peacekeepers. When we graduated we would be expected to serve the demons that ruled Halja—as counselors, judges, even executioners. Since I was a pacifist at heart, it was a line of work I’d come to reluctantly. In fact, it was fair to say I was still having a great deal of difficulty accepting some parts of my future job description.

  My resentment at being forced to participate in today’s Carne Vale ignited and I leaned toward Sasha. “If you feel so strongly that the demon deserves to die, why don’t you go up there and do it yourself?”

  Sasha had been needling me, with bitter barbs of both words and magic, for a week. I’d ignored him. Until now.

  “I can’t,” he said finally, shrugging.

  “Can’t or won’t?” I snapped.

  Sasha stared back at me, his ice blue eyes unaffected by the withering heat. But beneath his long, scraggly beard and his limp, lackluster hair, Sasha was sweating. If he said can’t again, he’d be admitting how weak he was. That he didn’t have enough power to bring down a demon on his own. Of course, I didn’t think that was anything to be ashamed of. And it certainly wasn’t uncommon. Most Maegesters-in-Training couldn’t bring down a demon alone. But someone like Sasha would be loath to admit it.

  If he said won’t, though, he’d be admitting he was a coward. Won’t meant that, even if he could, he wouldn’t take on the moral obligation of killing a demon in cold blood. That he wouldn’t walk right up there, look the demon in the eye, and execute it. I suspected that’s why Carne Vales were designed the way they were. Not because it took a village to put down a demon, but because it took a village to hide the guilt when we did so.

  Our argument drew the attention of an Angel from the Joshua School. Once, Angels had been our enemy. During the Apocalypse, the Savior and his Angels had fought against Lucifer and his Host. But that war was now ancient history. In modern-day Halja, descendants of both armies worked together all the time. Angels often assisted Maegesters with their cases, acting as scribes, interpreters, and field assistants.

  This Angel was dressed as if he were going to a bovine roast, which I found particularly distasteful under the circumstances. His tanned legs poked out of a baggy linen kilt and his dark gray, short-sleeved tunic was barely even laced. Luckily he had another shirt underneath. Still, his whole look was so casual and inappropriate for a Carne Vale, that I took an instant dislike to him.

  “I take it you’d rather get this over with,” he said to me. “Do it right. Put the guy—and his woman—out of their misery without all this pomp and . . . circumvention.”

  Ari tensed. The Angel’s comment, and his directness, momentarily stunned me. I stared at him, the Angel’s taupe-eyed gaze meeting mine.

  “That’s what you’re telling him, right?” the Angel said, gesturing toward Sasha, “that he ought to put his magic where his mouth is. So, what about you?” he said, looking back at me. “Would you do it? Could you do it?”

  No! Never! I wanted to shout, but suddenly all eyes were on me. What had been a discussion between a few Maegesters-in-Training and an Angel now became a preexecution spectacle for anyone who happened to be standing nearby. I was Noon Onyx, the only female Maegester-in-Training in all of Halja. My father, Karanos Onyx, was head of the Demon Council. I was Primoris—the top-ranked waning magic user in my class. Everyone wanted to know what I was capable of.

  Except me.

  “What woman?” I said, diverting attention to another question. “There aren’t going to be two executions, are there?” I glanced at Ari.

  “No, the accused has a . . .” He paused, considering.

  “Wife? Paramour? Accomplice?” The Angel mused. He slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, as if he were trying to decide between vinegar or mustard in a condiment line. “What do you think, Ari? Was Ynocencia actually a victim?”

  Ari stared at the Angel, his eyes dark. The Angel stopped rocking, but kept his hands in his pockets and his stance relaxed. He wore an expectant expression as he met Ari’s stare.

  “I think Ynocencia has lived her whole life between the demon and the deep,” Ari said slowly.

  “Yes, but who’s the real demon, hmm?” The Angel waggled his brows and Ari scowled.

  Forget about that, I thought. “Who’s Ynocencia?” I asked, completely lost. Sasha rolled his eyes.

  “Weren’t you paying attention in class today? Ynocencia is Jezebeth’s lover. Jezebeth?” he repeated after seeing the blank look on my face. It galled me that Sasha knew more about the Carne Vale case than I did, but I guess that’s what I got for keeping my head out of the books since I’d been back. “The Demon of Falsehoods and Lies?” Sasha prodded.

  I shook my head. I had a vague suspicion Jezebeth was the demon we were supposed to execute today. I shifted nervously on my feet and risked another glance through the crowd, calculating my chances of ducking out unnoticed. By then, Sasha had turned his attention to the Hyrkes around us and was doing a hack’s job of explaining the case to them.

  By all accounts, Ynocencia had been a dutiful wife to an abusive husband. Then, seven years ago, Ynocencia’s husband sailed down the Lethe to seek greater fortune. Ynocencia would have been happy had that been the last of him, but he returned last fall a changed man—stronger, smarter, kinder. Unfortunately for Ynocencia, she’d forgotten (or willingly chose to ignore) that, in Halja, perception and truth are not always the same.

  Six months later, Ynocencia’s real husband returned—as weak, stupid, and mean as he had been before he left. He challenged Jezebeth’s identity and declared him a fraud. He claimed Jezebeth was a drakon who had used his human form to sleep with his wife and steal his farm. At first, Ynocencia’s neighbors rallied around her, swearing that Jezebeth was Ynocencia’s loving husband. The town began formal proceedings to oust the “newcomer” but things got ugly, provoking the drakon to shift into his true form. When Jezebeth realized he might lose his human lover, he went mad and terrorized the town. One woman and three children were killed. The neighbors withdrew their support and Jezebeth was put on trial for adultery, fornication, duplicitous conduct, theft—

  Wait! Jezebeth was a drakon? I didn’t think they existed . . .

  To the east of the square, I heard scraping and clanking. The crowd rippled and swelled back as if a giant had stepped into its edge. “But drakons are a myth,” I said quickly, turning toward the sounds. They were mythological creatures, winged demons supposedly born to human mothers.

  “As much of a myth as a female member of the Host with waning magic,” Sasha snorted. I blocked him out. I was trying to block it all out.

  I don’t want to be here, I thought. I can’t do this. I won’t do this.

  I was the girl who went out of her way not to step on ants. I put house spiders in cups and took them out to the curb rather than squashing them under my boot heel. And I was expected to help kill someone I’d never met just because someone else said they deserved to die? Even if I had paid more attention in class, someone else’s case notes wouldn’t have been enough to convince me to end another’s life. Frankly, I didn’t know if I was capable of executing a demon in cold blood. But what I did know was that if I was going to be asked to take on the moral responsib
ility of ending another’s life, I was damn well going to be deciding for myself whether they deserved it or not and I wasn’t going to be participating in an execution purposefully designed to be cruel.

  At the edge of the crowd, my father was ascending the wooden steps of a hastily erected platform. Waldron Seknecus, St. Lucifer’s dean of demon affairs, and Quintus Rochester, one of our professors, stood near the platform with several upper-year Maegesters-in-Training. My father walked to the center of the platform and held his hands up. The crowd immediately fell silent. He gestured to his left and a young man was led up the stairs.

  Rail thin and filthy, the man stared defiantly out at the crowd. But when a woman’s cry pierced the silence, his defiant look turned to one of terror. He hadn’t known she would be here, I thought. I could feel it in his signature. The anguish, the anger, the remorse. Suddenly I heard a thump and the crowd shifted again in response to something happening. Jezebeth strained against his captors, twisting his body from side to side, trying to break free. But more than mere muscles held him in place.

  Had his human lover thrown herself against the base of the platform?

  Was that the thump I’d heard? The thought of her desperation suddenly made me sick. Why was she being forced to watch?

  The crowd swelled. I felt the waning magic around me intensify. Beside me, Ari’s waning magic flared and I suddenly felt like I’d emerged from a dark house into blinding sun. Instinctively, I shielded myself from him. He glanced down at me with a small, stiff smile. In the midmorning sunlight, his eyes were the color of caramel.

  “Ari . . .”

  I didn’t have to finish my thought. Waning magic users couldn’t read minds, but some of us—the more powerful ones—could feel one another’s feelings. My redlining signature told Ari everything he needed to know. I was ready to bolt.