by Sandy James
“It’s a great weapon, and we need to be armed to the teeth.” Megan pouted. “But Joeman is making me leave my gun.”
“A gun won’t help you this time.” Johann punched the last commands into his phone and clipped it on his belt. Turning back to Megan, he was about to ask her the same question Rebecca had posed about their weapons when he noticed she’d developed a glazed look. Her eyes had turned so dull, she might as well have been asleep. “Megan? Baby?”
“I—I hear him,” she replied, her voice a mere whisper. “He’s in my head. Calling me.” She reached out with a trembling hand.
He wrapped his hand around hers, tugged her closer and settled her palm over his heart. “Remember—this is real. I’m real. Listen to what he says, but don’t lose yourself.”
The rest of their crew encircled her. If Megan was going to fight to keep control of her own mind, she had all the support she could possibly want.
She closed her eyes, listening to something no one else could hear.
After a few shuddering breaths, she opened her eyes and looked at him. “I know where to go.”
* * *
Max stood on the stage and stared out at the ever-increasing crowd, pleased with all he’d accomplished.
His followers were assembling in the large field facing the stage. They’d been gleaned through his sweat and toil and easily manipulated to be loyal to whomever he told them to follow.
Oh yes, he was proud. Damned proud.
Chernabog surely liked to create a spectacle, one worthy of a buffoon of his stature. Even though they were in the middle of nowhere, the god had erected a stage and staffed it with lighting technicians who Max had mesmerized to keep them focused on nothing but their jobs. The beauty and brilliance of the full moon was drowned out by the garish lights.
Max longed to end the charade and be rid of Chernabog for good.
Dressed in red robes, the followers milled about like lost farm animals. Nothing but big, red sheep. The cowls on the monkish robes hid their faces, but each person would bear a similar dull, glazed look. They were entirely in his control.
He’d pulled them here with his thoughts, and those sheep were going to help him become what he’d been before, so long ago. Those stupid children would make him powerful. He would start a new empire.
And this time, he would rule it.
No more Rasputin. No more Tsar. No more dealing with military leaders who’d seen his master’s intent clearly from the beginning.
Max had followed his master—the man who’d taught him black magicks—when Rasputin had been called to help the prince’s uncontrollable bleeding. Simple hypnosis had done the trick, and by helping their son, Rasputin had won the support of Tsar Nicholas and Tsaritsa Alexandra, whom he’d quickly put under his spell as well. And he’d taught his apprentice everything he knew.
But the others in the Tsar’s government had guessed Rasputin’s game and recognized his thirst for power. They murdered him. More than once. Poison. Bullets. Yet he’d just kept coming back until they’d finally drowned him in the icy Neva River.
All because Natasha had told them where to find the man.
They’d had it all figured out—Max would wriggle his way into the royal family’s good graces. Then he’d fulfill Rasputin’s plans to usurp power. The apprentice would become the master as the princess’s servant would become the queen.
Things hadn’t worked out as they’d planned, however. The military leaders murdered him before he had a chance to wield his abilities. Just like Rasputin, Max wasn’t an easy kill—none who possessed black magicks ever were. He’d survived their first three attempts, only to perish by a knife to the heart.
Max had never had a chance to show everyone what he could do.
This time would be different. This time he would prevail. This time Maksim Popov would be what he was meant to be.
The ruler of all mankind.
Chernabog wasn’t his biggest obstacle. Although Max would absorb Chernabog’s powers, he couldn’t kill the god. It took the help of another Ancient—sometimes more than one—to destroy one of their kind. He would also drain the power of Freya and any goddess who came to her aid, but he couldn’t kill any of them. He could, however, reduce them to the ranks of the impotent—the ranks of humans, albeit immortal humans.
He should have fed. Keeping his control over the sheep was rapidly draining his strength. Calling to Megan became more and more difficult. She resisted, and that development had come as a shock.
People couldn’t repel Max once he was inside their minds. Something had apparently changed and increased the strength of her magicks. That would only add to his supremacy when he joined with her—when they became one flesh—but he had to get her to come to him first.
Time was running out, as was his energy.
Max reached out with his mind and called to Megan again, hoping he wouldn’t have to go into the crowd and take in the energy of one of the mindless minions. To take one—to drain the life from one of those simpletons—wouldn’t do. There was only one being who could satisfy him now.
Megan Feurer.
“See what you have wrought, Maksim?” Chernabog asked as he came to stand at his side. Spreading his wings and giving them a flap, the god nodded his approval. “You have done well. I am pleased.”
“Where is your queen?” Max asked. “I would think she would wish to be at your side in your moment of triumph.”
“Soon.” Chernabog gave his wings another flap before folding them against his back. “She prepares herself.”
Looking over his shoulder at Freya, Max frowned. The goddess was still beautiful and every bit as defiant as she’d been since her capture. It was hard not to admire a being who could face annihilation with such courage. “’Tis time to call for the other goddesses. Once I have their powers—”
Chernabog arched an eyebrow. “You? When you have their powers?”
Max damned his own slip of the tongue. “A thousand pardons, master. I meant to say when I gather their powers for you.”
Chernabog’s only response was a snort that sent small flames shooting from his nostrils.
Max reached out with his mind again, trying to find the Fire Amazon.
Megan, you must come now. Come to me, dorogoy. I command it.
She was still resisting. Concentrating as much of his energy as he could, he pushed harder.
You are mine! Come to me now!
“Yes,” her voice finally whispered back. “Yes, I will come.”
He severed the draining connection and walked back to Freya’s magical cage. “The time has come. Your daughter will be here soon.”
“Aye,” she replied. “Indeed, the time has come.” A chilling smile spread over her face. “The time to destroy you.”
Her defiance was both expected and admired. That fire would be a part of his Megan as well. He savored the memory of Fire’s delicious power flowing into him through their kiss. When he finally made her his mate and possessed her body, he’d have it all. And, despite what Natasha believed, Megan wouldn’t die. Instead, once he infused Megan and himself with the power of the Ancients, she would be his to use forever.
“Nyet, Freya. I shall not die today. I shall never die.”
“Ah, but Maksim,” she said, her voice calm and her steady, threatening gaze never wavering, “you have died before. It should be nothing but a habit for you now. ’Ware, Maksim. Death can only be cheated of his victory so many times before you err and he finally wins the game.”
Natasha pushed her way through the stage curtains, interrupting the conversation. Dressed in a gown typical to the era of her youth, her hair swept up in an old-fashioned coiffure, she smoothed her hands down the blue satin skirt and straightened her shoulders. Her gaze wandered the stage until it rested on Max. A smile lit
her face and she hurried to his side. Threading her arm through his, she turned her head to glare at Freya.
“My dear Natasha.” Freya’s words dripped with condescension as her eyes bored through her former high priestess. “With your lover again, I see. How blind I was not to see your betrayal. Ah, but that will be remedied soon. The Fates hold bad tidings for those who deceive an Ancient to whom they have pledged loyalty.”
“I love Maksim. I did what was necessary to help him.” Natasha raised her chin in defiance. “Chernabog might have resurrected him, but it’s my plan that will sustain him. I’ve waited for this day for the longest time.”
Freya’s gaze never wavered.
Natasha sneered. “The seer said your child would save the world. When she told me what was to be, I knew exactly what she’d meant. Megan will save the world by restoring my Maksim to his glory. He needed a being as powerful as a demigod to become what he once was. I shall give him Megan. He will drain her life and become immortal. With her energy and his abilities, he’ll be a powerful as any Ancient.”
“Ah, but you are wrong. You did not understand the seer’s vision at all. My Megan shall save the world, but not by helping Maksim. No, she shall stop him. That is how she shall save the world, you foolish woman.”
Natasha scoffed at the goddess. “You’re wrong, Freya.”
“And you, too, will die today, Natasha,” the goddess promised, narrowing her eyes. “No one betrays me and lives.”
“You will be nothing compared to my Maksim,” Natasha said, stiffening her spine. “You will be but dust while he rules with me at his side.”
Max could see the love and admiration in her eyes but cared little. She’d served her purpose. He also noticed the rapid aging that was overtaking her.
Gray had bled into her brown hair. Lines had formed around her eyes and mouth. Freyjr had clearly withdrawn his protection, and the years Natasha had lived beyond what nature intended would soon catch up with her.
Unless he did something to stop it, in less than a day, she would look like those girls he’d fed upon—nothing more than some grotesque, shriveled body. Not that it would matter. One way or another, soon she would no longer be a loose end needing knotted.
She disgusted him, especially when compared to Megan.
Freya glared at them both. “You will die today, Natasha. When you handed me over to Chernabog like a lamb to the slaughter, you chose your fate.” She folded her arms under her breasts. “Just how did you get your hands on the rope you used to bind me?”
Natasha smiled despite the fear Max felt in her tremulous limbs. “The Gleipnir rope was a gift from your brother. He, no doubt, had no idea what I truly wished to use it for. Freyjr has often gifted me with magical things. He saw no harm in giving me the rope because I, in turn, amused him with it.”
Max had no doubt what Natasha meant about amusing Freyjr. There was no jealousy in hearing about the sexual relationship between Natasha and the god. Instead, he had to grin at the devious nature of his old lover. He’d wondered how Natasha had been able to capture an Ancient of Freya’s power so easily. Freyjr had gifted Natasha with a rope stronger than any chain ever forged—one bathed in Seior. It might look like nothing more than intertwined black and red cords, but once wrapped in the Gleipnir rope, the victim—even an Ancient—was helpless, all her magicks bound.
Freya gave a disgusted snort. “Freyjr. I should have known. His greatest weakness is beauty.” Her gaze swept Natasha from head to toe. “Beauty such as you used to possess.”
Natasha gasped. Then she leveled a hard stare at the goddess. “Tonight, m’lady, you die. As will your daughter. I shall see to it.”
“Nay, nay. Death is only in the future for both of you. Of that, I have no doubt.”
“We will see.” Max smiled and bowed to Freya in admiration of his worthy adversary.
She inclined her head in response.
He escorted Natasha to the seats at center stage. She withdrew her arm and sat. As she adjusted her skirts, Sergei, came through the curtains to join her. Since he was protected by Chernabog rather than Freyjr, Sergei’s excessive years had not begun to show.
After picking up his sister’s hand, Sergei kissed the back of her knuckles. When he fixed his gaze on her face, his eyes widened. That gaze quickly shifted to Max. “You do not protect her as Freyjr did?”
“When I have the power I need, I shall help her,” Max replied in a whisper, hoping Chernabog wouldn’t hear. Not that Max would ever follow through…
It would have been easier to have destroyed both Sergei and Natasha before this spectacle began, but Sergei had one task remaining. If Max had disposed of Natasha, Sergei would’ve rebelled.
Besides, good servants were hard to find.
Looking around the dramatic setting, Max shook his head in disgust. He preferred something more refined. Chernabog evidently intended for this to be a grand show—a display that ignited the sparks of obedience Max had planted in the minds of the robed followers. Those followers were then supposed to spread through the world, infecting the other humans like some debilitating virus. People who did not bow to the new world order would be killed and used as revenant enforcers.
Even now, Chernabog was using the necromancer Belial to control the revenants he’d already created. Guns would have made this a simpler task. But, alas, the Amazons’ skin was impervious to bullets. Revenants were the only weapon that could get close enough to the warriors to do any damage. The disgusting creatures were the supernatural equivalent of suicide bombers.
A hundred of the revenants were herded into fenced pens close to the stage, ready to repel any attack by the Amazons. Their sickening stench and singsong moans floated through the air from time to time. Belial would unleash them at the first sign an Amazon was in their midst—any Amazon except Megan.
Chernabog stepped to the front of the stage and spread his wings. “Now comes the time,” he bellowed to the sheep. “Come! Come to me!” When they ignored him, he turned to Max. “Call them to me!”
Max sighed before stretching out his mind. “Come and stand before me.”
They stumbled around for a moment before assembling closer to the stage.
Chernabog nodded his approval and addressed the gathering crowd. “Now we shall use Freya of Folkvang to call forth the other three patron goddesses of the Amazons.”
He swept his hand toward the cage holding the goddess. With the wave of his black hand, the cage slid across the stage to rest closer to him.
“Rhiannon shall have the privilege of being the first summoned. Call to her Freya. Bring me the Lady of the Lake.”
“You fool.” Freya smirked. “Aye, you are truly a fool should you believe Rhiannon would come to my summons.”
Chernabog snuffled some flames through his nostrils and slammed his fist against the bars of her cage.
Freya didn’t flinch.
“Call her!”
“Nay. Should you wish to speak to the Lady of the Lake, you may call her yourself. I wish you luck.”
Chernabog turned and roared at Sergei. “Bring the girl.”
Sergei disappeared through the curtains. A few moments later, he dragged a blonde with him.
The girl was bound with ropes, her face full of terror. “M’lady!” she shouted when she saw Freya. “Help me! Please!”
Sergei stopped at the far corner of the stage and pushed the crying teenager to her knees. He glanced to Natasha.
She went to him, pulling a jeweled dagger from the folds of her skirt. Handing it to Sergei, she then calmly returned to her seat.
Pressing the dagger against the girl’s throat, he looked at Freya. “Should you not call to Rhiannon, I will kill her.”
A bead of blood rose where the tip of the blade pierced the girl’s skin.
Freya glared a
t Sergei and then Natasha before her gaze shifted to the girl. “Heather, I am sorry to see you misused like this. You have been a loyal priestess.”
“Please stop this,” Heather begged.
Sergei gave her hair a vicious tug and pressed the knife harder against her throat.
“Nay. I cannot,” Freya replied, her face full of pity.
The girl’s tear-filled eyes widened and a sob fell from her lips.
Chernabog laughed as he flapped his wings. “All you must do to release her is call to Rhiannon. ’Tis not like you feel anything for the Bitch of the Lake. The rivalry between you two is legendary. Simply call to her, and I shall release your priestess.”
Freya glared at Chernabog with red eyes before she shifted her gaze back to Heather. Then the goddess sighed. “Very well. Release her and I shall obey.”
Sergei looked at Chernabog and arched an eyebrow.
The god gave him a curt nod.
“Now, Freya,” Chernabog demanded. “Call to her now.”
“Rhiannon,” Freya said in a monotone and horribly bored voice, “I need your assistance. Come to me, Lady of the Lake.”
Max’s lips twitched into a smile. He admired her impudence.
“I have done as you asked. Release Heather now,” the goddess demanded.
“Kill her,” Chernabog replied with a grin.
Sergei dragged the knife across the girl’s throat before she had a chance to scream. He held her hair, forcing her head out over the end of the stage until the last of her life’s blood spurted to the grass. After he calmly wiped the dagger clean on Heather’s robe, he pushed her body off the stage. After walking back to Natasha, Sergei handed her the dagger. She tucked it inside her skirt.
“I will punish you for that,” Freya said, her words full of fury. Her eyes had tinted red again, her hands clenched at her sides.
Chernabog laughed.
“You see, you fool? You killed that poor girl for naught.” Freya pounded the bars with clenched fists. “I told you Rhiannon would not come. I told you—”
