Before the Witches

by Karina Cooper

  Before the Witches

  An Original Novella

  Karina Cooper

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Coming Soon from Karina Cooper

  Blood of the Wicked Sneak Peek

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  “What’s her name?”

  The voice came as if through a fog, each syllable laced with a leer so thick she could practically taste its acid on her tongue. Ekaterina Zhuvova blinked away the thick cotton of exhaustion filling her head, gaze focusing with some effort on the two men standing at the back of the small living room.

  “Elena,” Ivan said, nodding with almost paternal-like pride at the red-haired woman leaning back against the couch, her full breasts pushed up by her position. She raked a lascivious gaze over the stranger’s tall body. “She is most experienced with making a man forget a few hours, eh?”

  This man wasn’t like the others Katya had seen come and go from this house before. He wasn’t as tall as some she’d entertained, but he was clearly strong enough to hold his own and still a foot taller than her petite five feet and two inches. His shoulders were broad, chest tight with muscle beneath a navy blue cotton T-shirt and a button-downopen flannel shirt. Long legs encased in worn denim planted with near military precision, though his shaggy, slightly spiky black hair told her whatever his demeanor, he wasn’t active duty. Ex-military? Private contractor?

  A taste for foreign girls developed overseas and couldn’t kick the habit? She knew that type, all right.

  “Her?” The man’s gaze settled on her, and Katya looked away. Please, don’t pick me.

  “Katya,” Ivan said, and the warmth left his voice as he turned his head. She lowered her eyes before he could see her anger as his mouth worked, but he didn’t spit. She knew he wanted to.

  “No good?” the man asked, his tone lazily assessing.

  “Ved’ma,” Ivan explained with a shrug. She barely kept from wincing, schooling her features into calm.

  “Is that her name?”

  “No.” Ivan eyed her. “She is strange one, even in my country.”

  “Strange.” One eyebrow raised.

  Ivan grinned. “She is knowing exactly what a man likes. This is both good thing and bad. I save her for the men who are less sure of self. She is very good with first-time, eh?”

  She was beyond blushing, but the flush staining her cheeks now was anger. She ducked her head before she said something guaranteed to put her in lock-up.

  Ivan was half-right. She’d always been good at reading people. She didn’t know how or why, but she always knew when a person was lying. It wasn’t the same as what Ivan was suggesting, but she’d gotten damn good at that, too.

  Her talent wasn’t the gift he made it out to be. It had made for a rocky childhood in St. Petersburg’s destitute streets. Cast out by the neighborhood children, they’d hunted her into the desperate sanctuary of her mother’s single-room flat. Their jeers still haunted her dreams.

  Ved’ma, ved’ma! Ubyei yee!

  She’d found no solace from the adults who felt threatened by a little girl with an uncanny grasp of deceit. It was no wonder she’d bartered everything she had, including her own body, to get to America.

  In America, they didn’t care about witches. That belief had proved true.

  They were too busy paying for her physical prowess to care about any other talents, and the time they spent lying to her meant she got damned good at reading between the lines. She knew a lot. She knew what was truth and what was lie. She knew how to ask the right questions, and how to translate the half-truths and lies. Men spent a lot of time lying to themselves. Especially when screwing a strange girl in a dingy house.

  Her gaze flicked back to meet the client’s, and this time, she didn’t look away.

  His mouth tightened. “What about the one in the chair?”

  Dismissed. Thank God. Katya angled her shoulder against the wall. If she sat, if she so much as perched on the end of the couch by Elena, she knew she’d fall asleep. She was beyond fatigued. Brutal nightmares had filled her dreams all night long, and she’d dragged herself out of bed this morning feeling as if she’d been awake for years.

  Every time she closed her eyes last night, she’d dreamed of death. Fires, floods, scenes of wildly absurd apocalyptic chaos. It was as if her brain had taken all of her plans and launched off into a thousand worst-case scenarios, each culminating in the ludicrously detailed destruction of the world. She woke up at least a dozen times, sweaty and shaking.

  Now, it was all Katya could do to keep her eyelids open as a Russian pimp and a stranger discussed human beings like they were at some kind of flea market.

  Tomorrow was the day. The day she and all the other immigrant girls trapped in this hellhole would be free. The day that all her plans would come to fruition. Almost everything had fallen into place, with the sole exception of the police aid she’d tried to ask for only this morning. They’d denied her. Refused to believe her.

  She hated this country, sometimes. It would be different once she was free. Once they were all free. The girls knew what to do. They were ready.

  Terrified, but ready. One more day.

  And every hour closer made moments like this feel impossible to handle.

  Another man. Another sweaty session on a stained mattress. Another lie batted through her lashes and strained through a smile she’d long since learned to cultivate. She didn’t think she could do it.

  “I want her.”

  She was sure she looked like hell warmed over, so even with Ivan’s impatient gestures , it took her too long to realize that the mysterious man with the dark hair and five o’clock shadow had chosen her.

  Katya straightened again, keenly aware of the client’s assessing gaze as she approached the men. She didn’t dare say anything. This was the bargaining moment, the time when only Ivan could speak. Business, he called it.

  Human trafficking was definitely a business.

  Ivan was a large man, more girth than height, but he was as hard and worn as brick and not given to patience. His thick jowls and caterpillar eyebrows gave him the appearance of a bull dog; a reputation equally as earned. He was their warden. Their money-handler, and their guard.

  Only he didn’t guard them. He guarded the men who paid to screw them.

  And occasionally skimmed from the honey himself. He lowered his head and glared at her in silent warning.

  Behave, or she’d live to regret it.

  “You tell her what you like,” he said, snagging Katya’s arm. “She will do it. Anything.” She bit her lip, swallowing a startled sound as the large Russian swung her around, then shoved her hard into the other man’s chest.

  Large, strong hands closed over her shoulders.

  “She is hellcat,” Ivan leered, one fleshy eye closing in a wink.

  “Good.”

  The only two other girls not already occupied watched with impassive faces as Ivan shook a finger under Katya’s nose. “You be good girl for this one, eh?” he told her, his accent thick enough to serve borscht on.

  Unlike hers , his accent was all natural.

  Katya nodded, forcing her lips up into a wide, wicked smile. At the same time, she arched her back, forcing the curve of her backside into the stranger’s groin.

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “What’s the cost?” the man asked.


  Ivan arced a fleshy hand through the air. “This one, she is thousand more than negotiated,” he said, and Katya’s eyes widened.

  A thousand American dollars more? Impossible. Ivan’s boss didn’t barter his girls for that much, at least not these girls in this ramshackle Renton brothel. Did the always absent Mikoyan know about this arrangement?

  Who was this man that Ivan would demand more money? A politician? A new money launderer? Someone with a business angle that Ivan’s boss wanted to squeeze for everything it was worth?

  Dark brown eyes met hers briefly, then skated away. “Fine,” he said tightly. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Of course, she is more expensive, but you want her. Next time,” Ivan added as he gestured to the room, “maybe you try another.”

  “Right.” The man nodded to the small backpack on the floor. “Mikoyan’s cut is in there. Count it while I’m busy,” he said flatly, and didn’t bother with any more pleasantries. Shifting his grip on her arm, he hauled her bodily out of the cramped living room. There was barely enough room in there for a couch and a television, much less five more people.

  Katya stumbled as he pulled her purposefully towards the stairs. Behind them, the sudden blare of the television flickered to life.

  “You are hurting me!” she protested as he jerked her up the stairs and into a cramped room.

  The door clicked quietly into place, leaving Katya locked insidewith nothing but a dirty mattress and the man who’d just purchased her for the hour.

  He didn’t pay any attention to her accented protest, his fingers hard on her biceps as he spun her in place. Her pale hair slid into her eyes as he seized both arms and tucked her tightly against the door.

  His dark brown eyes met hers, his face so close she could smell remnants of his aftershave. Something like fresh sawdust and pine. His angular features were suntanned, darkened by a five o’clock shadow that looked more like it was getting on towards ten.

  He looked intent. Focused. And he damn well needed to let her go. Adrenaline forced her blood to surge, wiping away all traces of exhaustion.

  She twisted; he pinned her shoulders back against the door. “How good is your English?” he demanded.

  Katya stared up at him. That was his reason for holding her? He wanted to talk?

  Her gaze trailed to the neck of his T-shirt, to the tell-tale bulge under his left shoulder. A matte black edge peeking from the open flannel made her eyes widen. A gun?

  A cop? She sucked in a breath.

  Those long fingers dug into her flesh.

  She snapped her gaze back to his, her heart pounding in her ears. “Is good,” she managed, deliberately thickening the Russian accent that still colored her otherwise excellent English. Pulling her persona around her like a shroud, she let her body soften against his.

  Watched his pupils dilate as the lush curve of her breasts pushed into his chest.

  Cop or not, he was a man. And all men had an easy button.

  One more day, she told herself. One more man.

  “I am understanding English very well,” she purred. The tension at her arms lessened. Deliberately, she drew her tongue across her full lower lip.

  His gaze pinned there, a whole lot warmer than it had been a moment ago.

  “Well enough for hearing what you are wanting,” she added huskily. A muscle leapt in his jaw as she leaned forward, pressing her lips against his chin. “Well enough for obeying. You like me?” Her mouth brushed against his whiskered jaw. “You want me, you are asking just for me, da?” Her lips drifted lower, explored the cords tense at his neck.

  At his collar, just above his T-shirt. His skin was warm.

  Her stomach clenched. To her surprise, not all of it was fear. Or disgust.

  He jerked as her tongue slid out to taste the hollow of his throat. Suddenly, his hands constricted again, pushed her back against the door. The panel shook.

  His eyes were hard. “Who are you?”

  “Katya.” That wasn’t a lie, and he’d heard it already.

  “Your real name,” he said tersely.

  For a moment, she froze. Paralyzed by indecision. She could ask him if he was on the take; she’d know the truth the instant it left his lips. But if his answer was no, she’d be in a world of trouble. He’d haul her to Ivan and she’d be left trying to explain why she was asking questions of the clients.

  Especially questions about police.

  No, she couldn’t ask. He’d bartered for an hour of her body. Good cops didn’t do that.

  She frowned. Pouted, really. “Why?” she demanded petulantly. “Katya is not pretty?”

  “Now.”

  Fine. “Ekaterina Mikhailovna Zhuvova,” she said, so smoothly that she watched him blink at the onslaught of blurred syllables.

  “Where are you from, Ekaterina Mikhailovna Zhuvova?” His echoed accent was damn near close to perfect.

  “Moscow,” she lied. St. Petersburg, actually, but it was all the same to Americans.

  “Why were you at the police station this morning?”

  Katya’s eyes widened. So he was a cop. And given how buddy-buddy she’d seen him get with Ivan, not the kind of cop she desperately needed.

  Her mind racing, she watched the intensity, the suspicion, in the dirty cop’s features and recognized them for what they were. He was grilling her. Why? Did he have reason to suspect her?

  The ability to hear a lie wasn’t going to help her deliver her own pack of them. Her heart slamming in her chest, she managed, “Station? You are police?” She tried to shrink back, but he hadn’t let her go. She didn’t have to fake the fear in her voice as she begged, “Please, do not arrest me. Do not hurt me!” She allowed herself to shake in his grip, watched with some satisfaction as his expression banked to sudden surprise.

  Then fury. He was . . . offended?

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he growled. It resonated like honesty.

  It didn’t matter. “You are police,” she cried, as if it explained everything.

  “Yeah, but I’m not—Son of a bitch.” He let her go.

  She slid out from between his body and the door, but the only place to go was deeper into the tiny room. Any farther, and she’d be on the stained mattress.

  The signal he expected, but not the one she wanted to send.

  She’d had enough of this filthy room to last a lifetime. The water-stained walls, single mattress, and bare, scuffed floor would be indelibly imprinted on her brain forever.

  She just had to last one more day. Which meant playing by this cop’s rules. She clasped her hands under chin. “You are here to arrest Katya?”

  The cop grunted. Then, seamlessly switching gears—and again surprising the hell out of her—he said in passable Russian, “I am not going to hurt you, Katya. I just want to know why you were at the station.” So the bastard knew her language.

  And he was still telling the truth.

  Katya’s shoulders rounded. She dipped her chin, letting her hair slide over her face in a light golden curtain. “They picked me up,” she lied, this time in the same language he almost didn’t butcher. “They were asking me questions. I told them I was visiting my sister.”

  The cops had claimed they needed more evidence than just the word of an illegal immigrant like her. Now she knew why. A cop on the take.

  Why wasn’t she more surprised?

  He watched her as if trying to read the truth on her eyes, and she met his gaze squarely. Believe me, she prayed. Seven girls counted on his gullibility.

  Katya started as he crossed the small room. She backpedaled, her stomach twisting around an icy knot of anticipation. Her heel hit the edge of the mattress, and she jerked.

  He caught her arms, but there was nothing restraining about it this time. He steadied her gently. His brow furrowing in tacit concern, he said, “My name is Nigel Ferris.” Truth, whispered the tiny signal in the back of her brain. “Did you tell them that you were a—”

  He hesitated, and
she barely kept from laughing outright. Was it possible? Did he have trouble shaping his mouth around the word “whore”?

  A dirty cop with morals. Now she’d seen everything.

  Forcing her features into a mask of terrified sincerity, she shook her head until her hair swung. “Nyet! I say nothing.”

  His face shuttered, and she slowly took in a deep breath. Did he believe her? If not, she could end up very dead, very quick. There’d been girls who vanished before.

  Lies spoken about their whereabouts.

  Distraction. She could do distraction.

  She stepped into him. Closed the distance between them, slid her hands up his chest. A part of her mind fragmented at finding him hot to the touch, even through his T-shirt. His muscles leapt under her palms; his heart slammed against her hand.

  He wasn’t as unaffected by her as he wanted to be.

  And rightfully so; her role demanded she dress the part. Her too-thin T-shirt was white, her bra sweetheart pink and clearly obvious beneath it. It left two inches of her waist bare, hugged tight by low-rise jeans.

  She looked edible. Fresh.

  She looked like every other Russian girl off the boat who had ever been forced into prostitution.

  And she knew how to act the part.

  Rising up on her tip-toes, she hooked her fingers into the collar of his shirt and said in her accented English, “You will not hurt Katya?”

  His jaw shifted. His body all but vibrated against hers. Most men would have had her on her back by now.

  Was he shy?

  She flicked her tongue against the column of his throat. He sucked in a breath. “Katya will not hurt you,” she murmured. She nuzzled the skin behind his ear, and his head moved. A fraction of an inch. Reluctant as hell, but there.

  “Katya will make you feel nice,” she whispered, just before she sank her teeth into the sensitive skin of his earlobe.

  The sound he made was guttural, leashed taut.

  So he had the same button as all the other men after all. The same weakness that would buy her the time to figure out what to do with a dirty cop.

  She smiled against his skin.