How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days

by Saranna Dewylde

  “Yeah, that was great, huh?” she agreed, even though she had no clue as to the details.

  “Certainly.”

  Grace kicked at a rock with her shoe, suddenly engrossed, hoping against hope that Ethelred would just go away and leave her alone. She didn’t think it was likely.

  “You’re a pretty little thing. I’ve always thought so,” Ethelred said as he tilted her chin up with his finger. Grace was forced to look up into those hellfire eyes. They were nothing like Caspian’s. Whereas Caspian’s eyes sent shivers of desire down her back, Ethelred’s Hell-gaze inspired a gut-twisting fear.

  “Always thought so?”

  “Little Gracie, I’ve kept an eye on you for some time. Orders from your gramps, don’t ya know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “So, is Michael’s newest depravity your doing?”

  “All will be revealed, Graciekins. In time.” Ethelred held the door open, and it appeared Grace had no choice but to walk through. The demon didn’t follow.

  Gramps? Who the hell was he talking about, anyway? This was probably another plot to drive her absolutely, irrevocably insane. Also, she would ask next time why all demonkind was determined to call her Gracie. She hated it.

  She walked the long, shadowed corridor. The room at the end wasn’t much homier. It hadn’t changed much in four years, either. There was still ugly, circa-1973 faux wood-paneling stained even darker with nicotine and despair. A cliché it might be, but this bar was dim and smoky. In fact, Grace was sure she could feel cancer about to stage a takeover in her lungs as she stood there scanning the room for her quarry.

  A jukebox leaned to one side in the corner, one of the front lights hanging from it like a knocked-out tooth still attached by the root. All it played was Elvis covers, unless someone had changed things, and at any time during business hours you could hear the sad strains of English and Russian blending into horrible, riotous mockeries of the King.

  The specialty of this “dinner club” was hot vodka. Michael called it his Russian Tea. The blackberry variety was particularly tasty, and Grace decided she might just need one. Especially since it looked like Michael wasn’t there yet. She knew he would be soon, though. This was where he conducted business.

  She flopped down at the bar, resting her fingers on the worn, scratched, and stained wood. Some of the darker spots she knew to be blood, marks from where a life had been ended. She couldn’t think about that right now, though. Her plate was too full. She had to worry about herself.

  “Blackberry Russian Tea, please.”

  The bartender was new, which surprised her. In four years, a person could expect the staff at most establishments to change, but Michael was very careful about those he kept at the bar. The new guy didn’t know her, for which she was thankful. She could feel eyes boring into her back like dung beetles building condos. The sensation was hot and cold at the same time, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  The drink was delivered, and she took a sip of the hot, blackberry-flavored vodka. It burned all the way down, but damn was it good. Grace motioned for another. And then another. She wasn’t sure, but she may have even had a couple more after that. They sure went down easy after the tongue and throat tingled into numbness. Soon she was lit up like a Christmas tree and her nose could have easily been mistaken for Rudolph’s. Her cheeks were also a ruddy hue, and her pupils were small. And her heels were so very, very high.

  She teetered backwards and almost fell off the bar stool, colliding with the wide, hard expanse of a chest that smelled of cherry cigar. It was hot and familiar, and it wasn’t Caspian. A grip on her upper arms steadied her. Those hands were deceptively gentle.

  “ ‘Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me tonight?’ ” a heavy Russian accent cooed in her ear, in unison with the King on the jukebox.

  Grace struggled to pull free, but Michael’s grip tightened, holding her there. She reached for more Russian Tea instead, planning to throw it in his face. Michael knew her too well, though, and pushed the glass out of reach.

  “Let me go,” Grace said in a voice that even she didn’t believe held any power.

  “If you wanted me to let go, you wouldn’t be here.” His fingers trailed down the pale skin of her arms.

  “I want to know about Nikoli.”

  “So rude, Grace. Do I need to remind you of your manners? I’m being so patient with you, and this is how you repay me?”

  She said, “You’re being patient by waiting for me to kill myself instead of doing it for me, you mean?” She didn’t mention the details Sasha had revealed and neither of them mentioned that this was the first time they’d spoken without lawyers in years.

  He was digging half-moon marks into her skin with the pressure of his fingertips. “I haven’t taken revenge for this latest little stunt of yours, have I? I even let you leave me. Nadja said I should have killed you for abandoning me and our son like you did.”

  Abandoning them? He was the one who’d kicked her out and taken her child from her arms. “Our son. There is no son.” Was what Sasha said true? She needed Michael to confirm it.

  His mouth was close to her ear now, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t you remember our beautiful boy suckling at your breast? Don’t you remember the pain of giving birth?”

  Grace doubled over. She felt like she’d been slammed into an iron maiden, bombarded with sudden, stark memories of Nikoli and how she’d struggled to push him from her body. How the doctor told Michael in quiet tones that they would both die unless Grace made a choice. She could see the doctor’s face before her now; he was asking her to choose . . . Only, he wasn’t part of a memory. He was in her mind’s eye, asking to trade her life for her son’s. His fresh white coat was so bright it blinded her. He told her the pain would stop. All she had to do was say the words, and the memories, the pain, the suffering, it would all stop. She was ready. She would tumble into darkness with the name of her son on her lips and her heart full of a mother’s love.

  There came a strange buzzing in her ears, and also Michael’s voice. There was chanting, and Ethelred shimmered into her field of vision. The room began to spin and she could hear her own voice chanting words she didn’t recognize. Clarity hit her like a brick: Michael was using magick to make her feel this way, magick he’d gotten from Ethelred. If she agreed to die for him, for her son, Michael’s deal would be fulfilled and he would become a demon. Just like he wanted.

  She didn’t know where that knowledge came from, but the influence of the blackberry vodka was suddenly gone and so was Michael’s manipulative magick. Grace wanted to scan the room to see who was helping her, for someone had to be; her sudden realization had come from somewhere. But she didn’t dare draw Michael’s attention—and in turn, Ethelred’s—to whomever it was.

  The ache in her body continued despite her insight, a horrible ripping pain through her abdomen. Nor did the revelation fill the emptiness in her heart. This was an acute pain, so real, and she knew its source. Her need for Nikoli was like an infection, and it was gnawing away at her.

  “He’s not real, our son?” Michael continued, mocking her accusation. His lips were on the column of her throat. “What a cold, unnatural mother you are. A fitting mate for the next ruler of Hell.”

  Grace didn’t process his words. Instead, she felt terror sluice down her spine like ice water. A toddler with Michael’s eyes peered out from the bar’s office door. His blond hair was mussed and curly; there was a familiar baby-soft roundness to his cheeks that was also present in the small fingers that clutched the door. He smiled at her and held out his arms as if he wanted to be picked up.

  “Four years is a long time to be away from your son. The courts can’t help you, as you’ve seen, and neither can your demon. Get rid of him and we’ll be a happy family again. You have ten days. Get. Rid. Of. Him. Or else.”

  He bit her hard on the neck, his teeth tearing at the softness of her skin. Grace tried to scream, but he cut off h
er air. Not that anyone in the bar would have done anything to help. If she’d had the breath, she would have cursed him. She was reliving now all the horrible things he’d done, all the things she’d learned just before they’d split. She’d seen the bodies of the whores who had tried to leave Michael’s employ. Why had she even come here? Why hadn’t she just begged Caspian to act before Michael could counter him? Was it too late now?

  Magick crackled around her fingers, but she couldn’t stop clawing at Michael long enough to direct it. Rationally, she knew that if she just relaxed she could use her arms, her hands, her magick, but she couldn’t force her body to obey. She could feel her life slipping away. Strangulation was an art to him, and not only that, it made him hard. She could feel his erection digging into her hip, and the less breath she had, the bigger it felt. She wanted to vomit. How could she ever have been attracted to this man? How could she not have realized what he was?

  He released her just as she started to really fight. Kissing her cheek, he gave her a bloody-minded smile. “Oh, my love,” he crooned. “Such times we shall have when you come back to me.”

  She cursed him with her first returned breath. “Ego vomica vos ut persolvo pro vestri spiritus per spiritus.” The next time he choked or bit a woman, he himself would feel himself the victim of whatever he inflicted. If he killed her . . . well, Karma could be a bitch.

  Michael grinned. “I can hardly wait.”

  He obviously had no idea what she’d said or done to him, but he would. She had the urge to run out of the bar screaming—it was taking all her willpower not to do just that—but she couldn’t show him that she was afraid.

  “Ten days, Grace. Or I’ll kill Nikoli. The spell is already in place that will end his life if you fail to meet your obligations to me. If you or your demon tries to take him from me, Nikoli’s dead and so are you. Ten days. Get rid of the demon.”

  “I understand,” she said. She reached over the bar and grabbed the bottle of vodka from which the bartender had been pouring her drinks. She took a long final swig. Then, with blood still streaming down her neck from Michael’s bite, she walked with her head held high through the front door. The quiet notes of “Kentucky Rain” echoed behind her.

  Ten days to get rid of Caspian. And, she had to do it. Michael was on to the demon, and she didn’t doubt for a minute her onetime lover would kill Nikoli just as he threatened. She’d been naïve to think otherwise, been so damned caught up in getting revenge that she hadn’t considered the outcome. She knew now that she’d been foolish to think even a Crown Prince of Hell could stand between Michael and something he wanted.

  So, Sasha had lied? Grace didn’t know why and wasn’t sure it mattered. Nikoli was real. She’d seen him. More memories came flooding back: late nights with Nikoli in her arms, his sweet baby scent, those quiet times with his mouth on her breast taking nourishment from her body. Such peace she’d felt in those moments. And now Michael was using the boy as a weapon.

  She suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her chest was tight and she felt her face spasm with sorrow. She hated that people were so ugly when they cried. No one ever did the couple-of-lone-wolf-teardrops-meandering-elegantly-down-the- alabaster-cheek thing that you saw in the movies; that was such bullshit. If sorrow was real, it meant full-on twisted features, mascara racooning around the peepers to stream in ugly, toxic-looking stains down red cheeks. That was why men hated to see women cry, she figured—because, damn, it made them ugly.

  Grace made a couple of swipes at her face with the back of her hand, took a shaky breath, and turned down an alley. Sasha and Petru were there, trying to shove a plastic-wrapped something into a Dumpster.

  Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t plastic wrap but a clear garbage bag. A woman’s face was staring out from it, peeking up behind Petru’s shoulder. The eyes were wide and empty, dead. The mouth was open. And if Petru and Sasha were disposing of the corpse, it was Michael who’d murdered her.

  A cold feeling slid over Grace like a shroud. This was how she was going to end up: a nameless face wrapped in a garbage bag, dropped in a Dumpster like trash. Like she’d never had breath, never had a voice, never had people to love her. Grace knew what lay at the end of Michael’s scheming. Sasha was right about that, at least.

  No. Things weren’t going to happen that way. She’d get Nikoli away. Somehow.

  “Grace,” Petru huffed in acknowledgment, still holding the body.

  “Why did you lie to me, Sasha? I saw Nikoli,” Grace growled, getting straight to the point.

  Sasha’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I’ve never lied to you, Grace. Never. Not when you were first sitting in that bar making calf-eyes at Grigorovich, and not now.”

  “Then how did I see my son? How did he hold his arms out to me, his mother, if he’s not real?”

  Sasha let go of his burden. He’d been holding the dead woman’s legs so Petru could do some maneuvering, but they weren’t making much headway. “Grace, do you remember his birth? You said I was there. You said I took Nikoli from your arms.”

  “It’s vague but it’s there. The doctor sedated me.”

  Sasha shook his head. “Did he sedate me, too? Why don’t I remember it? And, why would I lie to you, Grace? Don’t you remember your first date with Michael? When I took you home, do you remember what I said?”

  “You told me I was getting in deep water. Over my head.”

  “Was that a lie?”

  Grace grabbed the lapels of his Dior trench, curling her fists around the fabric. “No. So, why are you lying to me about Nikoli?”

  “I’m not!” Sasha’s large hands engulfed her wrists, and he extracted himself from her grasp. “Why don’t you just summon your grandmother and have done? She could end this nonsense right now. Why do you engage Grigorovich in these games? Do you still love him? Is that possible? Are you—?”

  “No!” She fought off nausea. “But my grandmother is dead. Your quaint little bits of folklore are nothing. Nothing! I can call my granny all night long, but she’s not going to miraculously get her ass here because, as I mentioned before, she’s fucking dead.”

  “Grace, no. Shh.” Petru held fingers to his lips, looking terrified. “Granddaughter or no, she’s the Baba Yaga.”

  “Petru!” She spun on her heel, ready to give the moronic mobster a full dose of verbal venom. Unfortunately, the dumb innocence in his eyes was enough to curb her tongue. Just barely. She took a deep breath. “The adults are talking.”

  He turned back to his task, the dead prostitute hoisted over his massive shoulder, his hand firmly on her rump like he was carrying a keg of beer rather than a woman. His face showed no comprehension of that at all. His sausage fingers were having trouble pulling open the cover meant to keep Dumpster divers and animals out of Michael’s personal waste. Many a body had been transported to Garbage Island this way, never to be found again.

  “He believes. I do, too,” Sasha said quietly.

  Grace sneered. “Why do you buy into all this superstitious nonsense?”

  “How is the Baba Yaga superstitious nonsense but a demon conjured from Hell is not?”

  Grace opened her mouth, but there was nothing there waiting to come out. She had no answer other than the fact that it just wasn’t possible. Her granny was dead and gone, and no amount of wishing would bring her back.

  “If Seraphim Stregaria ever had a maxim in her whole life, it was this: want in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first. No, there’s no point in hoping. If my granny were still around, she’d have let me know.”

  “Sasha?” Petru called.

  They both turned to see the dead prostitute’s legs sticking out of the Dumpster. Petru was unable to push them down any farther.

  “Can you see it from the street?” Sasha asked.

  “Probably,” Grace announced cheerfully. Then she pushed past them to continue home. She would make a stop at a pay phone. The Dumpster would probably be gone by the time the police got there, a
nd if it wasn’t, Michael had a lot of the guys on his payroll for just such occasions, but she would make the effort anyway.

  Caspian could have made the situation unbearable for Michael. She wished she didn’t have to send the demon packing, but with Nikoli’s life at risk, she had no other choice. Goddess above. He was delicious. He’d been nothing but good to her, and she chuckled as she imagined the demonic crabs Michael was suffering from. She also wondered what the gift of demonic healing encompassed. Would it stay once Caspian was gone? If it did, maybe she’d have a chance against Michael, after all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Opinions Are Like Arseholes

  Caspian didn’t like Michael Grigorovich. The feeling was something he’d pondered at length.

  Generally, his likes and dislikes were irrelevant. He’d always been rather passive in his assessment of humans. Some were pretty, some were ugly. Some made him laugh, some didn’t. Some were good and some were bad. Then there were those that were really bad.

  This last variety bothered him a bit. They didn’t really get the point. The whole reason for evil was to test Man, not to inspire him to further acts of depravity. But that’s what seemed to be going on here, what seemed to be happening with Michael and all his deal brokering. Why in the name of Mephistopheles would a mortal choose to be a demon? There was a hierarchy to follow down below, just like there was above with the Really Big Boss. Sure, everybody got to be “a unique and special snowflake,” but there were orders everyone had to follow, rules that went with the magick. Most of the time, those aspiring to demonhood just didn’t understand. They thought it was all about the power and the pain; they didn’t understand being a demon meant providing a public service. Caspian knew for damn sure that Michael Grigorovich didn’t get it.

  Of course, all this reflection was relatively new. Caspian had once been content as he was, and he didn’t really care for this new introspection that seemed to coincide with his recent chest pain. It was damned uncomfortable all around. But, this disliking business, he really couldn’t give it up. He did not like Michael Grigorovich.