It wasn’t the same. She gave up and went to the dresser. Ha! No demon appendage could match her secret weapon. This miracle of modern science was purple and glittery, and it had a rotating head and another piece that snuggled against her anus, and still another that vibrated her clit. Of course, she hadn’t asked Caspian to try. Who knew what forms he could—
Enough! No more Caspian. She would use the Rabbit. There was no way the batteries would die, because this bad boy plugged into the wall and had more get-up-and-go than a Smart car—which was a good thing, because she had miles to go before she slept. The wicked always did.
Grace pulled open the drawer with expectant joy only to gasp and cover her mouth in horror. This was why the demon had stopped at her dresser before departing. Her Rabbit had been brutally murdered, an untimely death to be sure. Its murderer had taken a trophy, too. The rotating clit-hugger had been amputated and the device had been fried like bacon. There was still smoke coming off the molded plastic gel head.
Before her eyes, the thick, imitation man-sword wilted like a dead flower, sagging sadly in a parody of its former erect glory; this was how she imagined John Holmes on his one hundred and tenth birthday.
“Caspian, I’m going to kill you,” she vowed, pushing the drawer shut with reverence while at the same time raising the maimed appliance. Grace shook her fist in the air as if she were Scarlett O’Hara and her Rabbit a turnip, declaring she would never be hungry again. The corpse of the Rabbit flopped in phallic punctuation.
To Caspian, watching from the shadows, it would have been the funniest thing he’d ever seen . . . if his previous words about scorned women weren’t ringing in his ears like a fire alarm.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Sacrifice
Sasha Dubenko was a man of few words, a predilection that had served him well in his career as a confidence man and consultant for the Vasilyev family. It was for that reason he knew where so many dark secrets were buried, including Nadja Grigorovich.
He’d outright lied to Michael when asked if he knew where Nadja was hidden. Sasha had witnessed the last battle between her and Seraphim firsthand. He’d been with Nadja as her living flesh hardened to stone, and he’d promised he’d take care of her. Nadja’s magick even kept him young and fit, well enough to do her bidding, if not so much it was overtly noticed.
His appearance was unassuming. He could have passed for any of the mourners that miserable day: white, middle-class, and American. He was a forgettable backdrop in his camel-colored trench coat and dress shoes, and he was wearing a matching hat to keep the rain off his black-framed glasses. He was completely nondescript.
It was bad luck in the village where he’d been born to step on new earth in a cemetery, so he kept to the manicured walkways, careful not to tread on any of the freshly turned dirt. Sasha believed in things like the evil eye, throwing salt over his shoulder just in case the Devil perched there, and the witch eternal known as the Baba Yaga. He wore a pewter charm shaped like a three-petal flower with intricate knot-work designs to repel all of these evils.
His fingers sought the charm and rubbed it absently. Nadja had made it with her own hands, infused it with her power, charged it with her own blood, and there was a smoothness that wasn’t quite an indentation but was what his mother would call a worry spot. He often sought out the comfort provided by the remnants of Nadja’s magick. Touching the amulet was as close as he could get to touching her. But today was different. He was going to see his beloved, was going to make a desperate offering. He was going to see if he could break the curse that held her in living death. He was going to break her suspended animation.
If only she’d agreed to relinquish her powers. If Nadja hadn’t tried to steal the magick of the Baba Yaga from Seraphim Stregaria, she would have been able to keep them. But no, she’d been as hungry for power as some others were for bread or meat. The battle with the other witch had left her all but dead.
Seraphim had been within her rights to take Nadja’s life. For some reason she had not. The woman was powerful, the most potent witch the world had seen in an age. She’d endured human trials, suffered the most horrific tortures that humans could inflict on one another. In the concentration camps such evil had been done to her, so it was a miracle she hadn’t burned the world out of vengeance. Nadja would have. Seraphim had not. Therein was the only reason Sasha wanted to help Grace Stregaria defeat Michael. As much as he’d loved Nadja Grigorovich, he’d known she could never be allowed to claim the power of the Baba Yaga. Michael had been born with that same hunger. Mated with Ivan Vasilyev’s evil, he was a destructive force. Too destructive.
Sasha hoped the sacrifice he’d brought earlier was still asleep; it would be easier for all parties if she slept through what was to come. He imagined how awful it would be, to feel your conscious mind slipping away into nothingness while knowing your body would belong to someone else. A horrible thing, yes. But necessary. The woman had to die so that his Nadja could live. It was a trade that he was willing to make. Sasha would do anything for Nadja—well, anything but see her become the Baba Yaga.
He pushed open the wrought-iron gate and produced a large brass key from his pocket. It fit the heavy lock on the crypt, turned with no resistance, and Sasha gave a perfunctory glance at his surroundings for witnesses or anything out of the ordinary. A moment later he slipped inside.
He saw nothing suspicious but cast a ward on the door nonetheless. Michael had been searching for this tomb for a long time, mostly because he was the one with the power now and wanted to make sure that his mother understood. He wanted to give her an irrevocable demonstration. But Sasha wasn’t ready to be parted from her simply to satisfy Michael’s infantile ideals about revenge.
The vessel was still slumbering where he’d left her, at Nadja’s feet. Her arms were bound in front of her, her ankle shackled by a chain embedded in the far wall. If by chance she happened to get free of her ropes, she still wouldn’t be able to escape the crypt. It would have been easier to secure her arms behind her back, but Sasha didn’t want to cause Nadja any discomfort when she pushed the girl’s soul out of her body. All of the sensations that the shell experienced would become hers. It wasn’t as if his reluctance to tie her had something to do with him being a kind man.
This girl was a virgin; he’d made sure of that. She had nice childbearing hips, breasts that could feed a third-world nation, and a dainty waist. Just how Sasha liked them, just how Nadja had looked all those years ago. Her hair was an unfortunate mousy brown, but this had been the closest Sasha could come to a body that both he and Nadja would approve of. At least, he hoped she’d approve.
He approached the marble statue in the center of the room. Pulling ajar of fresh rose petals from a hidden pocket in his trench coat, he scattered them around the base. When he was finished, he bowed before approaching the statue, ever the supplicant.
His hand found the marble cheek of the carved goddess and its eyes opened, bright with madness. That moonlight gaze fell upon the form below, the figure in chains, the sacrificial vessel. When Sasha kissed the cold, frozen lips of the statue, the eyes closed again. This was a dangerous transference: If the host body died, Nadja would, too.
The first deed was tackled with the blade of his athame. Sasha tried to be quick and gentle; after all, his Nadja was going to feel the aftermath. But virgin blood was necessary to begin the transfer of souls.
Sasha next began the invocation, continuing the ritual Nadja had left written out for him before her battle with Seraphim, wanting to cover all of her bases. It had taken him many years to find all of the special ingredients she’d listed, as well as the woman who would suit their needs. Michael had finally purchased her through his special channels. Sasha had never asked Vasilyev’s kid for anything before, so Michael had been happy to oblige. Sasha was glad he hadn’t asked any questions, though. Still, if he had, Sasha would have said anything to accomplish his mission.
Yes, virgins were highly priced commodit
ies in these precarious times. American girls traded their virginity to hang with the popular crowd; Eastern Bloc women traded theirs for food. The choices kept getting younger and younger, and Sasha had had no desire for a child. He’d been specific that she be in her twenties. This one had been kidnapped from her doting papa—her doting, rich, and royal father who would do anything to get her back. Which meant Nadja would have the money she’d always wanted. Sasha would become her new bodyguard. It was the perfect plan.
He finished the incantation, mixing the vessel’s blood with diamond dust ground up in the incarnadine light of the harvest moon.
Sasha lit a white candle, then a black one. Both were for protection. Then he pulled out a lump of red wax that he melted between the two flames and dripped down into the mortar with the blood and diamond paste.
There were other ingredients, too, secret ingredients that he dared not call by name. If he thought of them for too long, they would brand his aura; he’d be marked to anyone who had the power to see. He couldn’t have that. Especially not with the Baba Yaga snooping about. She was bound to reveal herself soon. She’d never let this charade with Nikoli continue, which was another reason he’d tried to tell Grace the truth.
He smeared the mixture on the forehead of the vessel, then lovingly on his beloved’s cool marble cheek. His hands traced the contours of the statue, gently, and with a reverence imbued with his love for her. The marble cracked, emitting a distinct sound like pottery knocked from a shelf. Bits of alabaster began molting from Nadja, and then the falling rock was Nadja. She was shattering, breaking apart.
The bound woman on the floor began to writhe and struggle. Her eyes were wide and her mouth opened to scream, but no intelligible sound came out, nothing but the struggle to force air into her rebelling lungs. There was no more blood, apart from what had been mixed to begin the process, but the host attempted to reject the parasite soul.
It didn’t last; Nadja was too strong. She snuffed the virgin’s light with ease, pushed her into the fringe darkness, and bound her there with the power of her will. Invading the younger body, Nadja’s essence took root like a weed and blossomed. The shards of her statue began to disappear like melting ice, leaving no trace of their existence.
Sasha removed the chain from her ankle and sank to the hard floor of the crypt. “My love,” he said, gathering her near, his fingers tangling in her hair. He noticed that the virgin’s scent had changed, smelled now like freesia and honey, a scent that followed Nadja wherever she went.
She touched his face, his cheek; her thumb grazed his lips before she met them with her own in a hard kiss. She broke free and reached around him while he murmured endearments into her ear.
“I’ve missed you, golubuska.”
“Do you love me, Sasha?” Nadja whispered against his cheek.
“More than breath.” He didn’t hesitate, for he felt the answer to the very core of his soul.
“Would you die for me?” she asked.
“I’ve said as much—my very last breath for you.”
Sasha claimed her mouth again in a searing kiss, and Nadja echoed his passion, pressing herself into him, returning endearments in the language of their homeland. She pulled back, looked into his eyes, and smiled, and in that moment Sasha Dubenko thought her a goddess, the most radiant woman in the universe. He thought his heart would burst from love.
And then it did. An impossible pain shot through him, like his chest was ripping apart, like the concurrent spontaneous combustion of all his internal organs. It registered in his brain that this must be death, but Nadja was still smiling. She was gazing at him with so much love in her eyes.
His fingers flew to his chest and found Nadja’s dainty, perfect ones wrapped around his mother’s athame. She pulled his hands away, twining their fingers and using her magick to push the blade ever deeper.
“Thank you, Sasha,” she whispered.
Nadja looked down at the man she’d loved and smiled again. She would miss his ardent embrace, his passion. She’d miss knowing that he’d always be there for her, and she was grateful for all he’d done. But she couldn’t trust anyone else to complete this transference ceremony, and the rite required the physical death of a body to keep her soul anchored.
She again pressed her mouth to his lips, a sweet lingering kiss that would be their last. Using her magick, she sapped the last of Sasha’s strength and turned it against him. She used that borrowed force to move the athame up through his body and then down again, gutting him like an animal.
It was what he would have wanted. After all, she’d asked him if he would die for her and he’d agreed.
She raised her arms and called a storm. Thunder crackled outside, and clouds covered the daytime sky with inky black depths. The tender rain that had been like tears from Heaven became torrential, crashing down into the soft earth, the drops like bombs, slamming into the landscape and crushing flora and fauna alike. Lightning ripped the atmosphere, tearing asunder the very fabric of reality.
Inside the crypt, another bolt struck. It incinerated Sasha’s body, reducing it to ash. Nadja spoke more words, and that ash merged with the blood and diamond paste to become a whole stone. It burned red with the love that Sasha had held for her.
When the smoke cleared, Nadja picked up the stone. It was warm. She pressed it to her chest and the stone fused there, its power keeping her soul bound to the mortal realm and also feeding her energy from the endless strength of Sasha’s love. He’d always be with her. She caressed the rock, enjoying the incongruent texture with the softness of her new skin, and she smiled some more.
But the time for woolgathering was past. She needed to find a mirror and see what Sasha had given her to work with. Then she had to find her idiot son and bring that self-righteous bitch Grace to heel. The latter would destroy Seraphim Stregaria, which was something Nadja had been looking forward to for a very long time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hot Dog Down a Hallway
Michael Grigorovich was balls deep, as Caspian was wont to describe it, but he wasn’t happy about the fact. To be honest, he was getting as much pleasure from being with Dina as screwing a wet paper bag. Not at all a good time. Some of his men had once described doing certain women to be like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. He now understood. Dina just lay there; her pussy was lax and wide. The least she could do was clench her interior walls so he could feel them. Otherwise, it was just like a hot-dog toss: nothing but open space for miles and miles.
Her passivity made him want to hurt her—anything to get some sort of reaction. Well, he also just liked hurting women. It made him hard to see their faces twisted in pain, to hear their high-pitched pleading for him to stop, to feel the way their bodies contorted when they tried to fight. It was nothing short of divine.
Dina was so skinny that her hips were digging into his. When he looked down, he could see her ribs jutting out more prominently than her breasts. Her bra would have fit better backward. She did have a great ass, though. She’d have to starve herself with a little more discipline to get rid of that.
Michael pulled out and turned her over. She didn’t protest because she thought he was going to enter her from behind. And he was. But his idea of rear entry was somewhat different.
When she felt his intent, she tried to say no, but he pushed her face down into the pillow.
“Try it.” It wasn’t a request.
His cock was slick from being inside her and he pushed himself past the tight ring of muscles. Now this, Michael decided, this was good. It was tight and hot, and she was crying. The fast track to multiple orgasms. For him.
That is, until he felt a stabbing pain in his ass. He cried out and started to withdraw and immediately the pain lessened. Deciding it must be over, he entered her again—and the pain came back. A red-hot poker was being shoved into his nethers.
He wanted to scream, but he was no woman. Instead, he pushed harder on the back of Dina’s neck. This was her fault, somehow, a
theory confirmed when he felt himself begin to lose air as she struggled for breath.
Bitch! Fucking bitch! He’d kill her. He used his free hand, closing it around her throat to snap her neck, but immediately felt pressure on his own throat. He tried to enter her again, but felt the same horrible pain as he had before.
“I’d think you’d have figured it out by now,” a voice said behind him. He turned and saw Ethelred leaning against the doorway, watching.
Dina shrieked at the intrusion. Michael slapped the back of her head. “Shut up, bitch.” He resisted the urge to flinch when he felt the slap against his own head. “Figured what out?”
“Remember that little bit of Latin Gracie whispered at you in your bar?”
“Not really, no. It didn’t seem important at the time.” He rolled off Dina and shoved her out of the way, sprawling out angrily on the bed as she crashed to the floor.
“Well, you’re feeling the effects of the spell right now. Everything you do will come back to you.”
Dina tried to pull the sheet down to cover her nakedness, but Michael refused to let her have it. She’d have to walk by Ethelred to get to the bathroom and retrieve her clothes; it was either that or sit on the floor naked.
She stood and lifted her head, tossing her blond hair over her shoulders. Ethelred gave her an appreciative swat on the ass, and she grimaced. “Proof I’m not a total cad,” he said. Her expression relaxed.
Michael scowled. “What did you do?”
“Do I answer to you?” Ethelred swung his head around like a lion that had just caught the scent of blood.
“I summoned you,” Michael said petulantly.
“Yes, you did, and you let me out of the circle, too. Didn’t you? Your soul is mine, Michael Ivan Grigorovich. You’ve signed in blood my book of debts. You owe me a thousand years of servitude.” Ethelred’s irises burned as he spoke of the contract. “And you bear your mother’s debt as well.”
How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days Page 13
