C
HAPTER
F
IVE
The Colder the Better
M
ichael Ivan Grigorovich was a bastard in every sense of the word. It was a badge he wore proudly. He was calculating and cruel, and he took every opportunity to showcase these traits. Also, his mother never married his father.
His father had been a bastard first—and a dickhead. Ivan Vasilyev was a firm believer that sparing the rod spoiled the child. He’d believed the same about lovers, like Michael’s mother, Nadja, from whom Michael got his magickal powers. Not a day went by in all of their time together that Ivan didn’t lay his hands on her. Even when she surpassed all of his expectations and demands, he still gave her a healthy slap just to remind her of her place. Michael had never done that to Grace, so he didn’t see what exactly she had to complain about. Nikoli? Bah. Even if the kid were real, she was better off without him. At least, that’s what his mother would say.
Nadja claimed it was somehow Michael’s own fault that he’d been born; her son was so determined to come into the world that even a mandrake-infused hot chocolate had refused to root him from her womb. If not for Michael, Nadja would have left Ivan a hundred times over. There had never been any love there. No, what kept Nadja from leaving Ivan had nothing to do with affection for her son. It was simply a desire for power.
While she’d never wanted him, Nadja was willing to use Michael. She’d wanted to make sure that when his blood—Rasputin’s blood—drove him to seek magick and power, it would be her influence that guided him. It would be her darkness that would take root in his heart. Nadja would wield him as a weapon against his father and the world. So, when her son came to her, his blood urging him to seek the old magicks and arcane knowledge, she’d taught him what she knew and had no problem whatsoever explaining the ritual for taking Ivan’s head to offer the demon Ethelred. Yes, Nadja had held her son’s hand down the primrose path to Hell. It had been her pleasure, and her son knew it.
That didn’t stop him from wishing for her counsel. There were thirteen days to make this mess of a plan come together. If she were here, it would already be done; he wouldn’t have been deterred from the original design at all. But she was gone and Michael couldn’t think that way. Nadja was trapped somewhere, imprisoned by the Baba Yaga for her arrogance. She’d be no help to him; she couldn’t even help herself.
Grace had been a convenient choice for the original plan and she’d been especially suited for his mother’s purposes, being the granddaughter of her enemy. Michael was to seduce a girl and make her fall in love with him, and then sacrifice her. He’d first planned to slit Grace’s throat on their wedding night, but when she started to disobey him he knew they’d never make it that long. Especially after she refused to summon Ethelred. That’s when he and his mother hatched the idea of Nikoli.
He’d had to be patient for this to germinate, layer after layer of touch and memory implanted in Grace’s mind. She had to believe it had all happened, her separation from her baby. Four long years of memories, of the birthing, of court battles and lawyers, all the while that ache growing for her son, the magick making her dwell on the hollow sensation of arms empty of a child. It was a carefully measured poison administered in precise doses. Yes, four years was a long time to wait, but Michael had cultivated Grace’s pain like an exotic flower, feeding and tending it from afar. Grace would soon do
any
thing for the child he’d conjured, even give up her own life. It was worth the wait, for this sacrifice was no longer simply a step to demonhood, but a deal that would fulfill all his other bargains.
Michael rubbed his hands together absently, pondering his machinations until an unwelcome voice shrilled him out of his thoughts.
“Are you going to fuck it or stare at it all night? I got things to do, Michael.”
He didn’t pay these bitches to talk or think; he just wanted them flat on their backs. Who did this hooker have to do that was more important than he? Didn’t she know who he was? He was the son of Ivan Vasilyev. He’d been inked with stars on his kneecaps and shoulders; the tattoos signified his heritage, that he bowed to no one and was a man of status and tradition. He was a leader of men. He was motherfucking
royalty
.
He slapped the hooker with just enough force so that she got to keep her teeth. The next blow wouldn’t be so forgiving. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry. He assumed that she knew better. She damn well should.
His voice was deceptively calm. “If I want to stare at your pussy all night long, I’ll do it. If I want to watch you ex-fucking-sanguinate into my bathtub and splash my goddamn ceiling in a modern art mural with your blood, I’ll do it.”
“I’m sorry.” The whore pursed her now-swollen lips.
Yeah, she was sorry. And she had no idea how much sorrier she was going to be before this night was over. Michael positioned his fingers at the soft indentation of her throat and then spanned the pale column of her neck. He could feel her pulse pounding there, the drumbeat of a scared little rabbit in the mouth of the wolf.
Her mouth fell open and she screamed. It was a huge sound for such a little mouth, especially with the pressure of his hand on her throat. But the whore’s wide eyes weren’t looking at him. They were focused on something else.
That was when he felt the first sting—no, maybe “sting” wasn’t the correct word. It was a pain like no other he’d known, followed by an itching that felt like a sheath of poison ivy had wrapped his dick, which was where the prostitute was staring. He didn’t want to look. Yes, for maybe the first time in years, Michael Ivan Grigorovich was afraid.
He felt the sensation again and looked down involuntarily, closing his eyes at the very last second. He didn’t want to open them; he fought to keep them closed, afraid of what he might see. The whore was still screaming, a high-pitched wail that made a place in his spine tic with homicidal rage. He clenched his hand.
Forcing himself to breathe, Michael opened his eyes. There, doing an Irish jig on the end of his cock, was the most horrible thing he’d ever seen. It was small and red, fat and round like a bloated tick. It was the size of a clementine “cutie” orange, its skin smooth but for the hair that hung off the end of a phallic tail, and it smiled at Michael and revealed a mouth full of tiny razors.
The thing then flipped its tail up, revealing a second smiling mouth. Using its crustacean-like appendages, it dug into his skin and flipped, biting down alternately with the rump mouth and the front mouth. And it was excreting some sort of fluid that made Michael itch so badly that he debated completely cutting off the affected area. But it was his cock.
He grabbed the obscenity and smashed it in his fist, various parts of the creature dripping out of his still-fisted hand. It had popped like a tick. He shook the material from his grip but, as he did, two more monstrosities appeared on the length of his still-hard dick. They scuttled down into the nest of his pubic hair, which did little to hide their bloated bodies. In fact, even though he was gifted in the size department, there was little space for any more of the creatures.
Michael heard more screaming, but this time it couldn’t be the whore—he’d cut her air off and killed her already. No, it was his.
The dead whore forgotten, he scrambled off the bed and into the bathroom, where he grabbed a razor and immediately shaved his pubic hair, hoping that would root out the disgusting little bastards. But it didn’t. It just forced them to dig their claws into his flesh as opposed to swinging like Tarzan through the foliage. And what messed with him most was that they seemed intelligent. The bugs smiled at him with those predator’s teeth before flipping themselves over like maniac gymnasts to bite with both mouths. It was
disgusting
.
Michael found a pair of pliers and a lighter. If they popped like ticks, maybe he could get rid of them like ticks. He was no longer concerned about what they were, but rather whom they were from. He was doubly glad now that Grace was going to die. These little horrors could only have come from her, from that demon she had summoned. This was definitely a trick inspired in the seventh ring of Hell.
A sulfuric odor burned his nostrils, and a low menacing laugh sounded from the shadows. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Well, you’re not me, so fuck off. And you weren’t invited here.”
A figure stepped forward, shedding the shadows like a cloak. It was clearly a demon. “Grace invited me.”
Michael met his visitor’s eyes as he grabbed one of the creatures with the pliers, its little appendages flailing in protest. “I’m not impressed.”
The demon shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Michael squeezed, taking a special delight in killing the creature he’d wrenched off his privates—only to find that two more had appeared in its place. Now there were three.
“I told you so. Demon crabs are a bitch, huh? No fun, my man. No fun at all.” His demon guest whacked him on the shoulder in a good-natured gesture of male bonding, unmindful of Michael’s nakedness.
“How do I ...?” Michael began, but the demon was gone.
Crap. He was definitely going to have to summon Ethelred again, barter more of his soul to get rid of these things. Goddamn it, he was fucked. He was fucked like the two dead hookers in the trunk of his Lexus. He was fucked facedown. And it didn’t look like anyone was looking to flip him over.
C
HAPTER
S
IX
Ain’t Life a Bitch?
G
race came around slowly but wished she was still in oblivion. There was something under her nose that smelled like death.
Another hot puff of the putrid stench was blown up her nose. Before she thought better, she opened her mouth to protest. She was immediately and heartily sorry, as a blast shot right into her mouth, like something out of an Internet shock vid. That was when she realized it was just Petru’s breath.
She opened her eyes and gagged as he moved closer into her breathing space, peering at her intently. “I’m going to pass out again if you don’t get out of my face, Petru,” she warned.
“He had borscht and lamb for breakfast,” Sasha said by way of apology.
Grace struggled to turn her head. “I’m going to spew
my
breakfast.”
“You hit your head,” Petru said. “You fell.”
He was suddenly yanked out of her immediate vicinity, and for that she was grateful.
“Yes, Petru. Thank you.” Grace realized that she was starting to feel sorry for him again; he was really just a big, dumb animal that needed a guiding hand. It had been a while since she’d seen him, and she’d forgotten what he was like. “Sasha, why don’t you try to tell me once more? Please use small words, because I find it hard to believe that my son—my Nikoli—isn’t real.”
“I know he’s real to you, Grace. Which is why Michael believes that you’ll make the ultimate sacrifice for him.”
“But I remember you taking him from my arms. I remember being pregnant. I remember Michael getting me anchovies and ice cream.” Grace’s voice cracked with emotion.
“Grace,” Sasha admonished. “How many women do you know who’ve ever actually craved anchovy ice cream? It’s a stereotype. Look at your belly, Grace. With your genes, there’s no way you would have made it through a pregnancy without stretch marks. I saw you when your robe slid open. Your stomach is as smooth and flat as it was when you were a teenager.”
“How do you know what my belly looked like when I was a teenager?”
The mobster sighed. “It’s an expression.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Look, Michael has plans for you.”
“Why me?” Grace wrapped her arms around her body, suddenly frightened. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? The whole world she’d created for herself seemed to be crumbling like the bone dust still littering her bedroom.
“Nadja, his mother. She chose you.”
“Michael said she was dead.”
“Nadja can only pray for death now.” Sasha looked sad.
Grace took his hand in hers. “And I ask you again, why are you telling me this, Sasha? Michael will kill you.” She knew this could very well be a ploy, because for as long as she’d known Michael, Sasha had been loyal to him.
“Because I love Nadja. I always have. Since Ivan introduced me to her on their first date. I have to find a way to set her free.”
Nadja? Really? Things were getting more complicated by the moment.
“How is helping me going to help her?”
“Gaining the Baba Yaga powers through deceit will surely damn her. I just pieced together the details of her plans from Michael’s own.”
Grace sighed tiredly. “There is no Baba Yaga, Sasha.”
“There is, Grace Stregaria. And her blood runs through your veins.”
“No one knows whose blood I carry. I never even knew my father’s name.”
“Your father’s blood doesn’t matter. It’s Seraphim’s blood and magick that runs through you, that’s made you as powerful as you are, and has marked you for Nadja’s vengeance.”
“If I were to believe any of this, why does Nadja hate my grandmother so much?” Grace was sure it was all a fetid crock of crap, but if Sasha believed it, maybe Michael did, too. It could be something that she and Caspian could use against him.
“There was a prophecy about the Baba Yaga power. I don’t know the specifics, only that it had been narrowed down to two witches. Nadja and Seraphim. And rather than fight the Nazis with her power, she aligned with them and had Seraphim arrested. She believed that if Seraphim died in a camp, it would take the stain of her death off Nadja’s hands and she would ascend. But it didn’t work out that way.”
“She never spoke about that time with me. But it makes no sense. Nadja isn’t old enough to—”
“You’re from a family of magick users. There are ways to prolong youth and life.”
“I’m sorry, Sasha. This sounds so surreal.”
“And summoning a demon sounds more reasonable than an immortal witch? Look, you have to believe me. You’re in serious danger from more than just Michael Grigorovich. Nadja’s shadow is everywhere.”
“Nadja is dead, just like my grandmother.”
“No.” The big man shook his head. “She’s waiting for me and I’m going to save her. Even if it’s from herself. I’ve done some terrible things, but it’s been to survive. Even without a father, you’ve never had that burden. It changes you at your core.”
“And Michael? What has he had to do to survive? No, this is pure selfish greed on his part inspired by his mother. We make our own choices, no matter what we go through.”
“You’re so rigid, Grace. How can you see the world in black and white when nothing is ever so simple?”
“You
need
the shades of gray, because you loved a woman who was evil to the tips of her pedicured toes. If everything you said was true, then Nadja tried to kill my grandmother and wants her son to kill me. She conspired with her bastard son to give me pain and suffering like no parent should ever endure and you’re talking to me about saving her? Why should I care what happens to the witch?”
“I don’t suppose you should,
malenkaya
.” He patted her hand and withdrew from her grasp.
Grace shrugged her shoulders. “This all too much. It’s unreal. Unbelievable.”
“Ask your demon for the answer. He’ll give it to you,” Petru interjected.
“Oh, yeah. I’ll just ask a demon for the truth and he’ll give it to me?” Grace stared at him. “Wait, how does anyone know I summoned a demon?”
“Bone dust. I can see it on the floor in your bedroom. That only proves what Michael suspects. Now, I’ve helped you, Grace. Are you going to help me?” Sasha asked.
“This is too much, Sasha. More to the point, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to help you.”
“Just ask your demon what he knows. Decide whether to trust us. We’ll be back.”
Sasha grabbed Petru and shoved him out the door.
Was he trying to drive her crazy? He must be really pissed that she’d summoned a demon to thwart him. It made sense, especially considering that she’d refused to summon a demon for him. There was no way that her son, the child of her body, was not real. It had been four years since she’d seen him, but the memories were as fresh as ever. She’d sung to him as he grew beneath her heart, as they’d shared dreams, made promises.
Yet, the look in Sasha’s dark eyes had been so sincere.
Grace really just wanted to take another bath and go to bed. That would be ideal. It probably wasn’t the best idea, though, considering that she’d just knocked brain juice out of her ears when she’d hit her head on that damn coffee table. Was it possible that her grandmother was still alive? Was the Baba Yaga myth a reality?
All of these questions were making her head hurt even worse. She couldn’t be expected to process everything at once; she needed some downtime where she didn’t have to think about anything. Not her grandmother, not Michael, not what Sasha had told her, certainly. Not even Caspian. Definitely not Caspian.
She would go shopping, she decided. Credit therapy, she liked to call it. She was going to buy some new underwear for dating nice mortal men and a few nice lacy little things to sleep in, maybe a new outfit or two. And shoes, definitely shoes. There was also a new chocolatier that had opened in the River Market district, and she wanted some gourmet chocolate-covered graham crackers. Best of all, this wasn’t even going to be on her credit. Grace had applied for a card in Michael’s name and, surprisingly enough, had gotten it. It was one of those lovely no-limit numbers. She’d only have a short time before they canceled it for lack of payment. If she’d had more time, she’d have flown to Paris and Italy during Fashion Week and given that card a real workout.
She supposed in some circles this would be called identity theft. Grace called it monies owed for services rendered. She would be careful not to pay any bills related to her apartment with the thing. In the eyes of the law, it could be considered his domicile if she did. That was the last thing she needed, especially as she’d spent the last four years ridding her life of anything reminding her of him.
Damn it! She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Michael. The whole point of shopping with his credit card was to enjoy sticking it to him. But could she shop, spend his money, and not think about him? She’d give it a try.
It worked. The next day, she found herself naked in a dressing room at Avenue, one of the only shops that carried lingerie that looked good on her lush figure, debating the balconette or the push-up bra and feeling much better. Even though she’d always loved the push-up, she wondered if it was time for something new. Grace couldn’t deny that she liked her lines better in the push-up. She didn’t need it so much for making her look like she had more—this little witch was generously endowed—but she liked the support.
She caught a glance of herself in the mirror and smiled, pleased that there wasn’t one stretch mark in sight, not even on the rounded curve of her hip or the slightly rounded part of her abdomen where her baby would have first started growing. That thought brought a sigh. Tracing her fingers down the same path, she couldn’t help but think of Nikoli. She’d been determined not to, but he was her son. What would she do if none of it had ever happened, if she’d never given birth to her amazing child? It would be like a death. No, not
like
a death. It would be murder—the death of an ideal, a dream. It would indeed be the death of her son, because he would still be real to her.
“Waiting for me, Gracie?”
Grace screamed and jumped back against the wall, jamming the hook into her back that had been thoughtfully installed on the dressing room wall for hanging clothes, which in turn propelled her forward into Caspian’s waiting arms. Actually, it was more like it propelled her
rack
into his waiting hands. He was holding her up by her breasts, and it was none too pleasant a sensation.
“If you required my attention, all you had to do was ask.” Caspian squeezed once, twice, and then he rubbed his thumbs over the nipples before looking back up at her scowling face. The sensation got a hell of a lot better.
“Don’t call me Gracie,” she hissed.
“Why not? I like it. It’s sweet and tastes good on my tongue, just like you.” He still had hold of her breasts.
He made the mistake of winking at her. That small action seemed to stop time, or at least slow it down. Grace had had enough. Her hand reared back behind her head, her fingers curling into a fist before it shot forward. For both of them, it was like they were moving through water. Caspian’s eyes seemed to grow ever wider. Her fist plowed through time and space to finally connect with his face.
The crash of her flesh against his was electric, and the force of her blow was enough to turn his head. He still didn’t loosen his grip on her breasts.
“Are you going to let go or what?”
Caspian looked tempted to rub his jaw. Instead, he said, “It was worth it.”
She started whacking at his hands. “Let. Go. Of. Me.” An ineffectual little slap punctuated each of her words.
“Hot pokers couldn’t make me let go.”
He smirked again, and double damn if Grace didn’t find that to be sexy as hell. Damn him! She pulled her fist back, but this time Caspian was ready. He let go of one breast to catch her arm midair. So, Grace did what was logical. She used the other. Granted, she wouldn’t be able to hit as hard, but it would get her point across.
Caspian wasn’t about to be clobbered again, so he let go of the other breast to catch her other arm. Now Grace found herself in a much more precarious situation. She was pressed against the flimsy wall of the Avenue dressing room, naked but for her brand-new, cheeky-lace panties and a push-up bra, with a demon that looked like he could win the Ultimate Fighting Championship tournament rubbing up against her in all the right places. Her body tightened with anticipation at the same time that it cried out for her stop. If her pussy had a voice, it would have said, “Hell no! What the fuck is wrong with you? He might be hot, girl, but that dick is just
too
big. We are closed for business.”
Grace was in trouble. She wasn’t listening to her pussy. Caspian’s voice was like silk, smooth and seductive, and she burned for more of his touch.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to let go,” she growled, trying to fight her attraction. “Some B.S. about hot pokers. You can’t tell me that my fist is anything like a hot poker.”