C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
Vexing Verbiage
L
ast time he checked, Caspian was sure he hadn’t had a bowl of stupid meal for breakfast with a side of idiot sausage. But you could have fooled him, what with that
I swear to you
nonsense. Really? Had that just happened: him promising to rescue her nonexistent child? It had to have happened
to
him? otherwise, he’d have to admit that he’d done it to himself, and a Crown Prince of Hell would do no such thing. Ever. Grace was a mark. She was nothing more than a contractee, and he the contractor. That was it. She’d paid him with her snatch to make Michael’s life hell.
Oh. That’s what it was. He just hadn’t fulfilled his part. Michael wasn’t in Hell yet. The demon crabs and operatic assplosion were just the beginnings. Caspian had to go see a man about a hooker. Specifically, the one Michael had strangled and tossed in a Dumpster. He’d had a few good ideas about her.
Unfortunately, while he was smirking about removing one plaguing question, another went bubonic: Why had he gotten so angry at the thought of Ethelred hurting Grace? And, damn, if the pain in his chest wasn’t worse than being junk-punched.
He was also hearing a strange sound that he’d never heard before. Okay, he’d heard it before, but not when he was by himself, and not since he was a mortal child. Humans made that sound, not demons. Never demons. What could it be? It was a strange, foreign thudding in his chest. Caspian had to say that he didn’t care for it in the least. It sounded like a heartbeat, which had to be a hallucination. There was no way there was anything alive in the black hole where his heart once was. Demons didn’t have hearts.
As long as he was asking stupid questions, he might as well pose the big one Grace was dying to ask. It wasn’t why he’d agreed to help her get her son, either; he could finagle that into being part of the contract if he so desired, could say that taking Michael’s son away would indeed make his life worse. Such a loophole was perfect if the Big Boss asked, which was always important. But, no, the big question was why he’d transported them to Michael’s hot tub. He could have teleported them anywhere in the world: Iceland, Poland, Missouri. Anywhere. But he’d chosen to set up their carnal carnival in her ex’s hot tub, and he’d asked her to scream his name. Why?
Aside from the fact he just liked hearing women screaming his name through abject kitty-wrecking pleasure, he knew damn well why. He just didn’t know if he should acknowledge it. He thought of her as his. She belonged to him, pure and simple. Grace Stregaria belonged to Caspian.
But, this was simply a territorial thing. It wasn’t like—Lucifer and the Chorus of Hell forbid—he was having feelings or anything. All males were territorial, even demons. That was just nature.
If he was just being territorial, why had he offered—no, not offered, damn it. He’d
promised
to help her get her son back. She’d looked up at him with those chocolate eyes so full of hope that they’d painted him with a suit of shining armor, and like a dumbass he’d fallen into it.
And yet, she knew he was a demon. She had no illusions about what he was. She’d seen him in a raging, fiery fury. She was even afraid of him. He hadn’t liked that fear in her eyes, and just about anything would be worth tackling to maintain that joy she’d shown when he gave her his vow.
What a fucking mess.
Why hadn’t he just told her again that Nikoli wasn’t real? The boy was a demon-magick-induced figment of her imagination that he couldn’t counter. How in the name of Legion was he supposed to get Nikoli back? Oh, he could construct something from her planted memories, but it wouldn’t be real.
For just a moment out of time he wished that he was something other than what he was. He wished that he could give her a baby, because demon spawn or no, she would be the child’s true mother—something his own parent had been unable to do. And even though he couldn’t be a proper father, he still liked the idea of Grace holding their son in her arms. Caspian couldn’t help but wish for it, just a bit.
Grace was protected by powerful magick indeed if she hadn’t ripened with his seed yet. Or she was barren. Considering how un-virgin she was, and the virility of demon seed, Grace should have been knocked up higher than a kite in the past few days.
He damn well wanted to know what Ethelred was doing talking to her. There was no reason for it, unless it was to taunt her or work more devilries upon her at Michael’s behest. Well, here was something he could tackle. Caspian would put a stop to that in two shakes of a seven-headed dragon’s tail. He and Ethelred were going to have a discussion immediately—and he might not even open the window before he threw the bastard out, depending on where Ethelred was.
The demon turned out to be visiting a café in Brussels when Caspian found him later that evening. Not, unfortunately, the best venue for demon chucking. If it had been the Scottish Highland Games, Caspian might have gotten away with it. Or even at the Punkin Chunkin Festival. But not a droll little café in Belgium, with its dainty, metal-scrollwork chairs, and quaint hand-carved tables. Not to mention the Old Country Roses china cup that was currently pressed to his slick-talking mouth, Ethelred, that cock-muncher.
Not that he knew for certain that Ethelred was a cock-muncher, and not that Caspian cared if he was. In fact, Caspian had been bored enough to experiment back in the 1700s, but that was neither here nor there. He was getting off track. It just felt good to call Ethelred a name, even if it was only in his head.
Seeing and acknowledging him, the other demon motioned for him to sit down. If he’d been wearing knickers, Caspian’s would have been twisted into a tight knot at the thought of having to be cordial. Going commando did have its benefits. But he sank into the chair with the grace inherent to demonkind, and when a dainty cup with Irish Breakfast tea appeared before him in the same china Ethelred was using, Caspian added some milk and three cubes of sugar. Then he threw in another just because.
Ethelred raised a brow. “Some tea with your sugar, my prince?”
Caspian narrowed his eyes in contemplation and tossed in another cube. Really, he’d rather just put the sugar in his mouth and suck on it. Funny, how affectations from time as a human stayed with a mortal after accepting demonhood. His mother would have slapped his hands and clucked at him like an overwrought chicken for putting that much sugar in his tea.
It was also funny how he was thinking of his mother so often now. He’d gone years and not given the woman a moment’s consideration. Now he could hear her voice clear as a church bell, as if he’d seen her yesterday.
Ethelred smirked. “To what do I owe your esteemed presence?”
“You know very well ‘to what you owe my presence.’ ” Caspian sipped his tea.
“Michael Grigorovich, I assume. He’s indebted to me for well nigh a thousand years should he fail to convince Grace to . . . ah . . .” He paused, looking for the right word. “
Save
him.”
“You may also assume”—Caspian took another sip before continuing politely—“that if you torment the human Grace Stregaria with any more false visions of a son, I will bind you for all eternity as a dog rocket in Central Park.”
Ethelred didn’t answer. He picked up a pastry and popped the whole thing in his mouth before pushing the plate forward. “These are heavenly. You must try one.”
Caspian fixed him with a glare that would induce death in a lesser being.
“That’s quite a hefty threat considering this insignificant human woman. Especially since I’m next in line for Crown Prince status.” Ethelred popped another pastry in his mouth, chewing while he talked. “Are you getting soft in your old age?”
Caspian turned up his nose. “Finish that bite before you speak.”
Ethelred laughed. “You torment souls and see the blackest depths humanity has to offer and you’re offended by
this
?” He opened his mouth to show Caspian his food.
“It’s disgusting.”
Ethelred swallowed and waited for Caspian to say something else. When he didn’t, the lesser demon spoke. “So . . . you were threatening me with eternity as a canine rump biscuit in Central Park?”
“Yes, that. I was actually going to smite you, but the Big Boss would frown heavily upon such an obvious and public display of power. Instead I’ve decided to warn you.
Leave Grace alone.
”
Ethelred pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. And before you go all avenging angel and send me back to perdition, let me tell you why.”
Caspian was indeed about to “go all avenging angel” and smite the demon down. He could feel the flames this time, the heat gathering around his body. His tea was boiling in his cup and molten frosting slid off a nearby tart.
“My prince, control yourself before you burst into flames in front of all of these people! You know the Big Boss’s greatest achievement was to convince the masses that he doesn’t exist. You’re going to fuck that up in five seconds, all over a piece of . . .” The demon stopped short, realizing his terminology would be the last sprinkle on the shit-fire sundae he was making himself. “Over a
woman,
” he corrected.
“I’m awaiting your explanation. And it had better be good because, Big Boss or no, I will own your demonic ass.”
“Grace isn’t human.”
“That matters exactly how?”
“The Baba Yaga is indeed Grace’s grandmother. Seraphim Stregaria wears the cone of power.”
“Again,
so
?”
“Auschwitz? Her pregnancy and grand escape were all machinated by . . .” Ethelred let the words hang, hoping Caspian would figure everything out. Caspian didn’t, so he had to continue. “The baby was Grace’s mother, and a half-demon whelped on her by none other than a certain Crown Prince of Hell who is now . . .”
“The only one who outranks me,” Caspian finished. “Sonofabitch.”
“The real bitch of it is that she still has free will. Now, Michael learned a powerful summoning spell from his mother. Someone had to come, and if it was anyone else everyone would be bitching that Hades has gone soft. A revolt in Hell is really not cool right now,
capiche
?”
“So, you can’t remove that memory spell no matter what I do to you. Grace has to break it herself.” Caspian’s rage toward the other demon cooled slightly. “I suppose I can’t just kill Michael, can I?”
“Nope. He’s bought powerful wards. You can’t kill him . . . but as you’ve already discovered, you can make him
wish
that he was dead.” Ethelred picked up the teapot. “More tea?”
C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
Witch Balls, Medium-Size
S
eraphim Stregaria watched the happenings through her crystal orb and was not the slightest bit happy with what she was seeing. Again. In fact, she was downright pissed. But this time it was for different reasons.
She felt Grace’s pain as acutely as her own and it was breaking her heart. Seraphim would have none of that, especially from that douche bag Michael. The mobster’s mother was just as evil, and she, too, would have her day of reckoning. It would not be a blessed day in the Grigorovich household when Seraphim Stregaria came a-calling, which would happen soon. It was about to get pretty damned ugly, truth be told. Damn Michael. Damn the man straight to Hell, and not in the way that he wanted.
She’d called Hades earlier, but had gotten Ethelred and his platitudes about why a revolt in Hell right now could be a very bad thing. Not that Seraphim cared about the hierarchy of Hell when it was ranked against her granddaughter. Hades could fend quite well for himself. Even if he were deposed, he’d be fine. He could just hang out at her pad until he rallied his troops or whatever. Though, that would be a mess. Battle plans, armor, and war-demons hanging about everywhere . . . ? No, she really couldn’t have that. Her enchanted forest was already smothering her, and she was by herself. No, she couldn’t imagine her lovely little home packed to the gills with demons.
What was truly smothering her was frustration at not being able to do more for her granddaughter. Thunder boomed overhead, and Seraphim schooled her thoughts. This plane responded to her moods, and she took a deep breath and brought the sunshine back.
A new plan formed, and she knew just the necessary ingredients. First, there was a hooker. Not just any hooker, of course, but the one that Michael had strangled and left in a Dumpster. She knew that Grace wanted to raise her as a
Bean Sidhe,
but there were better options out there. To enact them, she needed a few rare ingredients only found in Haiti.
Well, to be honest, the ingredients were available in other places than just Haiti, but it was more likely that Stregaria would be able to find them all together there. She needed
Bresillet, Pomme Cajou, Calmador,
and
Pois Gratter
. Hell, she’d be able to find them already ground up into a fine powder in Haiti if she played her cards right. And she usually did play her cards right. It was a gift.
She needed the hooker first, though, and Seraphim did not fancy traipsing about through a landfill at this ungodly hour of the night. Not to mention that her shoes were new.
Witchy,
as she liked to say. Adorable little heels, purple-and-black spectator-style, she just loved them. She’d found them in the Pyramid Collection catalog, and she couldn’t imagine what they would look like and of course smell like when she got back.
She briefly considered riding her broom, but that would be awfully obvious, and it wasn’t a two-seater. She’d need a sidecar. If she reanimated the corpse before rubbing it down with the secondary potion, she could maybe get it back to her lair, but zombies hated flying and were no good at it. Puked-up entrails from motion sickness were not Seraphim’s idea of a good time, either, especially since they were usually crawling with things she’d rather not consider.
And, Seraphim didn’t want a zombie. She wanted something else. The girl’s soul had to be hanging around, crying for vengeance, and it could be given just that. Seraphim knew her own soul would be eager under the same circumstances.
“Hades,” she called out, deciding to try again. He’d been gone for some time, but she fully expected an answer. In the old days, before his seventy-year vanishing trick, it wasn’t like him to just go away after sex like a normal man. He’d seemed to like hanging around for the afterglow or something. Maybe she should write her own gothic about Devil-shagging and give the dark bastard a heart. Wouldn’t that be funny? Better yet, she could make him fall in love with a mortal who didn’t have one. It was no less than he deserved. Even after their recent encounter, she was still mad at him for leaving her high and dry—not to mention gravid.
Seraphim sighed heavily. Oh, how she missed Aurora. The loss of a child? Awful. It was the same pain that her beloved Grace was now feeling, though Seraphim had the comfort of knowing Aurora was safe, that she was in a better place, and preparing for another turn on the Great Wheel. Grace had no such comfort and she never would, no matter what happened. Even if she discovered Michael’s ruse, it would be a kind of forever death for the child. Such was the magick he’d used. Rotten, misbegotten son of a whore! Oh, Seraphim would show Michael and Nadja, all right.
“Hades, I know you can hear me.”
When still she received no reply, Seraphim stomped her foot in a fine fit. Sparks shot from the heel of her shoe and ignited, bursting forth into true flames and then a figure. Leave it to Hades to make an entrance.
“Too much?” He’d appeared with tail, cape, and pitchfork. The little villain mustache was just overkill. Not to say it wasn’t sexy as all hell. It was.
Seraphim pinched her fingers together with a small space in between. “Maybe a bit.”
“You bellowed?”
“I certainly did not ‘bellow.’ I called because I need your help.”
“
Again,
woman? Don’t you know that’s why you’re the Baba Yaga? So that you can accomplish things on your own.”
“I am the Baba Yaga, yes. But I don’t fancy zombie juice all over my new broom or shoes.”
Hades shook his head. “You’re a difficult little baggage, just like your granddaughter.”
“What’s the common denominator there? Aside from the obvious.”
He eyed her. “Oh, no
way
are you blaming this on me.”
“I wasn’t trying to blame anyone. Grace is a lovely and talented witch. You should be so lucky if any part of her is because of you.”
Hades sighed. “Look, I’m kind of in the middle of something. What is it that you want?”
“A dead hooker.”
“You can’t get that by yourself? Wait—what are you going to do with a dead hooker?” Hades’ brow furrowed.
“I want the one Michael killed.”
“Honey, there’s about forty-two of those at least. I stopped counting a few years back.”
Seraphim clarified. “The most recent one, I think. She’s a redheaded virago. Her soul burns as brightly as her hair.”
“Oh,
that
dead hooker.” Hades looked thoughtful again, an expression that always brought a lump of dread to her stomach like a gallon of thick oatmeal. “What do I get out of it?”
“What haven’t you had already?”
Seraphim double-damned her tongue for running away with itself. This really wasn’t the best way to bargain with the Devil. She should have made him think that she had something he didn’t, something he’d have to have or suffer endless, eternal agonies. He’d always been a lot like a crow, lining his nest with shiny things, but as soon as he had them, they lost their glow and he was off in search of the next. Most people were like this, to her mind, but Hades in particular. Because he looked so damned good doing it, however, it was hard to deny him, with or without his deals, contracts, or fine print.
“Your heart.”
Seraphim’s mouth fell open like she was a largemouth bass with a hook in her cheek. It flopped around in a similar way. She couldn’t quite seem to flap it shut. It was like the tendon was severed and her jaw was surfing gravity, just like most other parts of her had been doing recently—at least, until she’d run into Hades again. She hadn’t been able to resist an urge to tighten certain things and lift others a little bit. Being a witch had to have some perks.
“I’m immortal and all that, but it would still hurt to have you take it out of my chest,” she announced. “What would you do with it, anyway? Keep it in a jar on your fireplace to show company?”
“You are ever the thickheaded lass, aren’t you? I just want you to say that you love me, Sera.
That
’s how I want your heart.”
Seraphim tried to haggle. “Are you sure you wouldn’t just rather pull it beating from my chest? I think I’d like that better.”
“Nope. That’s all you have left to give that I haven’t had.”
“I don’t think I can do it,” she said.
“You didn’t even try.” His cape deflated and his pitchfork disappeared. The tail still wandered about. She’d bet it would be creeping up her leg in a minute.
“Oh, but I did. See what a lost cause this is?” Seraphim shrugged as if she were a helpless child.
Hades crossed his arms. “I guess you better try some more.”
“Really, it just won’t work,” she said. “Besides, after I give that up, what would I have left to bargain with?”
What she’d really meant to say was: After she admitted she loved him,
then
what would she do? She’d be alone with her feelings. That love could be just as heavy a burden as hatred. Sometimes more so. If she didn’t admit it to herself, she didn’t have to acknowledge its existence.
“Think of Grace.”
“
You
think of Grace, you sulfuric troglodyte. She’s your granddaughter, too.”
“Why am I always the one giving, hmm? Always you’re asking for things. I saved your life, got you your dream job with kick-ass health benefits—as in, you’re freaking immortal—and this is the thanks I get? You should be dressing me in shiny armor and envisioning me on romance novel covers. But do you? No. Always the same surly attitude. A lot of women would give their right ovary to be in your shoes.” Hades looked like he was pouting but cast her a sly look from the corner of his eye. “Like Nadja.”
Seraphim knew he meant to get a rise out of her. She happily obliged. “Like bloody hell she will!” She flung her arm back and was going to slap such nonsense out of his head when Hades caught her hand. At the same time, he pinned her other hand behind her back.
“Now what?” she demanded.
“Now I have all of the advantages. I won’t let you go until you admit it.”
“I thought you had pressing business.”
“I thought you wanted that dead hooker.” Hades arched a brow with a smug, superior look on that handsome face.
“I’ll find another.”
“Not as good as this one. Her name is Jill, I think. Yes, Jill. She’s a spicy piece who will really give Michael a run for his money.”
“I don’t care.” But they both knew that was a lie.
Seraphim stomped on Hades’ foot, but he didn’t let go. She tried to bite him, but he just laughed.
“Come on, Seraphim, angel of my heart, just admit you love me. You do, you know.”
“No. I do not.”
“Why not? Do I smell? Am I ugly?” Hades made a show of checking his most delectable and devilish person. He knew very well that he didn’t smell, and he was hotter than sin. The damned man. No matter how immortal or devilish, he was still a man. A frustrating, irritating, sneaky man, but a sexy man. And she did love him.
If not for Hades, she wouldn’t have survived the camp. Neither would hundreds of others. He’d openly defied the Pantheon of Gods to protect her and the others. It had only been one camp, only a few souls in the face of the sea who’d suffered, but even a Crown Prince of Hell couldn’t stand in the face of the Nazi death machine.
At the time, she hadn’t understood why he couldn’t purge the evil from men’s hearts and take it out of the world. She’d been so naïve to think evil originated with the Devil instead of in the souls of men.
But he’d defied the laws of the universe with his direct intervention and had been willing to trade his very existence for her. She’d tripped over her own feet and fallen in love with him and he’d become the Devil himself, but Seraphim’s love for him was branded on her soul.
But there was no reason to tell him that. Nor was there any reason to tell him that every time she lay down with another man, even the most “cunning linguist” she ever met, she always saw his face. Hades, with his easy charm and chiseled features, was always the dark head dipping between her thighs. Nope, he was hard enough to deal with as it was.
“You get your grand confession,” she complained, “and I’ll be left with exactly what you left me before. Nothing.”
“I beg to differ. You’ll have a hooker.”
“I hate you,” she said.
His smile grew wider. “No, you don’t. You love me. Come on and say it.”
“That’s like inviting a vampire in. There’s no way I’m just going to say that I l—No, won’t work. Not going to happen. Now, let me go.”
“Seraphim—” he began.
“What? You have to let go sometime. I mean, you have important business, like Infernal Insurrection or some such silliness.”
“I love you.”
“You’re full of goat shit,” Seraphim replied.
“I’m hurt.”
He was still smiling but leaning in closer, as if he was going to kiss her. Seraphim tried to squirm away. “Then why are you still grinning like the town fool?”