How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days by Saranna DeWylde Read Free Book Online

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