Poe (38 page)

“You still don’t understand…”

I pretend I don’t hear him.

“She’s just a pawn, collateral to force you into a trade. He wants
you
, Dimitri—he wants you to invite him in. Then he’ll possess you and the powers of the ring
through
you. He’ll be able to conjure any demon or angel, make them do whatever he wants.”

I storm through the basement door and into the remains of the kitchen. Christ, it’s nearly as dark upstairs as it was in the basement. How long was I in the well? “Then we need to save her so I won’t be tempted.” I click on the Maglite.

“Fuck, Dimitri, it’s not that easy. He’s killed five people—”

“Five?”

“Ernest. After you left.”

I slam my fist against the wall of the foyer, cracking the plaster. “It is easy. We kill
him
.”

“He only needs one more by the end of the night and then you won’t be able to touch him. It’s a win for him either way. You have no
idea
how evil—”

“I think I do.” I stumble out the front steps.

Nachiel pulls the sleeve on my jacket. “Look, if it was your father, maybe—”

God, I’m so sick of this shit. I pull out my gun and point it at his chest. “
Try
. You can try.”

Nachiel puts up his hands. “Whoa. Take it easy. Think carefully, Dimitri, and you’ll see that I’m right.”

“Maybe I don’t care if you are.”

Nachiel strangely doesn’t seem fazed; he doesn’t even blink as he says, “I can’t let you do this. There’s more than just Lisa’s life at stake.”

He takes a cautious step forward, coolly appraising me. Slowly he reaches out a hand, as if he’s going to put it on the barrel. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

But it’s his casual dismissal of just how serious I am that causes a wave of pure unadulterated rage to wash over and through me. My hands—seemingly of their own accord, because there’s no thought behind what they do next, like they’ve gone rogue, like they’re a separate consciousness—it’s my hands that make the call to pull the trigger. I
do
shoot him.

The only thing more shocking than the loud crack that almost shatters my eardrums is that the bullet seems to have no effect whatsoever. Nachiel doesn’t flinch.

The reality of what I’ve done sinks in. “Holy shit, holy
shit
,” I say, rushing to his side. “I didn’t mean…”

Nachiel sighs a deep, world-weary sigh and unzips his jacket. I see a small bloom of blood starting to stain his T-shirt, which he pulls up, revealing a ragged, oozing hole. Casually he digs into his chest with a finger, winces slightly, and then pulls out the slug. Blood now spurts with serious intent.

“Christ, I just
got
this body,” he mutters irritably, like I only spilled coffee on his shirt. “You have no idea how hard it is to come across one legit.”

I frantically look around for something to press against the wound—nothing but snow in all directions—and then I realize
I
must be delirious. Because where the bullet hole was just a few seconds ago, there’s now a healed, smooth stretch of brown flesh. Only the blood on his hands and T-shirt remains. They’re still wet.

“How?” I gasp.

Nachiel pulls his shirt back down, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans. “When an immortal spirit possesses a body, the body can’t die until it leaves. In about three seconds that’s going to lead you to a depressing realization.”

A realization? Then it does hit me. Sorath has possessed Daniel’s body. Which means his body is immortal. Which means my gun is just a useless toy, a prop.

“Even if I wanted to help,” adds Nachiel more softly, “I wouldn’t know where he’s taken her. I’m sorry, Dimitri. We have to go.”

I don’t doubt him, not now. Which leaves me only one remaining card in my very small playbook.

“
Khioniya Gueseva!
” I scream at the top of my lungs. The words echo through the barren woods, startling an owl into flight. I let my arms drop to my side, raise my face to the clouds above like I’m calling the sky itself to fall on me. “I said it! I said your name!
Khioniya Gueseva!
”

Nachiel closes his eyes. “We are
so
fucked.”

There’s a crack like thunder, and a powerful wind blows through the trees, causing them to sway and scattering snowflakes that swirl into a cloud that hovers above us before it drops. The air before me shimmers slightly, the way hot air over asphalt shimmers in the summer, and gradually I see a shadow behind it, wavy like something caught beneath ice. Another loud crack and then a foot, delicate and deathly blue, steps through the shimmering air, followed by a leg, which reaches unsteadily for the ground, as if it’s accustomed to a different gravity, the gravity of water. As soon as the foot reaches the snow, the rest of Poe—Khioniya—falls through, along with a wave of water. She collapses onto the frozen earth in a fetal position.

It’s like witnessing some kind of ethereal birth.

Crouching on the ground she looks up at the sky, at the moon glowing through the clouds—her long blond hair hangs in wet clumps around her face. “I forgot,” she whispers in a Russian accent. “I forgot the moon. How do you forget something like that? The moon?”

Now
what do I do?

Nachiel crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t even look at me. This is your brilliant idea.”

But I remember his instruction to keep the orders simple. “Stand,” I say. Seems relatively safe.

As if her body has no choice but to obey, she jerks to her feet, and for a moment she wobbles, holding her arms out for balance. She puts one hand to her face and touches her own cheek. “I’m cold.” A burst of dark laughter. “I did not think I would ever feel cold again. I have had so many years of heat. Burning, blistering heat. Here,” she says, reaching out her fingers to me. “Touch me. Do I feel so cold to you?”

I regard her warily. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Of course,” she says, observing me closely with glittering blue eyes that raise the hairs on the back of my neck. Her eyes flit to Nachiel, and she quickly tries to hide a look of disdain.

“You have good reason not to trust me. I am bound to the dark one. But you could change that.” She takes a soft step forward. “You could bind me to
you
. Or you could give me my freedom.” She looks wistfully at the snow. “Imagine that, free will. I would not be so careless with it again.”

At this Nachiel snorts. “Free will? So you can try to kill him again?”

“I do not try to kill him,” she says tersely. Then to me: “You ask
me
who I was. You say,
what the fuck does this all mean?
So I show you. And you see now, yes? You see.”

Nachiel takes a step toward her. “What were you trying to
show
Rasputin when you stabbed him?”

“Oh, that is different,” she says calmly. “I do try to kill
him
. Most definitely. I was angry person then.”

“That’s kind of an understatement,” I say.

“You would be angry too,” she replies hotly, “if you had been prostitute as girl no more than ten. I was not
born
bad person. No
one is. I have regrets,” she adds bitterly. “I have almost a hundred years of hell for regrets.”

If
that’s true then she might have a point, and for a fleeting moment I almost get a sense of her, Khioniya, as a person. Maybe she’s just a victim, another notch on Sorath’s belt of destroyed lives.

But she mistakes my silence for a no.

“
Men
.” She spits the word, like a curse.

Then again, maybe this isn’t the time to have empathy for my grandfather’s would-be killer. Which means it’s time to ask my question—the reason we are here after all, in this place, this moment.

“Where is Lisa?”

Poe backs away fearfully, shaking her head. “Nachiel is right. No matter what you do, he will kill her.”

Nachiel appears visibly shocked.

“He wants
you
, Dimitri,” she continues. “He wants your power. You do not know what he is planning—”

“
Tell
me,” I say, not a question—an order. “Tell me where Lisa is.” She glances nervously overhead as if someone—or something—is listening in. Then she takes a step closer to me and whispers quickly, “The garden. Where your father grew roses. Do not step on the…”

But suddenly the words are choked off, her mouth tries to form them but there’s no sound. And there’s no mistaking the genuine panic in her eyes as she tries frantically to speak, to no avail. Suddenly she makes writing motions with her hand, looking around for something to use, and I see a lone stick. I grab it and toss it to her.

“Quick, write it down.”

I step closer as she scratches furiously on the snow: “
Do not step on the numbers
.”

Suddenly she drops the stick, her face racked with pain, and she clutches her neck with her hands, as if someone or
something
is choking her.

“What’s happening, Nachiel, what’s happening?”

“I don’t—”

The air behind her seems to rip open then, there’s a slice of red flames, and behind it I see another form, a dense, looming shadow with demonic horns. An invisible force knocks Poe hard to the ground and then starts to drag her by the legs backward, into the dagger of red light.

“Stay!” I command. But still she slides toward it, clawing desperately at the frozen earth, looking for something to hold on to.

I grab her frigid hands.

“They’re trying to take her back,” says Nachiel quickly.

She looks me directly in the eyes, and I get a brief flash—a glimpse of a little girl in a ragged dress, barefoot; she’s pushed against a brick wall by a soldier in a neatly pressed uniform, and he smiles lewdly at her before pressing a small brass coin into her dirty palm.

“Nachiel!”

“Dimitri, don’t be stupid. She tried to kill you, your grandfather—”

There’s a cacophony of growls, and a scaly arm reaches out of the flames, wraps a claw around Poe’s left foot, dragging her harder. I’m losing ground as my boots slide in the snow.

Should I let her go? A part of me—more than I would like to admit—agrees with him.

But then the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh wafts by, and I hear a high, inhuman clicking sound, something bestial and unnatural. Poe silently mouths one word: “
Please
.”

Well, this ring is supposed to let me command spirits, right? What did my father say when he exorcised Sorath? My mind scrambles for a few useful words—
Think, Dimitri
, think.

“Khioniya Gueseva, I release thee!”

A rumble from within the red light. Seems promising. “I
release thee
! I
release thee
!”

Instantly Poe is freed, and together we fall back into the icy snow. There’s a high, keening screech, which causes the nearby trees to
quiver, releasing flurries of snow. The red slice of light flashes brighter and then disappears.

“Damn,” says Nachiel. “How’d you swing that?”

“I have no idea,” I say, trying to catch my breath.

A gentle breeze ruffles the dead tufts of grass that push out through the snow.

Poe sits up, her lips trembling. “Can I ask favor?” she says quietly.

“I thought I just did you a big one.”

“Yes,” she says with a grim smile. “But I have one more. Let this be the end of Khioniya Kuzminichna Gueseva. She died in the well many years ago. She was not always a good person in life. And in death she was forced to do bad things. Evil things. Give me a new name.”

“I already have,” I say. “Poe.”

“Like the writer?” She thinks for a moment. “Yes, I like that. Now, we must hurry. I can sense where Sorath is, but when he learns you have broken my bond with him…”

She doesn’t have to finish her sentence. We all know what he’ll do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE GREENHOUSE

W
e don’t run, we fly through the snowy wood. Nachiel ploughs through the brush, Poe’s bare feet barely touch the ground—and when they do, they leave no trace—but what’s surprising is how
strong
I feel. My heart pounds, but in a rhythmic, controlled way. Sweat trickles down my back, my wet clothes are plastered to my body, but it’s a welcome chill, because my mind is icy, laser sharp. I
want
this fight—I’m ready.

And then we reach the fragile, overgrown stone steps leading to the abandoned garden. Thorny bushes pull at my jeans, a few pierce my skin, but I don’t care; I’m beyond caring.

Poe scouts the ground; she can move faster than we can. She raises her hand and points to the far edge of the garden, where a lone and barren sycamore twists up and over the wall. She takes off for it like a shot. We race to join her. There’s a small narrow path through the crumbling wall.

“I still wouldn’t trust her,” says Nachiel quietly, before we get too close.

“I don’t know if I trust either of you.”

“Why does
that
not surprise me?” he mutters.

Poe pauses in front of two pairs of footprints—the smaller prints sometimes drag, as if the maker of them had been forced to keep moving against their will.