I pushed down my nausea. “I’m not going in there.”
“Yes you are.”
I curled my lip. “Over my dead body.”
He flashed me a cruel smile. “We can arrange that.”
The devil’s hand shot out and snatched my wrist. My skin crawled at his touch, and my stomach twisted in knots as I felt his presence wash over me. Evil was very much a physical sensation when it came to the devil.
A scream bubbled in the back of my throat, and terror had my heart jackknifing in my chest.
“Come, consort,” he said, approaching the staircase and yanking my arm.
“Let go of me,” I whimpered, tugging back on my arm.
As if he couldn’t help it, the devil closed his eyes and leaned in, breathing me in. “Your fear smells so damn good. I can practically taste it.” The devil’s eyes opened, a smile blossoming along his face. “I am going to enjoy devouring you piece by piece.”
Fuck. My. Life.
I spoke through my terror. “You really know how to charm a lady,” I managed to bite out.
He ran a hand down my hair, and I shuddered at the sensation. “Don’t worry, little bird, I’ll make certain you enjoy it as well.”
I made a small sound at the back of my throat, and his gaze flicked to my lips.
No. Oh please, no.
I swallowed and leaned back as he leaned in. His gaze crept back up to mine and he smiled at me again. “You make this too much fun.” He ran a hand down my arm, and I yanked against the wrist holding me. His grip tightened. “It’s only a matter of time until you’re mine, but how I hate waiting.”
My gaze moved between his eyes. He looked so human. It was such a stark contrast to the ungodly chill creeping over my skin.
“Come, consort,” he said, tugging my arm.
“No.”
“Hard way it is.” He yanked me forward.
I stumbled and tripped on the slick steps. The devil lunged to catch me, and I had a split second for the sight to strike me as funny—the devil was trying to accommodate me.
My head struck the sharp stone staircase, and I jerked awake.
I sat up in bed, my breathing labored. Just a dream. It was just a dream.
Then again, when in my life had a dream ever been just a dream?
Our first stop the next morning was the morgue. I stifled a yawn as I followed Grigori through the Politia’s offices, only barely managing to resist the scent of brewing coffee. I knew from experience that coffee and corpses didn’t mix well.
I rubbed my arms when we dipped below ground. Down here the air had a deep chill to it. It didn’t help that the smell of mildew and rot assaulted my nose.
Grigori opened the door to the morgue and Caleb and I filed in. I’d seen several bodies since the first time I stood in the morgue with Caleb, but I never got over the nausea that accompanied them. The decaying bodies, the scent of chemicals and death that filled the air—it overwhelmed my senses.
The pathologist greeted Grigori in Romanian, and Grigori gestured to us, presumably explaining who exactly we were. The pathologist’s eyes widened, lingering on me. And then he crossed himself.
I guess my reputation preceded me.
Next to me Caleb snickered, and I covertly flipped him off, which only made him chuckle louder.
“Let us go see the body,” the pathologist said, his accent thick. The three of us followed him across the room, where he’d already laid the body out on an examination table.
I breathed through my mouth as I approached the victim. She had been beautiful once—angelic. But in death even the most beautiful faces looked grotesque, and hers was no exception.
The pathologist drew down a paper sheet that had covered most of her body. He pointed to a deep knife wound across her neck and spoke to us in Romanian.
“This is one of three lethal injuries that killed the victim,” Grigori translated.
The pathologist pointed to a deeply bruised swath of skin just above the neck wound and spoke again. “Here’s the second,” Grigori translated, “the discoloration indicating where the noose was tightened around her throat.”
The pathologist pulled the paper sheet down further, revealing a third lethal injury. I grimaced when I saw the stab wound through the victim’s heart. In all the photos, her stained dress had obscured the wound itself, but now I could see the split skin.
Bile rose at the back of my throat. Don’t vomit on the victim. Don’t vomit on the victim.
The pathologist spoke, this time in English. “All happened at roughly the same time. All contributed to death.”
For the next twenty minutes the pathologist went over the details of the open wounds—both made by a dagger, both done in a single stroke, both made while the victim was still alive. Given the fact that both wounds happened simultaneously, that meant that two knives were used.
“So, unless the killer was extremely dexterous, …” I said.
Grigori finished the sentence for me. “We have more than one killer on our hands.”
As my eyes moved over the victim, a familiar smell wafted off of her. Ash. Beneath it was an even fainter smell of something floral. The body had been dead for too long and exposed to too many people to know for sure that this scent belonged to the killer. But it was enough to develop a theory.
Grigori’s phone chirped. He fished it out of his pocket and answered it, walking to the other side of the room to talk.
Caleb walked around the examination table and he whistled low. “It’s hard for me to believe that the victim wasn’t under duress,” he said, staring at the victim’s feet.
I came to his side and studied the feet. They’d been cleaned of blood and debris, and it was easy to now see just how severely they’d been sliced up.
I had to agree. People didn’t just willingly injure themselves this way. My eyes drifted back to our victim’s face.
Her feet were the only evidence of duress. There were no broken nails, no scratch marks or bruising that would indicate our victim fought back. It was as though she’d chosen to walk barefoot until her skin was raw. As though she’d agreed to be murdered.