Demon Master Read online

“If I ever say no to you, bury me,” I said.

  Her answer was a smile. She stretched alongside me, then pulled my shorts down in agonizing slowness. “I don’t . . .want. . .to hurt you.”

  I was instantly hard in her hand. “I don’t think that’s a risk. You may proceed, love.”

  “Good,” she murmured. She kissed across the muscles of my chest, then continued across my ribs, each touch of her lips causing heat to build in me like stoking a boiler. When her mouth found me, she circled my base with her fingers and closed her lips on me with a hot lick.

  I pulled at her shoulders, wanting to be inside her. She put her hands on my face, then pushed me back, gently but insistent. Her tongue was insistent, too, and I felt my control begin to waver with each gentle tugging motion of her exquisite mouth.

  Finally, she relented, straddling me in a smooth motion as she put every inch of me inside her, pushing down so there was no space between us.

  “Slowly,” she said, more for herself than me.

  Wally had long, superb legs, and she used all of them to rise and fall on me, moving forward each time to create friction that ran through us like a lightning strike.

  “Slower,” I said, then grinned. We’ve had each other a hundred times, but it was always good. Because of my injuries and her delicacy, this time was even better.

  “No,” she said, closing her green eyes as she began to move with urgency. “Fast.”

  We caught a rhythm; an unspoken beat that led us both along until I felt my control begin to slip. She was too warm, too slick, and too perfect to ignore. I came apart as her own climax began, sweat appearing on our skin like a mist as she leaned forward to kiss me once, then twice, and then she lay against me as her climax finished in a series of ripples that made her laugh with abandon.

  She kissed my cheek, whispering. “You’re almost healed. Almost.”

  14

  Florida: Ring

  “What am I looking at?” Morning was unkind to me at first as my mind and body began to limber up after an extended sleep. Wally had been a lithe companion, keeping me still and restful for ten hours. I knew that soon I would feel renewed, but right now I need caffeine. Risa and Wally sat on the bed, coffees in hand. Mine was untouched as I struggled to a sitting position. I was tense and wanted to be in motion, but Risa put an envelope in my lap. I was immediately curious. It was airmail. International. And it was addressed to all three of us, an unheard-of occurrence. There was no return address, but the stamp and postmark were Cyrillic.

  “This is Russian?” I asked Risa.

  “No. Polish. The postmark is from a highly unusual place, but when you read the letter, you’ll understand.”

  I opened the heavy paper envelope and took out a meticulously folded set of pages. The heft was significant, hinting at a mannerly respect for the fading art of penmanship. There was wealth in weight, too, and a feel of vellum. I knew the words would be as carefully crafted. I was not wrong.

  Dear Hring, Risa, and Waleska,

  I apologize for the presumption that this letter represents, but I wish to begin a dialogue concerning matters of some delicacy with which your assistance will be invaluable. In the spirit of honesty, let me dispense with any possibility that the information I possess shall ever be shared with anyone outside my home. You may be assured, upon my honor, that all members of my household practice the utmost in discretion. The facts of this letter will not be known to the rabble that cannot—and will not—understand the sensitive nature of your chosen occupation. You have my word, and should you consider rendering me assistance, you shall have far more.

  I am a steward of sorts. I reside in an area that you would consider both remote and primal, but one that is beautiful, nonetheless. My house is surrounded by a crescent of green forest that has been undisturbed since the glaciers left the continent we call Europe. I am from no country and call no nation my own, but rather belong to two places: the forest and the subterranean spaces below.

  Some time ago, my family began an undertaking that was anathema to the time and social class from which we hailed. You must understand that feudal Europe was not bereft of good leadership but that history has a penchant for remembering the bad. I prefer to believe that our attempts to preserve and protect certain elements of this place reflect the very best of humanity. My detractors have branded me vainglorious and foolish. I leave your judgments of my actions and work to you, alone.

  I like to think that I am more than a mere herdsman, and over the years I have nurtured my passion as a craftsman who works in stone. Or, to be more precise, an artisan of jewelry. I again defer to your taste and cultural leanings to render decision upon my skills. I sincerely hope that, in my work, you will see the passion and relationship I have labored to build with each bauble. I have amassed a considerable collection from my hobby, nearing a count of 300 pieces at this time. I work quickly, and, as I hope you will find, have a superior network of suppliers from which to choose my materials.

  And now, to the point. Please forgive my digression, but I cannot ask so grave a question without proper context in order to impart the scope of the task.

  The 300 pieces of my life’s work are, at this time, missing. They were stolen in a single act of criminal brazenness that riddles me with anger and doubt. I do not need remuneration for these objects—of that I have no pressing desire. My interest lies elsewhere. I am, however, emotionally bereft after this act of betrayal because the thief is, in fact, my daughter.

  And I believe that Hring and Elizabeth have already met.

  Should you deign to hear my proposal in full, I will be most thankful. It is, of course, centered on tracking these objects for the purpose of familial unity rather than a punitive action against Elizabeth. Please take your time to consider the matter, and contact me for a video conference at your soonest convenience. I have limited electrical power here but am available for brief periods, and I offer the full capabilities of my sporadic modern communications to you at any time.

  I remain hopefully yours,

  Baron Cazimir Byk

  I dropped the pages and looked into Risa and Wally’s faces. Naked fury simmered under the surface of both, and more than a little fear.

  “This Elizabeth has been a busy girl,” I said. Here was a connection to our problem—my tormentor—but the questions the letter raised were potentially deadly. To respond to the Baron, if that story was real, would reveal and confirm the contents of the letter.

  We would also be discarding a decade of anonymity. Risa took up the letter and reread it, looking for additional clues. Wally leaned in and sighed. “Before we contact him, let us agree on what we share and what we ask. And we must contact him. He has already shown part of his hand. He has sources. Very good ones. We must contact him today, yes?”

  I knew she was right. Risa knew she was right. Our silence was our blessing. Wally took an envelope from her purse and flattened it on her thigh, ready to write. “So, what do we ask him first?”

  15

  Florida: Ring

  At some nameless point in the afternoon, my body slyly announced my healing was complete. I could inhale without pain. After two solid meals and some time on the dock, I realized that I was merely delaying our conversation with the good Baron. I woke Wally, who was dozing in the chaise lounge, and we walked inside to gather Risa, who had thoughtfully set the table with her laptop, a speaker link, and chairs crowded in unity.

  Risa was pouring wine. I motioned for two more, and we settled at the table in a breathless crush. Risa was in front of the screen; Wally and I flanked her. The camera on the top of the screen was a small, gleaming eye, devoid of color. I couldn’t look away. My hand reached for Risa’s leg even as I my fingers twined with Wally’s long hand on the chair back. We were ready, and I knew that we were also overwhelmingly curious. Risa tapped the touch screen and placed a request for a video chat. The picture-in-picture was a blue square, and then with a blink the Baron was there.

  He was dr
essed in a white linen shirt, his hands flat on a fine-grained wooden table. His eyes were dark but friendly, his short graying hair modestly combed in the manner of a businessman. His nose was long, and he had a mobile mouth with a hint of smile.

  His workspace was lit by a single lamp, and a small vise rested to his left, with a silver ring perched birdlike in the fine jaws. Beyond the lamp’s casting, the room stretched into darkness. Hints of a large space bulged from the recesses behind him. A grandfather clock uttered a single soft bong and fell silent. After seconds of mutual observation, he spoke.

  “Most importantly, thank you for accepting my invitation to speak. I am Cazimir, and I would offer you, first, the opportunity to ask me what questions you will. I shall freely answer anything you might wish, but let me first assure you of one simple fact: I am most certainly not immortal. If anything, I am painfully aware that my time is limited. How I express this awareness is something I hope you will allow me to share.” He folded his hands in a gesture of patience.

  Nodding slightly, Risa answered him. “If it’s not too rude, may we ask a series of questions?” It seemed reasonable that we wanted to learn as much as possible in the most direct method. Risa thought of logistics in her sleep. I usually just snored. Then again, so did Wally, albeit in a much more beautiful manner. When the Baron smiled and said, “That is quite agreeable,” we were off to the races.

  “How did you find us, and what is the potential reward for assisting you? And, just where are you? Right now, that is?” Risa asked.

  The Baron twitched at his cuff and got comfortable in his chair, the wood creaking in mellow protest as he leaned back. “May I share some history first, and then expand upon it as you see fit?” We gave our assent, and he paused, thinking.

  The Baron, a man of whom we knew nothing, then began to tell a story that spanned millennia. History, as he told it, began in a place that was remote and ancient. The Baron spoke of giants.

  16

  Video Chat with Cazimir

  The Baron smiled and began to speak. “I built my house among looming oaks. Not any ordinary trees, these were behemoths. For the sake of brevity, I will spare you the many names and call this place the Bialowicza or, simply, the forest. Between Belarus and Poland, the great European wood thrives, protected and nurtured after brief periods of threat.”

  “And you’re there now?” I asked.

  “I am. It’s secluded, to say the least. I can work here, among the trees and animals. My family has been here for centuries. There have been people here since the beginning of time. Old people, then Roman, then cavaliers, then modern armies. Now, there is only me. And my lodge,” he said.

  “I think—don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I’ve seen your lodge. In a dream,” I said.

  The Baron didn’t even twitch. “I’m not surprised. As I said, this is an old place, and dreams have a way of channeling memories.”

  “What are those giant horns behind you?” Risa asked. On a rafter hung horns from an animal that must have been huge. They looked like steer horn, but ten feet long,easily.

  The Baron looked over his shoulder. “An Aurochs. The king of the forest. The Romans hunted them into oblivion, and then a prince tried to save them. There are a few left, but that is a secret not told outside the forest.”

  “I won’t tell a soul,” I said, and I meant it.

  “My ancestors built this lodge, but there was no hunting. This Baron, my namesake, was the first ranger, a man who knew the value of the aurochs and the oaks and the river surrounding his secret lands. Our family’s existence was simple but rewarding, and education about our property was a premium concern. So, we turned our curiosity to the land under, not just around, our holdings, and began to dig where others had never gone, in natural fissures, bluffs, and caves. What we found, you will soon hold in your hands,” the Baron said, smiling slightly.

  There was a harsh knock at the door, jarring us from our receptive mood.

  “I’ll get it.” Wally uncoiled from her chair and went to the front door, disappearing outside for a brief moment. The Baron watched from the screen, smiling.

  “Delivery. From the Baron? How did you do that—magic?” Wally’s tone was suspicious.

  “Not magic. Federal Express.” The Baron, a man we would now call Cazimir, laughed across the miles as we fell to the package, our curiosity burning. Wally pried a small rosewood box from the fat envelope.

  “The box slides out, right to left,” Cazimir offered helpfully, as the wood was polished to be seamless. Inside was a wonder.

  A necklace dangled from Wally’s hand, eliciting a collective noise of appreciation from the three of us. This was art. A single square of silver was chased with copper in the form of a stallion in profile, one bead of carnelian marking the eye of the proud animal. A chain of small silver links attached cleverly to a fore and rear hoof that touched the border of the two-inch shape. The horse seemed to pulse with life in the metal. If ever there was a debate about what Cazimir’s primary pursuit should be, the piece ended it with finality.

  “You are gifted beyond words. I cannot imagine what it feels like to have things like this stolen from you.” Risa’s voice was reverent.

  “You are too kind. Yes, the collection is valuable, but there is another, larger concern at hand regarding my baubles. It is my reason for contacting you one I found out about your particular abilities.” The Baron’s emphasis was light but definite.

  “How did you find us, if we may ask?” Risa asked.

  “To put your minds at rest, it was not an easy task. I began with a simple question: Who finds things that do not want to be found? The answer lay in the nature of the lost objects. Since Elizabeth is immortal, I needed a very specific type of finder. Someone, or some people, as it turned out, who could operate comfortably in a world where the threats were outside the scope of normal humanity. To that end, I employed some of the same tactics that you use and was led by the trail of disregard for humanity. Crime brought me, through my proxy agent, to you, although, in truth, the search took more than a year. The woman you dispatched, Senya?” His eyes shifted directly to me. “My agent saw you leave with her but did not see . . . the unpleasantness of her demise, let us say, but did report motes of light drifting away on the salt air. You were followed, discreetly, and then further observations and inquiries were made, leading me to the three of you. And here we are.”

  “Cazimir, forgive me, but you don’t exist. We searched online, books, newspapers, every source we have access to. Your name is a dead end. The lodge you live in is built of air. Your family name is a ghost. Can you explain?” I was as respectful as I could be, but the answer we got to this question would determine a great deal of how our interaction would proceed.

  “My family values discretion. Did you, perhaps, find mention of another protector of the aurochs, ambitious Germans who sought to reverse their plight?” We had, and he knew it.

  He continued, “That scheme took place in the 1920s, but under Catherine of Poland three centuries earlier, a very minor relative of hers built an extravagant hunting lodge in the Bialowieza. King Wladislawa IV seized that lodge and began to actively manage the forest beyond simple hunting laws, imagining himself as the true guardian of the natural world. What he did not know is that opposite his lodge, my family, with funds Catherine had granted a century earlier, built what would become my home and the home of the aurochs, which miraculously survived until the time they came under the care of my people.”

  “Your agent?” Risa seized on that thread first, Wally nodding in accord. We had all picked up on the fact that he had a contact here that was skilled enough to observe us, unseen.

  He had a spy.

  “Yes. My apology for the intrusion, but, as you will see, it was quite necessary. I have revealed nothing of your existence whatsoever, and my observer has reported to my complete satisfaction.” Cazimir remained unperturbed that we asked about this, of all details, first.

  “Well
. . .” Wally said, drawing out the word, voicing so many of our concerns. “May I ask that, if your family has no need of money, why do you need the collection returned? Is there a value that we are unaware of?”

  Cazimir’s face was shadowed, his smile waning. The lamp at his desk flickered, and he glanced over with a sigh of resignation. “We will lose our connection in a moment. I’ll be brief. I do not need the items for monetary reasons. In fact, I care not at all for them. I want Elizabeth back, or at least something of her. My family is nearly gone. There is Elizabeth, and there is me. She is immortal. My time is limited. I have staff here, a modest number, but my promise to this land has, with her departure, rendered me a prisoner here. While I am bound to this place, Elizabeth is not. She is gone, and I remain. I know that you are more than human now, and that is requisite for this task. Were you not augmented by your lifestyle, you would be dead. Find the baubles, and you will find Elizabeth. That which you recover is yours to keep. Remember, she does not wish to be known, so you must pursue her with great care. My instincts reveal that you will both choose to assist me and succeed. I will speak to you two days hence. Good night.”

  The screen blinked once, and the connection was cut. The Baron, a man trapped in a castle of wood, had asked us not to retrieve jewelry, but something—someone—more important to him than a king’s fortune.

  And I wanted her dead.

  17

  Florida: Petra

  Viktor leaned back in anticipation, the buffed leather of the custom chaise squeaking under his muscular frame. Unlike many billionaires, his vanity demanded that he keep his body in enviable condition. To be slovenly was, in his opinion, a sin of the commoner, and one that he would not allow himself to commit. Defiling young women was another issue entirely. His 200-foot yacht was ripe with the most beautiful women culled from the shoreline during an orgiastic day of purchasing cars in Miami. The men and women who worked for him knew to bring only the best to the deck of Inquisitor. From that pool of beauty, he had selected the flawless girl before him. Viktor glibly commented on the beauty of her unusual blood-colored earrings, the dark jewels held in antique silver. It was a typical opening foray intended to begin his brutish seduction of the girl.