Darkening Moon

by Gaja J. Kos

  Quickly rubbing away the pain as my fingers thawed, I stalked across the antechamber’s clay-smeared tiles and into the bar. Up ahead, high stools lined a black walnut counter that had seen better days. I picked a seat on the far side, then ordered a double espresso—the safest choice that would give me at least an approximation of my needed dose of caffeine without the risk of ordering black coffee from a place I hadn’t yet vetted.

  A steaming cup of muck was something I tried to avoid at all costs.

  The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall transmitted a live feed from the court, Selma’s slender figure already exchanging a few warm-up shots with her opponent. I thanked the bartender, then watched the kid’s footwork, making mental annotations here and there on what we could work on before the tournament in Ljubljana. Not that there was much in the way of errors, but sometimes it was the details that defined how the match would turn out.

  A gust of cold licked at my back every time the doors opened and more coaches, as well as a few players, flowed into the club. I said hello to a couple of them, but quickly returned my attention to the TV. Luckily, no one questioned a coach’s utter devotion to watching their athlete play, but the truth was, this was still a bit out of my comfort zone.

  The heavy gazes drilling holes into my back just further proved my point.

  Cleared of all charges by the police, but not by the masses. Wasn’t that just lovely. I sighed and drank another sip of my espresso.

  Surprisingly, it wasn’t bad at all. Strong and dark, just as I liked it. And a perfect companion to watch the game.

  I glanced sideways at the row of bar stools perfectly empty while the rest of the tables were packed, then snorted inwardly.

  More like my only companion.

  A bad rep was contagious. I’d anticipated as much, but experiencing this whole plague symptom firsthand still sucked.

  “Astrid is throwing a fit,” Laura, one of the most ball-busting coaches out there, gushed behind me. “I think she’s more concerned over him losing out on the opportunity to join FC Bayern’s ranks than his disappearance.”

  Prejudice or not, I whirled around and faced the tightly knit group of women occupying the woven chairs around a low club table. “Who’s missing?”

  The looks they shot me were far from pleasant, but in the end, Laura did answer. “Manfred Weber.”

  “The football player?” My eyebrows rose. “The rising star of vamp sports?”

  While weres had been quick to develop our professional sports after the War and establish prosperous careers within them, the rest hadn’t been quite as enthusiastic in the beginning. More and more individuals started putting themselves out there after the second successful Munich Games, but it was Manfred Weber who was the media’s darling—and, I had to admit, a good influence on the rest of his kind.

  “The one and only,” a willowy blonde I knew by sight but couldn’t recall the name pitched in. “He’s been gone for two weeks. At first they thought he ran off with some mistress or another when Astrid started pressuring him to sign the contract with Bayern, but none of his regulars had heard from him this entire time.”

  “ICRA took over the case.” Laura’s dark brown gaze touched mine, and there was nothing warm in it. Just cool, icy cunning.

  Unfortunately for her, she had nothing on Isa’s level of scary.

  “Maybe you could tell us more.” She smiled. “After all, with all the time you’ve spent around those agents, you must have gained an up-close and personal insight into how they work. Seen anyone new in the holding cells, Freundenberger?”

  Fighting the urge to shift and clasp my teeth around her neck, I flashed Laura a smile sweet enough to make a person sick. “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. But wasn’t your son merged at the hip with Linus before the bastard got picked up by ICRA for possessing illegal substances? Maybe the ex boy toy could pay him a visit if you’re so bloody damn interested.”

  I slid off my chair and padded across the floor, attracting more than a few glances from the surrounding tables. The anger that coursed through my veins made me realize just how fed up I was with everybody treating me like a pile of shit thanks to the actual pile of shit—Schultz.

  I braced my hands on the frosted glass tabletop and leaned over, pinning Laura with a hard stare. “My boss might have been dealing, but your kid was spending his nights with a dopehead. And the amount of drugs ICRA confiscated from Linus surpassed anything a single person could hope to consume alone.”

  An exaggeration, but not a lie. Because Linus had had a godsawful amount of Nill on him, meant to last him a good while.

  I straightened. “I suggest you stop flinging accusations before you can say with certainty your son is clean. After all, Nill is a killer, as I’m sure you’ve read in the media. And even someone who has a bitch for a mother doesn’t deserve that kind of fate.”

  Nothing but silence followed my footsteps as I walked out the door, through the antechamber, and straight into the brisk cold. I zipped up my fleece-lined windbreaker, hating myself for exploding like that, yet at the same time feeling glad I had.

  Contrary to Laura’s goading, I was telling the truth.

  Her son had been with Linus mere weeks before we hooked up at the Games’s opening ceremony. Linus didn’t strike me as the sharing type, but if the past six months had taught me anything, it was to never assume something based on blind faith. Far better to be a little paranoid than dead.

  Unfortunately, despite my intentions, my little speech had probably made me even more of an outcast than I already was. Whatever. As long as Laura and her ilk kept their distance, I’d be fine. It wasn’t like another scandal wouldn’t pop up eventually and ensnare their bloodthirsty minds.

  With one last, very long exhale, I retrieved my phone from my pocket and called Greta.

  “You’re fucking with me, right?” Her voice brushed against my ear. “Didn’t I just tell you that I’m not a miracle worker?”

  “Yeah, but maybe I am.” I told her about Manfred Weber. “Did you come across his name?”

  Greta cursed under her breath. “No. There must be more of these cases out there than I thought.”

  I rubbed my fingers against the bridge of my nose. The muffled pop-pop-pop of fast exchanges that vibrated in the background nearly matched the still heavy pounding of my heart.

  “This doesn’t look good, does it?”

  “For Voit?” Greta asked.

  “For everyone.” I kicked away a pebble, watching it roll across the uneven concrete and all the way to the dead, snow-touched grass lining the edge. “How come no one outside ICRA has heard about this? Why hasn’t there been a single missing person’s report out in the news? We’d still be in the dark about Weber if Laura wasn’t friends with his fiancée.”

  “You think Isa is keeping it a secret because shit is even worse than it seems?” There was a snarl to Greta’s tone I related to all too well.

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  And I knew just the person who could tell me what that shit was.

  I stood in the narrow street branching off the Viktualienmarkt in Munich’s old town. The hum of people was a lively presence at the back of my mind, the air a delicate blend of spices, exotic fruit, and baked goods that overpowered the more distant scent of traffic.

  All I saw, however, was the shop a little farther down the street with its old-world appeal and black-painted front, which I supposed was an homage to how people at large still perceived witchcraft.

  Magic had become a fundamental part of the world after the War, opening eyes of those who’d never believed in it and delighting the ones who had. But for the supernatural, as well as the sensitives who’d been aware of it from the start, the change represented something else entirely.

  Vesnins, Kolduny, Vedmaks—and the rare descendants of Baba Yaga—used to be the only ones who could actually wield the elemental magic. I had met a mere handful of the Kolduny, and even then only after they had stopped tryi
ng to conceal their existence. Now, however, the world was filled with practitioners of all sorts that not only hadn’t existed before, but didn’t hide from the wider community.

  The reality we lived in, where power freely rode the air, seemed to have unlocked abilities people from mixed bloodlines had always carried but could never exhibit. A great-grandparent from one of the original covens was all it took for those traits to bloom.

  It was only natural that magic became an almost mainstream occurrence. Sadly, I was still a downright rookie when it came to dealing with it. So when I pushed inside the antique-looking shop and took in all the herbs, amulets, and vials filled with potions that made my werewolf nose scrunch up, I was on high alert.

  Nothing jumped at me.

  But my caution didn’t lessen.

  A woman in her mid-forties stuck her head out from behind the beaded curtain separating the storefront from the back, thick brown curls framing her heart-shaped face. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Bathilda Böhm?”

  The woman emerged into the rectangle of space behind the counter, her tight black clothes showing off her hourglass figure and giving her an almost ethereal appearance. “I am.”

  “I heard that you might be able to help me with my problem.”

  She cocked her head to the side, dark eyes cautious, observant. “And what might that be?”

  “I need to get in contact with the Shadow World.”

  9

  For a moment that felt like an eternity, Bathilda said nothing. Then she approached the counter, fingers skimming over the enchanted stones piled up in a basket by the cashier.

  Playing coy, I suspected.

  “I am only a descendant of Baba Yaga. I have no link to the demonic land.”

  Definitely playing coy.

  I prowled closer, all the while keeping tabs on her movements, as well as the presence of energy embedded in the air.

  “Now, we both know that isn’t true. You have demonic blood in you.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “I see my cousin has been spreading tales.”

  “Melina told me about your heritage, yes,” I confirmed.

  It didn’t matter if she knew where the information had come from. Melina had told me that while her cousin might like to give off a scary vibe just to get some peace and quiet, she wasn’t really a threat. Or vengeful.

  Still, I had no desire to get on a witch’s bad side.

  “I need to find a demon, Bathilda. I wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t important.”

  Her narrowed eyes stayed on me, but she waved her hand towards the back room. “Not here.”

  I followed her past the ombre waterfall of violet beads and down a short corridor that would have been plain if it weren’t for the satchels of herbs dangling from the drywall ceiling. Bathilda opened a nondescript door to her right, the soft glow of candlelight spilling across the threshold, as well as the sense of something other.

  Fighting the discomfort, I trailed behind her, then nearly choked on the strong scent of incense burning in the corners.

  Purification spells.

  Well, that, more than anything, confirmed she knew her way around heavy-duty magic. Someone with only a faint trickle of power had no use to ward their sacred spaces to such extent.

  Common knowledge, even for a layman like me.

  “Please.” She motioned to the seamless, smooth stone floor where two pillows rested opposite one another.

  I sat down cross-legged on the burgundy one while Bathilda lowered herself onto the green. There was nothing visible on the ground between us, but I could sense an energy presence there—residual magic or a dormant one, I couldn’t tell.

  “How badly do you wish to find this demon?” she asked, draping her hands over her legs.

  “Badly.” I bit my lip. “He materialized in my office once, but I can’t afford to wait for him on the off chance he’ll do it again.”

  Bathilda heaved a breath. “Who is he?”

  “Afanasiy from Raya’s court.”

  That had her eyebrows flying up. “You want to speak with Afanasiy? The Blade of Raya?”

  The Blade of Raya? The moniker fitted the demon perfectly, but it still managed to send chills down my spine. Along with something heated that made me doubt my initial reaction had been tied purely to his sexual aura.

  I exhaled, focusing on the task at hand. “I do.”

  Bathilda rubbed her slender fingers along her jaw. “Raya’s court is one of the few who still uphold old traditions. Not the illegal, barbaric ones, mind you, but they haven’t exactly embraced the new times, either.”

  “I gathered as much,” I said dryly.

  After all, I was supposedly Voit’s liege in this land. I shook myself mentally to dispel the tight knot in my stomach. Fuck, I hoped he was all right.

  I looked up at the witch. “So, will you help me?”

  She stayed silent for long enough that the pause made me uneasy, but, in the end, inclined her head. “As I am only one quarter demon, I have no lair of my own, no direct connection to the Shadow World. But if you are willing, we can try a spell.”

  “What kind of spell?”

  My instincts were warning me to get the fuck away, but I shoved them in a tight, dark box, shut the lid, and locked it. I was here. I was doing this.

  “It will transport your psyche to the demon you seek while your body remains here.” Her dark gaze bore into mine. “The spell itself is a simple affair, but in the Shadow World, you will be vulnerable. I will shield your body to the best of my abilities. However, there is no protection I can offer you once you leave this plane and step onto theirs. The Shadow World follows a different set of rules, and my demonic powers are not sufficiently developed to weave them into a ward or amulet.”

  “Worst-case scenario?” I forced myself to ask.

  “A severed bond between body and mind.”

  I swallowed. Loudly. “Severed bond?”

  “The part of your essence that is your mind will be unable to reunite with your corporeal form and the soul that rests within it.” She gave me an apologetic look. “But the chances of that happening are slim.”

  Somehow, I had the feeling that her and my definition of slim didn’t align.

  “Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  A hiss escaped my lips as Bathilda’s dagger bit deep into my skin, the scent of my blood exploding through the air. I closed my eyes as she had instructed me to, calling the image of Afanasiy to my mind and holding it firmly in place. I focused on the details—on those striking eyes and prominent cheekbones, the spill of black hair across his powerful shoulders.

  The mental image of him overtook my senses, spreading through my flesh until I could sense his unique scent as vividly as if he were standing before me. Heat followed in the wake of the peculiar sensation, a layer of lightness seeping between my mind and the world around me. I felt my consciousness fall through a thick mist, my flesh now distant, but still connected.

  I clamped down on the nausea—nausea I couldn’t discern came from within my thoughts or my stomach—and willed the surroundings that had just begun to form around me to snap into place.

  It was a chamber. A wide, spacious chamber, well-lit despite the lack of windows. And by the far wall, the cool glint of knives flashing from his hands, was Afanasiy.

  My mouth went dry, only it had nothing to do with the unnerving state of having double sensory input—the Shadow World here, my own reality there. No, it was all thanks to the demon, his long hair braided down his back and his naked torso on display above loose, yet surprisingly tailored, pants that hugged his hips before flowing freely down his athletic legs.

  Good gods, the man was well-built.

  I’d caught a glimpse of those muscles back in my office, but even the form-fitting combat clothes had failed to do his physique justice. I swallowed heavily—in both worlds—and Afanasiy’s head snapped in my direction.

  “You.” Surprise swept across his face
, but quickly gave way to fury. He prowled over, the throwing knives still in his hands.

  My phantom body shuffled back until I hit the all too real wall. Well, fuck. It would have been nice to at least have the skill to walk through solid matter given that I wasn’t.

  No such luck.

  “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” He growled, scanning me from head to toe. “If there had been any other of my kin beside me, you would have been dead for infiltrating our court before you could even bat those long lashes.”

  I opened my mouth, then clamped it shut. Had he just complimented me in his own twisted way?

  Hating how a part of me perked up at the thought, I crossed my arms and arched an eyebrow. “I came here to help. But thank you for the warning.”

  Afanasiy still looked pissed as fuck, but accepted my words with a curt nod.

  “It’s about Voit,” I added before he could change his mind. “I think he is linked to the disappearances, and I think there’s something more going on than meets the eye. Did you learn anything from the agent I sent you to?”

  A smile teased the demon’s lips, touched by a hint of frustration I knew all too well. Apparently, Isa didn’t only grate my nerves. The thought was oddly comforting.

  “The woman is stubborn and well shielded,” he admitted as he minimized the distance between us, the heat of his body washing over my ethereal form.

  I tried not to stare.

  Emphasis on tried.

  “There have been at least seven other individuals taken. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t give up more.” His gaze briefly traveled to my half-parted lips. “My orders didn’t extend to torture.”

  A tension I hadn’t even known I carried relaxed at his words. While I was all for giving Isa a scare—or at least a temporary annoyance—I still didn’t want anything to happen to the Ice Queen of Fang. Something I most definitely did not take into consideration when I’d sent Afanasiy her way.