How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days by Saranna DeWylde Page B

the outcome. She knew now that she’d been foolish to think even a Crown Prince of Hell could stand between Michael and something he wanted.
    So, Sasha had lied? Grace didn’t know why and wasn’t sure it mattered. Nikoli was real. She’d seen him. More memories came flooding back: late nights with Nikoli in her arms, his sweet baby scent, those quiet times with his mouth on her breast taking nourishment from her body. Such peace she’d felt in those moments. And now Michael was using the boy as a weapon.
    She suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her chest was tight and she felt her face spasm with sorrow. She hated that people were so ugly when they cried. No one ever did the couple-of-lone-wolf-teardrops-meandering-elegantly-down-the- alabaster-cheek thing that you saw in the movies; that was such bullshit. If sorrow was real, it meant full-on twisted features, mascara racooning around the peepers to stream in ugly, toxic-looking stains down red cheeks. That was why men hated to see women cry, she figured—because, damn, it made them ugly.
    Grace made a couple of swipes at her face with the back of her hand, took a shaky breath, and turned down an alley. Sasha and Petru were there, trying to shove a plastic-wrapped something into a Dumpster.
    Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t plastic wrap but a clear garbage bag. A woman’s face was staring out from it, peeking up behind Petru’s shoulder. The eyes were wide and empty, dead. The mouth was open. And if Petru and Sasha were disposing of the corpse, it was Michael who’d murdered her.
    A cold feeling slid over Grace like a shroud. This was how she was going to end up: a nameless face wrapped in a garbage bag, dropped in a Dumpster like trash. Like she’d never had breath, never had a voice, never had people to love her. Grace knew what lay at the end of Michael’s scheming. Sasha was right about that, at least.
    No. Things weren’t going to happen that way. She’d get Nikoli away. Somehow.
    “Grace,” Petru huffed in acknowledgment, still holding the body.
    “Why did you lie to me, Sasha? I saw Nikoli,” Grace growled, getting straight to the point.
    Sasha’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I’ve never lied to you, Grace. Never. Not when you were first sitting in that bar making calf-eyes at Grigorovich, and not now.”
    “Then how did I see my son? How did he hold his arms out to me, his mother, if he’s not real?”
    Sasha let go of his burden. He’d been holding the dead woman’s legs so Petru could do some maneuvering, but they weren’t making much headway. “Grace, do you remember his birth? You said I was there. You said I took Nikoli from your arms.”
    “It’s vague but it’s there. The doctor sedated me.”
    Sasha shook his head. “Did he sedate me, too? Why don’t I remember it? And, why would I lie to you, Grace? Don’t you remember your first date with Michael? When I took you home, do you remember what I said?”
    “You told me I was getting in deep water. Over my head.”
    “Was that a lie?”
    Grace grabbed the lapels of his Dior trench, curling her fists around the fabric. “No. So, why are you lying to me about Nikoli?”
    “I’m not!” Sasha’s large hands engulfed her wrists, and he extracted himself from her grasp. “Why don’t you just summon your grandmother and have done? She could end this nonsense right now. Why do you engage Grigorovich in these games? Do you still love him? Is that possible? Are you—?”
    “No!” She fought off nausea. “But my grandmother is dead. Your quaint little bits of folklore are nothing. Nothing! I can call my granny all night long, but she’s not going to miraculously get her ass here because, as I mentioned before, she’s fucking dead .”
    “Grace, no. Shh.” Petru held fingers to his lips, looking terrified. “Granddaughter or no, she’s the Baba Yaga.”
    “Petru!” She spun on her heel, ready to give the moronic mobster a full dose of verbal venom. Unfortunately, the dumb