Nesting (Demonic Games Book 1) Read online

  A strange feeling settled into his bones, but he pushed it aside, settling into the familiar bustle and warmth of being in a kitchen. It was like a tether to the life he had left behind. His school, his friends, everything he had ever known felt like a world away, and the distance was becoming a physical ache. Logically, he knew that it was only homesickness. But it was a sensation he had never felt before. He had never really been away from home. The longer he was away from the boarding school, the more evident it became that he had spent most of his life on that single campus. And all of their lessons hadn’t prepared him for any of this. Cooking helped him not to think about it.

  Finding a tray, he gathered the plates, syrups, and fresh coffee, and set out to the spot on the map that Bunica Draciana had indicated. This dash through the maze was an irritatingly convoluted one, setting him up numerous flights of stairs. Passing through the last door, he was instantly engulfed by a blistering cold breeze. It was gentle, but strong enough to have brought a steady dusting of snow off the mountains that surrounded the castle. The small pinpricks of white scattered across the exposed stone floor and collected in the cracks.

  Mihail’s feet locked into place as he glanced around. The door he had just emerged from was set within the only real wall. The circular column was in the dead center of the massive circular platform. Colossal gargoyles lined the edge, looming over him even as they crouched, their outstretched wings holding up the ceiling. Between them, there was nothing to mark the edge of the floor. Just another sheer drop off. Everywhere he turned, there were only the snow-capped peaks of the mountains and lush valleys below. Not even the rooftops of the other castle wings disrupted the view. Mihail refused to move, certain that it had to be a trick. Surely, he would have seen this tower when he arrived.

  A fresh gust of wind pushed against his side, making his heart squeeze and his hands clutch the tray until the wound on his palm throbbed. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but it was Draciana’s voice that snapped him out of his daze. While he could force himself to move, he couldn’t venture away from the curving wall. As he walked, he discovered that the layout of the room hadn’t deterred his grandmother from using it. Tables, chairs, artwork, and musical instruments were statically placed within the space. Each dusted with snow but seemed impervious to the wind. The sight of a harpsichord made him smile. Playing the piano-like instrument could provide some semblance of normalcy. Although, he would prefer that they move it to a different room. How did they even get it up here to begin with? he thought, as a breakfast table came into view. And why would you leave something so valuable exposed to the elements?

  Draciana was already seated at a small glass top breakfast table, utterly undisturbed by the snow that speckled the table and clung to the long strands of her coat. Mihail felt it and shivered as he crept away from the protection of the wall to the free seat. It was only when he felt secure in his chair that he looked up and noticed the small picture frame his grandmother had in her hands.

  It took him half a heartbeat to recognize it as part of his collection. He had made sure to bring each framed dried flower display with him. They should still all be safely packed away in his suitcase by the door. He didn’t have time to recover from that surprise before she noticed his attention. She smiled and gestured to the circular wall behind him. Twisting around, he was mortified to see his entire collection hanging in perfectly formed rows, slightly rattling as the wind nuzzled them.

  Logically, he knew that there was no reason for him to be angry. She was trying to do something nice. That wasn’t enough to quell the flash of rage ripping through him. No one touched his collections. Not the flowers and certainly not the buttons. They were one of the few things on this planet that were his and his alone. He snatched the frame from her fingers.

  “Mihail?” she asked sweetly.

  Guilt mixed with his indignation until he felt sick. Locking his gaze on the table top, he pushed the frame back across the table towards her. Speaking sweetly, she accepted the peace offering. He was grateful that he didn’t understand her because the task of translating gave him a slight distraction. It helped him deal with the fact that she was manhandling his property. The translation came up on the screen and he straightened, ‘Your grandfather collected flowers, too’.

  The promise of learning something about his grandfather turned his annoyance into excitement. Between bites of their breakfast and sips of steaming coffee, they lurched through a conversation. He learned more about his family in those passing hours than in the near eighteen years of his existence.

  His grandfather had possessed a love for botany that had apparently rivaled Mihail’s own. Decades had passed since his disappearance, but Bunica Draciana still hadn’t been able to bring herself to part with his collection of plant life. It was so extensive that it filled one of the spare rooms. Her smile was bittersweet as she told him stories of his misguided attempts to grow a garden within the castle walls. The conversation turned to Draciana’s love for classical music, and Mihail had eagerly offered to play for her. Something she had excitedly agreed to.

  Years of harpsichord lessons had left him with little need for music sheets, and he shifted from one song to the next, only pausing when his fingers began to cramp. Enraptured by the music, he had forgotten almost everything about where he was beyond the cold. His mistake was soon realized as he stretched out his fingers and glanced around. After a spike of fear, he suddenly understood what was wrong. It was approaching midday. The sun was high, drenching the meadows and hills beyond radiant light and allowing their lush colors to be seen. This high up, there was no way the walls were blocking the light, but the castle itself was still in a state of twilight.

  Studying the phenomena, he slid off of the bench seat and inched carefully towards the edge. He kept behind one of the gargoyles, glanced over the edge and up towards the sky. There wasn’t a single cloud. A hand fell on his shoulder, making him lurch and whirl around. His feet smacked against the coil of a stone tail and made him stumble. Mihail threw himself to the side and didn’t stop moving until he was back at the harpsichord. Panting, he looked back to see Draciana walking towards him. With a slight smile, she tipped her head, silently beckoning him to follow her.

  Chapter 6

  Dust covered every surface in the overly stacked storage room. Mihail’s every movement stirred it up until it hung in the air like fog. It wasn’t enough to deter him as he explored the massive array of items around him. Bunica Draciana hadn’t lied. Grandfather’s collection was extensive. Unlike Mihail, his grandfather had forgone frames to keep his samples organized in leather bound books. The dried flowers and leaves filled the pages, each one neatly labeled with their Latin names and the location of their collection. It was the first time he had ever seen his grandfather’s handwriting. There was something about seeing the swirls of ink on the aged paper that made the man real. Not just a vague concept of a man who shared his name. But someone of flesh and blood.

  At first, Mihail had been hesitant to go into another storage room after yesterday’s encounters. But the collection, coupled with Bunica Draciana’s encouragement, had lured him in. Even so, he hadn’t let her leave until he was sure there was nothing the ghosts could hold against him. He had done the washing up and ensured that she hadn’t needed anything. He had permission to be there and everything he said was kind and courteous. Time had passed swiftly while he was engrossed in the books, and it was only the sudden beep of his phone’s battery warning that made him look up.

  Probably should get back to moving that stuff in the kitchen, he reluctantly acknowledged. Not to mention that they had yet to have the possibly awkward conversation about what help she needed most around this place. Not entirely sure he could find his way back here, he piled up some of the books to take back to his room and got to his feet. Pins and needles flushed down his numb legs, making him stagger slightly. He dusted himself off, each brush sending more dust careening into the air. His mouth twisted in disgu
st.

  The music coming from his phone wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of boxes suddenly shifting over stone. Mihail snapped his head up. Everything was still. Crouching low, he picked up the pile of the books and collected his phone. He didn’t bother to turn it off. If the ghosts had decided that he shouldn’t be here, he was going to get out as quickly as possible. The door was on the far side of the room and only came into view when he rounded a few standalone closets. It was opened wide, offering a glimpse of the hallway, and he rushed towards it. He only got a few steps before the sliding sound came again. A heavy wooden trunk swept across the room to block his path. Leaping back, he tightened his grip on the books, the edges digging into the cut on his hand. Hot blood seeped into his bandage, but he ignored it. With quick glances, he searched for another exit. There was nothing.

  With a resounding crack, the trunk hurtled towards him. Mihail ducked. It sailed over his head, close enough that the edges scraped across the top of his scalp, and smashed against the cabinet behind him. Landing hard atop the books, he covered his head and tried to ignore the painful twinge that snapped across his ribs. The contents of the trunk rained down upon him like hail. Sheets of paper and scattered clothes. He didn’t dare move until long after the last blow. Caught between the books and his chest, his phone’s rendition of Beethoven became a muffled whisper. It was still the only sound in the room. Slowly, he lifted his hand and pulled aside the jacket that had landed upon him. Loose papers slipped off of him as he began to move. The childish picture, each one made with crayons or paints, caught his attention. The hundreds of pages had one singular theme. A woman in blue with small red eyes. Like the one on the Russian nesting doll.

  Mihail gathered the pages into a loose stack and began to flip through them. Ice water filled his stomach as he noticed his own name written in the corner. I drew these? His movements became erratic as he flipped through the sheets. Sitting back on his knees, Mihail grabbed another stack. It didn’t matter what he had drawn; the woman was always there. There was something familiar about her. Something that tickled on the edges of his awareness. Page after page, the same woman stared back at him, the sight so hypnotic that he almost missed that the signature had changed. Iuliana. Mom?

  His mother had drawn the blue woman, too.

  The sudden realization made his stomach plummet; he remembered the blue woman. She had been his imaginary friend. The one that he had always thought up when he was bored at night. She would try and coax him into exploring the castle while everyone else slept. The air ripped from his lungs as one memory burned through the rest. The stairs to the battlement had struck him as familiar when he was searching for Bunica. He had played on them with the woman in blue. She had brought him there numerous times, urging him to follow her up higher. Mom and I had the same imaginary friend? he thought. Or did we both grow up playing with the dead?

  A playful tune signaled an incoming Skype call. Mihail pushed himself up and scrambled for his phone, desperate to silence it before it could draw any unwanted attention. He smacked mindlessly at the buttons, heart lodged in his throat. When it was finally silent again, he sunk back onto his heels and heaved a few deep breaths. Only then did he look down at his phone screen. No one was there. All of the indicators said that the call had connected, but when he lifted the phone, it was his own face that was displayed. Barely able to draw in a decent breath, Mihail awkwardly got to his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to end the call, even as he was forced to see his fear mirrored back to him. Still clinging to the books like a shield, he got to his feet.

  The door stood open before him. Each muscle in his legs twitched with the urge to run, but the motion displayed on the phone caught his eye. He choked on his breath when he saw it just over his shoulder. A matted tangle of black hair. Changing the angle of the phone, he saw the face. Bloated and discolored with rot, the woman’s face had taken on a purplish-blue tinge. Her wide eyes oozed crimson blood in rancid streams. She smiled at him.

  A scream ripped from his throat as he burst forwarded and hurled himself through the door. Tripping over his own feet, his shoulder smacked against the opposite side of the hallway, the force knocking the air from his lungs. It transformed his scream into a high-pitched squeak, but he continued running. Without looking back, he bolted through the hallways, his already abused legs protesting. His lungs burned and his heart hammered. Running, tripping down stairs and pushing through ever narrowing hallways. Fear pulsed through him, hot and thick, burning from the inside out. None of it competed with the terror that claimed him when he heard Bunica Draciana’s scream.

  Tracking the sound took him down on a weaving path. Eventually, he found himself back in the upstairs hallways. While it looked like the ones that led to his room, the corridors kept bringing him to dead ends. His feet skidded over the carpet as he heard a broken creak sound. Sweat glistened over his forehead as he lifted his eyes to the sound. The silver gargoyles that clung to the ceiling began to move. They thrashed and snapped their jaws as they ripped themselves free of their foundations. As one glistening swarm, they crawled towards him, their claws crushing grooves into the ceiling. Fear held him frozen in place as securely as shackles. One lunged at him. All he could see was its fangs.

  With a wall-rattling boom, the gargoyle exploded, toppling back into the mass. Knocked from his shock, he was suddenly in control of his limbs again. Mihail threw himself against the wall, cowering into it as his ears rang. Another crack and the next gargoyle shattered. He looked up from under his arm to see his grandmother at the mouth of the hallway. The shotgun she held was almost as big as her, but she didn’t crumble under its weight. Nor did she shrink from the recall. A look of sheer determination was chiseled into her features as she pumped out the slug shell and fired again. The gargoyles scattered, avoiding the blasts and running along the walls to close in on them.

  Draciana barked a command. He didn’t need to understand the words to know the meaning. Surging to his feet, his books forgotten but mobile clenched tight, he rushed to get behind her, ensuring that she maintained a clear shot at the creatures coming for them. She fired twice more but they didn’t retreat. Words fell from her lips as she pushed at him. This time, she followed as he moved, running alongside him. Slowing his pace to match hers made his body shake. His survival instinct screamed at him to flee. But he couldn’t leave her behind.

  A slight tap against his arm directed his attention to an open door on his right. He shoved it open and had intended on letting her through first. That thought died when he heard the shotgun again. Get out of her way, his mind screamed at him. So he crossed the threshold and grabbed hold of the door, ready to slam it shut the instant she was inside. One of the gargoyles slammed into Bunica Draciana’s chest, throwing her backward and sprawling her out across the floor. Its metal body glowed red hot against her chest. The stench of burning fur filled his nose. With a feral shriek, it threw its head back and began to thrash, the small body contorting in pain. Still lying on her back, Bunica Draciana slammed the butt of the shotgun against it. The small figure flew across the threshold, and Mihail slammed the door shut behind it.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he braced himself against the door.

  Bunica Draciana slowly sat up. He was torn between keeping the creatures out and moving to help her. With practiced ease, she cracked the gun open across her lap and retrieved some fresh slugs from her pocket. A few hairs of her jacket were still smoldering as she reloaded the gun with steady hands.

  “Have you done this before?” he asked.

  Instead of a response, she closed the gun and lurched to her feet. It was the first time he had seen any pain in her movements. His chest clenched when he saw rage flare in her eyes. Staring at the door, she curled her lips back into a snarl. She looked wild and larger than her bones.

  “Bunica?”

  She snapped her head around to face him. Words flew from her mouth but he couldn’t understand any of it. He shrugged helplessly and to
ld her as much. Scowling, she pointed to his hand. The first thing he saw was the blood. His wound had opened again, creating thin rivers of blood that trailed down to drip onto the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut but it didn’t stop his stomach from heaving. Muttering under her breath, Bunica Draciana crossed the room and pried the phone from his uninjured hand. He didn’t protest or question it. There were very few things that he still had control over, and throwing up was one of them. So he remained against the door, eyes closed, breathing through his nausea, and listening to Bunica Draciana making a phone call.

  It was possible to tell the instant the call connected because she released an onslaught of words. They flowed from her mouth as the creatures paced back and forth across the threshold. Pressed against the door, Mihail could hear the clack of their claws scraping over stone. Her sharp bellow made him flinch. He turned to her as she screamed the same word again. 'Claymont'. It wasn’t until she hung up that he realized it wasn’t a word, but a name. Before he could ask who that was, she snapped her hand back and glared at the phone. The battery had died. She tossed it onto the bed and puffed a sigh between her teeth.

  “Bunica?”

  She snapped her head up with a look of confusion. Almost as if she had forgotten he was there. He couldn’t hold it against her. It wasn’t as if he had been all that helpful under pressure. Mihail hunched his shoulders and let his gaze fall to the floor. He could recall a seemingly endless list of times he had heard stories or watched movies and boasted about how he would have handled the situation. Now he had been tested and all of his declarations had been exposed as hollow promises. It was a little hard to take.