Page 22 of Kazimir

There was a long, nearly silent pause. Then, not with words but with certainty, I knew: Axiom.

I rose, nodding once. “Come, Axiom.”

The hound hesitated, then stalked to my side and sat. Its tail, thick and scarred, swept the floor with a thump.

I turned to the demon. “Your debt is paid, Korr. But you will never play in Obsidian again.”

He tried to snarl, but nobody in the room was watching him anymore. All eyes were on the hellhound, and on me.

“Amelia, escort Korr out. I don’t care if he leaves by the door or the sewer.”

She grinned, and the tension in the air snapped. “With pleasure, Boss.”

As she grabbed the demon by the arm and marched him to the exit, I knelt and placed a hand on the hound’s massive head. Its fur was rough, but under that, the flesh quivered—uncertain, expecting pain.

“Not here,” I said, almost to myself. “Never here.”

The hound relaxed minutely. And when I rose, it followed me, step for step, as if it had always belonged to me.

We left the Basement Casino behind, Korr’s shrieks echoing off the velvet walls and down the stone corridors. The sounds faded, replaced by the soft click of the hound’s claws on marble as we re-entered the club.

Above us, Obsidian’s music resumed, thrumming with the wild joy of risk survived.

I glanced down at the hound, who sat quietly, tail curled around its haunches. In its copper eyes, I saw recognition—not of a master, but of an equal. For the first time all night, I smiled, wide and real.

There were still hours to go before sunrise, but I knew exactly how I’d spend them.

Chapter 7

Devon

Iwoke up gasping, limbs tangled in sweat-damp sheets and a mouth feeling like it was full of sand where my tongue should’ve been. For one lucid second, I had no memory, no sense of body or gravity—only the time on my phone. 3:01PM. I could almost hear Margie’s voice in my head, as she’d said the day I started at her diner: “Girl, only two kinds of people show up this late in the day—junkies and vampires. Which are you?” I’d laughed, because I knew vampires were a myth and I certainly wasn’t a junkie.

I blinked at the ceiling, trying to decide if last night at Obsidian had actually happened, or if it was just a creative nightmare stapled to the end of a closing shift at Margie’s. If it had been a dream, it explained everything: the purple lights, the wall of desire, the way Kazimir looked at me like he could see the architecture of my bones. I’d never wanted anything so badly in my life, which was pathetic because I couldn’t even remember my life before six months ago.

I forced myself up, one vertebra at a time, shuffling to the kitchenette and firing up the world’s loudest coffee maker. It started hissing and shuddering, like it, too, hated to be awake. The place was a dump, all stained linoleum and water damage that crept like mold into my soul, but the rent was two weeks behind and the landlord hadn’t kicked me out, so I called it “charm.” I splashed water on my face. The person in the mirror was still me: white-blonde hair sticking up in a bird’s nest, pale skin gone translucent in the afternoon light, my eyes that were always too big for my face and too bright for comfort. I looked to be in my early twenties. Maybe I was.

I turned off the shower, shivered in the hot air, and wiped the mirror clear with a hand towel. I yanked on pilled black leggings and a thrift store Eagles T-shirt. Margie didn’t care what I wore as long as it was clean. My entire prep process took six minutes. I was supposed to be at the diner by four. I towel-dried my hair and ran a brush through it until it was tangle-free. I was lucky that even though I use dollar store shampoo and conditioner, my hair still somehow maintained a glossy shine.

I was about to put my shoes on when a knock at my door stopped my heart. Nobody came to my apartment unless they were selling something, or worse, collecting. The guy who chased me last night flashed through my mind. I tried to stay as still as possible so maybe they’d think nobody was here.

Another soft knock. It was almost polite.

This time a voice vibrated through the door like a cello note; he called, “Ms. Wade? Devon Wade?”

The last time someone used my whole name, they were trying to get me into therapy. Still, I stayed silent, hoping he’d think I was out or asleep or dead.

He waited, then spoke again, this time more gently: “It’s Nikolay Kozlov. My father sent me. He asked that I deliver a message personally.”

I sucked in a breath so hard it made my head throb. I recognized the last name—Kozlov, like Kazimir.

The smart thing would be to tell him to go away. I imagined myself doing it, the “fuck off” rolling off my tongue like muscle memory. But when I opened my mouth, the words wouldn’t form. Instead, I found myself moving to the door and unlocking the deadbolts.

When I opened it, he turned to face me, blue eyes lighting up. If Kazimir were a marble statue, this one was a Disney prince version—softer at the edges, hair the color of sunlight. His suit was navy, the shirt beneath white and crisp, and even his shoes looked like they’d been polished by a team of valets. The package under his arm was large, wrapped in pale blue tissue, and tied with a ribbon.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Wade,” he said, smiling. He was so put-together it almost hurt to look at him, especially knowing how I looked in comparison.

I stared at him for a moment too long. “What can I do for you Mr. Kozlov?” I asked, trying for tough but coming off more like “scared Chihuahua.”