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Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 01

By: TheWitcher



Author's note: This is actually an older story I've been playing about with for some time. I suppose that submitting it will work to stop me tinkering with it endlessly.

Just a few quick notes: Russian names as they appear in this story have three parts: a given name, a patronymic derived from the father's name and a family name.

Likewise, the given name often has two forms. The regular form and a shortened form used amongst friends or informally. Hence Nataliya and Natasha.

Although there is the Kremlin in Moscow. The word kremlin means fortress or castle and in this story is used generically like that.

Thanks

******

Chaos. 

That was all she could think as she saw the crowd packing the banqueting hall.

A maelstrom of noise and movement, a thousand different conversations all being held at the same time with absolutely no regard for their neighbours. People flowing around tables, stopping or starting seemingly at random - sitting down or standing up as whim took them. Through it all threaded masses of servants and slaves in the Stygian livery of House Azarov - black clad servitors guiding, cajoling, prompting. Even so, it was taking an age to get everyone seated - families pouring in through the great door following the backs of the people in front like sheep. 

At the far end of the room, Nataliya noticed soldiers in Azarov livery discreetly positioned between the main throng and the high table. Two near a set of ebon double doors were actually wearing armour - the chitinous plates making them appear insectile and threatening. Intrigued now, Nataliya scanned the crowd. Sure enough, scattered around the periphery of the room, islands of stillness in the chaos, she spotted more soldiers - hard eyed and professional, weapons sheathed discreetly but present nevertheless. She didn't know if she was meant to feel reassured or intimidated.

Finally it seemed that the game of musical chairs was exhausting itself and Nataliya found herself sat next to her mother's slim shape and opposite the reassuring bulk of her father, his dark beard and sparkling blue eyes. They were seated close to the entrance doors - a lowly position, as befitted their status. Like most in the room, they wore uniform: the short military cut jackets in the colour of the ruling family faced with their own House insignia. Her family wore a white leaping wolf stitched to their breast but were not sufficiently senior for shoulder boards - or detailing in any colour but black. About her she picked out the insignia of myriad other families and, toward the head of the table: flashes of red, silver and, occasionally, gold as the more senior families gathered.

On the raised dais at the head of the room, the far end from her family, the high table stood empty, waiting. 

Despite the chaos of the banquet it was obvious that the room could hold a far greater number than it currently accommodated - its vaulted ceilings giving the room a sense of space but also making the throng seem small, somehow insignificant. She couldn't help wondering if this was deliberate - some elaborate lesson to the Minor Families. The room was certainly a very real display of opulence: the pale ceiling richly decorated with frescoes, the walls covered with frighteningly expensive gilded carvings. As a demonstration of the wealth of House Azarov it was unsubtle but effective.

Gradually subtle changes in the timbre of the noise made Nataliya aware of rising anticipation in the room. No longer was the noise constant, it had taken on a punctured rhythm as people alternately gave their attention to the high table and to their neighbours. Her eyes drifted to the ebon doors at the far end - a new tension had entered the stance of the two armoured soldiers. Looks like waiting is coming to an end, she thought.

She was pulled back from her reverie by the feel of her mother's hand on her arm and, momentarily, looked her way - seeing her mother's mouth open to say something before events overtook them. As a result, she didn't see the ebon doors open and only realised what was happening when the massed guests rose to their feet with a roar of scraping chairs. She rose too, her mother's hand heavy on her arm.

Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch Azarov strode out at the head of his family: a tall, slim man, his hair dark and his beard neatly trimmed, his black uniform unadorned save for the golden dragon of House Azarov on his breast. On his arm was his wife, Ilsa, uniquely dressed in a white gown amidst the sea of black. And then his children led by Lord Prince Vasily Mikhailovich, the fair-haired heir apparent, and Princess Anna Mikhailovna, pretty with dark hair and bright blue eyes. Other members of the family followed them out, uniforms trimmed and striped with gold: the myriad brothers and sisters of House Azarov. But suddenly Nataliya didn't care about them. 

He was walking at the back of the procession: tall, slim, skin the shade of rich honey, hair the colour of a raven's wing - just long enough to shadow his eyes and rest on his shoulders. He seemed to move with a natural grace that she found captivating - like a dancer. Chatting casually with the other Azarov family members he took a seat near the edge of the table. God, she thought, he was so beautiful.

The crowd slowly sank back into their seats and conversation resumed, but to Nataliya the room had ceased to exist - she struggled to even take her eyes from him.

"Natasha..." her mother said, her soft brown eyes touched with impatience.

"Sorry, what?" Nataliya realised she had missed something.

"Drink. Do you want wine?" her mother said.

"Um...yes, please. Sorry, I was distracted." She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way.

"Yes, I noticed," her mother gestured and the house slave filled her glass. "Nataliya Fyodorovna, pay attention, you might learn something."

"Yes, mother. I will."

"Good," she said, her eyes seeking out the source of Nataliya's distraction.

Slowly her mother's eyes narrowed. "That young man caught your eye, has he?"

Nataliya blushed, looking down. It was all the answer her mother needed.

"Do you know who he is?" her mother asked. "No, of course you don't, how could you? Nataliya... No, you don't need to know any more, just stay away from him, okay?"

"Mother, I'm eighteen - I'm not a child," she said, although she had to admit she did sound a little petulant. "Who is he?"

Her mother sighed. "I can see that if you don't know your curiosity will lead you astray. So... He is Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov. Bastard son of House Azarov and a very dangerous man indeed. He is a killer and a womaniser. Do you need to know more? Or is that enough for you to promise me you'll stay away from him?"

"Of course," she said, laughing, trying to shrug it off. "I promise."

But as soon as her mother turned to speak with the man next to her, she felt her eyes drift furtively back to the Lord Prince. He was chatting to his brother, making animated gestures with his wine glass. She noticed that he had fine hands, his fingers long and delicate where they held the glass. His face was sharply boned, his eyes exotic - a touch of an angle to them, she thought. 

Then, to her horror, he lifted his head and looked straight at her - his eyes capturing her gaze. Ice blue and luminous - like a cat's - even over the length of the room the touch of his eyes on hers was shocking, intense - turning her blood to ice, goose flesh shivering over her body. Startled, and a little excited, she found that she was unable to look away, unable to do anything more than stare. It was as if the whole world had suddenly lurched around her, as if she was staring from the bottom of a deep well - the room, the crowd about her just darkness.

A smile slid across his face, something she found not altogether reassuring, and he looked away. She felt the loss of contact as a physical thing, as if he had suddenly let go of her. For a second she felt lost, her head spinning with vertigo, unsure of where she was. Then, gradually, the room came back into focus about her. She found that her heart was beating like a hammer, that her mouth was dry and, worse, that she was physically aroused - her nipples were hard and she was wet between her thighs. Utterly discomfited, she gulped her wine and hoped that nobody else had noticed.

After that she found that the meal had lost its flavour and it all passed in a blur. Despite her unease she found herself taking repeated furtive glances at Andrey but he never looked her way again - for which she was both grateful and strangely disappointed.

Following the speeches at the end, something that seemed to take forever - although she was happy to concede that Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyich was a good speaker - the guests were invited to withdraw to an adjacent hall. Slowly, attended by renewed chaos, the throng moved as it was bidden - drifting in order of rank away from the banqueting hall.

"You've been quiet, Natasha," her father said.

"I know. You know," she waved her hand vaguely, taking in the room and the crowd, "it's all a bit, you know, overwhelming."

"I suppose so," he said. "You'll get used to it." 

She nodded, swallowing.

"It's a long way back to our kremlin, we won't stay too long... Just long enough to show willing," her mother added.

"Okay. I think I'll get some air. If that's alright?" 

Her father looked at her closely, but nodded. "Be careful...not everyone is friendly. And stay away from you know who," he said at last, with a meaningful glance at the high table.

"I can look after myself, father," she said, although she wasn't quite so sure of that any longer. Adding quickly, "but I will."

The view from the walls of Azarov Kremlin was impressive. The inner fortress was built of black stone, standing out starkly against the red rock of the surrounding plain. It had been constructed on a prominent jut of rock poking out into the Dragon Sea, so that it was surrounded on three sides by its azure waters. On the fourth, barren plains of red sand and rock ran from the shore towards the darkness of the distant plateau, a few scrub plants the only things to break the arid surface.

Stretching between the kremlin and the plateau was the silver line of the River Kolva, its source far away on the plateau. Where the Kolva met the massive red outer walls of the Kremlin, flowing through a high arch, a city had sprung up - spiralling out along both banks of the river. Above her, the sun was just beginning to slip beneath the horizon and the air held that pleasant coolness, that reprieve from the heat of the day, that comes before the freezing cold of the night. 

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" 

Nataliya jumped, she hadn't heard anyone approach. But even as she spun about she knew who it was: Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov.

For a second she was entirely unable to gather her thoughts - breathing itself was difficult, like someone was sitting on her chest.

"The moons," he said. With a smile he pointed over the battlements at the massive twin moons hanging on the horizon, spectral in the dying daylight. "I find them beautiful at this time of day... At sunset."

"What? Yes, yes... Uh... I mean yes, Lord Prince... Uh... Highness," she felt herself flush with embarrassment, how the devil was he affecting her like this? "I was just thinking the same thing."

He smiled, obviously enjoying her discomfort. 

"It's Nataliya Fyodorovna, isn't it?" he said. 

He caught her eyes with his and she suddenly felt very vulnerable. She was tall, standing nearly five foot eight inches, and he was only a head taller than her - but it felt as if he was bigger, as if she couldn't see all of him that she could feel.

"Uh... Yes, Highness," her heart was racing again, hammering in her chest and she felt somehow sick: excited and scared at the same time. Her eyes were drawn to his face, fine boned, angular -- with just a hint of cruelty. She noticed that he had a small scar just below his left eye, no more than a ghost against his pale skin.

"Legend has it that our forefathers possessed the technology to fly to those moons," he said, although he spoke of the moons his eyes stayed on her. "I find that difficult to believe. What do you think, Nataliya Fyodorovna?"

"Um... Yes, Highness," she said. 

Nataliya Fyodorovna is finding it very hard to think of anything but you, Lord Prince, she thought. 

"Uh, I'd better go... My parents will be waiting for me."

She sounded silly, even to herself, and seeing the knowing smile on his face just made it worse.

"Of course. I'll walk you back in."

"Uh... There's no need, Highness," she said. Her mind raced - that would really impress her parents. "Stay and enjoy the view, it's only just inside, really."

"Nataliya Fyodorovna." Just the whisper of command but she stopped immediately. 

He paused slightly then, as if thinking. His eyes drifted to the moons, but he remained facing her. "I shall do as you ask, but only in return for a favour from you. A small one, of course."

"What?" Her voice was no more than a breathless whisper.

His eyes flicked back to her - his beautiful, handsome face suddenly so close. When had that happened? She felt befuddled, confused -- aroused? 

"I want a kiss," he said. His voice was quiet, soft, and so reasonable. "Just a little kiss. Would you deny me such a trophy?"

Nataliya felt like a mouse caught by a cat, unconsciously she took her lower lip between her teeth. Thing was, at that moment she could think of nothing she would like more than to be kissed by him. She leaned towards him, her eyes probing his.

"May I?" he said. 

Silently, she nodded slightly.

Then his finger was on her chin, lifting her mouth to his and slowly -- oh, so slowly - his soft, soft lips were pressed to hers. The contact shivered over her skin -- tingling, as if her whole body were suddenly hypersensitive. She smelt a faint scent of some perfume - sweet, but not cloying - behind it a faint masculine scent. Her eyes closed, his lips felt so good on hers -- the kiss going on and on, delicate, chaste, electric - she never wanted it to end. Finally, he withdrew, her lips sticking to his ever so slightly. In the wake she stood there breathless, new sensations sweeping through her body -- torn between throwing herself on him like a wanton and collapsing on the floor at his feet - utterly unable to move or to think.

"Thank you," he said. With infinite grace he ghosted a bow and turned away.

Suddenly free, Nataliya felt her legs go weak and she had to grip the battlements to avoid falling. Good God, what had he done to her? She practically ran back to the drawing room, panting for breath as if she'd just run a marathon.

******

Nataliya lay back on her bed in the darkness of her room at her family kremlin. Outside she could hear the familiar night sounds: the chirrup of crickets, the low sigh of the wind about the battlements, but tonight they brought her no comfort and sleep was utterly elusive.

Her parents had retired long ago, all of them fatigued from the long journey north from the reception, and she could feel the old fortress asleep about her, contributing to her sense of isolation. No matter what she did, her mind refused to let go of the memory of Andrey: the way he looked, his scent, the heat of his body so close to her - oh God, the feel of his lips on hers.

Unconsciously she found her hand touching her chin and her lips, the places where he had touched her - her breathing heavy, rapid. She realised that her nipples were hard and felt softness between her legs - the liquid flood of arousal sweeping through her. God, just a kiss, but it had felt so good.

Her hand ran over her belly, rubbing herself through her nightdress, imagining his touch on her body. Tentatively, a little shyly, her fingers brushed her nipples, feeling their hardness through the nightdress's soft fabric. 

A soft moan drifted from her.

Growing up an only child in a minor noble house was a pretty certain guarantee of a sheltered upbringing, and Nataliya knew she was no exception. At eighteen she remained a virgin, completely isolated from any male contact from beyond the family. Until tonight sex had been something she laughed and giggled over with her friends - something essentially abstract. Until tonight.

Imagining the feel of Andrey stroking her legs, she pressed her hands against her thighs: her mind full of his smile, the feel of his soft lips. Gently she pressed the fabric of her dress against her throbbing clit.

"Oh," she gasped gently, a spasm of pleasure shooting from between her legs to slide over her body.

Her hand returned to her breast with more confidence now - rubbing her nipple through her dress until it tingled - her other hand pressing harder between her legs. She moaned quietly, fearful of being overheard - pressing harder and harder - her arousal increasing. 

It wasn't working! Something was in the way - it was like an itch she couldn't scratch.

Her nightdress was long and plain - simple white cotton - and quite chaste. Feeling bold beneath the concealment of her covers, she pulled her knees up, opening her legs wider. Cautiously, almost as if she stalked a nervous pet, her hands slipped between her legs. She pressed her cunt through her dress, lifting her hips to increase the sensation.

Mmmm - that was better, she thought.

Moving her hips was good, it made her feel brazen. She knew she was soaking wet, she could feel moisture oozing from her. She began pressing rhythmically against her mound, low moans slipping from her as her pleasure increased - all the while her mind picturing his face in the instant before her eyes had closed and his lips had touched hers

It felt good - it felt very good - but it wasn't enough. She wanted to feel more, she wanted to feel closer to him - to what he would feel. 

Frustrated beyond comprehension, she threw the sheets from her, kicking them to the base of the bed. Nervously at her exposure, she pulled the fabric of her nightdress up about her waist, exposing her long bare legs to the dim moonlight from the window. She had nice legs, she knew - long and slim, smooth and almost hairless.

Her hands returned to caress her bare flesh, gently forcing her own thighs wider apart -- yes, that was it! She imagined him pressing between her thighs.

Fuck, she was so wet!

Her fingers brushed over her panties, pressing against her cunt again, gasping sharply at the renewed pleasure. Spread open on the bed she felt wanton, a harlot. Her hands stroked her legs, skirted her pussy. Touching herself she thought about Andrey, about losing her virginity - about him fucking her.

Fucking her. That thought made her feel strange. Strange and very excited.

She wanted to go further. Pressing herself through the soft fabric of her panties her hand circled around her clit and she moaned pleasurably, the sound sighing from her. She felt warmth spreading through her, flowing from between her thighs.

"Oh, yes," she whispered to herself - he would touch her there - her finger dancing over her cunt.

She imagined his hands lifting her nightdress, taking it from her, and she quickly made it real - pulling it over her head to leave herself naked but for her panties. He was in control now, pushing her back on the bed and she allowed herself to fall obediently, feeling his fingers in place of her own - caressing her tits, pinching her hardened nipples gently until she heard herself gasp - they were so sensitive, like never before.

"Oh, yes..." her voice little more than a breath, lost in her imaginings.

Her hands drifted down over her taut, slim belly, caressing herself as she felt he would wish to. Feeling her soft flesh, free to roam over her body at will, thrilling at her surrender.


Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 01



"Yes, Andryusha," feeling intimate enough now to use the diminutive. "Yes."

She felt Andrey take the waist of her panties in his fingers and she raised her hips to slide them down her legs until she was lying naked on the bed - her eyes tightly closed, her hands caressing herself like they never had before.

Now her hands returned to her cunt with renewed vigour. Her fingers clawing her light pubic hair, exploring herself - running her fingers over her engorged labia, her cunt gushing liquid onto her hand.

Oh God, that felt so good - he would be gentle, she knew.

She let the tip of one finger slide between her lips - just tickling her clit - and felt herself jerk with the shock of contact. She was so fucking horny! Feeling wanton, she brought her finger to her mouth and, tentatively at first, licked the tip, tasting herself as he would. She was musky, sweet -- not at all unpleasant. Emboldened she returned her finger, rubbing it through her juices and sucking it clean, imagining him tasting her -- God, she had never done anything like this before.

Totally aroused now, she pushed her thighs wide apart, her knees pulled up, imagining him mounting her. The middle finger of her right hand found her throbbing clit, started to rub it in earnest, her hips jumping gently with the power of the sensations. Her other hand rubbed her outer lips, spreading her juice all around her cunt, driving herself wild with anticipation.

"Oh yes, Andryusha, fuck me," she whispered, breathless.

Gently at first, she slipped her index finger inside herself, feeling her cunt suck it in wetly - oh, that felt good. Slowly she probed herself with her finger, circling inside her cunt, feeling the soft flesh yield beneath her. All the while the fingers of her other hand continued to frig her clit, making her gasp quietly. 

Knowing that his cock would be bigger she slipped a second finger into her cunt - starting to fuck herself softly, slowly, the pace gradually increasing.

"Oh, yes. Oh, Andryusha, yes..."

Seeing him, feeling him, her fingers plunged wetly into her cunt, sliding inside with a slick sound - her juices squirting over her hand. Dreaming, she started to rub her clit in earnest - her hips bucking, meeting his thrusts as he fucked her. Unconsciously, she was whimpering in pleasure.

"Oh, Andryusha, that feels so good!"

Her fingers were deep inside her now - hand against her lips - her clit on fire - her fingers rubbing frantically. 

"Oh, yes... Oh, fuck me, fuck me... Please, fuck me, oh!"

Almost a chant, a mantra, utterly lost in the moment, her body alive to every sensation. Oh God, she was going to cum!

"Fuck... Fuck... Fuck... Oh... Oh... Oh, Andryusha!"

Her fingers deep inside, so deep. Oh, fuck... He was making her cum!

Her finger danced over her clit, pressing the sensistive flesh with furious passion, all the time knowing it was Andrey: on her, fucking her, taking her virginity! 

"Oh, fuck!" she shouted, all caution gone in the moment.

Her climax flickered through her - waves of pleasure twisting her helplessly on the bed, her body writhing with the intensity, liquid gushing from her.

She lay back, her legs wide open, her hands slowly stroking herself as she drifted back from the brink. Sweet fucking God - she had never felt like that before. 

Finally, smiling contentedly, sleep took her - her chaste nightdress lying forgotten on the floor.



Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 02



It had started with two and now that two had become three, something that Andrey found suspicious in itself. Sorcery was a rare commodity, its practitioners equally rare. To have three powerful practitioners come to light within months of one another was sufficiently unusual to warrant his personal attention. Which was how he found himself picking his way through the ruins of one of the old cities dotting the wasteland - black armoured soldiers fanning out around him - searching for the last of these practitioners. 

The ruins were a trap, of course. The question was: for whom? 

About him the shattered remains of the old city sprawled in tatterdemalion grandeur, rich with the promise of abandoned technology from ages past - something few living beyond the protection of the Houses could afford to pass up. But the ruins also sheltered the unquiet dead - dormant during the day but almost certain death to any caught out at night. They made the life of any scavenger a dangerous and, usually, short lived affair.

He passed between the tumbled pillars of what had once been a long passageway - originally covered, now broken and open to the sky above. Although much eroded, it was still possible to make out an occasional mark or design on the pillars, the workmanship precise and elegant although long ago stripped of any significance. One end of the passage tailed off into the dust of the plain, but the other ended in an open portal - Stygian against the bright sunlit stone - leading down into the catacombs below the city. It was from this forbidding entrance that he sensed the presence he sought.

This particular trap had drawn particularly rich prey, he thought, but had he cornered her or had she lured him? 

He approached the doorway unenthusiastically. Even from this distance he could feel her power - like a tingle of static electricity on his skin - raw, unfocused, but utterly overwhelming. Drawing him as a flame drew a moth. 

With a happier outcome, he hoped. 

He slipped through the portal into the blackness, waiting just inside to allow his eyes to adjust to the near dark. Unless he misjudged, she awaited him at the end of the narrow corridor in which he found himself - in a chamber just beyond - the strength of her power giving her away. That she appeared to have no way to escape hardly made his task any easier. 

For a long while he stood just beyond the portal, gathering himself - feeling the knot of his power beating in time with his heart, no match for hers but comforting nevertheless - contenting himself that he had missed nothing.

He stepped into the chamber.

She was waiting for him, expecting him. She knew him as he knew her.

"It seems you have me trapped," she said, her voice steady but rich with a hidden tension; a touch of fear, perhaps.

He hoped so.

She stood in the centre of the room, dressed simply in jeans and a white blouse, her blonde hair loose about her shoulders. Her sleeves had been rolled up, exposing her lower arms, and about her hands there glowed a nimbus of blue energy - she practically shone with barely contained power. Before her he noted the corpse of a sheep, cut open on a low stone -- she had obviously taken its life energy to augment her own.

"I have thought so before, Lady Katerina, and been wrong."

She laughed slightly at that, but anxiety seemed to choke off the humour.

"I flatter myself that it will be so again, Prince Andrey."

He shrugged almost imperceptibly. With an eye to the coming fight, Andrey glanced about the dimly lit room. A large hall, perhaps once intended for feasting, it was littered with the debris of fallen stonework, all trace of its former purpose lost in decay and disrepair - the only light leaked through from the door and numerous small holes in the ceiling, leaving it dim and shadowed. It would be a treacherous ground for a fight, still...

He turned his glance back to the sorceress. She appeared young, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five and, whilst appearances could be deceptive amongst those who used magic, there was something about her poise that indicated that this was indeed her true age. Perhaps he could use that against her? He had to concede that as well as being deadly she was quite beautiful and, for a mere breath, he allowed himself to admire her: her eyes a bright blue - shining in the dim light - her body slender, long-legged. But her beauty had caused him to underestimate her strength before and he would not make the same mistake this time.

"Is it true that you have murdered the Lady Olga and the Lady Mariya?" she said, her eyes following him warily.

Slowly he circled her, picking his way gracefully about the strewn floor.

"It is true," he said at last. The sorceress allowed her eyes to close for a moment, feeling the initiative still with her. She found it hard to believe, two of the most powerful of her sisterhood dead, but she felt the truth in his words. The question was, how?

"Why?"

"For the same reason I have come for you," he said, slowly closing the distance, circling so she was forced to turn to follow his progress. "You gather power, challenge the accepted order. The families cannot countenance this."

She laughed at that, genuine amusement in her tone.

"Of course, we are such a challenge to the Great Houses - we poor sisters, running and hiding in the wastes."

She watched him pause as she laughed. For a moment she thought him about to speak, but he remained silent. 

He was dangerous, she was sure - his movements were feline and bespoke a physical power and speed of reflex that she could barely imagine - but he was no warlock. How had he killed Olga and Mariya? She gathered her strength, drawing upon the fire burning within her - maybe it was time to find out?

"How did they die?" she said.

"Not well." 

Stepping, circling, always moving. "The Lady Olga died with my knife deep in her heart."

She sighed sadly. "And Mariya?"

Now he did pause, his eyes hidden in the darkness that seemed to follow him.

"She was taken by the dead."

Katerina shivered. As well as any, she knew the unquiet dead infested these wastes - seeking the life of the living, seeking their flesh - eternally hungry. To be taken by them... A horrible, lingering, painful death. She felt horror of it crawl over her skin and recognized the taste of fear -- she was scared, something that could impair her thinking. Did he count on that?

"How did you defeat them?"

"They made the same mistake that you're about to."

Katerina started, her nerves jangling, his words sparked true fear - turning quickly to panic. Before her, he had suddenly stopped moving, was stood facing her -- what did that mean?

Fear made her grab anxiously at the power coursing through her and, as fast as thought, she felt it build: responding to her anxiety, fuelled by her anger, driven by her fear. She gestured - pointing at her tormentor. In an instant her will shaped her desire and her energy, her power -- filled with all her anger, her fear, her fury -- ripped from her at the shadowy form before her.

Andrey felt the power building, the atmosphere suddenly heavy with static - as if a thunderstorm was building overhead. For just a moment he stood still, absolutely still, unnaturally still -- letting the tension sweep over him. In the instant before release he saw the look of fear sweep over her face, fear of him -- fear of death -- and he moved, exploding into motion even as the energy lanced through the room.

The power flowed from her in a mad rush, fear driving her beyond rational thought -- like a man plagued by a wasp she knew only that she had to kill him before he could hurt her. Power leapt from a nimbus about her hands: bolts of blue energy smashing the rocks where he had stood, blasting the pillars behind into dust, sending rocks and debris flying about the room. Madly, terror driving her, Katerina unleashed blast after blast - all the while screaming at the top of her voice, unseen tears coursing down her cheeks -- the heart of a twisting maelstrom of destruction. 

Finally, terror abated. 

Gradually she felt her control return and the chaos stilled. In the sudden quiet her hands glowed - the power waiting, held in abeyance. Katerina realized that she could see nothing, the air was choked with dust, her night-vision ruined by the repeated blasts of bright light that she had generated. He was nowhere to be seen. Slowly she circled, peering into the darkness, listening with ears still echoing to the sound of explosions. 

Nothing.

By degrees she allowed herself to relax, still tense but forcing her nerves to still. Around her she heard debris falling - settling from the destruction she had wrought - the dust slowly drifting in the breeze from the entrance. Still she waited - tense - power singing in her veins.

She needed to get out. Her power had kept the dead from the ruins while she was here, but having unleashed her power in that uncontrolled way she knew that there would be no shield now to hold them back. When night fell outside they would come. Before that, she knew that sooner or later the soldiers outside would have to come and investigate. Ideally she needed to be away before then... But how?

Stealthily she crept toward the door - alert all the while - peering into the dust and the darkness myopically. At the doorway she paused, looking into the darkness of the corridor. In the distance she could see the crimson light of the outside through the entrance to the catacombs and, just visible in the dim light of the corridor, the shapes of men crouching, hiding in the shadows along its length.

She had to get past them... Preferably without using more power. It had been a foolish, uncontrolled display, she was now prepared to concede, and she didn't want to leave herself further drained if she could help it. Maybe there was a second way out? Or perhaps she could make one? She turned to go back to the far wall.

He was stood right behind her.

She gasped, fear spiking through her. He loomed in the darkness like a piece of night made life, somehow seeming to tower above her though he was only a little taller than her. Before she could react, before she could clear her head enough to think, he grabbed her wrists, lifting her hands above her head, pulling her close against him.

In that movement she felt his power - something insidious, subtle, infinitely dark - and it was as if she were nothing more than a child. She knew that he could have killed her then if he had so wished - but even then, in that fleeting instant of fear and shock, she found herself caught by his beauty: his angular face, his raven black hair playing about his eyes. 

His eyes! 

Caught, she found herself drawn to them, looking into them.

They burned - his eyes burned! Like sapphires lit by an inner flame -- beautiful, depthless -- she found she couldn't look away, found she didn't want to. They burned into her, deep into her - knowing her, seeing her, stripping her inner-self bare - exposing her. Somewhere outside, far away, she heard herself screaming over and over, a terrified noise full of defeat. But all she could see were his eyes, so beautiful. He was so beautiful.

Slowly at first she felt his power slip into her - her defences gone - and she felt her fear rekindle. Like icy fingers he crawled down her spine, niggling, tickling - arousing. Terrified and helpless she felt her power wink out, snuffed out in an instant, and she felt despair wash through her.

Softly, gently, she felt his presence slide through her chest - touching her, possessing her. Deep within - in her heart, in her soul - she felt the first tingle of nascent lust.

"Oh my God..." Katerina suddenly understood what he was - what he was going to do - and fear shivered through her. "You're not... You're not human!"

Andrey laughed but there was little humour in the sound.

Like a fire - his will overwhelming her, her body responding to his behest - she felt her desire growing, burning like a flame in her groin, sweeping like molten metal along her veins, sweeping aside her fear, her terror, her despair. She heard herself whimper, her arousal obvious in the sound - her nipples hardening; the liquid, molten, rush of arousal in her cunt.

"Oh, no... Please, no..."

She moaned - a sound of lust, of loss, of despair.

Oh, sweet fuck - her body was on fire, her skin burning hot, arousal sweeping over her in a wave. Building, washing through her, robbing her of conscious thought -- and all the while she stared and stared into his bewitching eyes, utterly helpless.

By the time he released her wrists she had no thought of escape - had no thought of her own -- she wanted him, needed him, would do anything for him. She dropped to her knees, lust driving all volition from her - gasping, panting for breath, whimpering desperately, her cunt burning -- burning for release.

He gripped the neck of her blouse, ripping it open, sending buttons pinging about the chamber and she moaned -- an earthy sound, wanton, inviting - her slender body sweating in the cool chamber.

His lips burned over her, searing her, each touch like a drop of hot wax on her skin. Desperately, hungrily her lips sought his, her tongue tasting him - sweet, like cinnamon - her hands grabbing desperately at his head. His mouth burned on hers, his tongue a cinder pressed into her mouth, burning through her.

She sighed into his mouth.

Strong hands ripped her bra from her, the fabric tearing like paper, freeing her tits - her nipples achingly hard. Hot kisses poured over her neck, dripping like lava onto her tits. First one, then the other nipple - his molten tongue teasing, flicking.

"Oh, sweet fuck... Please..."

Sensation like nothing she had ever know, waves of heat sweeping from each breast through her chest, igniting her blood - her whole body on fire. His mouth, sucking her nipples, setting them aflame - burning!

"Oh, fuck... Oh, fuck..." she moaned - torn from her in a long shuddering breath.

If the floor was rough when he laid her down she couldn't feel it, her every sense utterly overwhelmed by him: the feel of him, his taste, his smell. Molten kisses descended along her soft belly -- oh sweet fuck, her cunt was burning with liquid fire.

"Please... Oh, please..."

She felt his hands fiddle with her belt, then the snick of leather cut with a knife, impossibly sharp, and her jeans were ripped open, buttons scattering amongst the debris. She struggled to help him as he tore them down her legs.

For a moment all was still and he stood, discarding his clothes.

"Fuck... Oh sweet fucking God... My cunt is on fire... Please..." she whimpered, supine beneath him, her legs wide open, her knees drawn up brazenly.

He folded over her, his body pressing into hers, his hands stroking along her bare skin - each touch setting her afire, whimpering, gasping. She whined pitifully as his lips burned along her body, his tongue licking a fiery trail across each of her tits, tracing a line of molten flame down her belly, into her pubic hair. She gasped helplessly as delicate fingers caressed her, teasing over her thighs, sending hot shivers of pleasure coursing through her.

"Please... Fuck me, fuck me... Oh, God, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," she was gasping now, utterly lost to the sensations of his body on hers, every contact echoing around her flesh.

His fingers found her cunt -- fuck, I'm so wet, yes, yes - sliding slickly between her lips. Heat flashed through her, her cunt igniting in bonfire response. His fingers danced a devil's dance - sliding around her clit, slipping between her lips, plunging into her wet flesh - fucking her, gently at first, then quicker, harder. 

"Oh, yes... Yes..."

His fingers deep inside her, stroking her hot flesh, coaxing a liquid response - her juices gushing from her like molten lava.

All the time she felt her climax building, building... A furnace burning her body. Helplessly she twisted, her hips bucking against his hand, convulsing against him -- desperately seeking release.

"Oh... Sweet fucking God! Please!" she screamed.

Through lust-dimmed eyes she saw him smile and knew that he possessed her, controlled her - that he wouldn't let her cum.

"No... Please... Please... Please, let me cum... Please... Fucking God, please!" she screamed again, her body shuddering on the edge of the precipice, bucking helplessly against his fingers, his thumb gently rubbing her clit...

"No... Oh... Fuck..." she moaned helplessly, her hands clutching the floor spasmodically, her body twisting, vainly seeking release.

For a second he loomed above her, his pale skin luminous in the dim light, her eyes falling to his massive cock, standing erect between her open legs.

"Yes...fuck me! Sweet God, please fuck me!" she gasped.

"Beg," he said.

There was no hesitation. "Please, I'm begging you... Fuck me. Please... Please... Fuck me... Please, fuck me!" 

Her hands reached out, clutching for him helplessly.

He drove his cock into her in one stroke, his erection slipping wetly into her sodden flesh. For the briefest moment she felt the pleasure as a physical thing - the feel of his cock filling her, spreading her - then her cunt ignited and the pleasure became a sheet of flame shooting through her body. She screamed -- her back arching on the rough floor, her hands gripping helplessly at the dust and the rock.

"Ah... Yes... Yes... Fuck... Fuck... Oh, sweet fuck!"

He fucked her hard, pounding into her body, her legs wrapped tightly about his back - gripping him, encouraging him, pulling him deeper into her. Her hands clutched his hair, pulling his head against the soft warmth of her neck.

"Oh, fuck me... Oh, fuck me..." her gasps timed to his strokes, her body lost in the heat of pleasure.

Whimpering loudly, she felt her climax mounting - a fever raging through her body, heat like nothing she had ever felt -- she had thought herself near before, but it went on building and building.

Suddenly he gripped her head, his fingers twining in her hair, and she felt him explode inside her, jetting semen deep into her body. As if he had given her his permission, she felt her own climax ignite -- indescribable pleasure exploding through her, release burning along her body with a power so great her flesh seemed unable to contain it. Her vision danced with flickering lights and, as if from a great distance, she heard herself screaming over and over again. Slowly, like the kindness of an enemy, blackness claimed her.

She didn't expect to wake up. 

When she did so, she found herself still in the same chamber, still naked, Andrey's cum dribbling from her cunt. Apart from feeling utterly drained, her wrists were manacled behind her.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Andrey said.

She saw him then, sitting on a broken block of masonry, fully clothed now. At the same moment she realised that her wrists were secured to a similar block behind her.

"What are you going to do to me?" Her voice was nervous.

"Nothing," he said evenly. "I'm going to leave you here."

The reality of her predicament sank in. She was naked, chained and helpless in the wastes. In a few hours, maybe less, the dead would come...

"No, please," she said, her voice heavy with fear. 

Then another horrible thought occurred to her. "Is this how Mariya died?"

She saw him shift uncomfortably. "Yes. It took... It took a long time. It wasn't pleasant."

Katerina could imagine how it was: unable to defend herself, the teeth biting, ripping at her flesh - eating her alive - the fingers clawing at her. 

She shuddered.

"Please. Don't do this," she said and she heard the desperation in her own voice.

"That remains for you to decide," he said.

For a moment she felt hope kindle. "What do you mean?"




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 02



Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov stood up gracefully, a pensive look on his face.

"Life in the Great Houses is a dangerous affair. Living or dying often depends on the smallest advantage, on having an edge your opponent doesn't expect," he paused for a moment. "Much as I defeated you here today."

As he talked she tested the chains. Both they and the piton to which she was attached were cold iron, impervious to magic. Perhaps the rock itself then? She reached inside herself, looking for a vestige of power. There was none, she had been completely drained. Even the smallest working would require hours of rest, hours she didn't have.

"Go on," she said. Struggling to keep her voice even.

"I would like to have you by my side, for you to be my edge, unknown to others."

Katerina laughed. "You would trust me with your safety?"

He turned to face her, his eyes -- dark now, she noted - found hers and she forgot to breathe, her mouth suddenly dry. He was beguilingly beautiful, she thought.

"I am no fool, Katerina," he said. "You would do well to remember that.

"Then what, prince?"

"Give me your true name."

For a moment she didn't understand what he asked, then realisation dawned.

"What? You would bind me to you?"

She shivered, surrendering her true name would mean a lifetime of servitude - she would be helpless to resist him. He would have absolute control over her.

"Yes," he paused slightly. "Katerina, I am not looking for a slave -- God knows, I've enough of those already -- I want someone I can trust about me, someone with their wits intact - perceptive, alert, able to support me. With your power and training..."

"No. You ask too much... I cannot," she said. And yet, bound to him for life? Something in her heart secretly thrilled to the idea - she quenched it quickly.

"Is that your response?" he asked. "I had thought..."

"I cannot," she said.

"As you will, then."

For a long moment he stood looking at her and she imagined a touch of regret played about his mouth. Then he turned and, without looking back, he strode across the chamber.

The moment his back was turned fear rushed through her. She was going to die - to die in agony in this dark, lonely place. It was as if his very presence had held back the darkness and, as he receded, it seemed to seep back in, claiming its rightful place about her. It could be night outside already, how long before they came? Was a lifetime with him such a bad trade? 

Each step he took increased her desperation. 

Part of her thrilled at the thought of submission to him, was that not enough? He had looked into her... Had he seen this?

Oh my God, he's leaving me here... He's leaving me here... I don't want to be alone, not here!

"Prince!" she cried the word into the dark, her voice at the edge of madness. "Andrey, please. Don't leave me here, please!"

He didn't even pause, his feet crunching in the falling dust, moving further away, closer to the entrance with every steady step, like a clock counting down her life.

"Angel... My name is Angel!" she screamed, desperation in her voice. In the dark she felt tears run from her eyes, but something else as well, something darker, something secret.

He stopped just inside the doorway.

"I am yours... If you want me," she said, her voice was quiet but she knew he heard her. "Just, don't leave me here."

He walked back to her, picking his way through the dust and rubble. When he reached her, he lifted her chin, looking into her eyes once again.

"Angel," he whispered, and his eyes saw the truth of her name written on her soul. "An appropriate name."

As he led her away he wrapped her nakedness in his warm black cloak. For the first time in her memory, she felt safe, as if she belonged. It was then that she recognized the secret feeling, the thrill... 

It was pleasure.



Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 03



"So, did you see him?" Yelena said, putting a new bottle of wine on the small table between them and lowering herself into the wing back chair opposite. 

Nataliya jumped slightly at her friend's return. She had been drifting in pleasant reverie, staring intently into the dancing orange flames - the warmth of the fire and the half-bottle of sweet wine she'd already drunk conspiring to make her feel warm and fuzzy. So far, she had been forced to relate every nuance of the banquet at the Azarov Kremlin to her friend and, just prior to her disappearance on a hunt for a further bottle of wine, had reached the point she most, and least, wanted to discuss. 

Somehow she knew there was little chance of Yelena missing it out.

"See who?" Nataliya unconsciously mirrored her friend's posture.

"'See who?'" Yelena mimicked. "Who'd you think?"

Smiling, Yelena's dark eyes danced with reflected firelight. She glanced quickly about - making sure they were still alone in the intimate room - before she leaned forward in the chair, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

"Prince Andrey, that's who," she said, quietly.

Nataliya nodded, her face suddenly wistful. 

"Yes, I saw him," she said.

"So, what was he like?" Yelena pushed her chestnut brown hair back off her face, sipping her wine and settling back as if for a story.

For a long moment Nataliya made no reply, staring pensively into the fire. When finally she spoke, it was with a distracted tone.

"God, Lena, he was beautiful," she said. 

Unconsciously, Nataliya found her hand drifting to her lips, touching herself where he had kissed her - as she had done so often since. Her eyes resumed the faraway look that had become so common since that night.

Yelena looked at her friend curiously. "Go on... So what happened?"

Nataliya paused momentarily, weighing up what to say. 

"He kissed me," she said finally.

"What?" Yelena jerked forward in her chair, a look of mingled concern and interest on her face.

Nataliya shrugged, shaking the incident off. "It was nothing, just a little kiss."

"This is Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich we're talking about. You know, 'The Demon of the Azarovs'. I don't think there is such a thing as a 'little kiss'. Do your parents know?"

"God, no. And you can't tell them - they'd go mad!"

"Was it just a kiss?"

"Hell, yes. Just a peck really." 

And I haven't been able to think about anything else all week, she added silently.

"Was it nice?" Yelena giggled, softly.

Nataliya looked at her. She had been close to Yelena all her life; no - more than that - she was Nataliya's older sister in all the ways that mattered. She had never felt the need to keep anything from her - but how do you explain, even to your best friend, that you have been masturbating yourself to orgasm after incredible orgasm every night dreaming about something so silly? She found herself smiling slightly at the thought.

"Yes," she nodded, her voice distant. "Very nice... Like something in a dream."

Yelena was silent for a long time after that, her eyes looking at her friend with a fresh understanding.

"He's had quite an effect on you, hasn't he?"

Unthinking, Nataliya took her lower lip between her teeth, nodding slightly.

Yelena noticed the gesture: Nataliya had been biting her lip like that since she was a girl - whenever she felt shy - though of late the gesture had become more coquettish. There was clearly a story here and she meant to have it. Though, knowing Nataliya, she would be better served by following an indirect route.

"Does he have strange eyes, like they say?"

"Yes, I suppose. They're like sapphires - but bright, like they're lit from inside," she said, smiling. " Like crystals before a candle flame - sort of sparkling." 

She realised that she was gushing and stopped herself.

"They're really nice," she finished weakly.

"So, tell me how this kiss came about?" Yelena smoothed her long dress down, almost matronly.

"It was nothing. Really," she said.

But despite her efforts to stop her friend, Nataliya desperately wanted someone to confide in. So, slowly, but inevitably, she found herself telling Yelena everything about the evening.

"My God! That's so amazing. He actually asked to kiss you?" Yelena relaxed, finally satisfied she'd got everything there was.

Nataliya nodded. "Yes... It was..." she searched for words. "Fantastic."

"So, when are you going to see him again?"

Even though she'd known and expected this part of the conversation, Nataliya's stomach still lurched and she felt her eyes fill: this was the part she couldn't face. Every time she thought of not seeing him again her stomach cramped - aching with a longing she couldn't describe.

"I'm not, obviously," she rubbed at her eyes as if the smoke from the fire was bothering her. "He's hardly likely to care much about a minor family like ours, I doubt he even remembers me."

She felt sick. Even saying it was painful - God, it was just a kiss! She noticed that Yelena was looking at her with genuine concern on her face.

"Well I guess there's only one way to find out," Yelena said eventually.

Nataliya didn't reply for a time, her desperation making her quick to reach for even such a flimsy hope but not so overwhelming that she wasn't frightened of being disappointed.

"What way? How?" Suspicious.

"The Guards."

"What?" Nataliya knew that Yelena's boyfriend was a soldier in the Azarov Guards, but failed to see how this offered a solution.

"Some of the Guards' regiments' officers hold parties at the various barracks in the kremlin. There's quite a crowd, apparently. I'm sure there's one a week, in fact. Vasily has told me all about them."

"I don't follow you."

"The Azarov Guards!" Yelena made a frustrated face, as if Nataliya was dense. "Prince Andrey is one of the crowd, silly. Vasily says that he rarely misses a party. He is an officer as well as a seducer of young, innocent, noble daughters you know,"

Nataliya blushed furiously, prompting a knowing smile from Yelena: So, we have proceeded from kissing to dreaming of him between your legs, she thought. Ah, my innocent little Natasha.

"I'll get you an invitation... Vasily will sort it out, I'm sure."

"But..." Nataliya thought of all the problems. "My parents, they'll never allow it."

"Tell them you're coming here..." Yelena smiled broadly, as if the whole thing was settled. "They'll never know - you stay here all the time. Now, what are you going to wear?"

"What, but..." Nataliya's head was spinning. She knew how much she wanted to see Andrey again, but she'd never lied to her parents before. Not over something this important, anyway.

"Do you have a party dress? Blue I think," Yelena leaned in closer again, looking intently at her face. "Yes, blue, to go with your stunning eyes. You'll be fabulous."

"Uh... Lena, I don't know."

"Do you want to see him again?"

Do I? It's all I think about, she thought. If only you knew what it was like.

"Yes. Of course... But..." she said, shrugging nervously.

"Backbone, girl. Let me sort out a dress... You'll need to come here for fitting so your parents don't find out. I'll get Mariya to fit it. She's excellent," Yelena started ticking off things to sort out on her fingers. "Oh, I'll be your chaperone. I want to meet this Prince of yours."

******

Inevitably, a week later, Princess Nataliya Fyodorovna Rostova found herself sat next to Yelena and her boyfriend Vasily in a Berezin family flyer, a squat black machine reminiscent of a bulky dragonfly, as it swung low over the Azarov Kremlin. The massive red walls of the outer fortress were glowing crimson in the fire of the melting sun and everything below them was tinged with ochre. Above them, the sky was touched with the first purple of the approaching evening. 

It was what Yelena called 'fashionably late'.

At Yelena's insistence she was wearing a deep blue dress that was considerably shorter and tighter than she was used to, barely covering her ass, and which left her shoulders entirely bare. Yelena had styled her hair, a brown so light that it was almost blond, so that it fell smoothly to just below her shoulders and applied only a little make-up to her lips and eyes. Despite the attention, the new dress and the company of her friend her heart was beating like a drum and she was feeling more than a little nervous.

The party to which Vasily had secured them invitations was being held in the Palace of Butterflies, which doubled as the officers' mess for the Guards Infantry. In the week that had passed she had learnt that it was a fairly regular affair - the officers finding barracks life at the kremlin tedious beyond compare and feeling the need to regularly let off steam. Like her, this was Yelena's first party - she had only been with Vasily a matter of a few months and was only starting to learn his social circle.

"There's the palace," Captain Vasily Vasilyich, a slim, professional looking officer with fair hair and a winning smile, pointed at a large building set in the open area beyond the Stygian walls of the Azarov keep itself, but inside the massive red outer walls of the city. From this distance Nataliya could see little, but she felt her stomach lurch. At this point she thought 'Palace of Butterflies' quite appropriate.

The flyer set down on a platform in the outer courtyard. To reach the palace the three of them had to walk across the paved open space of the parade square. Lined on all sides by a mix of barracks buildings, townhouses and palaces, the square was far from empty. It was clear that the open space saw service as a market place - an eclectic scattering of stalls were still selling as they walked through - general public space and as a thoroughfare to pass more easily around the huge kremlin. Crossing it, Nataliya found herself the subject of considerable scrutiny. Self-consciously she found herself tugging repeatedly at the hem of her short dress.

"You look fabulous. No man could resist you," said Yelena, taking her hand.

It was true, Yelena thought, Nataliya looked stunning. The dress was tight enough to show off her willow wand figure - clinging appealingly to the curve of her slim hips and hugging her small tits - and short enough to expose her long, creamy legs; it also complemented her eyes beautifully, if any man got that far up. Of course, her nervous innocence would probably draw them in like wolves to a doe - something she would have to watch out for.

In due course they reached the palace: a broad, two story building of yellow stucco set with tall, white framed windows on both floors. It opened directly onto the paved square over two shallow steps. Standing at the bottom before the front door it was clear that their invitations were entirely unnecessary - the doors lay wide open and entirely unsupervised. From within they could hear distant sounds of singing and shouting, and, momentarily, the sound of smashing glass - followed by a roar. The three of them stopped, this wasn't what she'd been expecting.

"Is it always like this?" Yelena asked Vasily.

"Uh... It can get a bit rowdy at times." He sounded unsure.

As if on cue, two men appeared at the door dressed haphazardly in the uniform of the Guards, although neither had a jacket and one's shirt was partially untucked. The two stank of drink and were carrying a third man in an equally dishevelled uniform. To Nataliya's horror, once they reached the door they threw him out into the street with a roar of amusement. The third man, also stinking of drink, was clearly too drunk to stand and lay crumpled in a heap where he fell - something the other two seemed to find wholly amusing.

"Ah, Vasily, you old rogue!" 

One of the men clearly recognised Yelena's boyfriend and in moments the two of them were holding him around the shoulders and leading him in to the house while he tried to smile reassuringly at Yelena from over his shoulder. Reluctantly, Yelena followed, clutching Nataliya's hand tightly and smiling a little nervously.

Inside, the palace stank of drink. The entrance hallway was cluttered with myriad items of discarded uniform, as if their wearers had just dropped them on the floor, or draped them over any available surface without thought or regard. From an adjacent room, Nataliya heard the squealing laugh of a woman and the shouts of more men. She looked at Yelena - this was probably not a good idea.

Slowly, trailing in Vasily's wake, they picked their way into the palace through the clutter. On the left they passed a large room containing the debris of a large meal - servants and slaves struggling to clear the mess of leftover food from the tables. In the middle of the chaos a group of young men and women, some in dishevelled uniforms and others in civilian clothes, were playing cards, a pile of roubles and drinks scattered on the table before them. Nataliya noticed several other people slumped in chairs or on the floor about the room. Around them, the unobserved servants and slaves were helping themselves to the neglected drinks and leftover food.

At the end of the entrance hall was a grand staircase twisting back on itself along both sides. Following Vasily's small group they ascended with a degree of trepidation, paying little attention to the scattered battle honours and portraits of senior officers that littered the walls of the stairs. Eventually they arrived at what appeared to be the main hall of the palace - a long room above the entrance doorway stretching the full length of the building. On a raised stage at the far end, a small troupe of players were playing lively peasant music against a surrounding cacophony of noise and singing - some following the players, others engaged in their own songs and oblivious to the disharmony they created.

Nataliya was relieved to see more women in this room - including some dressed in frocks such as she wore - but it was clear that they were late to the party, most of the people present were drunk or substantially on their way to being so.

The room was filled with the glow of the dying sunlight, tinting the room in patterns of gold and red. Dotted with candles, the near part of the room was set out much as her own drawing room back home, but on a larger scale: sofas and easy chairs were thrown around the focal points of several fireplaces or gathered about low tables, which were scattered with empty or mostly empty glassware and bottles. A bar was set up partway along, opening into the rear of the palace and the furthest end was an impromptu dance-floor. There was a large crowd in the room wandering loosely about with, or looking for, drinks or clumped in groups around sofas or chairs. It was not immediately obvious whether Andrey was present or not.

Feeling decidedly uneasy, Nataliya and Yelena found seats on a sofa near a tall window that afforded a view back over the square through its damask curtains. In moments, Vasily returned bearing bottles of vodka and glasses and quickly served them. It was apparent by his glazed eyes and flushed face that he had had several drinks already - forced upon him by his erstwhile comrades. Yelena looked decidedly nervous.

"Vasily! Is Prince Andrey Zmeyevich here?" Yelena was forced to shout over the noise, Vasily leaning in close to hear.

"I don't know... I'll find out, hold on... Wait here, okay?" And with that he drifted back into the crowd.

Tentatively, Nataliya sipped her drink. She was not used to such strong liquor and at first it burned her throat on the way down, but after a while she found the foul tasting stuff to bring a pleasant warmth. In fact, it was quite nice, she thought.

"Uh... This isn't what I was expecting, Natasha. But if we find him, it will be worth it," said Yelena, looking less sure than she tried to sound. Nataliya nodded, trying to look relaxed. The drink seemed to help.

An age and several glasses of vodka later, Vasily returned empty handed.

"He's not here," he said. "I think he was sent on a mission yesterday, or the day before. Maybe last week. Something about the wastes or something. Nobody knows for sure. Sorry."

Nataliya felt crushed. All the preparations, all the hiding from her mother and father, all the fitting and fuss with the dress - all for nothing. She felt a tear slide down her cheek and brushed it away. She was being silly, she knew, but somehow that didn't make it any better.

Yelena gripped her hand. "I'm sorry, Natasha. Shall we go?"

"No. Lena, I'm being silly. This was always a long shot. We'll stay, perhaps there'll be someone else," she said, forcing a smile.

Yelena looked around uncertainly, but assented.

Several several vodkas and a few hours later and things started to go seriously wrong. 

At some point - the drink made her a little fuzzy - she and Vasily had left the main room to seek a little more privacy. When they returned it was clear that Nataliya had attracted more attention than she knew what to do with.

Night had fallen and the room was both darker and quieter than before, although a few groups of hardened drinkers remained. Most of the men in the room appeared to be gathered about Nataliya. She was sat on the same sofa she had shared with her when they arrived, but now she shared it with several of the more roguish looking officers - who were judiciously plying her with alcohol. 

Several more were gathered in a wider circle watching their comrades' progress with hard, glinting eyes and lustful glances - sitting on the arms of sofas or settled on chairs. To her eye, Nataliya was clearly drunk and oblivious to her danger. All the time, more of the less savoury element in the room were been drawn to the scene like flies to honey. It was exactly what she had feared might happen.

She tried to push her way through to her friend but found her way firmly blocked, the crowd laughing as they linked together to push her back. Struggling to attract Nataliya's attention, she saw one man put his hand on her thigh, pushing her dress a little higher. Distracted by conversation with two others, Nataliya absently brushed it back down, only for a third man to slide the sleeve of her dress down to much lascivious sniggering. Yelena started to panic.

"Vasily! Help me! Get Nataliya out of there, she's in trouble."

Vasily stared open mouthed, more than a little drunk himself. Exasperated, Yelena pushed him forward.

"Help her!"

"Come on! Let her go..." Vasily shouted at last, trying to force his way through. "Hey!"

Without ceremony or regard he was shouldered aside with considerable force, aggressive cursing following him as he recoiled. He tried again, but several of the rogues turned on him pushing him firmly aside.

"Fuck off, Vasily!"

"Get your own woman..."

Yelena looked around desperately, if she didn't do something fast she knew that Nataliya would be unlikely to leave in one piece - or with her virginity intact. But Azarov Kremlin was far from the lands she knew and there was nobody here that she could turn to. Except...

Moving quickly, Yelena approached a young servant who was passing, collecting glasses.

"You!" She fumbled in her purse, speaking all the time. "Do you know where Prince Andrey Zmeyevich lives?"

"Yes, Highness." The boy, for he could have been no more than sixteen, his skin pale and spotty, stared at her as if she was dense - obviously everyone knew that.

"Go there quickly, get a message to the prince," she pulled out two roubles, a wage of at least a couple of days for the typical servant. "There are two roubles now and another two if you get back here in twenty minutes. Ten if you bring the prince."

"But what message shall I give?"

"Tell him..." she glanced quickly over to where Nataliya was slowly waking up to her predicament, struggling drunkenly to push away the hands of her admirers and seeking vainly to rise, a panicked look on her face. "Tell him Princess Nataliya Fyodorovna, the girl he kissed on the balcony, needs his help - needs his help now!" The servant looked over at Nataliya, comprehension dawning. "Be quick! Please."




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 03



The servant took off at a run and Yelena looked around for a more effective way of getting Nataliya away... She knew that she couldn't count on the prince, he may even not have returned.

Nataliya's head was spinning, she didn't know how many glasses she had drunk but she couldn't seem to focus. All around her she saw the faces of strange men, leering and laughing. Every time she tried to stand up, hands would push her down. On top of this, she had to keep pushing hands off her legs and arms - but every time she did, another hand would appear from somewhere else. She felt frightened but she couldn't seem to focus enough to do much about it. It felt like she hadn't seen Yelena for hours. She just wanted to go home.

Yelena grabbed a bucket of slops from the side of the bar, hefting it to throw.

"Vasily, go get help... Find some sober officers, get the guard, anything. Just do it quickly!"

Looking upset and torn between throwing himself back on the crowd around Nataliya or getting help, Vasily dithered, halfway between the crowd and the door.

Yelena struggled with the wooden pail, half-lifting, half-dragging it closer.

The crowd had definitely got the better of Nataliya now. Barely aware of her surroundings, she was lain out on the couch, her dress high about her waist, her lace panties uncovered. One man was rubbing his hands along her legs, gently stroking her flesh to much encouragement from his friends. A second was miming pulling her dress down over her tits, with much laughing and encouragement.

Yelena hefted the bucket. For just a moment she paused, staring at the men as if trying to find the most effective place to throw it, then she swung the bucket back and hurled the slops over the nearest portion of the crowd with a cry of anger.

For just the briefest moment, everything stopped. But very quickly a new round of laughter broke out amongst the men - the object of which were the two or three she had managed to soak with the waste alcohol.

"Fucking bitch!"

"What...?"

Very quickly their anger was turned on her and Yelena felt afraid for herself for the first time. Seeing quickly how it was going to be, Vasily grabbed her hand and pulled her away toward the stairs. For a moment she thought the men would chase her, but the attraction of what their friends were going to do to Nataliya seemed to pull them back and, in the end, they laughed and pressed closer to the supine girl.

Nataliya was really frightened now. For some reason she was on her back surrounded by the leering faces of men. One of them was holding her hands above her head while a second had hold of her ankles, stretching her over the sofa. A third man was slowly pulling her dress up, something the others had seemed to find really funny a few moments ago, but were now regarding with a forbidding intensity.

"No... Stop it..." Nataliya struggled to form sentences, the room was spinning, but she knew she wanted them to stop. "Don't! Please."

She struggled feebly, trying to pull away - but the men held her firmly. They had her dress above her waist now, exposing her purple lace panties. That done, the hands moved to the top of her dress. Ignoring her struggles, her dress was gently pulled down over her tits, exposing her matching purple bra. Even drunk, on some inner level Nataliya knew what was going to happen and she started to struggle desperately.

"Stop. Please don't!" All laughter had ceased now as lust overcame hilarity and a new tension entered the crowd. "No. Let me go, please. Please."

Nataliya stood no chance. Drunk, barely able to focus, her arms and legs pinioned, she was held still as rough hands kneaded her breasts through her bra. Helpless, tears of anger and humiliation filled her eyes.

"No, not like this... Please," she said, but it was clear that she was incapable of resisting, the drink robbing her of any volition.

A fat finger slipped beneath her bra, brushing the fabric down over her flesh, lifting her tit over the seam. The crowd sighed and she felt the rough hand rubbing her nipple to the encouragement of the surrounding men: laughter and hilarity returning as this new humiliation was heaped upon her. She felt hands on her panties and she struggled vainly - to no avail. Quickly, roughly she felt them pulled down her legs to tangle in the hands holding her ankles. A collective sigh passed through the crowd, a rumbling very close to a growl as her cunt was exposed.

Now rough hands pulled her panties from her, her ankles only momentarily free before hard fingers renewed their grip. She felt sick, she knew what was happening but everything was like a horrible nightmare - her body felt numb, as if it belonged to someone else, the room seemed to be a spinning sea of leering faces.

"Please. Help me..." she said, her voice slurring now. "Please, don't..."

Roughly she felt herself pulled about so that her legs were on the floor, hands on her thighs pulling them open, exposing her cunt. Other hands still held her hands, her arms splayed wide, her tits bare above her dress, hands rubbing them roughly - hurting her. Vaguely, as if in a dream, she watched one man taking off his trousers and she knew what was going to happen - she felt helpless - overwhelmed - tears soaking her cheeks.

"Please, not like this... Please, don't."

Yelena saw him first. 

She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. 

He burst into the room at the run, his presence like a cold northern wind - all fury and animal grace. Behind him a handful of soldiers in armour fanned out across the room, the servant boy trailing in their wake.

Exactly as Nataliya had described, his eyes seemed to glitter with some inner light - just like cut crystals before a flame - but there was nothing of kindness or warmth in them on that night. Even innocent as she was, Yelena felt her skin shiver with goosebumps, her hairs standing on end. Nataliya was right about one thing though, she thought, he was beautiful - beautiful like a frost, like ice.

"Stop!"

He didn't shout, at least not in any conventional sense, he didn't need to. Instead his words seemed to crack through the room with an elemental power - like the breaking of a glacier - the sound somehow visceral; a sound you felt vibrate in your gut as much as hear with your ears. In their wake silence fell like a shroud.

As if to support his words, the armoured soldiers behind him drew weapons from sheaths with mechanical precision - the distinctive whine of firelances being made ready, levelled at the crowd, adding an ominous undertone to his anger.

"The next man who touches her will find himself impaled before the palace gates!" 

His voice was quiet now, only loud in the context of the suddenly silent room, but in those words Yelena heard a cold-blooded fury the like of which she had never experienced. 

The crowd around Nataliya froze to a man. In a flash of dawning terror all thoughts of lust just drained away - the crowd scuttling from Nataliya as if she were suddenly toxic.

Andrey hadn't moved. There was about his stillness at the end of the room, she thought, something infinitely more intimidating than any display of bluster or fury. It was an unnatural stillness - like a spring coiled tight the moment before release, a stillness that spoke of horrifying self control and that made a mockery of the courage of men. 

And the crowd around Nataliya seemed to be all out of courage, babbling apologies in voices rich with newly found terror.

"Highness, it was just a game..."

"Sire, please, nothing was meant."

"Lord Prince, forgive us, we didn't know she was yours."

Boot heels clicking loudly in the now silent room, not deigning to spare a glance for the petrified rabble, he walked to Nataliya's side - his very movements filled with a grace and power that left Yelena awe struck.

She lay where she was left - stretched over the sofa, unconscious - her dress ruched about her middle, her tits and cunt exposed. For a long moment he stared down at her and the stillness returned like the onset of winter.

Andrey knew well the effect of his heritage on women. Had used it countless times - had fucked countless women - so it wasn't that. But something about this girl, for she seemed little more, affected him. That kiss they had shared, he had thought of it often since - as if she had bewitched him. It was as if she appealed to a softer part within him, something he was not used to feeling.

He sensed the crowd standing just behind him. 

"Get out," he said, voice as cold as death - once again reaching inside himself, drawing on the anger coursing through him to energise the words, sending them scuttling about the room - spreading fear into the hearts of those who heard them. 

Very quickly he heard the scum retreating from his presence, his bodyguard hustling them down the stairs, his pensive gaze never leaving Nataliya.

Even drunk she looked beautiful. Her skin soft - cream dusted with gold - so innocent. He felt the stirrings of lust inside as he had the first time he saw her. Lust and something more.

"Please highness, can I cover her up?"

Surprised, Andrey looked over at the speaker - a young woman, only a little older than Nataliya.

"Of course."

Yelena quickly pulled Nataliya's dress over her tits and down over her cunt - making her as presentable as she could. All the while she could feel Andrey's eyes on her back. There was something going on here, she had to admit. That look on his face as he was watching her...almost gentle. Maybe Nataliya wasn't so hapless after all. Vasily handed her a blanket from somewhere and she covered Nataliya with it.

"Do you have somewhere to go tonight?" Andrey said, his voice was even, cultured. No trace of an accent.

"Uh... No, Highness. We had planned on going back home, but..."

"Yes. There are guest rooms at the keep. You can stay there tonight and head back tomorrow." It wasn't an offer, more a command.

"Yes, Highness."

Quickly he sent the servant boy on ahead to warn the keep. Then, to Yelena's shock, he scooped Nataliya up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a small child. To her amazement, the expression on Nataliya's face turned quickly into one of genuine contentment and, asleep though she was, she seemed to snuggle into him. For the first time since she had set eyes on him, Andrey smiled and its warmth transformed his face.

It was indeed a day for revelations, thought Yelena.

If only you were able to enjoy it, eh Natasha? Yelena thought as they walked.

******

The sunlight was burning her eyes, something had crawled into her mouth and died and there was a marching band in her head. Feeling absolutely awful, Nataliya woke to a bright day and was instantly disorientated. The room was unfamiliar, the sun brighter than she was used to: where was she?

God she felt terrible, what had happened last night?

"Ah, you're awake. Welcome back."

"Wh..." her mouth was too dry to speak. "Where am I?"

"Azarov Kremlin. Guest rooms, to be exact," said Yelena.

Slowly, comprehension dawned on her. She looked around at the massive room - many times larger than even her parents' room in Rostov Kremlin - its rich décor so redolent of easy wealth.

"How... Uh... How did we get here?" 

She could recall next to nothing of the evening, her head was pounding.

"In your case, Natasha, Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov carried your unconscious and semi-naked body here in his arms and laid you down in that bed himself," she said, a hidden smile playing in her voice. "Vasily and I walked," she added, as if she had been waiting a long time to say just that.

"What?" Nataliya felt her heart lurch and she tried to sit up but her stomach heaved and she lay back. "How?"

Then something else dawned on her - she was wearing unfamiliar nightclothes.

"Lena, my clothes... Did he? Did you?"

Yelena laughed, genuinely amused.

"Who undressed you, you mean?"

Hands holding her head, Nataliya nodded gently.

"I'm not sure if you want it to be the Lord Prince or not?" Yelena laughed.

"Lena... Please."

"Okay. House slaves - who also found you that dress you wear - undressed you. They also cleaned up your vomit after you were sick in the middle of the night."

"Oh."

"Yes, quite," she said. Then, overcome with relief, she hugged her. "Oh, Natasha, I'm just glad you're okay."

"Why? What did I do?"

"You don't need to know. Just thank the Lord Prince, I think we owe him a lot after last night," Yelena said.

Perplexed, Nataliya looked once again at the room, her nightdress.

"Oh, and drink this," Yelena picked up a glass containing a thick black liquid. "I don't need you hung-over all day. This will help, the Azarov family doctor left it for you."

The liquid smelt sweet, a little of herbs and a little of minerals. Stomach heaving, Nataliya sipped it gently. It tasted like it smelt, perhaps a little too sweet.

"Uh, Lena, I don't think I can."

"Just do it. This is your one chance to impress your Lord Prince: he's seen you drunk, perhaps you'd like to try sober?"

******

By the time breakfast was organised, Nataliya was feeling much better, the drink settling her stomach and relieving her pounding head - although she wished that they could tone the sun down a bit.

Joined by Vasily, the three of them took breakfast in the drawing room adjacent to the guest suite, waited upon by liveried Azarov servants. The sun shining in through two full length draped windows, tinting the room in shades of lemon and white. It was as they were finishing that Andrey joined them, causing them to rise from their food.

"Please, sit down," he said, smiling warmly.

The moment he entered the room, Nataliya felt goose bumps on her arms and her nipples harden. She could feel his presence, even across the room. It was incredibly distracting, overwhelming almost.

He pulled up a chair and sat at the empty side of the table, opposite Nataliya.

"How are you feeling this morning? Did Doctor Drugov's potion work?"

"Mmm... Much better, thank you, Highness," Nataliya smiled. "Yelena tells me that I also have to thank you for what you did for me last night."

"Indeed. Don't think that I will fail to collect payment, Nataliya," he said, laughing, but catching her eye with a meaningful glance. "We Azarovs always collect our dues."

She felt a shiver of pure anticipation pass through her.

"Yes, Highness," she said, looking down demurely.

Yelena watched the interaction with interest: this was delicious!

"But, I also came to apologise for what happened last night," he said, his sapphire eyes taking in all of them. "It is unfortunate that you chose last night to pay a visit to the Guards' Mess. The regiment you saw had just taken up residence after a year long posting to the outer border. It was their first sight of drink in a long time - and things got out of hand, I think."

The three of them made assenting noises.

"Still, no excuses. I have arranged for some disciplinary measures to avoid a repeat occurrence," he said, serious now. "I would also like to invite all of you to dinner at my dacha next week, it's a little quieter than the city," he paused, turning his eyes full on Nataliya. "Nataliya, it would be my pleasure to escort you... Unless there is another?"

"No, Highness... I mean yes, Highness," Nataliya felt flustered, blushing bright red. "I mean, I don't have an escort but I would like to come. As your guest, Highness."

She felt hot and embarrassed, her lip finding its way between her teeth once again. From the corner of her eye she saw Yelena grinning wildly.

"Good. I shall meet you at my dacha. I shall have my majordomo arrange the details with you. Until then," he said, smiling.

As they left Yelena couldn't help but notice that there were new heads impaled above the gate to the kremlin, opposite the Palace of Butterflies. She didn't need to look to know that she'd recognise many of them. Glancing at Nataliya, who seemed oblivious, she shivered, suddenly cold.



Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 04



Katerina drifted about the long, twisting corridors of the Azarov Kremlin; slowly learning her way about, understanding her place in Andrey's schemes, in Andrey's life. So far he had been as good as his word. Perhaps a little too good, she thought.

She was dressed in the tight fitting short black jacket and pants of his bodyguards, her long blond hair scraped back in a pony tail beneath her black field cap, her knee boots polished to a high gleam. At her hip she wore the standard sabre of the Azarov soldiery, long slender and only slightly curved, her possession of which she regarded as some kind of declaration of trust on the part of Andrey - although he well knew that she was no threat to him.

What rank she held was unclear to her, but the way that soldiers in the keep sprang to attention as she strolled past seemed to indicate that he had bestowed a significant authority upon her - she just hoped that nobody expected her to actually do anything. 

The kremlin was far larger than she had realised, split into myriad sections. At its heart towered the massive keep: containing the quarters for the Azarov family, their attendants, slaves, bodyguards - as well as the things required to maintain life on the scale of the ruling family. It was a self-contained city, she'd realised, split over about thirty floors, its layout still largely a mystery to her - although the higher up in the building you lived, the more senior you were and each level was guarded against intrusion from less senior members by armed soldiers.

Beyond the keep the grounds of the walled citadel contained a further small town - twisting and turning about the palaces of the lesser nobility, the parade grounds and barracks of the wider citadel - the whole entwined mass crushed against the immense black shore walls that defined the limit of the original kremlin.

Beyond these defensive walls was the public city - itself enclosed in towering walls of red stone set along the shore in the shape of a sweeping bow. And beyond that - more buildings, more people spilling haphazardly along the banks of the Kolva - their homes, their businesses built up against the kremlin's walls as if seeking protection by proximity.

She paused on the staircase, looking out of a narrow slit in the stone. It was an unpromising location for a city, she thought. While the Dragon Sea could be filtered for water, the arcane machinery hidden deep beneath the habitable levels, the plain upon which it was built received practically no rain - being in the rain shadow of the massive plateau to the west. It was also unbearably hot in the day, almost intolerable beyond the cooling walls of the keep, and then freezing cold at night.

Thinking of the night brought her back to Andrey again, perhaps inevitably. Unconsciously, she sighed.

Since he had bound her to him he had placed almost no demands upon her, had forced her into no action against her will. Indeed, he seemed almost solicitous of her well-being - something she found hard to reconcile with what she knew about him. On the night of her arrival he had installed her in an opulent suite of rooms adjoining his own - deep in the part of the keep set aside for the lower ranked members of the ruling family - taking time to introduce her to his own slaves, the servants that cared for him and offering her their services.

For a while she had wandered the rooms, overcome by the sheer luxury on offer. It seemed that even lesser members of the ruling family lived in style undreamt by lesser mortals. Here there was a chamber set aside for bathing, another for dressing, a further reserved for books - comfortable chairs dotted by desks. Luxury on a scale she had heard about only in books.

Then her eyes had fallen on the fine wooden door adjoining the two suites. 

"Will you order me to your bed again, Highness?" she had said, looking pointedly at it.

His reaction had not been what she had expected. The easy smile on his face had turned to water and run away, replaced first by anger, then by something more complex. "Whatever you may think of me, Sorceress, I make no habit of rape and draw little pleasure from what I am forced to do," he'd said. 

And he'd looked hurt, as if she'd genuinely upset him.

She slept alone that night, lying awake listening to the sound of giggling, the sound of passion - of fucking - drifting through from the adjoining suite. Slaves she had assumed. The sounds had made her feel envious, thwarted - angry, at him, at herself. Then, at their next meeting she'd covered her discomfort with formality. It was a mistake, she now knew, but a cold tension had grown between them as a consequence. A tension that was worse with each passing night.

The thing was, she wanted to share his bed, was quite willing to share it. But she had been too proud to say that then - now she didn't know how to tell him without making things worse between them.

She turned at the end of the corridor, slowly descending the twisting staircase, leaving the family quarters far behind. She had passed few people on her exploration - an occasional soldier patrolling, a scattering of house slaves, some servants busy about maintaining the huge fortress - but then she deliberately chose paths that seemed less frequently used, having no desire for company as she tried to puzzle out the strange turn her life had taken.

She knew that he wasn't human; not entirely anyway. What he was, though - that eluded her. In her short time at the Azarov Kremlin she had learnt that most of the family were bastards. The Princess Ilsa had only birthed three children - the heir apparent Prince Vasily Mikhailovich, Princess Sofie Mikhailovna and Andrey. The rest of the siblings, and she had trouble keeping track of how many there were, were born of the harem of concubines and slave women kept by Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch. Yet Andrey was the only one that carried the patronymic Zmeyevich; the only one openly declared a bastard. 

It wasn't hard to guess as to why. He was the only Azarov not fathered by Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch. The only reason he carried the name was his mother, the Princess Ilsa. Although it was pure speculation, she supposed that she must have persuaded the Lord Prince not to disown him entirely. The question was who - no, what - had fathered him?

She paused momentarily, staring without seeing at a faded tapestry on the wall while her mind toyed with the problem. She had thought at first that he was a cambion, a half-demon, his father some incubus that had forced itself on the Princess Ilsa. But she had known incubi - his power was of a different texture to their crude lust-spells, a different scale altogether. Yet it was undoubtedly infernal, a thing of darkness and hunger. Finally, with a mental shrug, she continued on her way - no closer to a solution.

This part of the fortress seemed busier, though she had no real idea where she was. The wide corridor was filled with a bustle absent from the higher levels. She stepped into the flow, moving faster than she wanted to, looking for an opportunity to slip into a quieter passage. Numerous corridors opened off from the main artery she followed, some well travelled thoroughfares; others narrower, quieter. Finally, when it became clear that the corridor she followed ended at the massive kitchens, she chose a quieter passage at random and ducked out of the crowd.

She found herself walking past a small shrine to the Nine, little more than a niche in the wall, along a tiled passage that became a shadowed cloister. To her right it opened onto a leafy and secluded quadrangle, surrounded by the hulking walls of the fortress. Within she heard the sound of water falling and smelt foliage and blossom - a refreshing change from the searing heat and the arid plain that surrounded them.

In a few steps she passed between a pair of whitewashed columns and entered the paved area beyond. Shaded by the high walls, the quadrangle was a haven of palms and cypress trees, of low growing shrubs in walled borders, all encouraged to grow in a semblance of wildness. Around the cloister itself the brightly coloured blossom of straggling bougainvilleas hung down from the walls and draped like fragrant curtains between the greenery. In the centre a fountain danced in the diffuse light, a simple jet emerging from a square pool to fall dancing into the water.

Katerina found a secluded stone bench hidden amongst the overgrowing greenery and lowered herself into it, breathing deeply of the cool, damp air. For once she felt fully at peace.

"So, you are the sorceress I sent him to kill," the voice said. 

Her eyes snapped open - she hadn't realised she'd closed them. Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch stood in the quadrangle, armoured soldiers, insectile in black chitin, standing discreetly in the background, a bearded man with swarthy skin behind him, to his right. His dark eyes were fixed on her and she saw little warmth in his lupine gaze.

"You look quite alive to me. Are you? Alive I mean."

She shuffled awkwardly on the bench. "Yes, Highness. Uh..."

"As I thought. That hardly seems like success to me; more like failure. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Uh... Highness?" She could feel power oozing from the bearded man - he was dangerous, truly dangerous. Mikhail was like a shadow, little substance, nothing to read.

"Well, you're alive. I asked for you to be dead. I dislike being disappointed."

Katerina started to feel nervous.

"Prince Andrey, he thought I could help..."

"Yes, yes. He has always been a sentimental fool at heart. 'Demon of the Azarovs'. Nonsense. When it comes to pretty women his judgement has always been suspect," he said, his voice cold. "One day I'll have to disabuse him of that romanticism. Perhaps today, what do you think?"

A chill was creeping up her back.

"Highness, I don't know what to say..."

"No, well maybe I shouldn't ask you; you're prejudiced. Alexander," he said, pointing at the bearded man, though his eyes never left her. "What do you think? Is a lesson needed?"

"Highness, to teach others is an obligation - an opportunity to enlighten should never be ignored," Alexander said, his voice deep and twisted with a peculiar malice. 

Katerina felt herself shiver.

"See, It is not so hard," speaking to her now. "Failure must lead to instruction lest it breed further failure in future. The question is, what kind of lesson is suitable?"

"Uh, Highness... I, uh..." she said, genuinely scared now, her mind refusing to find words for her. 

She shifted on the seat, torn between reaching for the power coursing through her and doing nothing. Instinctively she knew that if she called her power the bearded man would know, would assume that she intended harm to the Lord Prince - what would happen then? She watched the cruel smile play over his face, his dark eyes laughing though no warmth lit his face. He knew.

Her eyes drifted to the bodyguard - casually alert, firelances trained on her without seeming to be. 

She had no chance; were they goading her? Frightened, tense, she forced herself to relax.

"Yes, very eloquent, I'm sure." Mikhail's eyes were cold. "So, Alexander, shall I have this pet of Andrey's flayed alive and her skin delivered to him as a gift - an inducement to success, you might say, a tonic against romanticism?"

Katerina swallowed. He actually fucking meant it! Wide eyed she looked from one to the other, seeing no trace of comfort or humanity in either face. 

The bearded man leaned in closer, his eyes drifting over her body hungrily - but more in the manner of a butcher than a rapist. Behind him she saw the bodyguards tense, gather closer - heard more soldiers moving in the foliage behind her seat. Cold sweat ran down her back.

"Ah, Highness. I'm sure Andrey would take much from that lesson." Alexander's voice was hoarse with desire, as if he wanted to do it himself, right now.

"What do you say, 'pet'? Will your death in this manner be enough for him to learn this lesson? Will he appreciate your stripped skin for the message it carries?"

She couldn't seem to think, it was all happening too fast. Claws of panic took hold of her.

"Highness, please... Prince Andrey, he wants..."

"Yes. I know what Andrey wants. It's what I want that should concern you now. He cannot protect you here. Be under no illusions, you stand on the brink of death...a truly horrible death, if I might say...does that not focus your mind?"

She fidgeted, petrified, didn't know what to say not to make things worse. She wanted to speak but no words would come. It was like a nightmare.

"Obviously not. Well, I am not given to rushing in to these things," he said, finally, standing straight. "I shall think on this lesson I owe Andrey further."

His voice turned businesslike. "In the meantime, I expect you to fetch your master. Tell him I want to see him in my staff room at twelve noon."

She felt sick, shaky. Struggled to find her voice.

"Yes, Highness."

She lurched to her feet, every ounce of self-control exerted to stop her running in a mad panic. Her legs were like rubber.

"Oh, don't think I shall forget about you. I am no romantic like Andrey," he said as she staggered away.

They were mad. Hateful, cruel and mad.

******

She forced herself to walk, locking her fear under a skin of anger. As soon as she was clear of them she called her power - stoking it, building it - drawing comfort from its strength, feeling it pulsing through her until she practically crackled with energy - if they came for her now they would find her far from helpless.

Somehow it didn't make her feel any safer.

Suddenly the kremlin seemed colder, a frightening place of twisting corridors filled with shadow and movement - every face concealing malice. For a long while she walked not knowing where she was going, her mind replaying and rehearsing the scene she had just left - each time her heart grew colder, her fear greater. 

Finally it occurred to her - to return to her quarters all she had to do was go up.

She took the next staircase, ascending in a clockwise spiral next to the outer walls of the kremlin. She found that her guess was a little off, reaching an area of barracks above the main thoroughfare, but a quick correction by the duty officer set her toward the heart of the fortress and her quarters.

By the time she shut her door behind her her composure was starting to slip - she wavered hysterically between anger and despair. The door bolted, her eyes fell on the one adjoining Andrey's room. Without giving herself time to think she marched over to it and threw it open, fully prepared to blast it off its hinges if it thwarted her.

She needn't have worried, it swung open with a suitable bang.

Andrey was sat at a writing table adjacent to the room's tall windows, a book open before him. He looked up as she slammed the door open, his face tense as he perceived the power coursing through her.

"The Lord Prince just threatened to have me skinned alive to teach YOU a lesson!" she said, voice breaking, nearly shrieking - threatening to break into sobbing at any moment.

"What?" He rose from the desk, pushing the chair back, part turned toward her.

"Am I not making myself clear?" Hysteria bubbling, she felt like giggling, like crying. "Prince Mikhail and some bearded monster just discussed flaying me and presenting you with my skin...for some, some..."

"Hey, it's okay."

In two quick steps he was there, his arms around her, pulling her to him - holding her. She breathed in his scent, felt the play of his muscles beneath his shirt and then she didn't need to be strong anymore, didn't need to pretend. Suddenly she was shaking like a leaf, sobbing uncontrollably into his chest while he mumbled soothing words, kissed her hair, stroked her, comforted her as she released her fear, her tension, her horror - her power held so tense inside dribbling away.

Finally, eventually she felt herself calming, her tears subsiding - his warmth, his stillness seeping into her.

"Right. Now tell me what happened," he said, sensing the change.

Slowly she relayed all she could remember of the events in the quadrangle - shivered again at the malice in their eyes, the horrible desire of the bearded man.

"That is Count Alexander the Butcher. You're right, he is a dangerous man - the Lord Prince's warlock. If I am a romantic fool, he is a cold-hearted murdering bastard."

He was quiet for a while then, thinking; all the while holding her.

Finally: "Well, it can't be helped. I had hoped to keep your presence here concealed for at least a little longer, but it seems that you are a piece in the Great Game now."

"Andryusha!" she said, voice strained. "They threatened to flay me alive! Just to teach you a lesson."

"Yes, I know." A pause. "But the fact that you're here now shows that they think you have more value alive than dead."

She looked up at him.

"You heartless bastard - they threatened to kill me, over nothing. They fucking meant it, Andrey. This is no game, this is my life!"

She pulled back from him, not quite leaving his embrace, but close.

"Sorry, sorry." His face was concerned, his eyes soft. "It's just that I've lived like this all my life, each day a manoeuvre in the game, each piece balanced against every other - I forget just how cruel it can be." Again a pause, his eyes searching hers, his look tender. "I won't let them hurt you, trust me."

She allowed herself to be pulled back into his arms, folding against his chest - feeling safe, protected. She breathed him in, pressing her cheek to his chest - feeling his heartbeat. She wanted things right between them, wanted him.

"The Lord Prince can't afford to move against me - much as he would like to, I'm sure - he relies on me too much to keep the minor families in line. What he did to you he did to send a message to me - he was making clear that he knew he could reach me through you." His hand was stroking her hair, his nose brushing the top of her head, breathing her scent. "And I'll take extra care of you, I promise. From now on I don't want you out of my sight, understand?"

She nodded into his chest, knew what she had to do to fix things.

"I know you won't order me to your bed, Prince."

She felt him stiffen slightly, his head shaking gently.

"I won't..."

"But will you turn me away if I come willingly?" she said, cutting him off.

"Katya, I didn't bring you here..."

She placed her fingers on his lips, stopping him. She didn't want to hear him say it.

"Andrey, listen to me." She looked down, unable to meet his eyes. "I know you have another, but I am bound to you now, my soul is yours. If you won't have me, I have nothing. Please don't turn me away."

For a second, nothing - her heart pounding itself to pieces in her chest - then delicate fingers lifted her chin. She looked up into those deep, sapphire eyes - holding her gaze - and his lips were on hers, soft against her skin, his tongue slipping into her mouth.

"No," he breathed. "I won't turn you away."

Her arms circled him, pullling him to her, leaning into his kiss, her tongue twining with his - feeling the texture of him, his warmth, his taste. All the while their lips moving hungrily - his hand on her neck, holding, stroking.

She tugged his shirt free of his waist, her hands on his bare skin; felt the muscles of his back clenching as he lifted her, carrying her as if she weighed nothing. Without thought her legs wrapped about his waist, her mouth never leaving him, her hands clinging to him - the Lord Prince and his murderous friends forgotten as her passion surged.

He lowered her to the bed, kneeling between her open legs.

Desperately she pulled his shirt up, pulling it over his head. Her hands gripped his back, fingers digging in to his flesh - her tongue dancing madly in his mouth.




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 04



With sudden aggression she reversed position, pushing him down onto the bed, straddling him. He fell back beneath her.

"See how you like it," she laughed.

Her mouth closed over his nipples, her pointed little tongue flicking over his flesh, her hands kneading his muscles, luxuriating in the feel of him.

"Mmm. I think I could get used to it," he said, hands above his head, his eyes meeting hers over his chest, her tongue licking a path along his torso. Her hands fell on the bulge in his uniform pants, her eyes flashing.

Smiling wickedly she undid his belt, tugging his pants down - his erection springing free.

"Ah, now isn't that better?" she said, sighing.

Her hand closed about the base of his cock, gently stroking it, kneeling over his legs, trapping them.

"Much..."

Slowly she lowered her head to his cock, her little tongue poking out so that it just touched the very end. Her eyes met his over the oozing head.

"What shall I do now, Highness?"

He could feel her breath on his sensitive flesh, the tip of her tongue tasting him. His cock was so hard it was almost painful.

"I think you should suck it..." he said, breathlessly.

With agonising slowness she closed her lips over the head, her tongue licking around the sensitive flesh - soft and warm and so very sexy. Gradually she slid her mouth down along his cock before sucking her way back up.

She lifted her mouth clear, a string of saliva and fluid dripping from her mouth.

"Is that what you meant, Highness?" she said, all innocence but her eyes wicked.

"Oh, you bitch...yes, yes that is what I meant..."

Smiling a thoroughly evil smile, she bent to his cock again, taking him in her mouth once more. This time she worked him in earnest, her mouth pumping along the length of his cock, her tongue circling his head, her full lips slathered in his juices.

"Oh, Katya... That feels so good... Ah, fuck..."

She smiled around his cock, licking it from bottom to top, then lifting her head once again.

"Uh uh. This time you get to wait until I cum!"

Kneeling above him she shucked her jacket, slowly shedding her uniform, her body slim, athletic, tanned to golden tones.

"Oh, you vindictive little monster."

For a moment, laughing, she struggled to remove her boots then her pants were gone, too, and her underwear quickly followed the rest of her clothes onto the floor.

When she returned to the bed he was naked too, his pants thrown in a heap over the desk.

All teasing forgotten now they fell on one another - flesh pressed to flesh, his body hard and warm against hers. By artifice or accident she ended up on top, once more, straddling him. His cock standing erect between them, her cunt wet on his legs.

She lowered her body onto him, rubbing her sensitive tits against his torso like a cat. She kissed him once again on his lips, chaste, her hand reaching for his cock - guiding it into her waiting cunt.

Eyes fixed with her own, she gradually lowered herself onto him, watching his pleasure light in his gaze. She felt him filling her, pressing into her flesh and she moaned, her passion reflected in his eyes. As before his power seeped into her - soft, sensual, so seductive - possessing her spirit as his cock possessed her body. In its wake her every nerve seemed to be tingling, pleasure shivering through her flesh. It was overwhelming. It was as if there was nothing beyond that moment - no future, no past - her body thoroughly alive, shivering with ecstasy.

She moaned in pleasure, arching her back, sliding herself against him.

They didn't speak - their mouths pressed together in a single unbroken kiss - but the room was filled with the wet sound of their fucking, their gasps, moans, the sound of their breathing and, all the while, kissing - soft meaningless whispers of passion. 

She felt her climax mounting, his fingers on her ass sliding into the moist flesh between her cheeks, his other hand slipping down her belly, into her cunt. Desperately she thrust her body down onto his cock, her desire driving her harder and harder. She felt alive like never before - as if all of life beyond the feelings shooting through her was but a shadow - helpless in the grip of her passion.

"Oh my God," she gasped.

His finger teased around her asshole, gently pushing her open. For a moment she tensed, then his other hand was on her cunt, his finger pressing gently on her clit.

She moaned, gasping with passion, felt his finger slip into her ass.

"Oh, fuck."

She felt possessed. His tongue was in her mouth, his cock deep inside her, his fingers dancing in her cunt - driving her wild - his finger in her asshole - gently slipping into her; his spirit touching her soul, feeding her passion - naked lust.

"Oh, please... Oh, fuck..."

Her hands gripped him, clutching his shoulders, gripping his head. She needed him, wanted him...

"Oh, God... Oh, God... I'm cumming..."

Frantically she drover her body back onto his cock, his fingers deep in her ass now, pressing urgently into her clit.

"Ah, fuck..."

Her breath escaped in a ragged moan, felt his cock spasm a response deep inside her.

Then her climax swept over her, the power of it convulsing her, twisting her against him. She felt it matched by his - hot fluid shooting into her - clinging to one another as wave after wave shook them.

Then they were panting and gasping together on the bed, skin slick with sweat - pressing together, clutching one another as if their very lives depended upon it; laughing, crying. When the passion finally receded they found themselves washed together, their limbs twined as one, her head cradled on his shoulder, eyes locked together mere breaths apart.

She kissed him then - gently, almost shyly - her hand caressing his cheek, a faraway look in her eye.

"You need to be in the Lord Prince's staff room for twelve noon," she said, giggling suddenly.

Andrey glanced at the clock on the wall - eleven forty-five.

"Shit," he said, struggling to extract himself. "Come on...get dressed, quick."

"What?"

"Oh, you don't get off that easily - not out of my sight, remember?"

With that he grabbed the cover from the bed and lifted it suddenly, dumping her, squealing onto the floor.

******

At twelve noon the two of them were at the staff room door, making a reasonable impression of two people who haven't just been fucking. Andrey raised his hand to knock, smiled at Katerina.

She smiled, a little coyly, then reached up and kissed him quickly on the lips.

He knocked.

"Enter."

The staff room was bright with sunlight from several tall multi-lit windows along the wall, their diamond panes stained to filter the light into golden hues. Above, a domed cathedral ceiling rich with patterns representing the Nine picked out in gold reflected the light. Before them a long table, polished to a deep shine stretched the length of the room. At its far end sat Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch, Count Alexander hovering in the background like a bearded vulture.

Andrey bowed, his every movement rich with grace and power. Rather less elegantly, Katerina hurried to follow suit.

"You summoned me, Lord Prince."

With Andrey present the dynamic seemed to have changed. Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch still had all the warmth of a glacier and Count Alexander still glared malice at her, but there was a new wariness about them now that Andrey was present. They found something about him unsettling, unnerving, she thought.

"Yes, I did." Mikhail fell silent, his attention fixed on a pile of documents before him. For a long while the silence in the room was broken only by the scratching of his pen on the paper.

Discreetly positioned at the back and around the sides of the room were a half dozen soldiers in the uniforms of bodyguards: faces flat, unreadable.

For his part Andrey was quite content to glare maliciously at Count Alexander who, she noted, steadfastly refused to meet his eyes. Having been on the receiving end of those eyes, she could understand his fear; it was certainly worth knowing.

"Three days ago soldiers from the Dragomirov estate intercepted a woman crossing the wall. At first they thought she might be part of a smuggling ring, or a black marketeer. But when they searched her they found this," he said, handing Andrey a folded paper.

Andrey opened it, his face neutral.

"As you can see, it's a message between smugglers in the wastes and one of our noble families." He leaned back in his chair, one finger tapping the pile of papers before him. "I'd like very much to learn the identity of that House."

"Yes, Highness."

"The smuggler is being held in the Dragomirov kremlin dungeons. Go there. Do what you have to do...get me that name."

"Highness."

"And Andrey, this time," he said, looking pointedly at Katerina, "try to follow instructions. If you succeed, I might forget about your last disobedience. Do I make myself clear...to you both?"

"Yes, Highness." Katerina mumbled her agreement.

"Good. Don't let me keep you."

And with that they were dismissed.

Outside, Katerina grabbed Andrey's arm.

"Is that all I am to him? All my life is worth...a token to persuade you to do his bidding?"

Andrey looked pensive, folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.

"Yes," he paused, his eyes faraway. "Ask yourself what that really means before you get too upset."

"Too upset?" she said, angry now. "It means you're all fucking monsters, that's what it means, Prince."

******

They took a flyer to the Dragomirov Kremlin. It was situated at the northwestern tip of the plateau, forming part of the necklace of fortifications that surrounded its fertile lands. Beyond the kremlin the wastes stretched without limit.

For most of the long journey they had been silent, the handful of soldiers they'd brought content to let them brood. Finally, able to stand it no longer, Katerina crossed to sit next to him and took his hand in her own.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. He just scares me..."

Andrey remained silent for a while, holding her hand tightly. "I promised I'd look after you. I will," he said finally.

"I know," she said, looking out of the window of the flyer. "I'm just not used to living in this way. I'll get used to it."

Below she watched the plateau pass beneath her, fields turning to forest and - in the distance - signs of cultivation.

When she turned back he was looking at her with a peculiar intensity.

"You know what it is I do, Katya."

She nodded. "I know what you do."

"If not me, they would put her to the question - a lot less pleasant, less precise."

"Why are you telling me this?" She squeezed his hand. "I know what's going to happen."

"I'm no monster, Katya."

She smiled. "I only said you were a couple of times."

Andrey laughed quietly, little genuine amusement in the sound.

The kremlin of the Dragomirov family was only a fraction of the size of Azarov Kremlin. A simple citadel surrounded by a wall and adjoining the massive barrier that circled the plateau. They circled once, seeing figures below dashing about, pointing skyward, then settled in an open area just inside the outer walls.

By the time they were ready to depart a small group had gathered around the flyer, mostly black clad soldiers with a green stallion badge on their breasts, although other figures could be seen running from the kremlin in the distance toward them.

The soldiers exited first, forming a double file before the flyer's doors. Katerina stepped out next, wearing her black uniform, casually joining the soldiers before Andrey exited, again wearing his uniform - gold prominent in the braiding on his shoulders, the piping on his trousers, the dragon on his chest.

By the time he reached the floor a portly man with a balding head had reached them, panting and huffing in his plain black uniform - slightly longer than Andrey's tailored fit.

"Lord Prince," he said, mopping his head with a kerchief. "Please be welcome. We've been expecting you."

Despite his welcoming words he looked decidedly uneasy, Katerina thought.

"Thank you, Prince. I trust that everything is as it should be?"

"Yes, Highness." He led the way across the open ground towards the kremlin. "Would you like to see her now or perhaps some refreshment first?"

He mopped his head again, puffing, his face florid.

"It's been a long journey, Prince," Andrey said, smiling. "Perhaps some food and drink first, yes?"

"Of course, Highness."

Although well appointed, it was clear that the Dragomirov family was struggling to keep standards. The decor of the kremlin was tired, slightly frayed about the edges. They entered the main keep through an open doorway into a large rough stone hall scattered with long tables. Servants in livery were rushing to lay the table, bustling back and forth to the kitchens behind.

"Highness, I will ensure that food and drink is brought for your men," he said. "Perhaps we could retire to my drawing room?"

Andrey nodded assent.

The drawing room was more comfortable than the main hall - a small room with a fireplace, a set of French windows opening on to an enclosed garden withing the walls, a handful of comfortable chairs and sofas, a table.

A thin woman - about fifty or so, Katerina thought - was sitting in the room. She rose as they entered, her long dresses rustling as she moved.

"My wife, the Princess Olga," Yuri said. Olga bowed low with a further rustle of fabric.

"Charmed, Princess," said Andrey, ghosting a bow. "My bodyguard, the Lady Katerina." Indicated her with his hand.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Katerina," Yuri said. "You are welcome in our house."

Food and wine was brought and, for a while, there was light conversation, the four of them reaching a silent accord to avoid talking business during lunch. Katerina did no more than pick her food. For some reason being here now, with Andrey, like this - it was both too much like the life she wanted and too much like a reminder of the one he had taken from her. The woman, the prisoner, could so easily have been her. What was she feeling - was she as scared as Katerina had been? Waiting, not knowing for what or for how long before they came for you? She was no sorceress, Katerina would have felt her, was that better or worse?

"Where is the prisoner now?" Andrey said, breaking her mood.

"Below, in the dungeon." 

Yuri mopped his brow - a nervous habit, she thought.

"Has anyone questioned her?"

"Uh, no, Highness. Once we found the message we sent word straight to the Lord Prince."

"Good. And my quarters?"

"I have had the guest suite prepared," he said, looking at Katerina. "Will your, ah, bodyguard need a separate room?"

Andrey stared at Yuri for a long while, his face icy, punishing his impropriety - the florid prince fidgeting uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

Finally. "Yes, Prince, she will. See to it. Once that is done I will see my rooms and then the prisoner."

******

The prisoner was a thin woman, short with dark eyes and hair cut in a ragged bob. Chained to the wall by her wrists, she watched Andrey warily as he paced about the dank cell.

No more than two paces in any direction, the only light came through the now open door - showing a floor strewn with filthy rushes and rough stone walls slick with damp. Located deep beneath the kremlin it was chill and damp and Katerina felt a fleeting sympathy with the chained woman. She must be petrified, she thought, though if she was she showed little sign.

"You know me?" Andrey said.

The woman nodded, her eyes half closed against the light from the door.

"Good. That will make things easier. Will you tell me your name?"

The woman shook her head.

"No matter. That will be one of the things we shall discuss. Before I go to that trouble, will you answer my questions now?"

The woman looked away, her silence eloquent.

"As you wish," he said. Then aside, to the prince. "I will see my quarters now. Once I am ready have her brought to me there."

"Yes, Highness."

"Oh, and Yuri, clean her up first, yes."

******

The window of the guest suite looked out over the inner courtyard of the kremlin, a small balcony affording a better vantage point. In the distance, beyond the walls of the kremlin, the wastes were visible as a red smudge, the twin moons skeletal against the blue sky though the sun was barely dimmed. He had always felt an affinity with the moons, had found peace in their contemplation since his youth. On most evenings it had become his habit to stand thus on his own balcony, the duality of his soul finding its mirror in their light. Or at least so he fancied.

As had become usual of late he found his thoughts returning to Nataliya. It had been a similar night with a similar view when he had stolen - no, not stolen, claimed - his kiss. Since then...

A knock at the door pulled him back from his reverie.

The interior of the guest suite was modest. A simple pair of rooms, one a chamber with a sunken bath and a toilet; the other a bedroom with a four poster bed, a desk, a chair, a chaise longue - all in shades of lemon and white. Refreshing if a little predictable.

The prisoner was escorted by two soldiers, her hands still chained before her. She wore a simple grubby tee-shirt in grey with a similarly grubby pair of denim jeans, bare feet. In the better light of the room he guessed her to be in her early thirties. Maybe late twenties. No taller than five foot two, slight build verging on skinny.

With her chains removed he dismissed the guard, locking the bedroom door behind her, trapping her inside with him.

Andrey sat on the edge of the desk, looking her up and down.

"Would you like a drink? There's wine here...water?"

She looked at him suspiciously, her face nervous.

"Water," she said quietly, her voice a little rough.

Andrey poured water into a silver goblet, handed it to her. She drank it hurriedly, liquid dribbling down the side of her mouth. He refilled it, waited while she drank another, then a third.

"Better?"

She nodded. "What are you going to do to me?"

"That depends on you." He pulled out the folded paper with the message on it, the words scrawled in black ink. "I need to know which House is engaged in the illegal trade of old tech, how that trade is managed. What happens to you depends on how quickly you decide to answer me."

"If I refuse?"

Andrey smiled. "I will seek to persuade you."

For a while they stood in silence, Andrey watching her thoughts play across her face.

"So, will you answer my questions?"

For a second she was still, then he saw her eyes dart to the window, wondering if escape lay that way. With a cry she swung her gobblet at his head, already lunging for the window.

Faster than a spike of adrenaline Andrey felt his demonic soul twist to life - infernal power ripping through him. In one smooth motion he slipped back from her blow, his foot sweeping her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling to the floor with a rush of exhaled breath.

"Okay, we'll do it this way then."

In two steps he was on her, grabbing her around the waist, hurling on to the bed. She flailed helplessly for a moment, still gasping for breath after her fall. He pushed her face down onto the bed, pressing his knee into her back.

She struggled uselessly to throw him off, grunting with the effort. Slowly, lifting her tee shirt with one hand, he used his bootknife to cut the shirt from collar to waist, letting it fall open to show her bony back, the strap of her bra. He looked down on her naked back - reaching into himself, feeling the power flow into him.

His knee was right in the small of her back, like a rod of iron. No matter what she did she couldn't budge it. Helplessly she clawed at the bed covers, straining. Felt her shirt being lifted, the sound of cutting and her back felt cold - exposed. Oh my God, he was going to cut her!




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 04



She steeled herself, expecting the touch of cold steel, pain. Instead felt the touch of his finger at the nape of her neck - warm, impossibly warm. Pleasure flowed into her, her skin tingling. With a featherlike touch his finger traced a twisting line down her spine to the small of her back - a line of pure ecstasy - she felt it shiver across her skin, heard herself moan - an earthy, sexy sound.

"Oh my God!" she said, words unbidden, unconscious of her mind.

The line drawn on her back tingling still, she felt him draw a second in parallel, a third - each time she gasped in shock at the sensations shooting through her. She lay supine now, all thoughts of escape forgotten - it felt so good, so very good.

She felt him release her, shook herself. Struggled to sit up, to stand, holding her shirt to her chest. It was as if she was waking from a dream. He was stood near the window, unbuttoning his shirt.

"What...what did you do to me?"

"Tried to persuade you." He slipped his shirt off, draping it on the chair. "Will you answer my questions now?"

She swallowed. "No."

He walked slowly toward her, forcing her to back up until her back was against the door. He trapped her in the cage of his arms, his chest pressing her back. She looked up into his eyes, blue - so blue, so beautiful - sparkling. She felt her head swim - he was so close, she was breathing him in, feeling his heat against her skin. Oh, God.

He pulled her shirt from her and she let it go, standing helpless before him. His eyes, so close. She could feel his presence deep inside her - alien, warm, sexy, seductive. She hated him, didn't she?

He ran his hand over her cheek and she moaned, desperately pressing against his touch, her eyes closed. His lips pressed against hers and it was as if someone had set her on fire. Lust, overwhelming desire, need - burning through her - a fire in her cunt, her tits. She whimpered piteously, her lips hungrily pushing against his, her hands grabbing for him, pulling herself to him.

He unclasped her bra, allowing it to fall away, freeing her tits - small, nipples hard, wrinkled - then scooping her up, throwing her on to her back on the bed.

She moaned - lust sweeping through her, her body desperate, needful.

His hands were on her jeans, unbuttoning them, pulling them down - she struggled to help, lifting her hips, kicking them free. Her panties followed and she lay back, legs open, offering herself wantonly.

"Please... Please..."

Andrey slipped out of his clothes, sliding into the bed next to her. He slid his hand over her body, stroking her flesh - slick with sweat already - feeling her lust kindling like a flame at his touch, heard her whimpering desperately, thrusting her sodden cunt at his hand - seeking release.

He bent forward taking her nipple into his mouth, he could taste her skin - salty, damp - her nipple hard in his mouth, the pattern of her flesh ridged beneath his tongue; his awareness, his soul, felt her lust flame, heat searing through her body from his contact - gasping, moaning in response - knew she was his now.

He slipped his hand along her thigh, feeling the slick flesh grow warmer, wetter as he reached her cunt. He stroked her pubic hair with his palm, felt her bucking helplessly against him, her hips jerking. Slid his finger into her soaking flesh, parting her lips, sliding into her body, over her clit - gently circling it, pressing her flesh, fingering her, frigging her.

She was moaning helplessly, whimpering, her whole body bucking and jerking in time with his fingers - all the while the flame of her lust, her need blazing higher. Soon.

"Ah, fuck. Please, fuck..."

Faster, frigging her, fingers inside her.

"Oh... God! Oh..."

Whimpering, gasping, moaning. His fingers deep inside her, fucking her. Andrey slid between her legs, his hands parting her thighs.

"Yes... Oh, fuck me, fuck me, please."

Her cunt was soaked and his cock slid easily into her body, sliding deep inside on the first stroke. He heard her moan loudly, a ragged, hoarse sound as he plunged wetly inside her.

"Oh, yes..."

He leant forward, kissing her, her tongue in his mouth like a wild thing - alive with desperation. He fucked her hard, his cock plunging into her, her body crushed against his. She wrapped her legs about him, pulling him into her - harder, faster.

"Oh, fuck... Oh, please... Please."

Lust, desperation burned through her - he could feel her need like a bonfire, burning her up, consuming her - all the while his soul possessing her, preventing her release, stopping her from cumming.

"Please, please, please...oh, fuck."

His cock plunged in, her flesh warm, wet, welcoming. Her desire was naked, her need desperate - she had to cum - to his soul's sight her body was on fire, waves of need, waves of lust burning through her, searing her with their heat. And at her heart, his own presence - stopping her, holding her body on the brink, forever wanting... Beneath him she bucked desperately, whimpering, mewling helplessly.

"What's your name?" he said.

"Yulia, name is Yulia... Please, fuck, I have to cum..." Whimpering, her body bucking, pulling him to her, crushing herself to him.

"Yulia, where does the trade in old tech take place?"

"Oh, God, fuck me, fuck me..."

Hammering her flesh, sweat dripping from her, her head thrashing about on the pillow.

"Where, Yulia?"

"Plateau. Oh...fuck! It changes...oh, fuck, please...next one is Drissa Falls, at Drissa Falls... Please, I can't take any more... Please."

Gasping for breath, chest heaving, veins standing out on her neck, her heart hammering fit to burst.

"Nearly there, Yulia. What is the name of the family you deal with, who organises it?"

"Oh, sweet fuck! Please, let me cum... " Tears pouring from her eyes, her body gripping him like a vice, his cock pounding into her, crushing her to the bed.

"The name, Yulia... Who is it?"

"Please. Please... Begging you, please..." Fingernails clawing his back, her face red with strain, her voice forced, strained.

"The name, I'll let you cum then."

"Oh, fuck... Please, let me cum, let me cum..." Shrieking now, her body so exhausted, her need so acute it was an agony.

"The name, just the name..."

"Ahh, it's Rostov, Fyodor Rostov... Please!"

Andrey felt his blood run cold. Shit.

She was whimpering below him, twisting against him, clutching him - it was clear that she couldn't take much more.

"Who else have you told? Anyone?"

"No, nobody, promise. Please, you promised, please."

He drove into her one last time, releasing his grip on her soul - felt it explode in climax - heard her screaming in release, her body convulsing, pleasure sweeping through her in the warmth of surcease.

Dispassionately he watched her orgasm pass, watched her pass out with the strength of it - her body twitching helplessly as it came down from the high.

He slid from her body, padding naked to stand on the balcony in the near dark of the rapidly approaching night. The air was cool against his skin, drying his sweat in a rush of cold, refreshing him. The twins were high in the sky, bright against the deep blue, their light less spectral, stronger. He leaned on the surrounding railing, staring vacantly into the night.

For a moment he could empty his mind, forget the dilemma that faced him. For a moment.

Whatever course he chose now, someone would die.

Fyodor Rostov. Somehow he had known the name he would hear before she had uttered it. Like a premonition of doom, a terrible convergence of destiny, paths meeting to alter the course of his life.

Choices. Choices. All bad.

Fyodor Rostov. You stupid ignorant greedy selfish foolish bastard.

He stared at the moons. A night like this. A simple kiss taken from a pretty girl.

Fyodor Rostov. I think I may be in love with your daughter.

Shit.

Choices. Choices. All bad.

If he told Mikhail the identity of the family, Nataliya would lose a father, probably a mother. Maybe even her own life.

If he gave him the name of a different family, someone else would die. Someone innocent. He walked over to Yulia. She twitched slightly on the bed, moaning gently. He reached down, stroked her hair. It would be so easy to kill her - to reach down and snap her spine. With her death the information she carried would die too. He watched her sleep. 

Was he a monster? Maybe. He could feel the strength of his demonic ancestry even now. But he wasn't a murderer. With a sigh he crossed to the door, called Piotr, captain of his guard, in.

"Highness?" he said, his eyes blank, professional, discrete.

"Piotr, take the woman out to the wastes. Release her somewhere, away from the dead - let her choose if you must. I don't want her harmed but nor do I want to see her again. Make that clear to her."

"Highness."

"Piotr..."

"Sire."

Andrey turned back to the balcony, walked into the moonlight.

"This never happened. The girl died, trying to escape."

"Yes, Highness."

Choices. Choices. All bad.



Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 05



"Liar," Lord Prince Mikhail Ilyitch Azarov said smoothly, only his eyes betraying his anger. "I send you for a name and you bring me a worthless location... Not even a corpse. Such incompetence is unheard of, Andryusha."

Andrey stood before him, holding himself impassive, the polished length of the table between them. Sunlight through the intricate panes of the stained glass windows cast the room in shades of gold and red, painting them in harlequin colours. "Lord Prince, it was a misjudgement on my part, I accept that," he said quietly. "She attacked me, we fought, she fell awkwardly. I thought the body unimportant."

"She fell awkwardly," Mikhail said quietly, mocking. He steepled his fingers, staring at him over their tips. "I don't believe you, Andryusha. You're lying to me."

Andrey willed himself not to react, focusing instead on the opulent decor - the vaulted ceiling, the decorative friezes depicting the Nine, the decoration of the walls. The room was hot but a cool breeze carried the smell of brine off the Dragon Sea from beyond the open windows, offering some small comfort. He had come alone. Apart from a half-dozen of Mikhail's bodyguards, firelances held discretely on him, they were the staff room's only occupants.

"What, no protests? No declarations of honesty?" Mikhail said, peering at him, eyes wide - mock surprised.

"Highness, I have served you well and continue to do so," he said, voice earnest. "I have reported what happened as you have bidden me... Lord Prince, I can make this right - allow me to set surveillance on the Drissa Falls-"

"Idiot," Mikhail said sharply. "Do you think I would trust you with this again? Do you think me as much a fool as yourself? No. Let me tell you what I think." He leaned back in his chair, face pensive. "I think you used this girl badly. I think you discovered the information that I sent you to find. I think it's possible you killed her to conceal that knowledge. I also think it's possible that you didn't kill her at all - you have grown sentimental of late."

He paused for a moment, pinning Andrey with his gaze. "What I don't understand, Andryusha, is why? Why you want to conceal the information? Why you dropped the 'corpse' over the wastes? Why you failed to do what I wanted?" He stopped, letting the silence leak back in, his eyes flickering with suspicion. 

Cold fingers ran over Andrey's spine. The Lord Prince had ever been shrewd - a necessary qualification for any ruling prince - but it was easy to forget quite how shrewd. More than one person had died because they'd underestimated him - Andrey knew that he was in real danger of becoming the next.

After a time Mikhail sighed, turning to look off toward the windows. "Do you know why we spend so much time controlling the supply of old tech?" Rhetorical. A pause to collect his thoughts. "No? Most of it is junk, utterly useless - its only possible value decorative despite the obscene prices it commands - but scattered amongst this junk are items that are far from useless: machinery far beyond anything we can manufacture today; weapons the like of which we can only imagine... If items like this were to fall into the wrong hands, Andrey. Do you see?"

"Yes, Lord Prince."

Mikhail turned back, watched him carefully. "You have ever been a conundrum, Andryusha," he said thoughtfully. "I have never understood you, what motivates you, but until now I had never feared that you were disloyal." A pause, eyes watching him carefully. "Well, Andryusha," he said, voice turning matter of fact, "I am willing to offer you a second chance, a chance to come clean with me. Is there something you'd like to say? Something to add to my speculation...a name?"

The silence grew once again, sitting like a weight on Andrey's shoulders, creeping along his spine.

"No?" Mikhail said, finally. "Disappointing. Well, then it seems that this will remain a mystery for now." He stared at him, contemplating, thinking. "I don't believe that you're disloyal - which is why you still live. But I think that your loyalty is divided. I think that when I find the name you conceal I will know the answer to these riddles." His face turned hard. "When that happens, Andryusha, be assured - you and I will discuss this again." For a while Mikhail held his gaze, then he looked down at the papers on the desk, dismissing him. 

Too shrewd by far, Andrey thought, walking towards the door. As he reached it Mikhail spoke again, not lifting his eyes from the papers.

"Andrey."

"Lord Prince."

"Don't trouble yourself with matters of house security from now on," he said, voice flat, matter of fact. "It is no longer your concern."

Andrey's blood ran cold. Not unexpected, perhaps, but it meant that his position was increasingly vulnerable, exposed, his power base eroding. "As you wish, Highness."

******

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Natasha?" Yelena said.

"What? You sound like my mother, Lena."

Yelena lay back on the bed while Nataliya, her slim body dressed only in white bra and panties, fished through the collection of dresses in the large wardrobe in the corner of the Berezin guest room. Every now and then she would hold another one against herself, examining how she looked in the glass of the door, turning to allow Yelena to nod or comment. At Yelena's instruction, the seamstress, Mariya, had adjusted the dresses for just this occasion.

"I know, I don't mean to, but..." Yelena propped herself up on her elbows, "you know, if you go there... You know what's likely to happen, don't you?"

Nataliya paused in her search, her arms draped with fabric, faced her. "I know, Lena," she said, biting her lower lip gently. Know? It was all she could think about. She hadn't slept properly since her return from the Azarov Kremlin for thinking about it - it even haunted her dreams.

"It's a big step, that's all."

"You've done it." More of a question than a statement.

"Yes, it's just - are you sure it's what you want?"

"Lena, I... I want him. I want him so badly. I want to be with him - he's all I think about..." She smiled wistfully. "Lena, what's it like..." lip between her teeth again, her voice small, vulnerable. "You know, the first time?"

Yelena smiled gently, patted the mattress next to her. She waited for Nataliya to sit down, the bed suddenly scattered with dresses from her arms, then pushed herself up so that she sat next to her.

"First, promise me that you won't tell anyone else."

"Okay. I promise."

"Well, my first time was with Dmitri - you know, Bezhukov?"

"You're kidding?" Nataliya said, giggling slightly.

"Natasha, if you want me to tell you..."

"Yes, sorry - it's just, you know... Dmitri Bezhukov."

"He's handsome enough," Yelena said, a little defensively, then she laughed. Dmitri Bezhukov, local ladies man, how had she ever been so foolish? "Oh, okay, I know... But you promised not to say, remember?" Nataliya nodded.

"Okay, we were at a party at his place - all of us - I had a little too much to drink. Dmitri and I were in the garden, staring at the sky - I can still remember thinking how many stars there were. Then he was kissing me. Before I knew what was happening he had my dress up around my waist and his trousers off." She laughed for a moment, then paused, thinking. "I knew what was happening - I wasn't that drunk - I suppose I just wanted to get it over with. Anyway, it wasn't the best moment of my life."

"Did it hurt?"

"It did a little, yes." She saw the worried frown on Nataliya's face. "Oh, Natasha, this is Dmitri Bezhukov we're talking about," she said, giggling a little, saw Nataliya smile in response. "If the man you're with is careful, considerate, knows what he's doing - there's no reason why it should hurt." And the Nine know, if anyone knows what they're doing it's your Prince Andrey, she thought.

Nataliya pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms about them, resting her head on them. "I'm a little scared, I guess."

"There's no need to be. Really." She took hold of Nataliya's hand. "It's supposed to be fun, remember?"

Nataliya smiled. "I know, I know..." she sighed. "It's just that I've not had much to do with men. I'm afraid he'll be disappointed."

"Disappointed?" Yelena smiled, somehow she couldn't see any man being 'disappointed' with Nataliya Fyodorovna offering herself to them. "Come on, what's troubling you?"

Nataliya looked away, her face thoughtful. "When he kissed me..."

"Yes?"

"It's just... Lena, I didn't know what to do," she said, looking down. "I felt lost, all confused - like I didn't know what bit went where."

Yelena laughed. "Have you never kissed a man?"

"Lena!" Reproachful. "When have I had the chance? You know I haven't..."

They were both laughing now.

"That feeling - it's meant to be like that, Natasha," she said. "That's kind of the point."

"Oh."

"Didn't you like it?"

"Don't be horrible, it's not my fault I've never done it with anyone else."

Yelena giggled again at that. "Did you want to do it with someone else?"

"No. Yes. I suppose. I don't know."

All of a sudden Yelena was kneeling up next to her, her brown eyes twinkling mischievously. "I wouldn't do this for anyone else... Don't you dare tell Vasily, he'll want us to do it in front of him," she said.

"What?"

Yelena's lips pressed against hers, her arms snaking around her back, pulling her close. For a moment she froze, startled. Yelena pulled back slightly, but only slightly. "You wanted to do it with someone else..."

Yelena was so close she could feel her breath whispering on her skin as she spoke, her heart was racing, pounding.

"Oh..."

Like a breath of wind Yelena's lips brushed hers again - then again, more firmly this time - her soft skin delicate, moist on her mouth. Nataliya felt Yelena's tongue flick over lips and, instinctively, she parted them - felt her friend's tongue slip into her mouth.

The feeling was odd - pleasant and shocking at the same time. Yelena's hand was on the back of her head, pulling her mouth onto hers; almost unconsciously she felt herself respond, her tongue pushing into Yelena's mouth - the faint taste of wine - her hands clutching her head as she felt Yelena doing to her.

For a long while their tongues danced together - soft, warm, flicking back and forth between their mouths - then, eventually, Yelena pulled back, planting a chaste kiss on Nataliya's mouth, smiling warmly.

"Mmm - you taste nice..." Yelena said, finally.

"Uh, thank you..." Nataliya felt a little odd. How had that happened?

"So, how do I compare?" Yelena's eyes were shining, her voice a little breathy.

"Uh..." Nataliya tasted her lips, tapped her mouth with her finger, mock pensive. "Andrey was better," she said, at last, laughing.

Yelena hit her with a pillow.

******

"Highness, this is madness!" Piotr said, standing behind him, looking at Katerina for support. "Your feelings for this girl have already cost you your position, they could cost you your life!"

Andrey remained silent, his back to them, staring through the open window at the twins above the forest. "Katya?"

She shifted in her chair, pulling herself upright. "You know Piotr is right," she said.

"See... If you won't listen to me, listen to Katya, you know how she feels-" he bit off his words, clamped his mouth shut. Katerina glared at him. "Uh...why risk everything on this...dalliance?"

Unseen, Andrey smiled. "Sometimes things cannot be seen in a measurement of risks and benefits, Petya," he said, not turning from his contemplation, talking as if to the moons. "Do you know what my mother sacrificed to have me? Do you think if she'd weighed up risks and benefits that I would be here now?"

There was no answer, the silence settling around them. They didn't know, of course. That was something only he and his mother shared - although they would have heard the stories, the speculation, it was what his reputation was built upon.

Eventually he turned, entered the small room from its balcony. Katerina sat near the fire, slumped in a soft chair facing the window, feet on a low footstool. Piotr stood just inside the doors, his hand resting on the back of a second chair.

"My doom is set, Petya, I will meet with Nataliya - you will assist me with arrangements. Katya..."

Katerina looked up, meeting his gaze. For a moment their eyes met, then he flicked his glance aside, to Piotr.

"Petya, leave us, I will seek you out later," he said.

"Highness," Piotr bowed slightly, quickly left the room.

"What is it, Andryusha?" Katerina said.

"Things are in serious danger of coming apart," he said, sitting opposite her. "You are the only one I fully trust, Katya. Not even Piotr is above being bought, threatened."

She stared at him, face thoughtful.

He sighed. "If you are taken by Mikhail, by Alexander... He will carry out his threat, do you understand?"

She shrugged. "I've never doubted it, but you've protected me so far..." A pause. She looked at him, her face concerned. "Andryusha, if things have turned so bad, why stay? We could run..."

He shook his head. "Not yet - it could come to that soon enough. Katya, I don't want your death on my conscience..." He leaned forward in the chair, his eyes sparkling with their strange inner light. "From what I've done I can't release you, you know that, but I can send you away... You could make your own way, forge a new life-"

"Andryusha," she said, sitting forward, matching him, stopping him. "It wouldn't make any difference... I would come back - I'd be compelled to even if I didn't want to. My soul belongs to you, there can be no freedom for me. I am yours - while you live." She shrugged again. "And when you die - then I will die along with you."

He sat back, sighing. "I know, Katya. I'm sorry..."

"Why? I'm not."

He looked at her closely.

"Oh, Andryusha. It's true I wouldn't have chosen this path, not willingly, but being with you, I-" she paused, as if she was going to say something else but thought better of it. Forced a smile. "-am content with that. I don't regret what happened and I don't want to leave - so don't even think about sending me away."

Andrey smiled. "Thank you."

She shrugged again, sitting back.

For a while the room was quiet, filled only with the gentle crackle of the fire. Finally Andrey spoke quietly: "When I caught you, what were you doing in the wastes?"

She looked confused. "Looking for old tech."

"Anything in particular?"

Katerina nodded. "There was a rumour that the site I was in had a working power generator of some sort, but I never had the chance to find it."

Andrey stood, pacing pensively.

"Why? Is it important?" she said.

"I don't know yet. Maybe. It might be useful," he said, thinking. "In any case, we need to be very careful from now on."

"And how do tonight's plans with Nataliya fit into that?"

He smiled at her.

******

For the thousandth time Nataliya straightened the short jacket of her uniform, tugging nervously at the cuffs. Approaching Prince Andrey's dacha, the wings of the flyer whirring, she had a horrible feeling of deja-vu - her stomach fluttering with nerves.

The flyer banked heavily, circling the dacha. It was a magnificent setting. Surrounded by the deep greens of the montane forest, its red stone walls set against the emerald backdrop of the southern mountains, their steep slopes and deep valleys wreathed in mist, framed by the shining spray of the Osinov Falls.

Although insignificant compared to the Azarov Kremlin, the dacha was nevertheless a substantial estate in its own right - a small vineyard, several orchards, a number of outbuildings within the enclosing walls, an impressive gatehouse. It was certainly comparable to the entire holdings of her own family, Nataliya thought.

Sat next to her, Yelena peered over her shoulder, unusually silent. Vasily, on the seat opposite seemed less affected, rubbing at a mark on a button of his uniform. Below, in the late afternoon sun, the dacha shone like a jewel - its tall central building and attached tower stark against the surrounding woods, the sculpted gardens.

"Nice place," Yelena said.

Nataliya made no reply, staring out of the window, face thoughtful. This wasn't what she'd expected...

For the first time she felt reality biting into her fairytale. Something about the sheer scale of the dacha depressed her. What hope was there that there could ever be anything between her and Andrey? She was the princess of a minor family. A nobody. He was the son of the Tsar-Emperor's niece, the bastard son of House Azarov - a significant prize for the younger children of any major family.

"He has another estate on the western rim of the plateau, a bit smaller than this one," Vasily said cheerfully, continuing to worry at his button.

Nataliya grimaced. What could she ever be to him? "Are they his? Or House Azarov's?" she said, a little sharply.

Vasily shrugged. "Is there a difference?"

She felt cold - even if he was interested, if he did come to love her, his family would never let him marry so far below him. Whatever they had was doomed. Or was she nothing more than another trophy? A plaything? The nerves gave way to a feeling of sickness in the pit of her stomach. She leaned her forehead against the window of the flyer, closing her eyes. Was he using her? Her father had warned her, had warned her away. Oh God, what if he was right?

As if sensing her despondency, Yelena took her hand, squeezing it. She squeezed back, but it made her feel no better.

From above a number of flyers bearing the insignia of different families were visible on the ground adjacent to the dacha. There were also an unusually high number of armed men, many in full armour, grouped about the flyers or scattered artfully about the grounds - done in such a way that they were effective without being obvious.

As they circled to land a small group of these men - several in Azarov livery, the gold dragon obvious, one in the insignia of House Karzhov, a silver griffin prominent on his chest - approached their chosen landing site. Even before they touched down the Azarov troops had a loose cordon about the flyer, casual but present. No sooner had they settled than the remaining Azarov soldier, wearing the rank of kapitan - bodyguard not house military - opened their door, standing aside to allow them to exit.

"Good evening Highness," he said, glancing briefly at their insignia before addressing himself to Nataliya. "Princess Nataliya Fyodorovna Rostova." He bowed slightly. "I am Kapitan Piotr Ivolgin, head of the Lord Prince's bodyguard."

Nataliya nodded slightly, uncertain. Where was Andrey? The man in the Karzhov insignia - a skinny man about the same height as Nataliya but a few years her senior, his mousy hair a little too long for his face - smiled at her.

"The Lord Prince sends his regards and instructs me to tell you to do as I ask," Piotr said, looking at her almost desperately. She raised her eyebrows, nodding again and glancing quickly at Yelena, as if to say 'does he?' Piotr couldn't help but notice, his face twisting into an awkward grimace.

"Please, Princess," he said unhappily. "I am not good at this. Prince Andrey will explain everything to you later..." He took a breath before hurrying on. "But for tonight, Prince Leonid Karzhov here will escort you to the dinner." Piotr almost winced as he said it.

In contrast, Leonid grinned happily, clearly relishing his part. Nataliya stared at him, too startled to speak.

Piotr swallowed, coughed slightly, looked decidedly uncomfortable. "It is vitally important that it seem as if the two of you are together tonight - I promise, the Lord Prince will explain later..."

"Oh," Nataliya said, unsure how to react. Should she be angry? Once again in seeking Andrey she was left feeling utterly deflated, disappointed. "Not exactly what I was expecting." Certainly not what I hoped for, she thought. Another sign?




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 05



She looked across at Yelena, who looked as confused as she felt. Vasily was looking at Leonid curiously.

"Please, Princess." Piotr said. "It is really important, Lord Prince Andrey told me to tell you that you are in his debt. He promises that he will see you later. Please?"

Nataliya glanced again at Yelena. She shrugged, holding Vasily's arm, a frown on her forehead. "You are in his debt... Perhaps this clears that obligation?" Yelena said.

"It seems that I have little choice," Nataliya said, quietly, feeling defeated. "Tell the Lord Prince that I am obedient to his whim on this occasion, but I owe him nothing after this."

Piotr sighed with relief. "Thank you, Princess."

"Come, then, Prince Leonid, escort me to dinner." She held out her hand, taking Leonid's hastily offered arm.

"Of course, Princess. It is my duty and my pleasure," he said, his voice more assured than his looks. In fact, he looked a little too pleased, she thought.

******

Although the surroundings were as opulent as she'd come to expect from the ruling family - the curving ceiling painted in a magnificent fresco depicting colourful scenes from the mythology of the Nine, the whitewashed walls between the arched windows rich with gold decoration - dinner at the dacha was a less formal affair than at the Azarov Kremlin. The buzz of conversation was louder, the sound of laughter from the guests less restrained and a quartet were playing cheerful music from a stage at the room's rear.

This informality didn't, however, prevent the four of them being seated at the far end of the room from Prince Andrey's high table. If one was needed, it was a further reminder to Nataliya of the gulf between them - further stoking her despondency. She stared moodily at the seat where Andrey would be.

"So, Prince Leonid, tell me of yourself," Yelena said, breaking the silence once they were seated.

"There is not much to tell, Princess," he said, his voice even, his eyes glancing between her and Vasily. "I am the youngest son of the Karzhov family. We are a minor house not unlike your own, our lands not far from Lord Prince Andrey's dacha. As is typical amongst the minor families, my two older brothers will likely inherit the estate and our mine holdings in the wastes and I'm afraid that I shall have to find my own career - like Prince Vasily, here." He nodded toward him.

In contrast to the Kremlin dinner the crowd here was younger, Nataliya noticed, mostly female - escorted by male relatives or chaperones from their house soldiery - though not exclusively. It was an obvious opportunity for those looking to marry into the ruling family, or indeed, amongst the lesser families. It certainly wasn't what she'd imagined when Andrey had asked her to dinner. Was he expecting her to compete?

Looking around the tables she recognised many of the house insignia, picking out a few of the individuals nearer the top table: Princess Evgeniya Shulgina, blond hair in ringlets, pretty but slightly stupid; Princess Tamara Yazova, black hair to contrast with her green eyes, rich, beautiful, ambitious and clearly seeing herself as a prospect for Andrey's eye. There were others, all less well known to her, but all closer to the man she'd come to see than she was. She sighed.

"And what career do you choose, Leonid?" Vasily said, unconsciously rubbing the four stars of the captain's rank pinned to his collar. Yelena beamed at him, watching Nataliya from the corners of her eyes.

Leonid looked down, blushing slightly. "I am drawn to the service of the Nine," he said confidentially.

"Oh, which one?" Yelena asked.

At that moment the door at the head of the room was opened and Prince Andrey entered, a beautiful blond woman in a black dress on his arm.

For a second Nataliya was so stunned that she forgot to stand, staring wide-eyed at the strange woman occupying the spot she thought she was going to be in. Belatedly, she forced herself to her feet, noticing the golden collar of a slave about the woman's delicate throat. It made her feel marginally better, but not a lot. She was far too pretty to be anything other than a body slave - something that inspired rather ambivalent feelings in her, much to her own discomfort.

Then there was Andrey. Right up until the moment she saw him she'd found herself stoking her resentment, feeding the fears that he was only using her, that she was no more to him than a distraction, a girl to be used and discarded. Right up until she saw him.

The moment he'd walked in - not even glancing in her direction, she'd noticed - she didn't care. Her heart had jumped so much when she saw him that she'd had to stop herself from gasping - her heart aching just with the sight of him. Although she hated herself for it, she didn't care if he was using her - she would have given anything just to be with him, to feel his arms around her again. From that moment onward, nothing else mattered.

Once Andrey sat the rest of the room followed, the slaves and servants starting the service of the first course. Nataliya found herself almost physically unable to stop staring at him, him and the slave with him.

"Leviathan," Leonid said, as they were served, the plates clattering a counterpoint to the resurgent conversation.

"Oh? Remind me which family's patron he is..." Yelena said, waving her hand in front of Nataliya's face.

"Jimenez," Leonid said, smiling as Nataliya shook herself, looking away from Andrey with obvious effort. "They are the ruling family on Shukra."

Yelena nodded politely. "So will you be leaving to take service with them?"

"Possibly. I have petitioned the Lady Princess Ilsa and Lord Prince Mikhail for permission. It's a long process before I can even attend the college on Shani, longer again before I could become a Guide." He shrugged.

"How do your family feel about it?" Nataliya asked, her eyes slipping unconsciously back to Andrey.

Leonid grimaced. "I think they're just glad that I'm not expecting them to support me..."

Yelena glanced at Nataliya. She was staring at Andrey again, a wistful, lost expression on her face. She sighed, she had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

******

If Alexander the Butcher didn't skin her alive, Katerina thought, she was willing to take odds on the Princess Nataliya Fyodorvna doing the job.

All through dinner Nataliya had glared at her jealously, her patent dislike burningly obvious to her. Andrey had seemed oblivious, only stoking the flames higher by his attentiveness to her, to every nearby girl - to every girl but Nataliya, it seemed. She'd wanted to scream: 'I'm just his slave, don't hate me!' But it seemed that her possession of the seat at Andrey's side had singled her out in the eyes of more than just Nataliya.

She had picked at her food all through dinner, aware not only of Nataliya's personal enmity, but also the speculative glances, the whispered comments of the other women at the table - nearly all younger daughters of highborn families, girls who might be prospective brides. Worse, Andrey had made her wear the damned golden collar of a slave, a gesture she understood - it signalled that she was not a prospective bride, signalled his availability - but which she resented, which had made her both angry and upset.

They'd argued, of course - he'd been reasonable, up to a point - but she still wore it. As a consequence she'd ignored him through dinner, though he barely noticed. Unfortunately, ignoring him had meant that she had become acutely aware of everybody else - looking at her, assessing her, judging her.

Finally she'd been driven to stare back, lifting her chin combatively - yes, I do sleep with him, okay? Like you don't want to, she'd thought - somehow she couldn't meet Nataliya's eyes, though. There was an irony in that, she realised: Nataliya envied her her position at Andrey's side while she in turn would have given almost anything to have had Andrey chase her as a free woman, not his bound slave.

Finally, eventually, as if in belated answer to her prayers, dinner had broken up and the guests had made their way into one of the dacha's three ballrooms - the middle sized one, its marble floor and golden chandeliers only moderately ostentatious. Here an orchestra had initiated proceedings with well known and lively dances and she'd finally been released from her duty.

"I will have Piotr bring you some food, Katya," Andrey said, drawing her aside. "I noticed that you ate hardly anything at dinner."

Privately she was surprised and pleased that he'd noticed, but she shrugged dismissively. "Please, Master," she said coldly, "don't trouble yourself over your slave."

He winced. "Katya, I didn't want to do it... You know that," he said quietly, reaching around her neck and unfastening the collar, his fingers like silk on her skin. She had to stop herself pressing against them. "What options have I been left with?"

"You could have taken someone else... That Tamara was looking at you with inviting eyes all through dinner, or were you too busy ogling the brown haired girl at the back to notice?"

"Katya..." he said, his voice determinedly reasonable. "If I had taken anyone else to the dinner there was every chance that they would have suffered the same fate I'm trying to protect Nataliya from. You know that..."

She shrugged again. "I know that, Nataliya doesn't. If her face is anything to go by, you've got your work cut out making it up to her," she said, smiling bitterly. "Of course, you don't need to make it up to me - I'm just your slave..."

Andrey winced again. "Piotr, please escort the Lady Katerina to her room. Place a guard on it - for her protection," he said, staring at her, willing her to be reasonable. "And arrange for the kitchen to provide some food, she hasn't eaten this evening."

"At once, Lord Prince."

Katerina inclined her head slightly. She knew she was being a little unreasonable. He was under a lot of pressure and she wasn't helping him much, but the collar thing had really upset her - made her aware of her status in a way she hadn't been before. Still, as she walked away, an armoured soldier at her side, she felt stung by guilt. After a few steps she stopped, turned to face him. Andrey was looking back at her, his face thoughtful, guarded. For a moment she watched him, unable to read his expression but suddenly aware of how vulnerable they both were.

"Andrey, thank you, for the food," she said, finally. An olive branch. "I haven't forgiven you, but I will... Okay?"

For a moment longer he watched her, then he inclined his head, a brief smile sliding over his face. "Thank you...slave," he said, his voice light.

This time she laughed, a low, bitter chuckle, before she turned away, allowing Andrey's bodyguard to lead her off.

******

As with dinner, so with the dance, Nataliya thought. The four of them found themselves huddling together at the back of the room while the daughters of more senior families monopolised Andrey's time.

By the time Tamara had claimed her third dance, Andrey leading her gracefully about the dancefloor - she looking altogether too triumphant and he too happy for Nataliya's eyes - Nataliya had slumped into a chair in the shadows at the back. It may not have been the worst night of her life, but it felt like it. It took all her self-control not to start crying. Yet, somehow, despite Yelena's urging, she couldn't bring herself to leave - no matter how horrible it was to watch, leaving would take her further away from him and that was worse.

"They make a nice couple, don't they," Leonid said, watching the two of them moving easily about the floor, smiling confidentially at one another. Nataliya shrugged, withdrawing further into the chair.

Yelena glared at him. "Depends on whether you like stupid rich girls, I suppose," she said loyally.

"Tell me, Leonid, how did you get to escort Nataliya this evening?" Vasily asked, at last broaching the subject they'd all sidestepped at dinner.

"I was asked to do it by Kapitan Ivolgin, on the Lord Prince's request," he said. "I owed Andrey a debt - he sponsored my petition to House Azarov."

"I see. Do you know why?"

"No. He just said to escort you," he said, nodding at Nataliya who was lost in her private misery. "Not that I mind, although you were obviously expecting the Lord Prince. I must be a poor substitute."

"Do you know what happens next?" Yelena asked, sitting next to Nataliya.

Leonid looked over at Andrey once again, watching him for a few moments. "Yes," he said. "When Piotr tells me, I'm to take you for a romantic walk. After that, I don't know."

Nataliya looked up. Somehow a romantic walk was not what she wanted right then. Maybe Yelena was right, maybe they should retire early, leave in the morning, forget Andrey, forget the damned Azarovs altogether.

"A romantic walk?" Yelena said.

"Yes, I am to take the princess to the upper ballroom to meet the Lord Prince, though I can't explain the need for this subterfuge."

For the first time, Nataliya looked up, her face pathetically hopeful, Yelena thought. On the dancefloor Andrey was still with Tamara, the pair of them sweeping easily about the room. She seemed quite possessive - holding his arm in a proprietorial manner, glaring at other women who dared to seek his attention. As far as she could tell, Andrey hadn't even glanced at Nataliya all evening.

"Natasha?" she said, looking at her.

Nataliya shrugged. "I've waited this long, put up with...this, so far. Why not?"

"Okay, but Vasily and I are coming with you," she said, brooking no argument.

Nataliya nodded, smiling.

******

He could sense Tamara's eagerness, her willingness as he led her around the floor. The dances were familiar, elegant and she was a good dancer but it was more than that.

As they danced she held herself as close to him as she could without fracturing the rather flexible rules of propriety, closer than the more formal dances of the Kremlin would allow, taking every opportunity to press herself against him as she moved.

She was startlingly pretty, her dark hair tied in a braid, her green eyes shining - an attractive contrast with her pale skin, her slightly flushed cheeks - and her parents would encourage her to seek him as a match. He would be a strong marriage for a senior, ambitious, family like the Yazovs.

There was a danger here for them both. In his currently exposed position he couldn't afford to upset her, or her family, but if he allowed it to look as if she was important to him she would be at risk of collecting Lord Prince Mikhail's suspicions. And his wrath.

When the dance ended she showed a determined lack of willingness to release his arm, clinging to him as he led her from the floor.

"Thank you for the dances, Highness," she said, looking up at him, smiling. She had dimples, he noticed.

"My pleasure, Princess," he said, watching from the corner of his eyes as his bodyguards and hers moved to follow them as they left the floor. "Shall we take some air?"

"Highness."

Beyond the dacha it was full dark, the twin moons bright and high in the sky, bathing everything in a spectral light. In a few days they would be full, he thought, always an auspicious time.

The air was rich with the smell of blossom, the earthy scent of the gardens, the surrounding woodlands - pleasantly cool after the heat of the day but not cold. Over everything the chirrupping of cicadas was a constant, a backdrop to the sound of other animals, the call of night birds.

Although it was dark the gardens were brightly lit, coloured lanterns picking out the twisting paths, others hanging from trees or set low on the ground. Unbidden, Tamara slipped her hand into his, walking easily alongside him. He smiled, few were as easy or familiar with him. The Yazov family must be really pushing the match.

"Is this your dacha, Highness?"

"No. In fact it belongs to my brother, Prince Vasily Mikhailovich," he said, walking slowly, her arm against his. "My own dacha is far more modest - further west and south than this - more a retreat than a palace."

For a moment she was silent, walking with him, their feet crunching gently on the gravel path, echoed by the guards following discretely behind.

"I would very much like to see it, Highness."

He looked down at her. "Then I shall arrange for an invitation, Princess," he said easily.

She smiled happily, dimples showing on her cheeks. This one was going to be dangerous, he thought.

At the centre of the garden was a large juniper, its dark branches hung with a multitude of coloured lanterns. Set at its base was a low stone bench, facing back toward the dacha. They sat together, sheltered beneath the tree - leading to a moment of farce as their combined bodyguards struggled to get out of their line of sight, while they conspired not to see them. Across the garden the dacha glittered like a jewel, blazing with a thousand lanterns, with myriad chandeliers - its every window ablaze.

"The dacha looks beautiful from here," she said, shivering theatrically against him. "All lit up like that."

Smiling lightly he slipped his jacket off, draping it over her. She didn't miss the chance to cuddle in close against him, slipping under his arm. "Not as beautiful as you, Princess," he said, rubbing her gently through the jacket. Where was Piotr?

She snuggled closer, looking up at him, her eyes wide. "Thank you, Highness, that was sweet."

In the distance he saw Piotr approaching through the gardens, his feet crunching on the gravel. When he reached them he bowed briefly. "Lord Prince, Princess," he said, nodding in turn.

"What is it, Piotr?"

"Highness, I apologise for disturbing you but I must speak with you urgently. In private."

Andrey sighed. "Of course, Kapitan. Will you excuse me, Princess?"

She was looking daggers at Piotr but when she turned to him her face was composed once again. "Of course, Highness. I shall look forward to receiving my invitation... Until next time, then?"

"Yes, until next time," he said, bending and kissing her on the lips.

As he'd anticipated, she responded enthusiastically - opening her mouth and pressing her tongue into his. For a second his tongue twisted in her mouth, his demonic soul uncoiling within him, reaching for her. He allowed it to shiver lightly through her body - the merest trickle but he felt her gasp, her hands clutching at him - then he withdrew, composing himself with a mischievous smile. "Good evening, Princess."

She smiled up at him - eyes shining, face flushed, a little breathless - but somewhat like the cat that got the cream, he thought.

******

Watching Andrey leaving the building arm in arm with Tamara was an agony for Nataliya. First the slave now the rich bitch, she thought. The one consolation she had was that the evening couldn't possibly get worse.

It seemed that every second was an eternity after that. With the plan being to meet Andrey, it seemed obvious that their summons would come after he left. When the clock showed he had been gone ten minutes, Nataliya started to imagine all sorts of unpleasant scenarios. By the time it reached twenty, Yelena had to physically stop her biting her nails, but her teeth still worried at her lower lip.

Finally, at forty minutes, some unseen cue prompted Leonid to turn to the three of them, asking whether they would like to take a walk.

Yelena sighed with relief. "Thank God for that, you're driving me mad, Natasha."

"Sorry, Lena, it's just..." she said, shrugging.

Yelena smiled softly. "I know, I just hope his explanation is good..."

Once again Nataliya took Leonid's proffered arm, struggling to look romantically inclined. All of a sudden she felt nervous, sick - and angry.

Leonid led them from the ballroom, passing through a wooden door into the central hallway. Here four massive chandeliers hung down from the high ceiling, a centrepoint to the wrap around staircase and balcony above. Although quiet after the noise and bustle of the ballroom there were a few guests present - couples in uniform nursing drinks, others passing between the gardens and hallway through the thick front doors - a buzz of conversation filling the room.




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 05



On the opposite side of the hallway was a small dark wooden door, set in the wall beneath the staircase. Standing casually in front of it was a soldier in the uniform of Andrey's guard - a firelance sheathed at his waist. As Leonid approached he stood aside, allowing them to pass through the door, before taking up his position again behind them.

The door let them into a less well decorated part of the dacha, what Nataliya assumed to be the servants' area, though it was deserted when they entered. Leonid led them surely through several rooms - a living area filled with dark wooden furniture, what appeared to be a laundry room of sorts, a kitchen - which were all similarly deserted, before they emerged through a second small door into a further hallway.

Here the decor returned to the opulence and ostentation common to the rest of the dacha - tall arched ceilings, highly decorated walls hung with pictures of the ruling princes - but here there were no guests. At the far end a marble staircase twisted upwards, two more soldiers in Andrey's uniform standing at its base - these sinisterly out of context in chitinous armour, long firelances held ready.

Again Leonid led them confidently, ascending past the soldiers. The stairs led them onto a wide balcony, then on into the tower at the side of the dacha. Slowly, following Leonid, they worked their way up, passing through several floors marked by closed doors, the staircase decorated with ornate statues of the Nine set in niches along its length. Finally they stood before a pair of ornate wooden doors, their panelling picked out in gold. Here Leonid knocked, waiting for a summons before entering.

The doors opened onto a ballroom, smaller than the one being used by the party below, but still large - stretching away before them to a matching set of doors at the far end. Tall arched windows had been thrown open along both walls - admitting both an ethereal pale light and a light breeze filled with the scent of blossom from the gardens. On a raised dais a small orchestra waited, instruments ready but silent, and standing along the walls were a number of soldiers in Azarov livery, casually alert. Waiting alone in the centre of the room was Andrey.

Oddly, even though she had known she was going to see him, had expected this moment, his presence was still a shock. For a while Nataliya stood as if frozen, watching him from the doorway - afraid to approach him, unable to walk away. In that moment it was as if nobody else existed, just Andrey and her, facing each other across an empty room.

"I should hate you, you know," she said at last.

"And do you?" he said, smiling that damned smile of his.

She sighed slightly, stepping into the room. "No."

He held his hand out to her in invitation. His face was serene, flawless - utterly beautiful. Helplessly, like a moth drawn to a flame, she found herself closing the distance between them, closing it until she stood close enough to touch him, to feel his presence as a physical thing, until she found she could go no further.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he said, lightly, his hand still extended towards her. "It wasn't what I'd wanted."

Standing in the moonlight he looked almost otherworldly - ethereal, remote, unreachable. She groaned helplessly, took his hand.

The orchestra took it as their cue. Suddenly the room was filled with music - the chords of the balalaika singing in her veins, the rhythm familiar, powerful. For a second she stood stunned, confused - embarrassed. 

"Would you care to dance, Princess?" he said softly, bowing slightly, gently drawing her into his embrace - that damned smile on his face again. The music was light, lively, almost daring her to dance.

"Andrey..." she said, her heart racing, conscious of the eyes on her, the empty dancefloor.

"Shh, please don't say no," he whispered, smiling secretly at her. "I've been waiting for this dance all night."

She stared at him, into his eyes, conscious of his hand resting on her hip, the closeness of his body, the feel of her hand in his. There, then - with him holding her, with the music behind her - it was as if the evening had never happened, as if there had never been any time before that moment. She sighed again, melted into his arms.

The music started slowly and quickly built up its rhythm - lively, familiar, simple dances full of joy and exuberance. Almost before she knew what was happening she was being swept about the floor, Andrey holding her tightly in his arms, looking at her as if she was the only woman in the world, the only woman that mattered. 

Despite herself she felt her heart thrill, Andrey's attention sweeping away her despondency. Safe in his arms she felt her worries fade until she was throwing herself into each dance with enthusiasm - the two of them laughing for the sheer joy of it - totally oblivious to the presence of anyone else - her friends, the soldiers, anyone. The world was just Andrey, Andrey and her. 

Yelena watched her, clutching Vasily's arm, a silly smile on her face. She hadn't seen Nataliya this happy since...forever. She watched as he led her across the floor - his feline grace utterly breathtaking, his beauty bewitching - the pair of them laughing loudly, lost in one another's eyes. Their joy was infectious. In that moment she thought she finally understood what Nataliya felt, the strange fascination at the heart of her passion for Andrey, and she envied her. 

Finally, the sight of the two of them, the rhythm of the music, infected her, too, and she dragged Vasily onto the floor - her thrill at watching Andrey and Nataliya finally overcoming her embarrassment at dancing in the nearly empty room. For a moment Vasily resisted but the same feeling seemed to have taken him and he quickly relented.

Soon the ballroom was echoing to their laughter, the simple freedom of dancing banishing the gloom that had hung about their party since their arrival. Although the four of them barely made an impression on the empty space they nevertheless seemed to fill it.

Eventually, with the moonlight fading beyond the windows, the music slowed, changing to a more courtly pace, a greater formality. Her chest heaving, her heart pounding from more than just the dancing, Nataliya was grateful for the change of tempo. As the pace slowed Andrey held her closer, pulling her against him, his hand in the small of her back. Pressed against him she could feel every movement of his body, the play of his muscles beneath his shirt, his cheek against hers, his thigh on her leg. He smelt sweet, musky, male - of his own scent. Resting her head against his chest, moving gently in his embrace she felt something akin to panic, akin to it but warm and pleasant and overwhelming and like she never wanted it to end - but even as she thought it she felt a kernel of darkness at the heart of her joy.

Andrey seemed to sense it. Gently, he moved her back so he could look down into her eyes, his hand stroking her cheek. He was so close that she could feel the whisper of his breath on her skin, a small half-smile touching his lips. In the background the music continued unheeded. "Is everything okay, Natasha?" he whispered.

She swallowed nervously, not trusting herself to speak, nodded gently, her eyes never leaving him. Then: "You've never called me that before." 

"What, 'Natasha'?" He smiled. "Do you mind?"

She shook her head. 

He was so close, he was bewitching her, befuddling her. He was everything she wanted, everything she'd dreamed about. Why did things have to be so complicated - why did she have to go and fall in love with him, with a prince of the ruling house?

Suddenly - without knowing how it had happened, without knowing how she got the courage - she was kissing him, kissing him with a frantic, desperate passion - her lips pressed hard against his, her arms looping around his neck, pulling him firmly towards her. She felt his tongue brushing her lips, tasting her, sliding into her mouth - so good it made her gasp, made her grip him with a frightening intensity - his arms pulled her in, pulled her against him, holding her as his tongue swept around her mouth.

She felt dazed, her need for him making her weak, desperate. Oh, God, what was she doing? Her heart was pounding hard against her chest, his kisses were driving her wild, firing her passion - in moments she knew that she wouldn't be able to think rationally, would be entirely his...

Groaning with frustration, she placed her palms on his chest. "Andryusha... Stop, please..." she said breathlessly, pushing him away, struggling to disengage - it felt as part of her she could only feel had become entangled with him, as if he had part of her heart. 

Reluctantly he loosened his arms from around her, letting her pull away, freeing her. "Natasha..." he said, his voice soft, his eyes bright. "What's wrong?"

She felt weak, disorientated - leaning on him to stop herself from falling onto the floor. Shook her head, unable to speak for a moment but allowing herself to be held, his arms still around her.

"Sorry..." she said, her voice hoarse, breathless. "Nothing's wrong, it's okay... Please, I just need to know..."

He looked at her, confused. "Know what?" 

She looked up at him, her face anguished. 

"What I am to you, Lord Prince?" she said finally, a note of despair in her voice. "Am I just a plaything? Someone you'll discard when you're done with me?"

"Is that what you think?" he said, breathing it against her head.

She shrugged, her eyes pleading. "I don't know. You make me feel so...helpless."

He smiled slightly at that, then he sighed. "No, you're not a plaything, Natasha" he said softly, pausing, thinking. "No, I have a horrible feeling that you're my doom."

"What?" She looked up at him, her eyes shining. He looked pensive, worried.

"All this subterfuge, everything about tonight - it's all to protect you," he said quietly, staring at her, holding her gently. "To allow me to be with you and still keep you safe from danger."

For a second she made no reply, looking confused. "Protect me? I don't understand. What danger?" she said, cocking her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, I know you don't," he said quietly. "But so far my efforts to keep you safe have cost me my position, my standing with my Lord Prince... They could yet cost me my life and the lives of those I care for - yours as well, Natasha."

She looked up at him, searching his eyes. Why did she need to be protected? "Andrey, tell me," she said softly. "I don't understand. What are you protecting me from? Stop being so mysterious."

He sighed. "Natasha, you may not like this..."

"Tell me."

For a moment he said nothing, holding her gently by the arms, his face turning serious. The music was softer now, slower, as if the orchestra was winding down. Finally he took a breath, exhaled slowly before speaking. "This isn't the ending I wanted this evening, Natasha..."

"Andrey, tell me, please."

He sighed again. "For a long while we have known that there's an illegal trade in old tech - collectors buying and selling it, rebels trading it to buy weapons - but the details have been scant," he said, standing still even as the music continued. "A few days ago we intercepted a courier going between smugglers on the wastes and a noble house here on the plateau. I was sent me to interrogate her - to find the name of her contact, the family she was dealing with." His eyes were luminous, intense, they seemed to see right into her. She shivered, suddenly cold. "I told Lord Prince Mikhail that she died before telling me."

Nataliya blinked, gazed up at him, fear flickering in the depths of her eyes. What did this have to do with her? 

"And was that true?"

He shook his head, his hands gentle on her shoulders, his eyes soft. "No, it was a lie, Natasha, a lie to protect you," he said gently. "The contact was your father, it was your family."

She stared at him, disbelieving, her world lurching around her. It couldn't be true, there was no way. She knew her father and her father was no smuggler, no traitor - he made his money from farming the plateau, and barely enough from that! The Nine knew they were hardly rich. If he was a smuggler they'd be wealthy, wouldn't they? No, Andrey was lying to her, he had to be. Why would he do that? She felt sick, anxious, frightened. 

When she looked at him again he was staring back at her, his face pensive, still. Why was he doing this? Wasn't it enough that he was from the ruling family and she from a minor house? Wasn't it enough that she was his plaything? Why did he want to destroy her father, her family? 

"Natasha-"

She shook her head, stopping him. "No! It's not true, my father's a good man, loyal, he wouldn't - it's not possible," she said, pulling away from him, her voice turning hard. "Why are you saying this, Lord Prince? It isn't true - you're lying."

"Natasha, please," he said, quietly, reaching for her. For some reason he felt strange, disorientated, off balance. His head was hurting. "Why would I lie to you? You don't have to believe me, though, ask your father."

From the corner of his eyes he saw Yelena and Vasily stop dancing, drawn by the sudden tension between them. 

She shook her head. "I don't have to ask him, it's absurd!" she said, backing away from him - angry at him, at herself - wanting to hurt him like he'd hurt her.

Andrey staggered, the room seemed to be spinning - he felt dizzy, like he was falling without moving, a sense of vertigo. Cold shivers ran down his spine. Something was wrong, very wrong. Had he been poisoned? How? Nataliya? He looked about - who could he trust?

Slowly his demonic soul was leaking out, sliding through his body. It was propping him up, strengthening him but it didn't feel right - he hadn't summoned it, didn't want it. It was all wrong - it felt greasy, as if he couldn't grip it, couldn't suppress it. He felt the first touch of panic.

"My father warned me about you, told me to stay away from you," she said, her anger making her reckless. It wasn't just what he'd said, it was anger at the futility of her love for him, at the gulf between them, at how he made her feel. "He was right - you're inhuman, a monster, and I was stupid to go near you."

He could see Nataliya shouting at him, her face angry, upset, but it was as if he was watching her through two sets of eyes. One part of him wanted to hold her, to tell her that he understood that she was upset, that he would give her time, time to understand the truth. 

That he loved her.

Another part, a different, stronger part, wanted to lash out, to hurt her, to be cruel - and that part was getting stronger, overwhelmingly stronger, by the second. It was corrupting his feelings for her, he knew that, twisting them into a parody of the truth. 

Wasn't it?

When had he started hating her?

With an effort he forced himself upright, his demonic soul feeding his anger, holding him steady, exerting a cold command over his emotions. 

When he smiled it was a chilling, cruel thing. "Fine. Monster I may be, since it's what you all think," he said, his voice quiet, cold, steady even though he was struggling to stay on his feet. "But tell him this, tell him that if he goes to the Drissa Falls, Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov will be laughing at his execution - tell your precious father that!" 

It had been so easy of late, holding the demon in place, controlling it - now it seemed impossible, its strength overwhelming. He looked about, taking in Yelena and Vasily, hovering close by, their faces shocked. Even as he watched them he felt his demonic soul strengthen, his doubts slipping away.

"And then tell him this," he said, straightening, grinning at her savagely, his eyes dark with hate. "When the twins are full he will send you to me, send his precious daughter to the monster he fears so much. Or I will come for him - for him, for you and for all your family. Tell him that, Princess!"

Nataliya stared at him, frightened but angry, angry like she'd never been before - an icy controlled anger like a knot in her heart. "I was wrong," she said, calmly, coldly. "I do hate you."

Andrey laughed then, a bitter, twisted mockery of amusement filled with self-loathing, horrible to hear. For just a second she stared at him, then she turned and ran, the hideous sound following her, echoing after her.

By the time she reached the door - throwing herself at it, desperate to escape that horrible laughter - she was crying, tears pouring down her cheeks, the sound of Yelena and Vasily hard behind her. The door sprang open, crashing against the wall beyond, and then she was running, sobbing uncontrollably. 

She felt sick, sick and angry and lost and like she'd left something of herself behind - something she didn't know she'd had.

******

For a long time after she left Andrey remained still, staring at the door where he'd last seen her. Slowly a semblance of control returned. With Nataliya gone things seemed clearer, the ascendance of his demonic soul slowing but not stopping. He struggled to remember why he didn't want it to take control... 

Monster. She'd called him an inhuman monster.

Coming from Nataliya that had hurt him like never before. The thought brought a further surge from his infernal soul, his human soul giving more ground.

Is that what she thought? What had he done to her to make her think that? Had he ever been less than solicitous? Hadn't he been kind and considerate, rescuing her when she was in trouble. He'd never allowed his power to touch her - had never corrupted her innocence. He'd protected her and her family.

So why did she think he was a monster?

Ignoring the soldiers, the gathered servants, he turned and strode out onto the balcony. From here he could see across the ornamental gardens at the front of the dacha onto the distant orchards, the vineyard. Gathered between were the collected flyers of the various families who'd sent representatives here tonight. He breathed in the cool air - slightly damp, fresh and cool. 

Perhaps he was a monster, he thought, perhaps it was just that others could see it more clearly. He smiled bitterly. What else could he be? He was a killer, a torturer, a rapist - a weapon forged and used by House Azarov to bring fear to the lesser houses, to keep them in line, to discourage sedition with the thought that he might come for them, for their families. 

For their daughters.

He laughed a little at that, a bitter chuckle.

Above him the twin moons shone brightly and, for a while, he stood still - listening to the chirruping of the cicadas below, the call of an occasional night creature in the forest. For once there was no comfort in it for him, no peace. After a while he saw what he'd been waiting for - a lone flyer black against the purple sky, heading north, north towards the insignificant lands of House Rostov. 

If he hated her so much, why did that make him so sad?

Slowly, inexorably, his demonic soul completed its conquest. A tiny trickle, slowly pushing back his human soul, a tiny trickle that he couldn't even begin to stop. It was as if he'd been leaning on a crutch that someone had taken away - leaving him stumbling. And the soul... It was powerful, powerful beyond anything he'd imagined. He felt like a god. His human soul, weak, lacking the power, the ruthlessness of his demonic side, gave ground, fading, slipping into the background. It was still present, present like a stone in his shoe - but weak, suppressed. 

Why had he struggled for so long to keep his demonic side suppressed? He could see everything more clearly now - fear, that was all people respected, all they understood. Fear and power, and the fear that power brought with it. He was foolish to have forgotten that. He could see that he had work to do, work rebuilding his power base, rebuilding his reputation. And he would have his revenge, too. Unconsciously his eyes traces the path of the Rostov flyer. Wasn't vengeance the sweetest feeling of all?




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 06



Author's note: This one is for Erin and Ara and all those others who kept on at me to finish this, and other things: Thanks

******

"I think you need to hear this, Lord Prince."

Andrey lounged indolently in the armchair, glass of wine in his hand, leg cocked over one arm. "Oh?" he said, regarding Piotr evenly. "Show him in then..."

The man was unprepossessing, a small man dressed in the drab clothes of a labourer, a peasant. Lank brown hair clung to his head like a cap, his face and hands tanned the ruddy brown of someone who worked the wastes or the fields.

Piotr pushed him closer. "Lord Prince, this is Boris, a labourer working on the Bezhukov estate. It seems that he overheard a conversation - a conversation that he thought we might like to know about. Isn't that right, Boris?" Piotr laid his hand heavily on Boris' shoulder, tapping it gently with his fingers.

Boris shuffled nervously, wringing his hands before him, his head lowered. "Yes, Master, uh, Highness," he said. "I did. Uh..." His voice was coarse, uneducated but his eyes shone with a certain cunning.

Andrey pulled his leg down leaning forward in the chair, intrigued. "Don't worry Boris, you're amongst friends here," he said smoothly. "And I always reward my friends well..." He glanced across at Piotr, nodded to the cabinet in the corner. "You must be thirsty, Boris, would you care for some wine?"

Boris turned at the sound of Piotr pouring. "Thank you, Master." He took the proffered glass, swigging the dark vintage as if it were small beer.

Andrey pointed to the seat next to his, holding his glass out to allow Piotr to refill it. "Sit, Boris, make yourself comfortable..."

Reluctantly, Boris perched on the edge of the seat, sipping nervously at his wine. He smelt of sweat and toil and a distinct lack of soap, Andrey thought. Even from where he was Andrey could see the dirt worked into Boris' skin, caught under his nails. "Now, I believe that friends should be honest with one another from the outset, what do you think Boris?"

"Yes, Master." A nervous sip, the sound of slurping. Boris wouldn't meet his eyes. Andrey grinned. 

"So, to show you the kind of friend I am, I am willing to give you five roubles now - just for the trouble you took to come and tell me what you know." Andrey nodded to Piotr who handed Boris five roubles. For a labourer it would represent nearly a month's wage.

Boris took them quickly, his eyes wide, greedy, a new animation entering his body.

"Now, after I hear the story you have to tell, I will give you five more roubles, just because I like to hear things that people tell me," he said, smiling at the greed in Boris' face. "But Boris, I like to hear true things - so as well as those ten silver roubles I will give you another five roubles if you keep the story to the truth and don't add things you think I might like to hear... Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master." The greed was naked now, his enthusiasm obvious.

"Good. Then let us hear this story, Boris," he said, sipping his wine, settling back into his chair. Piotr positioned himself discreetly behind Boris. 

Once more Boris glanced around the room, licking his lips nervously, his hands gripping the five roubles with white knuckles. "I were working in the fields near the Bezhukov Kremlin, Master, clearing a drainage ditch that'd been blocked by fallen trees... I been working since dawn and it were hard work, so when the sun got up I sits down to have something to eat," he said, pausing, thinking.

"I were just having a drink when I hears horses. Now I weren't far from the kremlin but I were in the woods and nobody knew I was there but my overseer, and he weren't about...." He licked his lips again, sipping the wine. "I didn't think much of it at first, horses is always around the kremlin, but then I sees the riders. It were Prince Fyodor and Old Prince Matfei, Prince Dmitri were there too I sees when I looks."

"Now, I make it a rule never to draw the notice of nobles, begging your pardon, Master," he said, nodding respectfully towards Andrey. "See, it's nothing but trouble, usually." He swallowed more wine. "Anyways, I stayed hidden, but real close like. I could hear 'em talking."

Andrey nodded, smiling reassuringly.

"It were Prince Fyodor what started it. He says something about his girl, Princess Nataliya, and you, Master. He says some, uh, things about you, Master, untrue things, no doubt, but, uh, unkind things."

"Don't worry about that, Boris, I'm used to people being unkind - not everyone can be a friend, can they?" Andrey said. It was strange but even hearing her name affected him - filled him with a peculiar conflict, a strange desire. He glanced at Piotr, who remained unmoving behind Boris, shook it off.

"No, Master, I suppose not. Anyway, after a while Prince Fyodor starts asking Prince Matfei if he can help him. Now I wasn't paying that much attention up 'til now, it just being gossip and all," he said, his face serious, thoughtful. "Then Prince Matfei asks him what he means and he says, Prince Fyodor, he says he wants help to, uh, kill you... Now that scares me. I thinks to myself 'what have I got myself into now?'" He paused again, sipping his wine, shifting on the chair. "So I stays real still, trying to be quiet so they wouldn't hear me, I don't think I was even breathing... See, if they was willing to kill a Prince I thinks, what chance that they wouldn't kill me if they finds me, eh Master?"

"I think you were wise, Boris. These men were plotting murder, I think that you were right to stay hidden..."

Boris nodded, as if he'd been vindicated. "So, Prince Matfei laughs and he says that it's long overdue but not easy to do and Prince Fyodor says that it has to be done and done quickly." A breath, a sip of wine. At a glance from Andrey, Piotr leaned over and filled it once again, the crystal chinking lightly against the glass. "He says something about the moons being full, about being desperate. Then Prince Dmitri says that he can arrange it, that he knows some people who might do it."

"Did he say how he would do it?" Andrey said, leaning forward now, his eyes burning. "Or what people?"

"No, not really, Master. All I remembers him saying is that he would arrange a meeting but he didn't say nothing more." He gulped his wine.

"Well, Boris, that is a good story to hear, a useful story," Andrey said. "You've earned your reward, my friend." He looked up at Piotr. "Pay my friend here and then send him on his way."

"Yes, Lord Prince." Piotr handed Boris a leather purse, waiting for him to stand.

"Boris. If you hear any more stories like this, stories I might like to hear, I'll reward you just the same way... Remember that, I always look after my friends."

"Yes, Master." Boris nodded, slipping the heavy purse under his tunic as Piotr led him from the room.

Once he was alone, Andrey stood, pushing the room's small window open to admit a slight breeze. In the hearth he had kindled a small fire, just enough to warm the room, to banish the chill. For a time he listened to it cracking and popping in the otherwise quiet room. Autumn was coming to the plateau. In the north, around the Rostov Kremlin, the rains would already have started. Here, further south, the rains had yet to come but there was a chill to the air that had been absent a few weeks before.

So, it seemed that Fyodor had more courage than he gave him credit for. He considered that for a moment. How did that alter his plans? Of course the question was really whether he had enough courage to keep his daughter from him... He chewed that over. Most of the encumberance of his human side had been easy to slough off, but not his attachment to Nataliya. He knew that once she was gone his human soul would trouble him no more - but in this one thing it fought him, battled against him as if it knew that its very existence was at stake. Or hers. It wasn't powerful, but it was persistent - corrupting his desires, polluting his decision making. Persistent enough that it kept Fyodor alive, kept him from just killing her out of hand.

He glanced quickly out of the window, the sky was clear, there was no sign of the twins, but he knew they would be full in a matter of days. Then Fyodor would send him Nataliya, then he would finally be rid of this weakness. Killing Fyodor now wasn't worth the fight - he would likely take his own life after he'd finished with his daughter anyway...

When Piotr returned he was staring into the low fire, leaning on the mantel, his thoughts full of Nataliya - the look on her face when she'd left him, the strange feeling that had possessed him since.

Piotr coughed, breaking his reverie. "Lord Prince?"

He straightened, looked around as if waking from a dream. How had he turned all melancholy again? He sighed, what was it about that damned girl that haunted him so?

He turned to Piotr, his face thoughtful. "Assemble the troops, Petya, it's time to teach Fyodor a lesson."

"Lord Prince."

******

It was before dawn when Katerina woke, a pale light leaking in between the gaps in the shutters. Andrey was still asleep, her head resting on his chest, the sound of his heart slow and steady in the still quiet.

They had made love the night before and she still felt weak, her limbs limp and rubbery. The room still smelt of their passion - musky, earthy. For a while she lay still, content, her mind playing over the change in him. He was almost the same Andrey, she thought. Almost the same with her, at least, she corrected herself. Still kind and gentle and solicitous of her comfort, her pleasure - albeit harder edged. 

But his soul... Its power was overwhelming. She was used to feeling him possess her during sex - seductive and insidious - but since that night with Nataliya that trickle had become a flood, utterly overwhelming - making her more puppet than participant. And he was holding back, she knew, trying to spare her. It frightened her, she didn't know how long he could contain that power without it destroying him - like a furnace run too hot for too long.

Slowly she extricated herself from his embrace, careful not to wake him. Since the change she'd come to fear for him, to worry about his increasing ruthlessness, the slow loss of the myriad small ways he showed his tenderness, his humanity. She looked down at him, his pale face serene in sleep, his hair like a shadow across his cheek. With his eyes closed it was easy to forget that the change had even happened, that anything had changed. She sighed gently. But it had, of course. And it had forced her to confront her own feelings for him - increasingly ambivalent and growing in strength. She needed to know what had happened to him, what he'd become, what Nataliya had done - or undone. And there was only one person who would know.

Thinking, staring down at him, she felt a familiar ache in her chest. She grimaced - clamping down on it, denying it - turned her mind back to what she intended. Even if she travelled to the Kremlin there was no guarantee that she would see her. Either way, in this she didn't want, didn't need Andrey's interference. When she was dressed she slipped quietly from the room. 

After the fiasco with Nataliya they had moved to Andrey's dacha on the western rim of the plateau. It was the smallest, least opulent building she had yet seen associated with the ruling family - a wooden house set fast inside woodland, it possessed little ostentation - as much retreat as palace, a place of calm and serenity.

This early, most of the dacha was still sleeping - its closed doors and silent rooms giving it a heavy, still atmosphere. From the kitchens and servants quarters at the back of the house she could hear sounds of movement and the smell of baking bread was strong on the ground floor. Most of the public rooms were gloomy, shadowed against the light by wooden shutters, but enough of the grey dawn leaked in to allow her to negotiate them safely. In the small hallway at the bottom of the stairs she was met by two of Andrey's guard - assigned as her regular escort, a small token of recognition for the status she held in his life. Quickly, hoping to be gone before Andrey woke, before he had the opportunity to stop her, she led them to the flyer on the lawn.

Emerging from the sleeping dacha into the damp dawn she was surprised to see his guards assembled on the grass. Overnight it seemed that three additional flyers had arrived. Bulky, inelegant military machines like gigantic beetles, black and sinister. In the garden next to Andrey's small flyer they looked distinctly menacing. Gathered around them, standing or slouching in the flyers' open hatchways, Andrey's guard waited - still and alert, an occasional comment or exchanged word the only sounds breaking the stillness. Already dressed in battle armour, weapons held loosely in hand, they watched her emerge impassively, their hard faces incurious. 

For a moment she paused, still in the doorway. It was obvious that something was going on, something that Andrey hadn't shared with her - that in itself was unusual, worrying. She found herself torn - caught between her desire for answers about him and her desire to find out what he was planning, to stop him if she could, if she had to.

It was Piotr that eventually made up her mind. As she stood vacillating in the doorway he emerged from amongst the troops, approaching her, a trail of footprints following him through the dew covered the grass. "Good Morning, Lady Katerina," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Are you coming with us?"

She shook her head. "No... Piotr, what's going on?"

"The Lord Prince has learnt of a plan on his life," he said evenly. "He's going to take some pre-emptive action."

"So this has nothing to do with Nataliya?"

Piotr shrugged, his face eloquent. "Doesn't everything these days."

"You have to stop him, then," she said, her face concerned. "He's not rational when it comes to her, you know that."

"I know," he said, nodding. "But on this occasion the threat is real, and we won't be going near her. If you aren't coming with us, where are you going?" He glanced toward the emerging sun as if to add 'this early'.

She shrugged. "I need to find some answers, Petya, if I'm going to help him. Or at least understand what's happened to him."

He looked at her carefully. After a moment he said: "Just remember, if he isn't rational about Nataliya, you're not entirely rational about him - don't go getting yourself in trouble, Katya."

"I know, I won't," she said, keeping her face neutral. Is it that obvious, she thought. "You be careful, too, okay? And look after him for me."

"I always am and I always do," he said, smiling. "If you want to be gone before Andrey..." he paused as if considering what to say, "...gets up, you'd better be going."

She smiled, touching him briefly on the shoulder.

Nodding to her guards she crossed the lawn to the small flyer, dwarfed now by the hulking troop carriers. The pilot was waiting for her as arranged, sitting casually on the step below the body of the machine. The sight of her brought him smartly to his feet, a brief bow, little more than a nod, gracing him before he disappeared into the cockpit.

In a matter of moments the delicate machine whirred to life, its dragonfly wings buzzing lightly. With his passengers on board he wasted no time before lifting off, the flyer quickly ascending above the gathered troops, the dacha. Airborne, it banked once, turning slowly above the lawn, before straightening its course and setting off towards the rising sun, towards the Azarov Kremlin. 

******

Although she was quiet, Katerina's exit had still woken him, his body cooling with the loss of her embrace. When it was clear that she wasn't coming back he reluctantly shrugged off the covers, pulling a thick silk robe about him before he opened the shutters, emerging onto the small balcony beyond. He breathed the cool, damp air, looking down on the gathered troops, the carriers - incongruous in the peaceful surroundings.

For a while he stood, enjoying the peace, listening to the birdsong - the mournful cry of a dove repeating over and over. The early dawn haze above the forest was gradually lightening, turning to molten gold as the sun struck it. He hadn't dreamed, or at least he hadn't dreamed of her. He grinned wryly - he hadn't dreamed of her but his first thought when he opened his eyes was about her. Hardly an improvement.

He saw Katerina emerge, watched her take the flyer - its course tracking back toward the plain, the Kremlin. For a moment he was curious as to where she was going, but, gradually, his own plans imposed themselves on him and he put it aside for later.

The bath was located beneath the dacha - the building built over a hot spring for that very purpose - the water just the pleasant side of intolerable. The cavern was quiet, silence broken only by the quiet hiss of the oil lamps, the occasional splash made by the movement of his body. For a time he soaked, the hot water comforting as well as cleansing. His mind drifted, floating as free as his body on the water. By the time he emerged, slaves towelling him dry, skin wrinkled and soft with immersion, breakfast was waiting for him - freshly baked black bread and tea, strong and sour, liberally ladled with honey, set out in the dacha's small dining room. The shutters along the eastern wall had been thrown open so that the room was part of the garden, the light of the rising sun filling the room.

Piotr was already eating, standing quickly as he entered. Andrey waved him down, sat opposite him, facing the garden and the woods beyond. Yuri, his plump but effective majordomo was standing at the back of the room - slaves and servants, poised to serve, gathered about him, along the edges of the room out of his line of sight. A young woman wearing the mark of a slave on her wrist poured him tea, her hand shaking ever so slightly. The mark was dark, the ink in her skin fresh. His eyes flicked to her face - she looked down. He didn't recognise her.

"Are we ready?" he said, blowing steam from the surface of the tea. It wasn't a good time to be a new face in his household, he thought, not with his life on offer.

Piotr chewed his bread. "Yes." He paused, ruminated. "Highness, are you set on this course?"

Andrey sniffed his tea, looking at him through the steam.

With the sudden speed of a striking snake he was on his feet, his hand gripping the girl's hair like a vice, pulling her head back. She cried out, once, a brief cry of shock and pain. Unregarded, the tea cup fell to the floor, hot liquid spilling across the wood of the table, bouncing noisily on the wooden floor. He sensed a new tension amongst the other staff. Nobody moved. From the corner of his eye he saw Yuri poised to intervene. 

For a moment he held her still, feeling her body moving, breathing, the rise and fall of her chest - rapid, anxious - the tension that permeated her. Slowly he twisted the girl's head to face him, looking into her eyes - she was pretty, a wide mouth, soft lips, her eyes blue, wide and frightened. His soul took her. He didn't bother with subtlety - his power flashed through her like an electric shock, her body jerking with the sudden invasion. In the back of his mind he was aware that she was moaning, a sound caught somewhere between agony and ecstasy. He ripped through her, searching, feeling for danger, for corruption - something that might indicate treachery, that she was trying to poison him. 

There was nothing.

Satisfied he withdrew, the girl groaning almost sexually as he did so. She looked dazed, confused. As soon as he loosened his grip on her hair she collapsed onto the floor, struggling to stand, to crawl away, to control her own limbs. Yuri surged forward, waving other servants on to pick her up, to clear the table.




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 06



"Highness, might I ask what she did wrong - she is new, I can correct whatever it is," he said smoothly. "Shall I have her punished?"

Andrey waved him off. "No, she did nothing wrong," he said, dismissing him. He turned to Piotr. "You were saying..."

Slaves and servants rushed to clear the mess, wiping the tea. A new cup was hastily poured, placed before him.

"Uh... It's just that Katya..." Piotr said, watching the servants clearing up, looking uncomfortable. "She's worried about you," he finished.

"Yes, I know she is," he said slowly. "She has no reason, Petya. Soon Nataliya will be..." He looked thoughtful, watching Piotr obliquely. "No longer a problem and things will return to normal."

Piotr nodded, his face conflicted. When he spoke his voice was hesitant, reluctant. "Highness, I understand what we do today, but this thing with Nataliya..." He shifted uncomfortably. "Listen to Katerina, Lord Prince, please."

Thinking of Katerina made him glance toward the sky once again, looking into the rising sun, towards the Kremlin. There was no sign of the flyer. Where was she going? For some reason the question bothered him, like an itch he couldn't scratch. If it had been anybody else he would have feared disloyalty, treachery - but not Katerina. So, where was she going?

"I shall think on it," he said, at last. "Now, back to today. Get everyone ready, we leave in an hour."

"Yes, Lord Prince."

******

The sun had just crested the horizon when they lifted from the gardens, the squat, bulky machines thumping the air heavily as they lurched into the air. He sat behind the pilot in the lead carrier, Piotr alongside him. Behind him, in the body of the carrier, his bodyguard sat and talked, slept and joked with false bravado - occupied themselves in the many small ways that men do when they know they go to fight, to kill and, possibly, to die.

"Piotr, do we have it?" he said, smiling easily.

"Yes, Lord Prince," Piotr said, pulling a tarpaulin back from a bulky object on the floor.

"It doesn't look like much..." Andrey said. The power generator from the ruins, alongside it a few other smaller pieces retrieved in the days before, under Katerina's direction. He'd known that it would be useful for something. He laughed gently. "Still, it doesn't have to do much, does it?"

Piotr grinned, looking out of the flyer's small window.

******

The chamberlain was a thin, fussy man - silver haired and clean shaved, his skin pink, his sharp eyes a shade of hazel. He regarded Katerina without warmth, his hands on the desk before him, his white uniform a stark contrast to the more familiar black; on its breast a golden lion.

"And why should I disturb the Lady Princess for you?" he said, his voice a little nasal.

"Please, Lord Chamberlain," she said, clenching her teeth against her irritation. "It's about her son, about Lord Prince Andrey."

He looked behind her theatrically, leaning to both sides as if her body might conceal some extra person. "And where is Lord Prince Andrey?"

Katerina sighed, biting off the temptation to blast him out of her sight.

After leaving the dacha the flight had been straightforward enough, her arrival at the Kremlin apparently unremarked. Despite this, she felt sure that unseen eyes would have carried word of her arrival to Lord Prince Mikhail or Count Alexander or whoever was standing in for house security in place of Andrey. She had known that speed was her ally, that she had to get in and out before those who might oppose Andrey could gather themselves to move against her.

So once again Katerina found herself walking the corridors of the Kremlin. This time she stuck to the main thoroughfares, her power held ready - crackling through her - sticking like a shadow to her two escorts, both of whom held their weapons ready, displayed to see. Fortunately the guards were familiar with the massive fortress and they led her quickly to her chosen destination - the chambers of the Lady Princess Ilsa Azarov.

It was here that the very concept of speed had leached away. First she'd had to negotiate the guards on the outer door - white uniformed, arrogant and unhelpful. Then she had been kept waiting for hours in the outer office, a minor secretary pointedly ignoring her and her protests. After that interminable wait, she had been shown through to the office of the household staff - to wait for the attention of the chamberlain. For some reason it seemed that all of Ilsa's staff were incredibly busy this morning and she had been forced to wait for a further hour before the irritating little man she now faced had deigned to see her.

"Lord Chamberlain, Lord Prince Andrey is at his dacha. I have come on his behalf to see the Lady Princess Ilsa. He is not here," she said with exaggerated patience. "I have explained this to the guards on the outer door, I have explained this to the secretary in the outer office and I have explained this to you. Is it now clear?"

He looked at her, his eyes steady. "Yes, thank you, Lady Katerina, it is clear," he said. "Now, without an appointment the Lady Princess Ilsa is too busy to see you. Is that clear?"

Katerina felt like screaming. "Yes, Lord Chamberlain, so can I make-"

At that moment the inner doors opened and a statuesque woman in a long white dress, attended by a number of servants in a mix of black and white, emerged. To Katerina's eyes the resemblance to Andrey was obvious and shocking - the same fine bones, the angular face, the intensity of her gaze - though her hair was a pale golden blonde in contrast to Andrey's raven black. At once the chamberlain leapt to his feet. In a glance the woman took in the scene before her, her bright indigo eyes focusing on Katerina. To her shock Katerina felt power coursing through her, thick and powerful, a match to her own - a fellow sorceress.

"Who are you?" Ilsa said, her eyes narrowing.

"Uh, Highness this is-" the chamberlain said. 

"Shut up! I wasn't talking to you," she said, looking directly at Katerina. "I was talking to her."

Katerina bowed. "I am Katerina, I am Lord Prince Andrey's..." What? What was she? His lover? His servant? "Slave, Highness, I have come to see you about him, about your son..."

Ilsa looked at her shrewdly, eyes narrowing at the hesitation. "I know who Andrey is, girl," she said, coolly. "Slave is it. And why should I want to see you?"

"Uh, Highness, I think something might have happened to him," she said. "I want to understand what it is, to help him."

"Do you? Why don't you ask Andrey, then?" She turned to one of her servants, spoke briefly to her in a language Katerina didn't know, sent her off.

"I have, Highness, he won't tell me..."

"And if he won't tell you, why should I care what you want?" 

Katerina swallowed. "I'm in love with him," she said. As soon as she said it she knew it was true, a knot of anxiety freeing itself from around her heart.

Again Ilsa looked at her, her eyes shrewd, assessing. Katerina raised her chin, stared back. After a moment Ilsa clapped her hands. "Get out, all of you, I will see the Lady Katerina alone."

"But Highness," the chamberlain said, "what about your meeting with the boyars?"

Ilsa glanced at him and she saw him flinch slightly. "Tell them to wait, tell them to go away, hold the meeting yourself...I don't care - but don't presume to question my decisions again or I'll have you impaled," she said simply, without artifice. She turned to Katerina. "Well girl, come on, let us talk."

With that she swept her into the room beyond, closing the doors behind her. It was a large sitting room, shades of gold and blue. Around an ornate central fireplace - its mantel, the chimney column, decorated with tiny, ornate tiles in a deep blue and gold - soft, highly decorated chairs in pale wood were gathered, a chaise longue to one side. In the corner a golden harp. The walls were the delicate blue of a robin's egg, the lower reaches panelled in white wood, on the floor heavy blue rugs - more feminine than many of the rooms she'd seen, if no less ostentatious.

"Sit down, girl," Ilsa eased herself into a large chair, more throne than armchair, her eyes never leaving Katerina. Her hair was piled atop her head, her face untouched by make-up. "The tea is still hot." She waved toward an ornate golden samovar on a low table.

"Thank you, Highness," she said, pouring for herself. When she looked up Ilsa was still watching her with a calculating look. "Uh, would you like some, Highness?"

"No, I'm sick of tea," she said, pursing her lips, her face thoughtful. "You allowed yourself to be bound to him?"

Katerina nodded, sitting on one of the ornate chairs.

"Did you know of him before you allowed this to happen?" 

She shook her head. "It wasn't as if I had a great deal of choice, Highness."

Ilsa laughed. "I can imagine," she said, looking at her curiously, almost hungrily, Katerina thought. "How does it feel to be so completely in another's power?"

Katerina smiled, as small and brief as spring frost. Answered honestly. "It is like he is always with me, like a piece of me is always with him - as if I am never alone with myself," she said, pensively. Then: "I would not change it."

Ilsa nodded. "And now you say you love him..." 

"Yes, Highness."

"Does he know?" she said abruptly.

She thought for a moment, shook her head. "I don't think so. I haven't told him."

Ilsa smiled slightly. "What a mess you appear to have got yourself into, Lady Katerina," she said.

Katerina shrugged. "I have no regrets."

Ilsa's smile widened, but it seemed less open, sadder. "What a privileged position you have then, to live your life with no regrets," she said. "Oh, they'll come soon enough - when he marries, when he takes a lover and you find yourself alone every night, alone with your memories and your binding."

Katerina stared, that had hurt. She didn't even want to begin to think about her future, not with the realisation, the admission so raw. She swallowed to clear the lump in her throat. "How is that so different to you, Highness?"

Ilsa chuckled. It was a sound without humour, the sound of someone tired of playing games. "How biting we are to one another - we who should be like sisters..." Ilsa said. 

Katerina looked down, shuffled on her seat. Well, you started it, she thought.

"Shall we begin again, Lady Katerina?" Ilsa said after a time, sighing sadly. Katerina nodded. "Good, it has been a while since I saw Andrey and it will be good to speak to someone who cares about him."

Ilsa was quiet then, her face reflective. In the background the samovar bubbled gently. "Do you think he loves you?" she said after a while.

Katerina looked at her - searching for a trace of mockery, a sign that Ilsa was baiting her. There was none, it seemed an honest question. "I...don't know. I think he feels something - he's kind to me, takes care of me, trusts me, shares himself with me. He sleeps with me almost every night," she said thoughtfully then she blushed, realising that she'd just shared the last with his mother.

"Is that enough?"

Katerina considered the question carefully. "It will have to be. It's more than I'd hoped for when he bound me."

Ilsa nodded slowly. "Be glad, Lady Katerina, that is more than many marriages contain," she said quietly. "If he doesn't love you, he cares enough for you to pretend that he does..."

Katerina smiled softly, grateful for the small comfort.

"I'm sure you know - Andrey was my last. My last child," Ilsa said quietly. Then: "Maybe I will have some tea after all."

She waited, her face thoughtful, while Katerina poured her a cup, spooning sugar into it before continuing. "It wasn't out of choice. After Andrey I couldn't have any more - it seems that he broke more than just my heart."

Katerina watched her, they were much alike. She could feel Ilsa's power, a twin to her own, coursing in her veins. Was she seeing herself in the future? Would she share Ilsa's fate - sitting alone, sleeping alone? Perhaps. But Ilsa had married her prince, had that comfort to take to bed with her each night. That fate was already closed to her. Whatever else the future held, she would always be his slave, never his wife.

She shook herself, chasing her feelings away. So much for no regrets, she thought.

"Why? What was so different about Andrey's birth?" she said finally.

Ilsa laughed, but it had no humour in it. "Sooner ask what was normal about Andrey's birth."

Katerina cocked her head, curious.

Ilsa sighed. "I have never spoken of this, Katerina. Perhaps it is past time that I did." She smoothed her dress, thought for a moment. When she spoke her voice was quiet, little more than a whisper. "Andrey Mikhailovich Azarov died, died in my womb, before he was born," she said.

"My God!" Katerina said.

Again Ilsa laughed, the sound full of loss and something more - something harder. Pride? Anger? "Yes, quite. I was young, quite far gone when I found out. It broke my heart, tore something inside me."

"What did you do?" she whispered.

"I did what I had to do!" she said, her voice hard - sitting forward in her chair as if anticipating a fight. "What any mother would do if she could - I saved him."

Katerina blinked, stared. "How? How did you save him?"

She fixed Katerina with an intense stare, defiant, daring her to question what she did. "I called on my house's patron, on the Prince of Lust - on Asmodeus himself. I sacrificed to him, offered him my soul if only he would save my baby..."

Katerina stared in horrible fascination, equal parts repulsed and intrigued. To call on one of the Nine, one of the Princes of Heaven and Hell... It was like something out of the mythology, not something real. "What happened?"

"He came to me, I paid my price, he gave me my baby back," she said, her face conveying the wonder, the pain, the sacrifice that her words did not. "Feeling him kick after that horrible stillness, feeling him move inside me once again - you have no idea what that felt like. It was worth any price..."

"And Andrey? What of Andrey?"

"What of him? He lived to grow up, to love you, to live like anyone else..."

Katerina looked at her, her face gentle. "He seems to have two souls."

Ilsa looked down at her hands, smiled slightly. "No, that is not true." She paused. "He has but one soul but it is made of two parts... He was not even a babe when he died. His own soul was weak, helpless, innocent. It wasn't strong enough to survive on its own. Asmodeus had to give him part of his own soul - a small fraction, just enough to let him live - to support him," she said, her eyes distant. "A mortal soul and an immortal soul wound together... Andrey's life, since the day of his birth, has been a continual battle to reconcile those two parts of himself - to keep himself in balance: tenderness and lust, innocence and corruption, power and humanity." She wiped at her face, brushing tears away. "He was never at rest, even as a child, always tormented."

Katerina stared helplessly, her mind whirling. A thousand questions presented themselves, a thousand things she wanted to understand. "How... What is... What would happen to him if they weren't balanced?" she said at last.

Ilsa looked pensive, sighed. "When he was a child he struggled to keep any sort of balance," she smiled sadly, "but, being young, everything is mutable. As he grew he seemed to achieve a greater stability. As an adult now, I don't know... If his human part was dominant, probably not a great deal. It's so weak compared to his demonic part that it would probably need help just to maintain an equilibrium - I should think it unlikely that it could ever achieve dominance."

At that moment there was a knock at the door, breaking the mood. A call from Ilsa brought a lean man wearing the white uniform of Ilsa's guard into the room. Katerina shifted on her seat, thinking about what Ilsa had said. The man glanced at her, as if in confirmation, crossed to Ilsa. For a few moments, they spoke together quietly in a language unfamiliar to Katerina. From the way that both of them looked at her during the conversation she guessed that it had, in part at least, to do with her.

Finally the man left, nodding curtly to Ilsa. Ilsa looked at her once more. "You haven't drunk your tea."

"What? No... I, uh." She sipped her tea, thinking over what Ilsa had said before they were disturbed. For some reason her heart was beating hard, as if her body was aware of some anxiety her mind hadn't registered yet. "You said that Andrey's human soul might need help. What do you mean, what kind of help?"

Ilsa considered the question for a moment. "I'm not certain. There's no precedent for what happened to Andrey." A pause. She smiled briefly. "Another soul, I suppose. One similar to his own, one close enough that it could combine with his own to keep the demon in check - a soulmate in the truest sense of the word."

"Do you think he would know if he found this soulmate?" she said, quietly, but her heart was beating fast now. Something terrible was going to happen, she could feel it - like a weight sitting over her.

"I don't know, Katerina, all of this is speculation. I would imagine that he would feel an affinity, though he probably wouldn't know why."

It made sense now, his obsession with Nataliya, his change since that night. Neither of them could possibly have known what was happening... "But he's lived with this all his life - he must have found a way?" she said, her mind racing to match her heart.

"Oh, he found a way alright. He's constantly fighting to hold the demon in check, never relaxing, never at peace," she said quietly, sipping her tea slowly. "He told me once that it was like trying to live your life while carrying a hot coal in your hand - the pain a constant companion, making every task more difficult. He's remarkably strong, Katerina, and surprisingly gentle, considering..." Ilsa smiled at her.

Katerina smiled back shyly. "I know. He's not what I'd expected from hearing his reputation," she said gently. It was an odd moment of tenderness in the conversation and she was reluctant to break the mood. The silence grew again, the samovar bubbling softly. Ilsa put down her tea cup, a clink of china. Katerina's mind whirled. "Highness," she said at last, "what would happen if the demonic part gained dominance?"

Ilsa shrugged, sipping her tea slowly. "Again, I don't know. It's hard to say for sure with any of this. His demonic soul is powerful though - I'm sure you'll have felt it by now - if it gained dominance... I don't know," she said, pensively. "I suppose that he'd lose that gentleness that you and I, at least, seem to treasure. It's possible that his human soul would cease to exist altogether - probably not straight away, eventually though."

Katerina considered that for a moment. "What would happen to Andrey if that happened?"

"He'd die, Katerina. Asmodeus grafted, joined - whatever - part of his soul to Andrey's soul, they cannot be separated. If Andrey's soul is destroyed, the demonic part would be destroyed along with it - it could not exist alone." She sipped her tea again. "Of course, the same would apply to the loss of his demonic part, he needs both to survive, to make him whole."

Then it struck her - the night of the full moons. His human soul would never hurt Nataliya, would never allow her to be harmed - but if his demonic soul was dominant... She had to get back, she had to stop him doing whatever he was going to do to her - if he hurt Nataliya it would destroy his humanity, destroy him.

She placed the cup back onto the table. "Highness, I have to get back," she said, cold fingers plucking at her spine. "Andrey's going to make a terrible mistake... Unless I can stop him."

"No. If you leave these chambers, you'll be killed," she said, matter of factly.




Demon Prince of Mangala Ch. 06



"What?" Katerina stared.

"Beyond those doors, while we have been speaking, soldiers loyal to Count Alexander have arrived. They are waiting for you - you know him?" Katerina swallowed, nodded. "They mean to take you to him. Make no mistake, if they take you, they take you to your death. If I know Alexander, probably in some suitably gruesome manner," she said. "It seems as if my husband and my son are manoeuvring against one another again."

Katerina stared open mouthed.

"Oh, don't worry, you're safe enough in here," Ilsa said. "My guards protect us and not even Alexander would risk upsetting me."

"But I need to get home, you don't understand - Andrey's going to do something terrible to Natal- his soulmate!"

Ilsa looked at her curiously. "Explain yourself, Katerina."

Katerina sighed. "For the past few weeks Andrey has been courting a young girl, Nataliya Rostova. All this time there has been something indefinable between them, something even Andrey couldn't understand. Then, a few days ago they argued over something - something about her father," she said, pulling her thoughts together even as she spoke. "It was nonsense, trivial really, she ran off, crying, and Andrey... Andrey seemed to change - he's more ruthless, more powerful than before - I think that his demonic soul has taken over."

"And..."

She paused, pulling her thoughts together. "He's given her father an ultimatum - either he sends her to him on the night of the full moons or... Or he'll take her by force and kill them all for his trouble. I don't know what he intends to do to her, but he's not himself... I think that his demonic side hates her as much as his human side loves her, do you see?"

"Yes, I see," she said, nodding. "But the fact remains, if you walk out that door tonight, you'll be taken and killed and I won't be able to protect you. They say you're a fugitive. Even for Andrey I won't start a war in the Kremlin, I have other children to think of."

"What am I to do, then?" Katerina said, fidgeting impatiently.

"Wait here. Your guards can be accommodated. When it is safe, I will arrange for you to be escorted back to your flyer."

"How long?"

Ilsa shrugged. "When it is safe I will let you know, I will need to petition my husband. He won't refuse me, but he will delay it as long as possible, hoping that Alexander will have you by then."

"Highness, the full moons happen tomorrow night, if I don't stop him he may not survive..."

"Lady Katerina, I understood you the first time... When it is safe, I will see you to your flyer."

******

Despite the rain pouring beyond the door, hissing past the clerestory windows, Andrey could smell smoke, smoke and the sickly sweet smell of cooking meat - a pungent counterpoint to the smell of damp, of soaking wet people. Before him, on one side of the long hall, the servants and slaves of the Bezhukov family huddled - crying and wailing in a wretched group under the vigilant eyes and ready weapons of his guards. On the other, the disarmed remnants of the Bezhukov soldiery knelt, hands on heads, facing the walls, another half dozen of his guards watching them carefully. A number of charred bodies were still discarded about the hall, victims of the firefight that had raged here only a short time before.

"Well, Prince Matfei," Andrey said, smiling coldly, "how does it feel not to have to worry about managing an estate any longer?"

He sat in the main hall of what had been the Bezhukov Kremlin, sitting in the tall chair that Prince Matfei would just an hour ago have claimed as his own. He affected disdain but in truth he was burning with anger. The kremlin had put up unexpected resistance - the number of armed soldiers possessed by the Bezhukovs higher than he'd anticipated, more of his own guard killed in the resulting battle. It was a primitive place, he thought, a stinking primitive little hole suitable only for worms - worms like Matfei and his worthless offspring. Little decoration covered its rendered walls, its curving pillars - functional but hardly comfortable. Maybe he would change that.

Matfei looked up - his face was drawn, ashen, deep shadows beneath his dark eyes, his salt and pepper beard unkempt - two of Andrey's guard holding him by the arms where he knelt on the floor. He swallowed. "Lord Prince, we have done nothing, why did you attack us?"

Andrey sneered. "Done nothing? You were plotting to kill me..." Then he smiled slightly, his face twisting into a look of grim amusement. "And you were smuggling old tech."

Matfei groaned. "Lord Prince, this is untrue, I know nothing of this." He shuffled, trying to bring some relief to his knees pressed on the cold stone of the hall floor.

"Really? That's strange because I have a half dozen of your household who are testifying quite the opposite," he said, calmly, his face as cold and distant as the twins. "And my soldiers have found a significant number of items of old tech in your kremlin."

For a second he looked at Andrey, daring to meet his sinister ruby gaze, searching his eyes as if looking for a way out. Finally Matfei hung his head, a recognition of his defeat. "You evil bastard," he said quietly. "I wish I had killed you..."

"Indeed." He turned to the two guards holding him in place, his face still. "Take him outside and nail him to the kremlin's main gate - this place needs more decoration." At his words a low groan swept through the prisoners.

"Bastard!" Matfei shouted as the two guards dragged him from the hall. "You bastard, Andrey, I hope you rot in Hell! You evil bastard!"

"No doubt you're right on all counts, Prince Matfei. And I'm sure I will..." Andrey grinned wryly. Then he smiled. As Matfei was dragged out, Piotr and two more guards manhandled Dmitri into the hall. He was lean and athletic, handsome even - even dishevelled as he was from the fighting and soaked from the pouring rain. His uniform was dirty with mud, his face marked with soot and blood. 

"Ah, Piotr, you caught him then? Good," Andrey said.

Piotr grimaced, his face angry. "Yes, this scum was holed up the south tower, I lost three men before we winkled him out..."

"Fuck you, you bastard! What have you done to my father?" Dmitri shouted, continuing to struggle, trying to rise.

Andrey stared at him. "I've had him nailed to the gate," he said, matter of factly. "Perhaps you'll be next."

"You don't scare me, Prince Bastard," he shouted, straining against the guards holding him. "Let me go, give me a sword, fight me - or are you a coward as well as a bastard?"

Andrey grinned as he might at a dancing bear. "I'm certainly not as stupid as you think I am, Dmitri," he said. "No, you and I, we need to have a little chat..."

"I'll tell you nothing, coward - fight me, man to man, or am I too much for you; Nataliya more your type is she," he spat.

Andrey glared. He hadn't been expecting that, her name had hit him like a blow. Strange.

Dmitri spotted the reaction. "So... Going to rape her are you? Is that your game you fucking degenerate? Going to rape and murder a young girl..."

Fury spiked through him, a flash of pure anger running whitehot through his veins. In a moment he was on his feet, Dmitri's head crushed in his hands. For a moment he was tempted to keep squeezing, to crush it like a melon - his demonic strength would be more than sufficient, he knew. Instead he held it like a vice, forcing it back, staring into Dmitri's eyes - felt him flinch, his voice falling silent. Andrey's eyes bored into him. "Windows to your soul, Dmitri... Shall we see what's in there?" he whispered, as intimate as death, as cold as the grave.

Dmitri spat into his face, but his eyes betrayed his fear. Andrey laughed.

A whisper of feeling. Nothing more than that. As if something had brushed through his body. Dmitri stared at him, what was he doing?

The next touch was more substantial, it felt as if something warm and greasy was flowing into him - through his veins, around his body. He strained against the guards, pulling uselessly against their iron grip, trying to pull his head free of Andrey's vice-like hands. "What are you doing, to me, bastard?" Dmitri felt panic clawing at his throat.

Andrey smiled.

Something inside his body, sliding through him like warm oil, slick and greasy, possessing him, polluting him, knowing him. Andrey's presence in his mind, touching his memories, his dreams. "No!" he shrieked, his voice the shredded tones of a man who realises that its already far too late. "Get out of my head!" 

"Welcome to my reality, Dmitri..." Andrey breathed softly.

Dmitri shrieked - ragged, high pitched, inhuman - the sound of a man who has just found his own personal hell. The screaming went on and on, unbroken, unending, echoing around the room. Andrey stood before him, his eyes drilling into him, gripping his convulsing body like a vice.

Finally, an eternity later, he released him - the sudden silence sharp and raw - turned away. His eyes flicked about the room - faces aghast, staring in horror at Dmitri, a few at him. For those who might be able to look beyond their own personal fear, his face was pale, disturbed.

What slumped in the guards' arms bore little resemblance to the Dmitri that had defied him earlier. He walked to the chair, deeply unsettled, resting his hand lightly on the arm. Something was very wrong... He looked about, this was neither the time nor the place, he thought. He put it aside, shut it away for later.

"Now, about that chat..." Andrey said feigning calm, sitting back on Matfei's chair. "You were arranging to have me killed - who was going to do it?"

Dmitri swallowed, drool running from his mouth. He'd pissed himself, his pants wet with the pungent liquid. Around him he could hear the crowd moaning, whining in fear.

"Who, Dmitri, who?"

He moaned. "Please, no more... Don't send me back there..."

"Who did you hire?"

"Bratva... The Brotherhood," he said, his voice weak. "Kill you."

"The Bratva? Nonsense, the Bratva would't touch a prince of the ruling house, they're not that stupid," Andrey said, thinking. "They're criminals, smugglers... It would draw too much attention."

Dmitri chuckled mirthlessly. "Not you, Lord Prince," he said, sarcasm forcing its way out. "Everyone knows your star is waning, you're practically dead already..."

Andrey looked pensive. "Maybe, Prince Dmitri," he said, a slow cruel smile spreading across his face. "But not as close as you are, I think." He spoke to the soldiers holding him. "Take him outside, await my pleasure."

He rose as Dmitri was dragged off, addressing the crowd. "You all heard that. Heard him confessing to plotting to kill me, a prince of the ruling house," he said loudly, turning to take in all of the wretched group, reaching inside himself, imbuing his words with power - making them flow around the room, soft and comforting, pregnant with reassurance.

"My troops have found evidence of smuggling. There is no need for any more of you to die, to suffer - I know that you are innocent of their crimes..." He felt them straighten, their moaning, their crying receding, falling silent. "Anyone honest enough to testify to these facts will be free to go, free to live your lives under the protection of the Azarovs as you always have." He felt the words as much as spoke them, each one rich with calm, with certainty.

"Is there anyone here who is not willing to give me their testimony?"

Silence. A poised silence. They were little people - servants, slaves, workers, soldiers - their lives lived at the whim of the noble houses, the ruling family. Even without his power he would have been certain of his plea.

"Good. Which of you runs this household?" He turned about looking for an answer. Slowly an old man pushed himself up from amongst the huddled servants.

"Lord Prince," he said, bowing, his uniform slightly better cut than most, his grey hair long and loose about his shoulders. "I am Mykola Viktorivich, I was the Bezhukovs' chamberlain."

"Thank you, Mykola. Can I count on your testimony? I know you must be as shocked as I was to learn of Matfei and Dmitri's betrayal," he said, looking at him meaningfully. In the new silence it was just possible to make out a distant rhythmic thumping - as of someone working wood - and, behind it, intermittently, a wailing cry.

Mykola swallowed. "Lord Prince, it is a horrible shock," he said, licking his lips. "I know that we are all loyal servants of the ruling family - allow me to be the first to offer my testimony."

"Thank you, again, Mykola. Please, write it out and hand it to Kapitan Ivolgin. Once he has yours, you can organise the gathering of everybody else's."

"Of course, Highness, it will be my pleasure." 

Andrey smiled. "Good man. I will assure Lord Prince Mikhail that, whoever he allocates to replace the Bezhukovs, he has a loyal man in you, Mykola."

"Thank you, Lord Prince."

He nodded to Piotr, sending him to organise the group, to gather the evidence he needed. Freed of that burden, the hall was suddenly claustrophobic, the thick smells cloying and unpleasant. One last time he glanced about, reassuring himself that he was missing nothing, then he stalked from the hall.

Outside it was raining steadily, the sky a solid grey shroud, chill in comparison to the warmer south. He pulled his oiled cloak over his armour, flicking the hood onto his head. With two soldiers falling in unobtrusively behind him he crossed the open courtyard of the kremlin. Like most of the minor family kremlins, it was incorporated into the massive outer defences of the plateau - the enormous curtain wall that ran completely about its perimeter - each family assigned the protection and upkeep of a small part. The northern wall of the Bezhukov Kremlin was part of that curtain wall - towering massively over the body of the kremlin - the rest of the fortress clinging like a tick to its bulk.

Ignoring the chill rain he climbed the slick steps of the outer wall until he stood at the parapet, staring through a narrow embrasure into the sweeping rain. His view took in the wilderness beyond the curtain wall, the small part of the plateau left undefended before it plunged down into the surrounding wastes. Here it was untended, although in more civilised kremlins it was often the site of orchards or vineyards. Provided that the business didn't compromise the security of the wall, the plateau, most things were tolerated beyond the wall - even things normally forbidden. 

It seemed clear that something unusual had been happening in the Bezhukov Kremlin, something he didn't like the feel of. He'd been too wrapped up in his own purpose to notice at first - the unusual strength of the resistance, the numbers of armed men and then what he'd seen in Dmitri's head. Ripping into someone's mind was never easy, never pleasant - but it was the first time he'd found someone else had beaten him to it. Someone with the kind of power that made what he could do look like a parlour trick, power the like of which hadn't been seen since the Fall.

If it hadn't been for the domination of his demonic soul he would never have spotted it, never have been able to reach so deeply. He chuckled, perhaps he should thank Nataliya when he saw her - his chuckle turned to a bitter, distant smile. Unconsciously he had chosen to stare off in the direction of the Rostov Kremlin, only a short distance to the west, though not visible even from his high vantage point. She certainly possessed a talent for taking him unawares, he reflected, shaking his head to clear his mood.

One thing at a time, he thought. Once he'd dealt with Nataliya, he could focus on understanding what this discovery might mean. Somehow, despite this resolve, he couldn't seem to pull himself away and, for a long time after, he stood still, staring out into the pouring rain.

******

Nataliya was lying on her bed when Yelena entered, knocking softly to announce her arrival. 

"Am I still welcome?" she said quietly.

Nataliya glanced across, a small smile on her lips that didn't quite reach her eyes. She looked awful, pale and drawn, her eyes shadowed. "Of course, Lena," she said. "Come in, keep me company - I need something to take my mind off... You know."

In the corner near the door her writing desk was littered with scraps of paper, a bin close by full of crumpled pieces. Yelena pulled the chair out, sitting down. "Good, because I asked Babushka to bring tea."

Behind her the old woman, grey haired and stooped, leaning heavily on a stick, entered the room - overseeing the arrival of a wheeled trolley pushed by younger servants. Nataliya smiled helplessly as, for a short time, the room was filled with bustle as the trolley was manoeuvred into the centre of the room, the enamelled and highly decorated samovar smoking slightly at its centre. Babushka crossed to the bed, looking down - concerned, clucking her tongue - her face soft, its wrinkles like a map of her life, but her eyes bright like a bird's. With her came the familiar scents of soap and cooking, gentle beneath the stronger smell of the tea brewing on the samovar. 

"Oh, Natashinka, my little pet - it'll be alright, you'll see..." she said, reaching down, her soft hand stroking her forehead gently as she had when Nataliya had been a little girl, when she couldn't sleep at night because she'd been scared or upset. "Drink some tea, everything looks better after tea."

Nataliya forced a smile. "Thank you, Babushka, I will."

The old woman had been called Babushka - grandmother - for so long that her own name had been forgotten by nearly everyone. It was Babushka who had cared for her while her parents worked, who'd comforted her when she was hurt, who'd sat reading to her late into the night, telling her stories of her own youth as a servant in the court - before the Azarovs had become the ruling family - sharing tales of princes and sorcerers and princesses and monsters. Of course, the monsters in those stories were never like Andrey, she thought. Except he wasn't a monster, was he? He'd told her the truth, helped her, protected her. She'd been the one-

No, she stopped herself. She'd already been over this and over this, her mind spinning and getting nowhere.

The tea delivered, the old woman ushered the other servants out, waving her stick ineffectually after them. "Drink some tea, Natashinka. Later we can talk..." she said, pulling the door closed behind her.

When the two of them were alone, Yelena busied herself pouring the tea concentrate into two shallow porcelain cups, adding lemon to her own, a touch of water. Nataliya roused herself from the bed, taking the cup, adding a touch of water, some honey from a jar. With the liquid steaming, Yelena fingered the crumpled and discarded papers on the desk. "Writing your memoirs?" she said.

Nataliya snorted gently. "Yes, I'm thinking of calling it: 'Just Deserts'."

"How about: 'Hopeless Romance - A Guide'?" she said, chuckling softly.

Nataliya smiled. "Or 'A Naive Girl's Comeuppance'?"

Yelena laughed. "So, what are you doing?"

"What do you think? I've been trying to write to him... I thought that if I apologised, if I explained how I was sorry and wrong to say the things I did that he might forgive me before..." Her voice caught, choking her for a moment and she had to swallow before continuing. "Well, before I get sent to him."

"And?"

Nataliya sipped her tea. Looked meaningfully at the bin. "I guess that writing is not for me... Nothing comes out right, it just seems to make it worse."

"Ah."

"Oh, Lena, what do you think he'll do to me?"

Yelena sipped her tea. "Is your father sending you, then?"

"What choice does he have? He thinks he's got some scheme to release me, that he can protect me - but I don't believe him. This is Lord Prince Andrey Zmeyevich Azarov - 'The Demon of the Azarovs', remember? Do you think he was joking when he said that he would come for us - for me?" Nataliya's face twisted into a look of anguish. "Then there's the smuggling, Andrey knows all about it - he could have father impaled... He could have me impaled, or all of us." From deep inside she felt tears bubbling again. "Oh, God, Lena, what am I going to do?"