Prologue

Twenty-Seven Years Ago, St. Petersburg, Russia

T ongue between his teeth, seven-year-old Nikolai clutched his pencil, squinting down at the paper as he concentrated on making the cursive letters as neatly as the ones written on the blackboard at the front of the classroom. He thought he was doing a pretty good job, too, until a ruler cracked across his small knuckles. With a shout of pain, he cradled his left hand to his chest and glared up at his teacher.

“ D'yavol !” Vanya Victorovna yelled.

Devil. He hated when she called him that, and he didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to write with his left hand when it felt so much more comfortable. Plus, it always looked neater than when he struggled making the Cyrillic letters with his right hand.

“How many times have you been told?” When he didn’t respond, she sighed and lifted the ruler. “Put your hand out, Nikolai.”

But Nik was done with that kaka. “No,” he stated defiantly, sending her his fiercest look.

Her jaw dropped. “How dare you?” she hissed. “Put. Your. Hand. Out.”

A string of curse words flew through his head, but he pressed his lips together, making sure they stayed inside. Uttering one would land him back in the dark closet for sure. And just the thought of getting locked up again made his stomach churn with fear.

Some kids at the orphanage didn’t seem to mind the punishment, but Nik hated it. Being shut up in that little space scared him more than anything else. Even now, he could hear the scuttle of the rats in the walls. There was a hole in the baseboard, and one time a rat found its way inside the closet. Nik had cried for help and pounded on the door with his fists, but no one let him out. At least not for another few hours, after he’d served his full punishment. And after he’d been bitten by the rat.

He should have done everything possible to avoid the closet, but his inability to control his mouth got him into trouble more times than not.

“No, Vanya Victorovna,” he said, addressing her respectfully, yet unable to resist using a tone laced in sarcasm. “Why don’t you put your hand out?”

Somewhere in the classroom, Nik heard a muffled giggle. But it ended abruptly when Vanya Victorovna straightened up and searched for its source.

Well, that little comment would certainly get him in trouble, but he couldn’t help it. The staff treated him and the other kids worse than the vermin living in the walls. He was tired of it, and the idea of running away and never looking back tempted him constantly.

But where would he go? What would he do? St. Petersburg was a big city, and even though he’d been through a lot in his seven years, leaving the cruel comfort of the orphanage was a terrifying leap.

Vanya Victorovna turned on her heel without another word and went over to her desk. Nik watched her open a drawer and retrieve a length of rope. He frowned, but knew this would be better than the closet.

Stalking back over, his teacher motioned for his left hand, which he reluctantly gave. They’d been through this before. She tied the rope around his wrist then roughly yanked his arm behind his back, securing it to the rear bar of his little desk. He could feel the weight of the other kids’ stares and he lifted his chin.

“Rewrite it all,” she ordered, nodding to the board, “five hundred times.”

Nik huffed out a frustrated breath but kept his comments to himself. Sometimes it was easier to pick his battles. His stomach was growling and, though the porridge they ate most evenings for supper tasted bland, he hated going to bed on an empty stomach. Especially when breakfast usually consisted of little more than a small bowl of mushy oatmeal or, if he was really lucky, an orange.

He picked up his pencil, gripping it in his right fist, and did his best to copy the letters. It was hard as hell and even more frustrating since he had no idea why using his left hand was easier for him. All of the other kids wrote with their right hand, so why did he prefer writing with his left? And why was it such a bad thing that he did?

Being different wasn’t always easy. But then again, nothing in his life had been easy. With no family, he had to rely on the charity of the orphanage. Lately, he’d been spending a lot of time daydreaming about walking out those doors and never looking back. Fear kept him from doing it, but maybe one day he’d work up the nerve.

Until then, he’d use sarcasm as a defense mechanism and continue to challenge those in authority. For some reason, it came naturally to him.

Long after class ended and the other kids left, Nik continued to write out the alphabet. Vanya Victorovna, that old witch, told him to do it five hundred damn times. Such a stupid waste of his day. Although, by the time he finished, he’d gotten pretty good at using his right hand.

Nik slammed his pencil down and shook his tired hand out. Vanya Victorovna glanced up at the sound.

“Finished?” she asked, setting her book aside, and he nodded.

The old witch walked over and untied his wrist. Nik rubbed the soreness away and waited to be dismissed. Instead, she started to ramble on about being grateful he had a roof over his head. He tried not to roll his eyes. He hated being lectured and didn’t give a damn about anything she said.

“You, Nikolai Vasilevsky, are a serious problem,” she finished coldly. “A no-good, worthless boy who doesn’t deserve the charity we provide.”

He kept his face carefully blank, doing his best to ignore her. The witch was nasty and he wasn’t the only one who called her that. All the kids did, often calling her Vanya “ Ved'ma ” Victorovna.

Nik thought ved'ma was too kind for her. Because she was more than a witch— she was D'yavol.

Not him, despite how many times she’d called him that.

“Can I go?” he asked.

Her face screwed up in a sneer. “Yes, please do. In fact, go far, far away.”

Swallowing back a retort, he stood up, grabbed his notebook and headed for the door. He was almost home free when his mouth seemed to open of its own accord and, even though he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t stop himself from uttering, “ Ved'ma .”

“What? What did you just call me?”

“You heard me,” he snapped, spinning around.

Welp, there goes dinner.

“You’re a mean and nasty witch,” he continued. “And you call me names all the time! But if anyone around here is the Devil, it’s you!”

And here comes the closet.

Vanya “ Ved'ma ” Victorovna stalked over, grabbed him by the ear and Nik cried out, dropping his notebook. She dragged him out of the classroom and down the hall, and he had to jog to keep up. Other kids darted out of the way, trying to avoid her wrath. When they reached the closet, she opened it, gave his ear a good twist and shoved him inside.

Clapping a hand over his hurting ear, he made a face at her right before she slammed the door shut and locked it.

Her voice came through the wood a moment later, loud and clear. “The day you leave here, the devil will dance. Because you, Nikolai, will become his soldier. I pray for your soul.”

Nik lifted his middle finger even though she couldn’t see it. A moment later, he heard her low heels clicking away. Slumping against the wall, he crossed his arms and tried to be brave. But the darkness and the narrow space had a way of getting to him…of making him feel trapped and like the walls were closing in all around him.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he clenched his fists and swore he wouldn’t cry. But the fear morphed into a palpable terror and when he opened his eyes again, it seemed like the closet had shrunk to a fraction of its original size. He tried to draw in a breath, but he couldn’t. Gasping, he leaned his forehead against the wooden door and a hot tear slid down his cheek.

No more, he vowed. He didn’t deserve this torture and he refused to tolerate it any longer. Once they let him out, he was going to run away. Leave this hellhole and never look back. And if the devil wanted him, what did he care? No one else did. Not his mother or father, and certainly not anyone here.

Breathing through his mouth, rocking back and forth, he promised himself he’d do anything to be rid of this place. Even if it meant making a deal with D'yavol himself.