The Glass Coffin Read online

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  Title Page

  Book Details

  The Glass Coffin

  About the Author

  THE

  Glass

  Coffin

  1.5

  MEGAN DERR

  Rostislav is a witch of impressive enough skill he is known as the Cursebreaker—and has gained further notoriety by being the best friend of the infamous Johnnie Desrosiers.

  But even his power and connections would not be enough to save him from the ridicule and rejection he would face if his deepest secret came to light: that he is a human pathetic enough to be in love with a vampire.

  When he is hired by a museum to examine a cursed artifact—the glass coffin from a notorious, and false, legend about a vampire who fell in love with a human—it's one more bitter reminder of how impossible his deepest desire really is.

  The Glass Coffin

  By Megan Derr

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Cover by Natasha Snow

  This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Second Edition October 2018

  First Edition January 2013

  Copyright © 2018 by Megan Derr

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781684313921

  Print ISBN 9781684314348

  THE

  Glass

  Coffin

  Rostislav woke with a groan, reluctantly dragging his eyes open and lifting a hand to block the sun—and was momentarily confused when there was no sun to block.

  Then everything came rushing back on a wave of heat and a flush of mortification. He'd come to see Jesse with a question about a grimoire he was slowly decoding, and he'd finally stopped resisting temptation and fucked him.

  He still couldn't believe Jesse had fucked him. It wasn't unheard of for vampires to bed their prey, but it was regarded as uncultured and low at best, taboo at worse.

  Rostislav rubbed at his sore neck and climbed out of bed, completely unsurprised to find he was the only one there.

  Stupid, he was so fucking stupid. Jesse had clearly been in the mood for some amusement, despite all his pretty words and skillful attentions.

  Rostislav swallowed and scrubbed at his stinging eyes. Whatever. It was over. He'd succumbed, he'd had his fun, time to get on with life. At least Jesse would likely never tell anyone he'd decided to slum it for an evening.

  He just wished…

  Didn't matter. No point in wishing for the impossible.

  Rostislav hunted down his scattered clothes and pulled them back on, then vanished from the room, reappearing in his own apartment.

  He immediately headed for the shower, though rather than soothing him as it normally would, it just brought back every moment of his night—the bruise on hips from when Jesse had fucked him like it was the last thing he'd ever do. The sore, red spots on his throat from where Jesse had fed. His aching thighs and sore hole. His sore arms and stiff back from the work involved with keeping pace with a ravenous vampire getting slightly carried away.

  That had been the best part: Jesse so focused and engaged that he'd forgotten Rostislav was only human, and didn't possess his levels of strength, endurance, and everything else.

  Rostislav gave up, closed his eyes, and sank into the recent memories. How hot and teasing Jesse's eyes had been from the moment of his arrival. The way he'd stood closer than usual, wearing clothes far more casual than he usually chose, since like all vampires Jesse believed in 'formal' and 'super formal'. Seeing him in a t-shirt had nearly been Rostislav's undoing.

  Well, it had been his undoing, at least of his sanity.

  Ugh. Maybe he should call Johnnie, see if he wanted to tag alone on his latest job. He could always count on Johnnie to be engaging and distracting, and to understand how Jesse felt, without judging or reprimanding him. No, Johnnie knew viscerally how those things felt, and avoided doing them assiduously.

  Sighing, he closed off the memories, finished his shower, and went to get dressed. He had work to do; there would be more than enough time for self-flagellation later.

  He'd finish getting ready, call Johnnie, and then find food, cause gods above he was starving.

  And he wasn't thinking about why.

  *~*~*

  Rostislav stepped into the museum, grateful to escape the cold, even if he hadn't been in more than a couple of minutes. He brushed snow from his coat and almost wished he was home, where they were so close to the beach that snow was a non-entity. He and Johnnie could go out somewhere—

  And no doubt run into the very last person Rostislav wanted to see. That was the trouble with his best friend being the adopted son of the local Dracula: there was no avoiding vampires.

  It didn't help the vampire he wanted to avoid was good friends with said Dracula. Christ, Rostislav really knew how to pick them.

  He flushed as all the hot, sordid memories rushed over him again, and shook them away only with a great deal of effort. You'd think by this point he'd have more control, but if he had any control where Jesse Adelardi was concerned, he'd yet to proof of it.

  He drew in a deep breath and let it out through his nostrils. No, home was definitely the last place he wanted to be right then. Even if avoiding it meant putting up with snow.

  Trying to shake off his gloomy mood, still disappointed Johnnie hadn't been able to come, Rostislav left his coat, scarf, hat, and gloves with the woman at coat check, then strode up to the reception desk and smiled at a receptionist who appeared to be juggling at least fifteen things at once. "Good afternoon, my name is Rostislav Pajari. I'm here to see Dr. Michael Charles."

  "Of course, sir," the man replied, giving him a polite, if distracted, smile. "I'll call him up to get you, just one moment, please."

  "Thank you," Rostislav murmured, and faded off to give the man some space. He killed time by poking through racks of brochures and pamphlets, amused as ever by the things that fascinated normals. He chuckled over a pamphlet advertising a special History of Werewolves tour and flipped through it briefly, half-tempted to leave it where werewolves would see it just to set them off. He tucked it back in the rack and noticed a flyer for the museum's annual New Year's Eve Ball.

  All the knots in his stomach that he'd worked so hard to get rid of returned with interest. How had he forgotten about Jesse's ball? Was it too late to cry off? Probably, when it was being hosted by Jesse and sponsored by the Dracula Desrosiers.

  Maybe he should move to a new territory, one far, far away from vampires.

  He almost cheered in relief when someone cleared a throat behind him, and abandoned his tumultuous thoughts to focus on his job.

  A rumpled, middle-aged man in rimless glasses smiled at him and offered a hand. "You're Pajari? The one they call the Cursebreaker?"

  Rostislav shook the man's hand. "That's me."

  "I admit you were not what I was expecting," the man said.

  "Oh?" Rostislav asked. "Do I look that young?"

  The man shook his head. "It isn't that. No offense, but sorcerers and witches are normally a very distracted lot, and too many now do not have the family fortunes to back them as they once did, so they often appear a bit more… scattered. The last witch we hired showed up in old jeans and a leather jacket that had seen better days. You are quite striking and smartly dressed."

  "I see," Rostislav said, barely managing not to laugh. Old jeans and a leather jacket precisely des
cribed Consort Brennus; from the way this man talked, he clearly didn't know who exactly he'd hired previously. "I grew up, and still live, in Desrosiers territory, and am close to that family. I've picked up a lot of their ways."

  "I see. But I've been rude, pardon me. I am Michael Charles. I appreciate you agreeing to help us on such short notice."

  "I could hardly refuse when you said you found the glass coffin.""

  "Come along this way and I'll take you to it."

  Rostislav followed him into an elevator, watched as Michael inserted a key and then selected a sub-basement floor.

  Seeing him watching, Michael said, "I'm sure you're not surprised to know we keep the abnormal section quite restricted. The museum director is an old alchemist and requires utmost secrecy. We've also received generous donations from several demons and vampires, who have even higher standards regarding discretion."

  Rostislav looked at him with sympathy. "I'm impressed they've put an imp in charge of it all then, given how old fashioned demons and vampires can be." Especially vampires, but he refused to let the bitterness of that thought ruin his mood further.

  Michael shrugged and smiled faintly. "I've only been in charge the past three years, and I really only got the job because they had no other choice at the time. I like to think I've more than proven myself in the interim, but as you say, they are old-fashioned, so who knows. That is hardly your problem, however. Right this way." He stepped out of the elevator as the doors opened and led the way down a poorly lit hallway.

  There was so much magic pouring off the walls that Rostislav's skin prickled. Good thing Johnnie hadn't been able to come along; he'd have been reduced to a sneezing fit. The thought almost made him smile, but thoughts of Johnnie invariably led to thoughts of vampires, and Rostislav was more than a little sick of vampires at present.

  "We couldn't believe it when we first saw it," Michael replied, smiling like a boy. "But there it was, part of the old Belham Estate. Wasn't listed on any of the documentation, so when it was discovered …" If eyes could actually sparkle from excitement, Michael's would be nearly blinding right then. "Well, it's truly remarkable."

  Rostislav managed a smile. "I can't wait to see it."

  Michael unlocked a door, and then pressed his hand to it, deactivating the warding spell guarding it. More magic poured over Rostislav as he entered the room, so much that it stung slightly. He could feel demon magic in the wards, which accounted for part of the stinging sensation. That would have been expensive, and probably hadn't been paid for in money. But Michael had said secrecy was important to everyone connected to the museum.

  "Here it is," Michael said softly, and flicked on the lights.

  Despite himself, Rostislav was impressed. As the old stories always said, the coffin was beautiful—so beautiful it was easy to forget that it was a coffin and not simply an ornate case to protect something priceless. The base was of pearly white glass, with swirls of gold and silver deep within. It was not quite as wide as two people shoulder to shoulder, and most of it was covered by a thin mattress of dark blue velvet. Over the mattress was a dome, the glass so clear that it was nearly impossible to see. All around the base were glass roses of every conceivable color, shining in the fluorescent lights above.

  The only thing missing from the coffin was the bespelled woman, but Rostislav had not expected her to be there. Because as beautiful as the coffin was, as perfect as it was, it was also fake. Rostislav had known that the moment Michael had explained why he wanted to hire Rostislav.

  "Fascinating," he murmured, not wanting to give anything away before he knew what kind of scheme he was being pulled into, and who exactly was involved with it. "It's breathtaking. I am astonished it is intact if someone managed to wake the cursed woman within."

  Michael nodded eagerly. "Yes, I was surprised by that myself. I would have thought she would destroy it at the very least, if destruction wasn't a requirement or result of breaking the spell. But there it was, and now here it is. What do you think?"

  Rostislav reached out to touch it lightly, feeling the thrum of magic in the glass. But if he was not mistaken, the curses laid upon it were not very old—he would wager less than fifty years. Their strength and resonance were all wrong for a curse that should be centuries old.

  This coffin was nowhere near old enough to be the one created by a vengeful mage who refused to accept that the woman he wanted would choose a vampire over a fellow human. Refused to believe a vampire might return her love.

  Though Rostislav did not agree with the sorcerer's actions, he tended to agree with his assessment: vampires did not love humans; it was just one of those unchanging elements of the abnormal world. But the right thing was to simply let the matter be and move on, not lash out and hurt people simply because his love was unrequited.

  He withdrew his hand, feeling slightly nauseous from examining the curse. The residual magic washed through him, made him shudder, but Rostislav shook it off. "I'll have to consult some books, and an associate. I do not want to mess with it before I'm absolutely certain of what I'm facing. It will take me a few days, and then I will get back to you with my findings."

  "Of course," Michael said. "I would do it myself, but…well…my horns…" He flushed with shame, and anger curled through Rostislav that Michael had endured such a cruelty. Surely paranormals should be past such abhorrent behavior by now? An imp without horns was an imp without real magic, which was akin to cutting off all his limbs, or closing off all his senses.

  Rostislav held out a hand, and shook Michael's. "I hate to leave nearly as soon as I have arrived, but I want to get working on this sooner rather. I'm worried if I don't that something regretful will happen, given how much power is in that curse and the skill with which it was crafted."

  Michael nodded eagerly. "Of course, of course. As I said, we are happy to have your assistance. Whatever you want or need, just let me know."

  "I will do that," Rostislav replied with a warm smile. "Thank you. Now I shall leave you in peace and go earn my keep." Michael walked him back to the elevators and up to the lobby, thanking him effusively again before Rostislav was finally able to slip away.

  Outside the museum, he weighed his options, and ultimately decided to head south first. Gathering his belongings from the coat check, he then consulted the woman briefly and followed her directions to a patio of smooth slate that had obviously been put in place with spellwork in mind. Kneeling, he drew out a piece of chalk and quickly, but carefully drew out the spell circle he needed. Once he'd double-checked his work, he stepped into it and spoke the activating word.

  He vanished, and reappeared in a warm, dry yard. The door to the ranch house in front of him opened a moment later, and a tall, lanky man with dark brown hair and eyes, dressed in a white t-shirt and faded jeans, stepped out onto the porch. "Howdy, stranger."

  "Long time no see, Professor," Rostislav said teasingly.

  The man snorted. "Ain't never been one of those and you know it. Get on in here, Rostiya." He turned and vanished into the house. Rostiya followed him, the wards brushing against him like an embrace from an old friend.

  "How've you been, Jackie?" he asked as he accepted the beer Jackie held out. He leaned against the kitchen counter as he had a thousand times before while studying under Jackie. Too many people looked at Jackie, heard his accent, and assumed he was one more dumb redneck. But he was lethally smart, damned good at warding and binding spells, and when all else failed he had alchemist-made revolvers that could stop just about anything in its tracks. Not to mention he was a Black, one of the oldest and most powerful bloodlines in the abnormal world.

  Jackie rolled his shoulders in an easy shrug, scrubbing a hand through his perpetually too-long hair. "Same shit, different day," he said, drawing the words out in that way only a born and raised Southerner could. "Thinking of pulling up stakes, moving closer to Roman."

  Rostiya stared at him, beer frozen halfway to his mouth. "Jackie Black, moving north? The world must
be ending."

  "Shut it, Yankee," Jackie said easily, and took a long pull on his beer. "What brings you down my way?"

  Levity fading, Rostiya said, "The spook museum called me yesterday to say that they needed me to break some curses on the glass coffin."

  "What?" The word cracked like a whip. "That ain't possible. What's left of that damn thing is still in my shed. I saw it last night when I was looking for something else."

  "I know," Rostiya said. "But it's a good imitation—too good. The curse is also high grade work, but less than fifty years old. They found it as part of an estate sale. The Belham Estate, do you know it?"

  Jackie's face went cold. "I do, and Lord forgive me saying so, but I ain't sad even a mite there ain't a one of that line left. They were abnormal as the day is long, nearly as powerful as the Blacks, but you wouldn't hear them say so. Fancied themselves witch hunters, and wasn't a thing they liked better than a good old-fashioned witch burning. Salem was their doing, though I heard tell they was mighty disappointed they didn't get to light a single soul on fire. You can bet that anywhere someone was staked and burned, there's a Belham in the wings grinning like a goblin."

  "I'm surprised I haven't heard of them," Rostiya said with a frown.

  "Be grateful you ain't," Jackie replied, brown eyes so dark they nearly looked black. "Once upon a time that name scared folks. These days…well, I ain't heard it in at least twenty-odd years. No news is good news, as they say. Last one I ran into was a right bastard in a family of bastards. He was three times my age and meaner than a man gone wendigo."

  Rostiya frowned thoughtfully. "That kind of family wouldn't have a coffin like that for altruistic purposes. If I had to guess, they'd use it for a trap or something similar."

  "Ayah, that'd be my guess," Jackie said. "You want assistance?"

  "No, I should be fine for now. Don't suppose you know what kind of trap that coffin might be meant for?"

  Jackie shrugged. "No idea. I'll poke around, call Pop, see if he knows something. But I suggest you be more cautious than usual. It's pure luck you didn't come to harm when you touched it. I'd also keep vampires away from it, given the curses on the original."