The Demon in the Wood

by Leigh Bardugo

“I think Yuri may be quarantined.”

  “So helpful,” Retvenko said with a sneer. “You can stop craning neck like hopeful goose,” he added. “Anya is gone.”

  Joost felt his face heat again. “Where is she?” he asked, trying to sound authoritative. “She should be in after dark.”

  “One hour ago, Hoede takes her. Same as night he came for Yuri.”

  “What do you mean ‘he came for Yuri’? Yuri fell ill.”

  “Hoede comes for Yuri, Yuri comes back sick. Two days later, Yuri vanishes for good. Now Anya.”

  For good?

  “Maybe there was an emergency. If someone needed to be healed—”

  “First Yuri, now Anya. I will be next, and no one will notice except poor little Officer Joost. Go now.”

  “If Councilman Hoede—”

  Retvenko raised an arm and a gust of air slammed Joost backward. Joost scrambled to keep his footing, grabbing for the doorframe.

  “I said now.” Retvenko etched a circle in the air, and the door slammed shut. Joost let go just in time to avoid having his fingers smashed, and toppled into the side garden.

  He got to his feet as quickly as he could, wiping muck from his uniform, shame squirming in his belly. One of the glass panes in the door had cracked from the force. Through it, he saw the Squaller smirking.

  “That’s counting against your indenture,” Joost said, pointing to the ruined pane. He hated how small and petty his voice sounded.

  Retvenko waved his hand, and the doors trembled on their hinges. Without meaning to, Joost took a step back.

  “Go make your rounds, little watchdog,” Retvenko called.

  “That went well,” snickered Rutger, leaning against the garden wall.

  How long had he been standing there? “Don’t you have something better to do than follow me around?” Joost asked.

  “All guards are to report to the boathouse. Even you. Or are you too busy making friends?”

  “I was asking him to shut the door.”

  Rutger shook his head. “You don’t ask. You tell. They’re servants. Not honored guests.”

  Joost fell into step beside him, insides still churning with humiliation. The worst part was that Rutger was right. Retvenko had no business talking to him that way. But what was Joost supposed to do? Even if he’d had the courage to get into a fight with a Squaller, it would be like brawling with an expensive vase. The Grisha weren’t just servants; they were Hoede’s treasured possessions.

  What had Retvenko meant about Yuri and Anya being taken? Had he been covering for Anya? Grisha indentures were kept to the house for good reason. To walk the streets without protection was to risk getting plucked up by a slaver and never seen again. Maybe she’s meeting someone, Joost speculated miserably.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the blaze of light and activity down by the boathouse that faced the canal. Across the water he could see other fine mercher houses, tall and slender, the tidy gables of their rooftops making a dark silhouette against the night sky, their gardens and boathouses lit by glowing lanterns.

  A few weeks before, Joost had been told that Hoede’s boathouse would be undergoing improvements and to strike it from his rounds. But when he and Rutger entered, he saw no paint or scaffolding. The gondels and oars had been pushed up against the walls. The other house guards were there in their sea green livery, and Joost recognized two stadwatch guards in purple. But most of the interior was taken up by a huge box—a kind of freestanding cell that looked like it was made from reinforced steel, its seams thick with rivets, a huge window embedded in one of its walls. The glass had a wavy bent, and through it, Joost could see a girl seated at a table, clutching her red silks tight around her. Behind her, a stadwatch guard stood at attention.

  Anya, Joost realized with a start. Her brown eyes were wide and frightened, her skin pale. The little boy sitting across from her looked doubly terrified. His hair was sleep mussed, and his legs dangled from the chair, kicking nervously at the air.

  “Why all the guards?” asked Joost. There had to be more than ten of them crowded into the boathouse. Councilman Hoede was there, too, along with another merchant Joost didn’t know, both of them dressed in mercher black. Joost stood up straighter when he saw they were talking to the captain of the stadwatch. He hoped he’d gotten all the garden mud off of his uniform. “What is this?”

  Rutger shrugged. “Who cares? It’s a break in the routine.”

  Joost looked back through the glass. Anya was staring out at him, her gaze unfocused. The day he’d arrived at Hoede house, she’d healed a bruise on his cheek. It had been nothing, the yellow-green remnants of a crack he’d taken to the face during a training exercise, but apparently Hoede had caught sight of it and didn’t like his guards looking like thugs. Joost had been sent to the Grisha workshop, and Anya had sat him down in a bright square of late winter sunlight. Her cool fingers had passed over his skin, and though the itch had been terrible, bare seconds later it was as if the bruise had never been.

  When Joost thanked her, Anya smiled and Joost was lost. He knew his cause was hopeless. Even if she’d had any interest in him, he could never afford to buy her indenture from Hoede, and she would never marry unless Hoede decreed it. But it hadn’t stopped him from dropping by to say hello or to bring her little gifts. She’d liked the map of Kerch best, a whimsical drawing of their island nation, surrounded by mermaids swimming in the True Sea and ships blown along by winds depicted as fat-cheeked men. It was a cheap souvenir, the kind tourists bought along East Stave, but it had seemed to please her.

  Now he risked raising a hand in greeting. Anya showed no reaction.

  “She can’t see you, moron,” laughed Rutger. “The glass is mirrored on the other side.”

  Joost’s cheeks pinked. “How was I to know that?”

  “Open your eyes and pay attention for once.”

  First Yuri, now Anya. “Why do they need a Grisha Healer? Is that boy injured?”

  “He looks fine to me.”

  The captain and Hoede seemed to reach some kind of agreement.

  Through the glass, Joost saw Hoede enter the cell and give the boy an encouraging pat. There must have been vents in the cell because he heard Hoede say, “Be a brave lad, and there’s a few kruge in it for you.” Then he grabbed Anya’s chin with a liver-spotted hand. She tensed, and Joost’s gut tightened. Hoede gave Anya’s head a little shake. “Do as you’re told, and this will soon be over, ja?”

  She gave a small tight smile. “Of course, Onkle.”

  Hoede whispered a few words to the guard behind Anya, then stepped out. The door shut with a loud clang, and Hoede slid a heavy lock into place.

  Hoede and the other merchant took positions almost directly in front of Joost and Rutger.

  The merchant Joost didn’t know said, “You’re sure this is wise? This girl is a Corporalnik. After what happened to your Fabrikator—”

  “If it was Retvenko, I’d be worried. But Anya has a sweet disposition. She’s a Healer. Not prone to aggression.”

  “And you’ve lowered the dose?”

  “Yes, but we’re agreed that if we have the same results as the Fabrikator, the Council will compensate me? I can’t be asked to bear that expense.”

  When the merchant nodded, Hoede signaled to the captain. “Proceed.”

  The same results as the Fabrikator. Retvenko claimed Yuri had vanished. Was that what he’d meant?

  “Sergeant,” said the captain, “are you ready?”

  The guard inside the cell replied, “Yes, sir.” He drew a knife.

  Joost swallowed hard.

  “First test,” said the captain.

  The guard bent forward and told the boy to roll up his sleeve. The boy obeyed and stuck out his arm, popping the thumb of his other hand into his mouth. Too old for that, thought Joost. But the boy must be very scared. Joost had slept with a sock bear until he was nearly fourteen, a fact his older brothers had mocked mercilessly.

  “This w
ill sting just a bit,” said the guard.

  The boy kept his thumb in his mouth and nodded, eyes round.

  “This really isn’t necessary—” said Anya.

  “Quiet, please,” said Hoede.

  The guard gave the boy a pat then slashed a bright red cut across his forearm. The boy started crying immediately.

  Anya tried to rise from her chair, but the guard placed a stern hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s all right, sergeant,” said Hoede. “Let her heal him.”

  Anya leaned forward, taking the boy’s hand gently. “Shhhh,” she said softly. “Let me help.”

  “Will it hurt?” the boy gulped.

  She smiled. “Not at all. Just a little itch. Try to hold still for me?”

  Joost found himself leaning closer. He’d never actually seen Anya heal someone.

  Anya removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped away the excess blood. Then her fingers brushed carefully over the boy’s wound. Joost watched in astonishment as the skin slowly seemed to reform and knit together.

  A few minutes later, the boy grinned and held out his arm. It looked a bit red, but was otherwise smooth and unmarked. “Was that magic?”

  Anya tapped him on the nose. “Of a sort. The same magic your own body works when given time and a bit of bandage.”

  The boy looked almost disappointed.

  “Good, good,” Hoede said impatiently. “Now the parem.”

  Joost frowned. He’d never heard that word.

  The captain signaled to his sergeant. “Second sequence.”

  “Put out your arm,” the sergeant said to the boy once again.

  The kitchen boy shook his head. “I don’t like that part.”

  “Do it.”

  The boy’s lower lip trembled, but he put out his arm. The guard cut him once more. Then he placed a small wax paper envelope on the table in front of Anya.

  “Swallow the contents of the packet,” Hoede instructed Anya.

  “What is it?” she asked, voice trembling.

  “That isn’t your concern.”

  “What is it?” she repeated.

  “It’s not going to kill you. We’re going to ask you to perform some simple tasks to judge the drug’s effects. The sergeant is there to make sure you do only what you’re told and no more, understood?”

  Her jaw set, but she nodded.

  “No one will harm you,” said Hoede. “But remember, if you hurt the sergeant, you have no way out of that cell. The doors are locked from the outside.”

  “What is that stuff?” whispered Joost.

  “Don’t know,” said Rutger.

  “What do you know?” he muttered.

  “Enough to keep my trap shut.”

  Joost scowled.

  With shaking hands, Anya lifted the little wax envelope and opened the flap.

  “Go on,” said Hoede.

  She tipped her head back and swallowed the powder. For a moment she sat, waiting, lips pressed together.

  “Is it just jurda?” she asked hopefully. Joost found himself hoping, too. Jurda was nothing to fear, a stimulant everyone in the stadwatch chewed to stay awake on late watches.

  “What does it taste like?” Hoede asked.

  “Like jurda but sweeter, it—”

  Anya inhaled sharply. Her hands seized the table, her pupils dilating enough that her eyes looked nearly black. “Ohhh,” she said, sighing. It was nearly a purr.

  The guard tightened his grip on her shoulder.

  “How do you feel?”

  She stared at the mirror and smiled. Her tongue peeked through her white teeth, stained like rust. Joost felt suddenly cold.

  “Just as it was with the Fabrikator,” murmured the merchant.

  “Heal the boy,” Hoede commanded.

  She waved her hand through the air, the gesture almost dismissive, and the cut on the boy’s arm sealed instantly. The blood lifted briefly from his skin in droplets of red then vanished. His skin looked perfectly smooth, all trace of blood or redness gone. The boy beamed. “That was definitely magic.”

  “It feels like magic,” Anya said with that same eerie smile.

  “She didn’t touch him,” marveled the captain.

  “Anya,” said Hoede. “Listen closely. We’re going to tell the guard to perform the next test now.”

  “Mmm,” hummed Anya.

  “Sergeant,” said Hoede. “Cut off the boy’s thumb.”

  The boy howled and started to cry again. He shoved his hands beneath his legs to protect them.

  I should stop this, Joost thought. I should find a way to protect her, both of them. But what then? He was a nobody, new to the stadwatch, new to this house. Besides, he discovered in a burst of shame, I want to keep my job.

  Anya merely smiled and tipped her head back so she was looking at the sergeant. “Shoot the glass.”

  “What did she say?” asked the merchant.

  “Sergeant!” the captain barked out.

  “Shoot the glass,” Anya repeated. The sergeant’s face went slack. He cocked his head to one side as if listening to a distant melody, then unslung his rifle and aimed at the observation window.

  “Get down!” someone yelled.

  Joost threw himself to the ground, covering his head as the rapid hammer of gunfire filled his ears and bits of glass rained down on his hands and back. His thoughts were a panicked clamor. His mind tried to deny it, but he knew what he’d just seen. Anya had commanded the sergeant to shoot the glass. She’d made him do it. But that couldn’t be. Grisha Corporalki specialized in the human body. They could stop your heart, slow your breathing, snap your bones. They couldn’t get inside your head.

  For a moment there was silence. Then Joost was on his feet with everyone else, reaching for his rifle. Hoede and the captain shouted at the same time.

  “Subdue her!”

  “Shoot her!”

  “Do you know how much money she’s worth?” Hoede retorted. “Someone restrain her! Do not shoot!”

  Anya raised her hands, red sleeves spread wide. “Wait,” she said.

  Joost’s panic vanished. He knew he’d been frightened, but his fear was a distant thing. He was filled with expectation. He wasn’t sure what was coming, or when, only that it would arrive and that it was essential he be ready to meet it. It might be bad or good. He didn’t really care. His heart was free of worry and desire. He longed for nothing, wanted for nothing, his mind silent, his breath steady. He only needed to wait.

  He saw Anya rise and pick up the little boy. He heard her crooning tenderly to him, some Ravkan lullaby.

  “Open the door and come in, Hoede,” she said. Joost heard the words, understood them, forgot them.

  Hoede walked to the door and slid the bolt free. He entered the steel cell.

  “Do as you’re told, and this will be over quickly, ja?” Anya murmured with a smile. Her eyes were black and bottomless pools. Her skin was alight, glowing, incandescent. A thought flickered through Joost’s mind—beautiful as the moon.

  Anya shifted the boy’s weight in her arms. “Don’t look,” she murmured against his hair. “Now,” she said to Hoede. “Pick up the knife.”

  2

  Inej

  Kaz Brekker didn’t need a reason. Those were the words whispered on the streets of Ketterdam, in the taverns and coffeehouses, in the dark and bleeding alleys of the pleasure district known as the Barrel. The boy they called Dirtyhands didn’t need a reason any more than he needed permission—to break a leg, sever an alliance, or change a man’s fortunes with the turn of a card.

  Of course they were wrong, Inej considered as she crossed the bridge over the black waters of the Beurskanal to the deserted main square that fronted the Exchange. Every act of violence was deliberate, and every favor came with enough strings attached to stage a puppet show. Kaz always had his reasons. Inej could just never be sure they were good ones. Especially tonight.

  Inej checked her knives, silently reciting their names as she
always did when she thought there might be trouble. It was a practical habit, but a comfort, too. The blades were her companions. She liked knowing they were ready for whatever the night might bring.

  She saw Kaz and the others gathered near the great stone arch that marked the eastern entrance to the Exchange. Three words had been carved into the rock above them: Enjent, Voorhent, Almhent. Industry, Integrity, Prosperity.

  She kept close to the shuttered storefronts that lined the square, avoiding the pockets of flickering gaslight cast by the streetlamps. As she moved, she inventoried the crew Kaz had brought with him: Dirix, Rotty, Muzzen and Keeg, Anika and Pim, and his chosen seconds for tonight’s parley, Jesper and Big Bolliger. They jostled and bumped each other, laughing, stamping their feet against the cold snap that had surprised the city this week, the last gasp of winter before spring began in earnest. They were all bruisers and brawlers, culled from the younger members of the Dregs, the people Kaz trusted most. Inej noted the glint of knives tucked into their belts, lead pipes, weighted chains, axe handles studded with rusty nails, and here and there, the oily gleam of a gun barrel. She slipped silently into their ranks, scanning the shadows near the Exchange for signs of Black Tip spies.

  “Three ships!” Jesper was saying. “The Shu sent them. They were just sitting in First Harbor, cannons out, red flags flying, stuffed to the sails with gold.”

  Big Bolliger gave a low whistle. “Would have liked to see that.”

  “Would have liked to steal that,” replied Jesper. “Half the Merchant Council was down there flapping and squawking, trying to figure out what to do.”

  “Don’t they want the Shu paying their debts?” Big Bolliger asked.

  Kaz shook his head, dark hair glinting in the lamplight. He was a collection of hard lines and tailored edges—sharp jaw, lean build, wool coat snug across his shoulders. “Yes and no,” he said in his rock salt rasp. “It’s always good to have a country in debt to you. Makes for friendlier negotiations.”

  “Maybe the Shu are done being friendly,” said Jesper. “They didn’t have to send all that treasure at once. You think they stuck that trade ambassador?”

  Kaz’s eyes found Inej unerringly in the crowd. Ketterdam had been buzzing about the assassination of the ambassador for weeks. It had nearly destroyed Kerch-Zemeni relations and sent the Merchant Council into an uproar. The Zemeni blamed the Kerch. The Kerch suspected the Shu. Kaz didn’t care who was responsible; the murder fascinated him because he couldn’t figure out how it had been accomplished. In one of the busiest corridors of the Stadhall, in full view of more than a dozen government officials, the Zemeni trade ambassador had stepped into a washroom. No one else had entered or left, but when his aide knocked on the door a few minutes later, there had been no answer. When they’d broken down the door, they’d found the ambassador facedown on the white tiles, a knife in his back, the sink still running.