Once upon a time, Hala Smoków had been the country’s last truly independent city.
“All right,” said Lukasz at last, and Król’s other ear swiveled toward him. “East. We’ll be in the village by sunset.”
If it was still there at all.
Franciszek’s map had been drawn based on a seventeen-year-old memory. And the last time Lukasz had been in this forest, he’d been four years old, fleeing down from the Mountains with nine older brothers. He barely remembered any of it.
He and Król started moving again, and still feeling uneasy, Lukasz stowed the notebook once more in his pocket and unslung the rifle from the back of the saddle. Even if he wasn’t as good with a sword anymore, he wasn’t completely defenseless.
They broke into a small clearing. He had a glimpse of a river before Król whinnied and reared up on his hind legs. Lukasz narrowly avoided being impaled on the silver antlers.
“Damn it, Król,” he growled, dragging back on the reins with his good hand. “What is it?”
Król shrieked and reared again.
“Król—” He slipped off the horse’s back. He grabbed the bridle, tugging the horse down to him. Król’s eyes were rimmed in white, his nostrils flaring. “Król, calm down. There’s nothing here—”
Lukasz turned toward the river. He froze. There was something there.
No. Not something. Someone.
It was a girl. She was almost completely submerged, only her eyes and the top of her head visible over the calm water. Her dark hair was plastered to her skull, and its ends floated on the surface in dark coils. She was utterly silent, staring back.
Her eyes were green.
“Hey,” he called across the water. “Are you okay?”
She blinked. Her lashes, long and black, disturbed the surface. When they came up, Lukasz could see every bead of water on them.
“Are you okay?” he asked again. “Can I help you?”
Without thinking, he turned to Król and unfastened a length of rope from the saddle. When he turned back to the river, the girl was almost at the water’s edge. He jumped back.
“Damn,” he gasped.
She’d moved so swiftly, so silently. And strangely, the water had remained still as glass.
Lukasz could feel monsters in his bones the same way other people could feel the weather, and this was all wrong. Between the still water and the hypnotic lilt of her hair on its surface, everything in him was screaming.
Run.
Her eyes fell to the rope in his hand. Then they flickered back up to his face. The only motion was in her hair, glimmering on the surface with a life of its own. Lukasz knew his monsters, and she burned with enchantment.
And yet here he was . . .
Her eyes were so green.
“It’s okay,” he said. He lowered the rope to the ground. Then he straightened, holding up both hands, palms out. “I won’t hurt you.”
Her eyes slid to his hands.
He swallowed. The right was brown, with long fingers and scars across his knuckles. The left was pale and mottled.
She stared.
“Here,” he said. He knelt at the water’s edge. “It’s okay, I won’t—”
The girl pulled back her lips. Long incisors and dark gums stared out at him, and the rough tongue of a cat. She hissed, and it was the guttural hiss of a wild animal. Lukasz scrambled backward.
“What the—”
The girl launched herself out of the water. Only she wasn’t a girl anymore—
He rolled out of the way just in time for two hundred pounds of fur and muscle to burst out of the river. The lynx skidded on the bank, tearing up the earth, before rounding on him, fangs bared. Lukasz scrambled back to his feet. Król screamed and danced out of the way, but the lynx ignored the horse.
“Listen, I won’t—” Lukasz held up both hands.
The creature—whatever it was—hissed. He still had his sword at his side, but the rifle was on Król’s saddle—behind the lynx. Lukasz weighed his options. Its tufted ears lay flat to its skull. He could see every muscle tensing, coiling, getting ready to attack. His mind reeled.
What the hell is this?
Even through his panic, even with those bright green eyes boring into his, a very small voice whispered:
Franciszek would know.
The creature snarled. It began to pace.
“Easy—” he started. He held out his hands, aware of his left gravitating to the sword hilt. Better to take his chances—
The lynx went still.
Its pupils narrowed, face turning to the sky, and its ears sprang up. For a split second, Lukasz considered making a dash for Król and the rifle—
A shadow fell.
The smell hit him next. He choked on the scent of scorched hair, burned flesh. The air was hot. The rest of the world fell away, even the creature opposite him, and his heart automatically fell into time with wingbeats.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Lukasz raised his eyes and met the gaze of the Golden Dragon.
It hovered about thirty feet overhead, its great golden face weaving down from the clouds. Lukasz wasn’t an idiot. He knew his dragons. He’d killed more dragons and in a shorter time period than any other slayer in known history. He knew this was different.
It was huge. At least three times bigger than any dragon he’d ever seen. Its antlers branched like a forest, with too many tines to count. Its scales rippled like an ocean of gold, and its claws were chipped, stained with soot. Its eyes were pure black, and when its long jaws opened, a black serpentine tongue slithered out and flicked the air. It also defied species—the antlers and head of a Faustian, the body of a Ływern, the color of a—
No, he thought. Nothing is gold. Not like that.
In its own terrible way, it was beautiful.
Wonder hardened into fury. He’d lost nine brothers to this damn dragon, and he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity. He still wore his broadsword at his side, and now he considered whether to go for his sword or the rifle, which was still on Król’s saddle.
The dragon watched his indecision, and then its jaws curved. It took Lukasz a moment to recognize it as a smile. Then the smile widened and it spat a stream of fire.
Lukasz dived for the ground. He hit the grass, rolled over, and careered toward the edge of the bank. Clawing for a handhold, he had a brief—horrible—swooping sensation before he hit the water.
There was a moment of silence. The river was as cold as ice. He could make out golden light through the rippling surface. Then he found his footing and scrambled upright.
Golden flames flickered over the riverbank, exactly where he had been standing. They spread to the trees beyond, swallowing the branches in golden flames. Lukasz shielded his head as a few feet away, a burning psotnik plummeted from one of the branches and hit the water with a hiss.
He pushed his soaking hair off his forehead.
The water was shallow, barely up to his waist, and his hand went to the sword at his side. The dragon hovered overhead, watching, wings beating. He raised it in his left hand, old blood peeling off the blade.
The dragon watched.
His arm was even weaker, and his fingers were too stiff to bend around the hilt. He could see the blade trembling. He wondered if the dragon could see it, too. He changed it to his right hand. It felt foreign.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Come on—”
Lukasz readied for the attack. He didn’t have time to get out of the water. Not if it struck. But he was not going to die. Not in the shadow of this monster, and not in this forest.
But the Dragon did not attack. Instead, the slim head retreated back into the sky. And then, while he wondered whether it was dumb enough to fall for the old lighter trick, the Dragon began to lift away. Scarcely believing what he was seeing, Lukasz watched it rise above the trees. Its long throat curved up toward the sky, and a few scales tumbled down to earth as its tail clipped a tree.
The sky was empty.
The flames burned steadily. Lukasz realized suddenly that his heart was pounding. And he knew, looking at that shaking blade, that his left hand was no good. All because of his damn gloves! Lukasz swore and flung the sword onto the bank. It skidded a few inches along the grass, and then lay, even more blood chipping away, useless. He was useless.
He was shaking. Was this what his parents had seen, before they’d died? A black-toothed grin and golden flames? And his brothers . . . ? And Franciszek . . . Oh God, he thought. Franciszek. If only he’d listened. If only Franciszek hadn’t left. And if only he hadn’t gone after that damn Apofys.
If only he could still hold a sword.
Lukasz clasped his hands behind his head, trying to catch his breath. The air was hot, filled with the smell of burning trees and the crackle of flames. Around him, the forest burned gold, and more psotniki dropped like fireballs, hissing as they hit the water around him.
It was at that moment that someone touched his shoulder.
“My darling,” whispered a musical voice in his ear. “Let me help you.”
Lukasz turned and came face-to-face with the girl from the river.
4
FROM THE SHELTER OF THE trees, Ren watched.
The human didn’t see her. He was too focused on the Dragon, as it lifted away. Then he flung the sword on the bank, shouted a word Ren didn’t recognize. She squinted. She wasn’t used to humans, but this one seemed angry. Not realizing how stupid he was being, he took a few dazed steps deeper into the water. Ren had little sympathy, but she thought she recognized this look. Someone reeling after an unexpected escape. And yet . . .
He didn’t seem afraid of the Dragon.
Why not?
Ren quelled the growl that rose in her throat. And why am I afraid?
Logically speaking? Because she was smarter. Because she knew what it had done. Because she knew how dangerous the Dragon was. Because all humans were reckless and dangerous and because humans never looked at something without dreaming up a way to kill it.
Why had it let him live?
The river began to move. Ren blinked. Tiny eddies twisted and broke in white crests, as if just below the surface a creature was circling. The river went still.
Then it came.
Water broke smoothly over the female head, eyes fluttering as droplets showered the surface. At first, he didn’t notice it. The creature had slick wet hair, deep brown against skin so pale that it glimmered in the steel-blue water. She had sleek features, and when they finally opened, her eyes were green.
The creature straightened, and Ren’s heart dropped right out of her chest.
It looked just like her—no, it was her—it was Ren herself, standing in the water—
A rusalka.
Ren tried not to panic. Rusalki made strzygi look about as sweet-tempered as fawns. She’d heard they took their victims apart piece by piece, molding their skins to their own glistening bodies. Ren swallowed, realizing with a sickening feeling why this rusalka had chosen to resemble her.
The creature laid long-fingered hands on the human’s shoulders and whispered in his ear. The human turned to face it.
Reckless, thoughtless fool. Ren hesitated. Stupid, dangerous creature. But . . . but—
“STOP!” She galloped out of the trees, over the burning ground. “Get away from it—”
If he heard her, he ignored her. Maybe because she was an animal. Ren shook herself out, unfolding to her full human height.
“Get out of there,” she shouted. “It’s a rusalka—”
Over his shoulder, the rusalka caught her eye. It giggled, and even Ren could hear the music in it. The creature undulated out of the water and pressed itself into him. Bone-white skin against the wet black coat, it entwined those webbed fingers in his hair.
“I am the queen,” said Ren, with as much authority as she could. “And I command you to let him go. Now.”
She told herself it wasn’t out of pity. Or compassion. It was because the dragon had spared his life, and because she needed to know why.
The rusalka giggled again. She wrapped one arm around his neck and pulled herself up to whisper more quiet things in his ear. No . . . Ren corrected herself. Not a she. An it.
Ren could see its fingers flat across his back, gossamer-thin membranes sparkling between them. Maybe it looked like her. Maybe it looked like a dozen other girls. But nothing about that thing, right down to the broken, bloodstained nail, was human.
The light of the fire caught them both in flashing angles, and then the rusalka took its face out of his neck and looked Ren right in the eye.
“Let him go,” Ren repeated.
It smiled. Its perfect lips peeled back from stained teeth. They were square, but so chipped and crowded that they looked like fangs. Ren snarled back. She was the queen. She came second to no one.
But the rusalka just laughed. It didn’t take its eyes from her as it took his chin in a clawed hand and jerked him to face her. Eyes still locked on Ren, it kissed him. His arms came up, encircling it. And to Ren’s disgust, he kissed it back.
It had him. It had him, and it was keeping him. Ren watched, suddenly nauseated, as the rusalka closed its eyes, kissed him like it was starving, and together—forever—they slipped below the water’s surface. Water slid over, covered them. The river was still as glass.
Ren swallowed.
She stared into the water. She should leave. She knew that. But the Dragon . . . She glanced down at her feet, where the heavy sword lay in the grass. She reached down and touched the blade. Blood came away on her fingertips. And then, before she could react, her fingers began to tingle, and tiny sparks of flame leapt to life and then disappeared.
Ren jumped back, heart racing. She stared at the still water again.
Is that . . . Could it be . . . ?
She glanced up at the burning trees.
Dragon blood?
It was possible, she realized, that he knew about dragons. And it was possible, she reasoned, that he might even deserve better than death from a rusalka.
I won’t hurt you, he’d said.
He didn’t just look different. He’d looked at her differently. Without fear or anger. He’d looked at her like he wanted to help.
Ren shook her head. No, better not to think about that. She had seen what they’d done to Czarn. The humans called her a monster, but they’d been the ones to . . . to do that to him.
Ren gritted her teeth.
There was no point in trying to find good in them. Trying to find compassion, or kindness. She needed him alive for the same reason she had needed to bury those humans in the clearing: it was for her forest.
Nothing else.
Ren closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and dived into the water.
It was cold. Bone-chillingly cold.
While her eyes adjusted to the dark, she scrabbled blindly, searching for the riverbank, trying to orient herself—
She nearly screamed.
She’d expected mud. What she found was a skull.
She pulled her fingers out of the empty sockets, her vision clearing a little. It was embedded in the riverbank, one of hundreds. The skulls formed rows in the mud. Fishers and water spiders flitted in and out of their evil grins. Bones floated around her, illuminated by shafts of light, shot through the green water.
She peered into the murk. The river seemed to go down forever. Far below, a writhing shape receded rapidly into the depths.
Ren kicked hard and shot down like a missile.
He’d come to his senses. He was trying fight off the rusalka. No longer beautiful, it had turned to a skeleton, draped in slime and bloated flesh. Stringy hairs still clung to its skull. It clawed at his eyes and he flailed like a wounded animal.
Ren grabbed the skeleton’s arm and pulled. It reeled, hissing at her, tongue still intact in its toothy mouth. Ren snarled back. She seized the creature by the eye sockets and yanked. The skull came right off the spine. The skeleton we
nt instantly limp. Ren pushed past the bones and grabbed his arm. His eyes were already closing.
Around them, the water began to writhe. Skeletons rose from the depths. They drifted, hissing, baring more broken teeth and bits of tongue. Ren growled, but it didn’t carry through the water.
There were too many to fight. It wasn’t going to be a battle—just an escape. Hanging on to the human, she kicked as hard as she could. Bony fingers closed on her ankle, jerked them back down.
No. Ren cursed inwardly. She wasn’t going to die down here. Not like this.
Ren hissed again. She flexed her free hand, watched it shorten and broaden into an animal’s paw. She swiped down at the hand on her ankle.
Ren felt bones splinter under the blow. The rusalka screeched, the sound muffled by the water, and fell away. Its rotten hand scattered into a hundred tiny bones, floating slowly away in the gloom.
On every side, darkness writhed. Another rusalka lunged for Ren, but she hacked at it with her claws. With every blow, more skeletons fell away, bones splintering, empty mouths howling. She gripped the human tight and kicked upward.
Golden light marbled overhead. Her lungs burned. The human was like an anchor on her arm, motionless and silent. A rusalka grabbed her shoulder, but Ren’s heavy paw smashed its skull in two. She needed air.
She kicked with all her strength, ignoring the pain in her legs. Her lungs were in agony. She aimed only for that patch of light. She kicked harder, but she barely moved. She watched, in horror, as bubbles streamed from her lips. No—no—not like this—not for this—
A hand closed on her shoulder.
With the last of her strength, Ren turned. She felt slow. The world was getting dimmer.
The hand was yellowish-brown, with webbed, thick fingers. Wodnik. He blinked at her. Without a word, he gripped her tight and together they flew upward.
Don't Call the Wolf Page 4
