They moved on to the next passage, while Rafał wandered away to play with a dola scampering in and out of the lowermost shelves. Lukasz gazed longingly at the little catlike creature, comprised mainly of smoke and candlelight, but Franciszek had him trapped.
“‘This act is thought to symbolize a severance of their innocence (the white cloth) from earthly attachments (the ground).’” Franciszek looked up. “My God, Rafał, what is that?”
Rafał scooped the dola off the desk. It left four paw-shaped scorch marks in the mahogany and beamed at them, wagging its whole body.
“Come on, Fraszko, he doesn’t need this,” said Rafał.
“He’s right,” said Lukasz quickly. “Give up. I’ll never learn. I’m not smart like you.”
Franciszek gave him a withering look.
“Knowing how to read has nothing to do with being smart, Lukasz,” he said. “You’re the smartest of all of us. You’re the one who got rid of the Lernęki yesterday, remember?”
Lukasz shrugged.
It hadn’t been difficult. Kwiat’s problem had started when a nobleman had decided that the iridescent little Lernęki would be an impressive addition to the brand-new fountain on his estate. Unfortunately, with construction stalled for a few days, the hapless lord had stored his Lernęki in an available bathtub. The pretty little things had promptly swum down the drains, gone forth into the city’s plumbing, and multiplied. Within six months, Lernęki had infested every major water system in the town.
To complicate matters, every cut to a Lernęk caused ten more heads to grow from the wound. The citizens of Kwiat were at their wits’ end: their neat little fenced-in trees were dying, merely washing one’s hands carried a risk of self-immolation, and worst of all—everyone was beginning to smell.
It had been Lukasz’s idea to fill one of the bathhouses’ centrally draining baths with wine, lure in the little creatures, and then drop a match and incinerate them all. He’d lost part of an eyebrow in the blaze, but it had been worth it.
“That was different,” said Lukasz. “That was dragons.”
“But you guessed they would like wine,” pointed out Rafał. “Genius.”
Lukasz shrugged again. It had been a lucky guess. The Lernęki had been imported from Atena, a country famous for its wine, and even in Kwiat, they seemed to prefer the houses with the biggest wine cellars. But Lukasz had realized something the Lernęki didn’t: that Kwiati alcohol was far more powerful—and flammable—than Atenian wine.
“Fraszko,” said Rafał abruptly. “Take a break. Come back in twenty minutes or so.”
“But—”
“This belongs to someone,” said Rafał, handing Franciszek the dola. It began to lick his face. “Probably someone down there. You should return it.”
Franciszek fumed, but there was still some hierarchy among the brothers. Even if Rafał was a bit wild and more than a bit irresponsible, he was now the oldest. Henryk could come back, Lukasz reminded himself. Tad could still come back.
He glanced away, rapped his fingers on the desk.
He watched Franciszek descend the stairs, trying not to smile when the dola pawed at his glasses. Lukasz liked the little creatures; as a rule, they were sweet-tempered and embodied the best of their owners’ souls. This one had obviously escaped from some poor sod nodding off downstairs.
“Right,” said Rafał, sitting on the desk next to Lukasz. “You should really learn to read, Luk.”
Lukasz knew he must have looked surprised. But Rafał looked uncharacteristically serious.
“Franciszek has been a better brother than I have,” he said.
“You’re more fun,” said Lukasz.
Rafał gave a quiet laugh.
After the episode with the basilisk, one reporter had described him as having a poet’s eyes and a devil’s soul. Personally, Lukasz thought the description belonged in the same pretentious category as book-retrieving pigeons, but it was—he admitted grudgingly—somehow accurate. It was part of Raf’s mystery—part of what made him so likable.
Rafał looked down at the book, with its picture of the mavka and her victim.
“I’m the oldest,” he said. “I should have taken better care of you.”
The words were a shock. Lukasz didn’t quite know what to say.
Even after Tad and Henryk had disappeared, Rafał had continuously deferred to their authority. He was twenty-one years old; he did not want to be the eldest. Tad and Henryk were coming back, he’d insist. Until then, they just had to kill dragons, make money, and enjoy themselves.
And so, for a few precious months, they had run wild.
Perhaps that was Raf’s secret, Lukasz thought. He had a gift of total and absolute self-destruction, and it was intoxicating. The past year had been the wildest, messiest, most enjoyable twelve months of Lukasz’s life: Rafał lay upon the beds of Miasto tattoo parlors, Eryk bought a vodka distillery, and Anzelm drank most of it. In the chaos, no door was closed upon Lukasz. No tavern was too rough. No alcohol too hard. No woman too dangerous. In the spring, they rented out palatial hotel rooms. In the summer, they dined on white-sand beaches in the north. They slept in gutters and stretched out on barroom floors, shrouded in the eternal night of underground taverns. Once, in a grotty little village nicknamed “Skulltown” by the locals, the twins met an upiór in a crypt and almost died.
They were rich. They were handsome. And, as they kept telling themselves, they were happy.
“You know,” said Rafał, and Lukasz was horrified to see tears in his brother’s eyes, “I have been a terrible brother.”
For some reason, Raf had never seemed more unpredictable—more dangerous—than he seemed in that moment.
“You did the best you could,” offered Lukasz.
It was a lie. Part of him was tired of hauling Rafał out from the monster’s jaws. Tired of how he only seemed happy when he was dragging the rest of them down with him. He was tired of the fact that Rafał wasn’t willing to care for them in the same way that Tad and Henryk had cared.
Rafał got to his feet and picked up the book that Franciszek had left open. Lukasz followed. The mavka in the picture stared out at them. At sixteen, Lukasz was already taller than Raf.
“I know how they feel,” murmured Rafał.
“I don’t understand,” Lukasz faltered. “What are you saying, Raf?”
Rafał leaned in, held the book up.
“These monsters. Trapped between two worlds. Doomed to wander. I know how that feels.” His eyes were no longer poetic. They were feral. Animal. A thousand years of blood and gore raged behind them. “We’re exiles, Lukasz.”
“Raf.” Lukasz laughed, and it was brittle. “Stop being weird.”
A ghostly smile hung on Rafał’s lips.
“I don’t want to be an exile anymore,” he said. He licked his lips. “I want to go home.”
“We can’t,” said Lukasz.
Without answering, Rafał pulled Lukasz close and hugged him. His strength was bone-crushing. Lukasz could feel him shaking. He felt cold, as if he were already dead.
“They’re calling me,” he whispered. “The Mountains call me back.”
The next morning, Rafał was gone.
He left no note. No explanation, beyond his words to Lukasz. He left nothing but foggy nights and disastrous hunts and dark gutters. Nothing but five words. Five words to hold on to, to fear.
The Mountains call me back.
And outside the windows of their hotel room, paid for by the mayor of Kwiat, the snow began to fall.
14
AS SOON AS LUKASZ WAS back on his feet, they ran.
They ran until Król’s black sides ran white with sweat. They ran until the pink sky turned to blue, until the forest grew warm again, until the roots stopped snatching at their heels. Until the evil fell away, until the smell of rot faded. They ran until Lukasz’s blood dried to a crust on his skin, until even the pain of the nawia’s cuts was barely a memory. They ran until the big black w
olf collapsed in the dirt, sides heaving, tongue lolling between white teeth. Eyes blue as a Wolf-Lord’s.
Lukasz wished they could run until Rybak stopped weeping. But even after they had slowed their exhausted horses to a walk, his shoulders kept shaking and his single eye produced enough tears for two.
None of them spoke.
Lukasz pulled his cap back over his head and turned in the saddle, trying to get his bearings. It looked like they were heading east, because the queen—whether she realized it or not—was leading them in the direction of the Mountains. But beyond that, he was lost. The trees looked random to him: mostly spruce, interspersed with oaks and Scots pine. Here and there, a linden tree sprouted. There was no order to the forest. No organization. And the natural world, Lukasz knew, tended to make sense.
It was the unnatural that brought chaos.
Lukasz could feel it. He could sense the magic at work here. He always could; it was part of what had made him so good at slaying dragons.
What’s your read? Franciszek would ask.
Lukasz would tell him. And without fail, Franciszek would know how to interpret the instinct. How to temper it. How to combine Lukasz’s hunches with his research, and then, together, for a short time, they were unstoppable.
Lukasz’s hand went to his sword. But even now, the atrophied muscle screamed. Relying on that hand had almost gotten him killed by the nawia. Only the memory of Franciszek’s research had saved him.
“Our cat’s out of the bag now,” said Koszmar in a low voice, drawing up next to him. “Do we trust her?”
Lukasz left the sword alone and instead took the rifle from his shoulder and put it across his knees.
The village girl—Felka—sat behind Koszmar, arms wrapped around his waist. Now she said, “If you don’t trust her after last night, then you’re a fool.”
Koszmar sneered at her over his silver-stained shoulder.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
They looked different. Something in her dulled eyes. Something in his flattened, hawklike gaze. Horror had etched itself in the lines at their lips. Between their brows. One night among the nawia, and they’d both aged ten years.
Lukasz reminded himself that not everyone had grown up fighting monsters.
“What do you think?” Koszmar asked again, pointedly addressing Lukasz. His voice was very nasal. As flat as his eyes. “Do you trust her?”
Ahead, the queen was leaning over the black wolf. Lukasz had noticed it had a bad limp, and the run had exhausted it. The queen was whispering to the other lynx. As they spoke, the black wolf struggled back to his feet. He held his front paw tucked up under his chest. He wasn’t looking at Lukasz, or Koszmar, or the girl on Koszmar’s horse.
He was looking at Rybak.
The queen looked up abruptly.
“Set up your camp here,” she said. “This part of the forest is safe.”
Lukasz tried not to shudder at the human voice issuing from the throat of an animal. If she noticed, she did not show it. She merely watched him with her big lynx eyes, oddly similar to her human ones.
She turned to walk away.
“Hang on—where do you think you’re going?” interrupted Koszmar, sounding a little shrill.
The queen looked coldly over her shoulder.
“I am taking my brother and my friend to make sure we have not been followed. Or would you like to have your eyes gouged out in the night?”
Koszmar swallowed, and at the same time Felka whispered “Psotniki” under her breath.
The lynx’s eyes snapped toward her.
“Felka,” she said. “You can come . . . if you like.”
Lukasz stared between the lynx and the girl. It was strange, hearing the invitation from the queen. It was almost . . . shy?
Felka slid, a little awkwardly, down from Koszmar’s saddle. She had a bundle in her arms that looked a lot like the queen’s clothes. Lukasz quelled the twitch of jealousy that surfaced, unexpectedly, deep inside him.
Franciszek, he repeated to himself. This was about Franciszek. This was about surviving long enough to find Franciszek. This was not about currying the favor of some feral queen. . . .
Lukasz massaged the fingers of his ruined hand. If it hadn’t been for that damn book—if it hadn’t been for the fact that Fraszko had tried to teach him—if it hadn’t been for that, they’d all be dead.
“Weird pair,” observed Koszmar as the girl followed the three animals to the trees and disappeared.
Lukasz shot Koszmar a sidelong glance.
“And we aren’t, Kosz?”
A smile flickered over Koszmar’s already hardening face. He took his pipe from his black coat and lit it, and the flicker stretched to a full grin around the pipe stem.
“Kosz,” he murmured. “I do like that. By the way, nice touch with the nawia—how did you know that a baptism would get rid of them?”
Lukasz took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The smell of Faustian smoke filled the clearing. It elicited a visceral sense of loss from him.
“It was in a book, once,” he said.
“I thought you couldn’t read,” said Koszmar, brow wrinkling.
Lukasz didn’t answer. He was looking at Rybak. Lukasz had now saved his life on two occasions. A debt was owed, and he was ready to collect.
The queen did not return for several hours.
With the animals gone and Koszmar absorbed in cleaning the nawia blood off his perfect uniform, Lukasz took his time untacking Król and brushing him down. Though it had healed—somehow—his shoulder was still sore from the nav’s blow, and it twinged as he lifted the dragon-leather saddle from his horse’s back. The antlers chimed. The only lullaby he had ever known.
What the hell was he doing?
He felt oddly light-headed. Nauseated, even. He reached inside his jacket to run his hand over the spot that had healed. He wasn’t sure what he expected—a gaping wound, maybe? But the skin was smooth.
Boots crunched beside him.
Lukasz looked up and met Rybak’s single, unnerving eye. The Unnaturalist had looked earnest for a moment, but now his brow furrowed.
“You all right, boy?”
Lukasz swallowed against the sudden urge to vomit. He found himself leaning heavily against Król’s side.
“What were you thinking?” he asked. “Coming after us? We could have all been killed.”
“With or without me, the mavka would have come for you,” said Rybak. “They are the souls of the unbaptized—”
“I know, I know,” interrupted Lukasz, and then quoted, almost verbatim: “‘They’re of a violent nature and prey on humans and lure their victims with their songs and decapitate them.’”
He rubbed his hand over his chin and around the back of his neck, without taking elbows from Król’s back.
“How did you know that?” asked Rybak, single eye widening.
Lukasz smiled wryly. “How did you know that?” he returned.
Rybak didn’t answer, but he pointed up to where a white eagle flitted in and out of the branches. It reminded Lukasz, sickeningly, of the Kwiat library and Rafał.
“You can talk to her?” he asked, suddenly realizing what Rybak was implying.
“Most animals are willing to talk,” replied the Unnaturalist. “It’s the humans who don’t listen.”
The underbrush rustled on the other side of the campsite. Even from twenty feet away, Lukasz saw Koszmar’s hand go to the rifle in the grass. Then Felka emerged, followed by the queen, who was human once more.
“How could you do this?” Rybak asked Lukasz quietly. “How could you kidnap her?”
The queen sat down cross-legged, flanked by her lynx and her wolf. The wolf flipped over on his back, tail thumping the ground, while the queen rubbed his belly and chatted with the lynx.
“I thought—” began Lukasz.
“No,” said Rybak, in that moment sounding very much like Franciszek. “You didn’t think.”
Lukasz rem
inded himself, feeling a bit scummy, that there was a debt, and that he needed to collect. For Franciszek, he thought, trying to block out the image of Jakub Rybak crying over the little nav.
This is for Franciszek.
“I saved your life last night, Jakub,” he said levelly. “That’s the second time.”
“When was the first?”
“In that cellar in Szarawoda,” said Lukasz. When Rybak tried to turn away, Lukasz’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm. He added, in a low voice: “You owe me.”
Rybak’s eye shifted from Lukasz’s face to his hand, clenched around his shirtsleeve. Lukasz dropped the arm.
“What do you want?” asked Rybak.
Lukasz remembered the book of demons in Kwiat. He remembered Raf, playing with dola and leading them all to destruction. And then he thought of someone else. Someone with gold-rimmed spectacles and an unfailingly neat uniform and a wildly good heart hidden under its stiff, boring exterior—
Lukasz spoke through gritted teeth.
“Teach me to read.”
The nawia had been a close call. Lukasz was lucky he remembered anything at all—was lucky Franciszek had chosen that particular page. But if he had been able to read . . . who knew what else he could have learned?
And if he couldn’t hunt dragons, what the hell was he going to do with his life?
Rybak inclined his head.
“Very well.”
Lukasz watched the Unnaturalist cross the clearing. He was barely the ghost of the man he’d met six years ago. Felka trailed after him, looking a little awkward. She obviously wanted to comfort him. Just as obviously didn’t know how to start.
Lukasz propped his Faustian-fur saddle pad against a tree and settled down on the ground. Koszmar was fiddling with his own saddle on the opposite side, his hand never straying far from the saber at his side. He was watching the queen. They stayed close together, strangely fractured. Circling like predators. Watching one another. Keeping tabs on these new, strange partners.
Lukasz needed her.
They didn’t have Franciszek’s original notebook, the one with the map. Whatever Rybak thought about the forest changing, it would have been better than nothing. As it was, they had no clear path to the Mountains. But this queen had spent years learning about the monsters. She knew this forest. She had told them where to set up camp—she had led them away from the mavka. More than that, she had defeated them.
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