Blessed Monsters

by Emily A Duncan

  “That you did. I missed you too, towy dżimyka.”

  They were interrupted by the clank of her cell doors opening. She didn’t have time to shut off the bond before she was roughly yanked out, Malachiasz’s panic flashing through her. They knew where this would end.

  She wasn’t going to come back from this.

  Nadya was dropped before the Matriarch in a new cell, a small, pathetic, broken girl.

  The woman was younger than Nadya was expecting. In her forties, no older. Her hair was covered but a few strands had worked free, pale hair paired with dark eyes and eyebrows. A sick feeling settled deep in the pit of Nadya’s stomach.

  Magdalena crouched before her, tilting her chin up with cool fingers, appraising.

  “There’s no time for this,” Nadya said, yanking her head away. “Chyrnog is free and Nyrokosha will be soon and we need to stop it. If you truly cared about Kalyazin you would help me.”

  Magdalena gave a harsh laugh. “But it’s your mess. If only we had drowned you in the river like I suggested,” she paused. “Your mother was my sister, you know. A priestess here, in Komyazalov. A witch. It was so much easier to root them out back then. Though you’ve made it easy to make your heresy known.”

  What?

  “I have only ever done what the gods wished of me,” Nadya said, failing to keep her voice steady at the lie. She had set off this dark chain of terror, and she knew it. But why didn’t Magdalena want her to prevent what was to come?

  “Half the city razed and abominations in the streets and you believe that you have done the gods’ will? Oh child, the gods would not deign to speak to you. Look at the horrors you’ve wrought heeding the whispers of madness.”

  No. Nadya had spoken to Alena and Myesta and the oldest gods in their pantheon. She had stolen power from Zvezdan and Velyos. She had walked with Marzenya. She had fallen for a boy turned god. She was divine.

  “We do not listen to a mad woman’s ravings and call it divine doctrine,” Magdalena said. “We burn out those who have committed heresy. You should know, Nadezhda, it was the one thing you were meant to do and failed at so utterly.”

  But that wasn’t what the gods wanted. Marzenya had, sure. But as they’d slowly returned to her, she’d found the righteous fury against the Tranavians had tempered as the risk of Chyrnog grew greater. The gods acted in reflection.

  “I knew you would never be what we would need to burn out the heretics,” Magdalena continued. “My sister tried to run, to hide you. Her mistake was in returning after she left you at that monastery. But now you will die as you deserve, and the Church will hold the power it was always meant to have.”

  Nadya had known she would find no answers here, but the confirmation stung, regardless.

  “You will destroy everything if you see that into reality,” Nadya said.

  “I don’t need to listen to a girl who has thrown her lot in with the Vultures,” Magdalena said, straightening. She opened the door of the cell, gesturing to the guards outside. “Is it ready?”

  It was over.

  “Wait! What was her name? My mother,” Nadya asked.

  Magdalena turned. She eyed Nadya for a long time. “Lilya,” she finally said. “You look like her. Shame you fell for the dark like her, too.”

  Nadya laughed.

  She was dragged out of the room, out of the palace, to a wide courtyard. They made quick work of it, she had to give them that. The pyre was ready to burn the heretic.

  “One more question,” she said after the guard had shoved her up onto the wooden dais to the cheers of a waiting crowd. “You have the Black Vulture, but you’re burning me first?”

  “We’ll want to break him and show him off before we kill him. You, well, everyone saw what you’re capable of. You need to be destroyed immediately.”

  Nadya’s heart hammered in her throat. She couldn’t die here. Desperately she rifled through the power she had as she was strapped against the wood, her hands tied behind her. Madgalena brushed her thumb against Nadya’s forehead, coating her skin with some kind of oil. It felt like the ground was pulled out from underneath her.

  Oh.

  They had a way to neutralize her magic; cut off her access to the divine, to herself. She scrambled, reaching, but it was like trying to grasp water. It slipped through her fingers, gone.

  She was going to die. Death would not be so kind twice.

  Her vision tunneled as panic constricted her. She heard the hiss of a fire being lit. She heard the tinder dropped beneath her feet. Heat against her legs. Fear, finally grabbing her by the rib cage. She had run from so much, survived so much, only to have it end like this.

  She would not let them see her cry. She would not let them see her break.

  The flames licked at her boots, not quite hot enough to catch, but soon. She closed her eyes.

  Something in the air shifted. She heard a rumbling from the crowd, a change in tone, the shift from furious bloodlust to something close to terror. Something shook the pyre, landing hard, and her eyes flew open.

  “I’ve always wanted to rescue someone!” Malachiasz said cheerfully. “What a novel change of pace.”

  Roiling chaos and absolutely covered in blood. His eyes were murky; he was barely holding on to himself. He grinned at her, sharp-toothed, his expression flickering as the flames licked at his boots. He used one heavy black wing to beat at the fire, irritation crossing his features as a crossbow bolt slammed past both their faces. His claws slashed through the ropes binding her.

  “Careful, someone might think you have a shred of decency,” Nadya said, shaking. She couldn’t feel her power. The hem of her skirt caught fire. Another crossbow bolt flew past, nearly grazing Malachiasz.

  “The notion offends me. Shall we go? Be warned, this is going to hurt quite terribly.”

  He was going to shift them out with magic. He can still do that?

  “I would rather die than be carried out of here.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll die.” He pulled her against him, and the press of his magic slammed down on top of her.

  * * *

  “Let her sleep. The world will wait a few hours more.”

  Nadya stirred at voices whispering too close. She thought she recognized one, but Malachiasz was dead. A dream, then.

  “Will it? You would know, wouldn’t you, how much time we truly have.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Malachiasz—”

  Wait. No. He was dead. And that was Serefin’s voice, the one who had killed him.

  “—is she in danger from you?”

  A long beat of silence. “Not … yet.”

  “A reassuring pause.”

  “We’ll talk in the morning when she’s awake. Right now, we sleep.”

  She heard the door close. The bed she was on shifted slightly to one side.

  “How much did you hear?” Cool fingers brushed the side of her face, tucking hair behind her ear.

  She didn’t open her eyes, reaching a hand to grasp at the impossibility whispering gently to her.

  “I don’t talk to ghosts,” she mumbled.

  He laughed softly. “No, that’s probably wise.”

  She opened her eyes slowly, prepared for disappointment. But the chest her hand rested against was solid, and everything crashed back down on her at once. She was a monster. The Church wanted her head. Her aunt was the Matriarch and hated her. They were all going to die, and the world was going to end.

  Malachiasz was alive.

  She leaned up on her elbow, ignoring the incredible twinge of pain. She reached up to touch his face.

  She had broken so much.

  They had done so much to each other.

  Maybe it was better if it all had ended on the mountain.

  She let her hand fall.

  “Don’t push yourself. Your ribs are sprained, not broken, but it still won’t be pleasant,” he said helpfully. “And fire got your calf, but the burns are minor. Sorry, I was a little
late there on the rescue.”

  He was a mess. His black hair was tangled and wild. He had truly the most impressive smudges of exhaustion under his pale eyes. She could tell he had very little control over the chaos that was his body. The eyes and mouths and horror. He looked like he’d been shattered into a million pieces, and the pieces had been put back together wrong.

  He was beautiful.

  “Malachiasz,” she said breathlessly.

  He shivered.

  She didn’t know what to say. She had a thousand things to tell him, but they all fled her mind at once.

  “You look awful.”

  He swiped at his eyes, laughing, and Nadya reached out and took his wrist. The bones felt fragile under his skin. How was he so strong yet so breakable?

  “Why does Serefin think you’re going to hurt me?”

  “I can’t control myself. Chyrnog has everything.”

  This was all so impossible. That he was here, that she had survived the pyre. The notion that she was an enemy of the Church was crushing. Shakily, she worked her way to sitting—mildly delirious from the pain—patting the spot next to her. Malachiasz hesitated but shifted to sit at the edge of the bed, slowly moving farther in and sitting with his legs crossed.

  It was dark outside and the room they were in was sparse. Only a bed with a chest at the foot and a small table to the side. A bundle of sage was nailed to the doorway. She could smell incense and found the censer on the table, burning faintly.

  Nadya took his hand between hers. He was trembling. What did she even say?

  “When you betrayed me, the first time, had you been planning it the whole while?”

  A cluster of eyes opened at his throat. He was wearing a loose shirt, black, the ties at the neck undone and open, showing a fair amount of his pale chest. He had cleaned up a little but ash and blood still streaked his skin in places.

  He let out a breathless laugh. “I … well, yes and no?”

  She toyed with his fingers. His nails were destroyed, the skin around them red and angry.

  “I didn’t know what to do when we found you. I never—well—I mostly never lied to you. I didn’t want to give Meleski the power he was asking for and I ran. When we met you, I knew you could be instrumental in turning it all back in my favor. But you were covered in blood and you were furious and all I could do was give you my name and come to the hopeless realization that you made me feel things I didn’t think I could.”

  “But that wasn’t enough to stop you.”

  “So little is.”

  She laughed at that.

  “You turned it right back on me.”

  “Did you really not suspect it of me?”

  He cocked his head. “I’ll answer that, but did you?”

  “I spent the entire time in Grazyk suspecting it and hoping I was wrong. You’ve always been too good to be true. Too kind, too gentle, too beautiful. And I’ve been trying to figure out a world I was in no way prepared for while a boy who’s too clever for his own good manipulated me.”

  “I didn’t suspect it of you, no. And I have never been good.”

  “No, you haven’t. I don’t think you can be. But it came down to impossible choices. I knew what that forest would do to you. I knew when I went down into those mines for you. All we have of each other is our betrayals.” She fell quiet, pressing her fingertips against his. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  He nodded. “More than words can fix.” His eyes flickered before focusing on her. “Nadya, can I stay?”

  She frowned before she realized what he was asking. Oh.

  He rushed on, harried. “I don’t want to be alone.” He paused, considering. “No, I’ll go. You need to rest. We’re not—we didn’t. I don’t want to put you in danger and—”

  She kept a firm grip on his hand. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “We can have a good fight about you killing my goddess, later.”

  “Only if we fight about you obliterating my country.”

  She shifted over, knowing neither was forgivable. Wincing at the pain in her sides, she let him slide into bed next to her, careful space between them. She wanted to kiss him, to feel the press of his body against hers, but she couldn’t make herself reach for him. She didn’t know how to cross the chasm that had been ripped between them.

  “Where are we?” she asked, deciding benign questions were safe.

  He draped an arm over his forehead. She leaned her head on her elbow, reaching her other hand up and twining her fingers through his. It was safe, holding his hand.

  “I have no idea. We’re a few days outside of Komyazalov, deep in the forests. In an abandoned stronghold of some kind.”

  “Days?”

  “You’ve been out for three days, Nadya.”

  “How?”

  Something sheepish flickered across his face. “Well, the only way to get you out was with chaos magic—it’s all I have—and it turns out if you weren’t some rather eldritch creation yourself it would have thoroughly obliterated you.”

  “Malachiasz.”

  “You’re fine! In one piece! Rashid almost tore my head off. Did we know he was a healer?”

  “I can’t believe you.”

  “I was helping!”

  “Is everyone else all right?”

  “Varying levels of what that might mean, but alive, yes.”

  “Comforting.”

  “We are firmly establishing I do not know how to be that.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles.

  Nadya considered. “Is it a Vulture hunter’s stronghold, do you think?”

  “Oh.” He sounded like that hadn’t occurred to him. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  “Be careful.”

  “She murdered Żywia, she should watch her back,” he said darkly. “Why does she still have that relic?”

  “I couldn’t stand to have it near me,” she whispered. She didn’t know what she saw in his expression, but it made her sad and uncomfortable. “Is there a scar?”

  “What?”

  She had the hem of his tunic in her hand, tugging it up. Halfway through the motion, she started blushing furiously.

  “Blood and bone, stop, let me,” he said with a laugh. He pulled the tunic over his head and tossed it to the floor.

  The scar was fresh and angry looking, all raised skin and taut flesh over his heart. She brushed her fingers against it, suddenly very aware of the heat of him and how close she was, how easy it would be to tip her face up and kiss him. She ignored the rippling shifts in his body; it had become a benign sort of horror. She glanced up from underneath her eyelashes. His eyes were dark, pupils blasted out, obliterating his pale irises.

  “Wait, you have to tell me what the scar on my back looks like,” she said, completely shattering the moment. She shifted onto her stomach, letting out a wheezing breath at the pain in her ribs, but ignoring it.

  He laughed incredulously and it was a welcome sound. “What?”

  “I got stabbed in the back by a swamp witch, it was very dramatic, I died for a few hours, you’ve missed a lot.”

  There was a long silence. She turned her head to find him watching her with the most agonizingly gentle expression.

  “Malachiasz?”

  “I felt it. I thought you were gone,” he said, voice shaking. “I almost gave up entirely.”

  She rested her cheek against the pillow. “But you didn’t?”

  He shook his head slightly. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t think the whole world should suffer for my mistakes. Serefin’s been pretty threatening.”

  Nadya laughed. Gods, it hurt.

  He reached out, very carefully sliding his hand under the hem of her tunic. His fingertips were warm against her back as he traced his way up her spine.

  “Goodness,” he said, flattening his hand out over the spot where she’d been stabbed. Her whole body heated underneath the spread of his fingers. “Did they get you with a rusty saw blade? That’s impressive.”

  “It did
kill me!”

  “Oh, to be so cavalier about such things.” There was pain in his voice. He needed to mourn. That they had slipped away from death was a blessing—or a curse, considering Chyrnog’s role in it—but it couldn’t last. She had tried to save Żywia, but the relics were too powerful.

  He lightly traced the scars on her sides from his claws. “Prszystem, towy dżimyka,” he whispered.

  Those were not words she ever thought she’d hear him say. Apologies were not something a person with no remorse gave.

  He leaned down and kissed her shoulder blade, setting every nerve in her on fire. He tugged her tunic down. “Go to sleep, Nadezhda. We won’t have the chance to get much in the future.”

  37

  MALACHIASZ CZECHOWICZ

  There is a cycle, a turning, gods die and gods are reborn and renewed and remade. The ones who survive, who live eternal, are the ones twisted, mad, wrong. The ones who will destroy anything in their path to get what they wish.

  —The Volokhtaznikon

  Morning broke too soon. Malachiasz had only just fallen asleep when someone—probably Serefin—pounded on the door. Sometime during the night, Nadya had cleared the space between them, pressing her body to his. After, he’d remained awake for hours. His mind was miraculously quiet, though he couldn’t ignore the hunger that sparked from the magic clouded around her. He softly ran his fingers through her hair. It was only a matter of time before Chyrnog made this impossible.

  Nadya stirred, blearily sitting up. She dropped her head into her hands, groaning softly.

  “My entire body hurts,” she whispered.

  “We have that in common,” he said.

  She lifted her head quickly, looking over her shoulder as if she’d forgotten he was there. She firmly placed her hand against his face.

  “Not a hallucination,” she murmured.

  “You did not hallucinate tearing off my shirt, no.”

  Her face turned bright red, the pale freckles that dusted her skin disappearing underneath the rush of blood. “Oh,” she squeaked. Her gaze dropped to his chest. “It is an impressive scar,” she muttered.

  She scooted out of the bed quickly, and Malachiasz held back a sigh. He didn’t blame her for the distance. As glad and relieved and thrilled as he was to find her alive, there were a few too many betrayals between them.