Ala is midway through watching a Knight of the Holy Order chop a czort's head off with an ax when Dymitr walks in. It must be afternoon; she's lucid enough to speak to him, something that wouldn't have been possible earlier.
"Get out," she says, though the words lack any real bite.
Dymitr steps right through the Knight standing in triumph over the czort's disembodied head and sits in the chair next to her bed.
"Would it help to show it to me? To watch it together?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "I'm not interested in traumatizing us both."
"I can handle it."
She sighs, but the work of creating illusions is enjoyable to her, the way she imagines other people feel about knitting or cross-stitch. She re-creates the Knight, the czort, the bare country road where they encountered each other beneath a lone streetlight.
"Poor czort," Dymitr says. "I'm given to understand they rarely cause trouble."
"Gentle souls cast as devils in humanity's ongoing stage play. It's Oppression 101: find a bad guy, and if you can't, make one up." The curse has left her sweaty and weak. She wants to go home, wrap herself in her grandfather's quilt, and watch television. Instead, she's stuck in this place that stinks to high heaven of dread, one of her least favorite fear flavors—like toasted walnut, maybe, or a honey-wheat cracker.
"Will you tell me about the Knight…" she says to him as the vision changes. Now they're in a village square, all cobblestones and stone fountain and hedgerows. The sky is orange-pink from the setting sun—or the rising sun; it's hard to say. She layers the imagery over the hospice room so Dymitr can watch it unfold with her.
Toasted walnut—Dymitr's dread.
"Tell me about the Knight you want Baba Jaga to destroy?" she finishes. The village square is empty, but she's sure the Holy Order will appear soon. They always do.
He asks, "What do you want to know?"
"What did he do to deserve your ire?" She tilts her head. "Or she, I suppose. They're letting women do it these days."
"My ire. Yes, I guess you could call it that."
He clasps his hands in his lap. She notices the gauze around his fingers, the lost fingernail finally bandaged.
In the village square, a black car pulls up to the curb just outside a pharmacy. The neon sign in the window of a nearby bar—a beer logo—is dizzying. It reflects on the tinted car windows.
A woman all in white steps out of the car, her bone sword already in hand.
Ala focuses on Dymitr so she doesn't have to look at that sword.
"There was a girl," he says. "Young. Barely more than a child. She…" He smiles a little. "She liked those—turtles. You know the ones? They wear masks in different colors, and fight with weapons—"
"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?" Ala says with a laugh.
The woman in white is walking toward the fountain. Through the falling water, Ala sees a strzyga woman, with stringy black hair that hangs almost to her waist. The Knight's opponent. Target.
Victim.
"I've been waiting for you," the strzyga woman says to the sword-wielding Knight. So they must be in America, then. The accent is right.
Dymitr nods, his eyes on the illusory scene in front of him.
"Yes. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The girl liked to dress as the purple one when she was younger," Dymitr says. "She stole one of her father's neckties and cut eye holes in it. I'm sure he was angry, but he let her keep it. And she used the kitchen broom as a bo staff." His mouth twists a little, like he's trying not to smile anymore, but can't quite help it. "She liked to build things, too. She collected bugs, and leaves, and rocks. And she was a zmora, not yet come into her power, but almost."
Ala feels cold creeping into her. She tries not to watch the strzyga and the Knight circling the fountain, the strzyga in full shift, with the face of a barn owl, the Knight with her sword poised over her palm, ready to summon cursed attackers with her blood.
"And the Knight you want destroyed," Ala says. "He killed the girl?"
"Yes and no." Dymitr looks down. "The girl's mother was afflicted. Schizophrenic, doctors said, though she wasn't convinced—she was zmora, too, and zmory don't typically have conditions like that, as I'm sure you know. But she saw things—heard things. Medication calmed her, but it didn't cure her. She was prone to erratic behavior. One day she wandered off, into town… and she attacked a human, an old man. So the Holy Order was called to bring her down. They—the Holy Order usually travel in pairs—went to the girl's house to execute her mother. They generally ignore zmory in favor of more dangerous targets, but once they're informed of one's location, she can't be permitted to live."
He tilts his head.
Ala is frozen. Abruptly, the strzyga and the Knight in white fall away. The village square disintegrates. It's sundown, and the curse has ended its torments for the day, but she can't find it in herself to move.
She knows Dymitr's story—she knows this story already.
Dymitr goes on: "The girl—a teenager by then—begged for her mother to be spared, and when the Knights were unyielding, she tried to fight them off with the kitchen broom. They hurt her enough to subdue her, and killed her mother right in front of her."
Ala listens to the ticking of the clock for a moment as he gathers himself and continues.
"As it turned out, the woman wasn't schizophrenic, but cursed," he says. "When she died, the curse leapt from her body and into the girl's. And the girl grew older afflicted by the same thing as her mother."
Ala's throat tightens. She knows—she knows what he's building toward, but she still can't quite make herself respond.
"When she was maybe eighteen, her father reached out to the Holy Order again. He was human, and he claimed he was unable to contain his zmora daughter any longer. He wanted their help. And they came, a pair of them, and executed the girl, just as they had her mother." Dymitr looks up at her. "The curse leapt down the bloodline to her cousin, who was then living overseas. In Chicago."
Ala.
She looks away, her eyes wet.
"The Knight," Dymitr says, "is one of the Holy Order who was present at both executions. They are taught that humanity is worth. That all the resemblance that a being such as yourself bears to a human is an elaborate trick, a falsehood. It's nothing to them, to kill one of you. Easier than putting down a rabid dog." He spits the words, fierce. She wishes she was like Niko, and could feel his anger, the force of it. She's startled to find a human who feels this on her behalf.
"How did you know Lena?" Ala says softly. Lena, her cousin. Younger than her, but nearer to the curse, which ricochets like a pinball down the bloodline.
"She was a few years behind me in school," Dymitr says stiffly. "After her mother died, I visited her often. Her father was cruel to her. He was afraid of them both, which of course supplied them with ample food, though he hardly ever let them leave the house. After the Knight killed her, I mourned her."
He sits back in his chair. She thinks of the banshees gaping at him at the boxing ring. The receptionist marveling at him when they first walked into this place. It's his grief that draws their attention, Ala thinks. He's full of sorrow, and empty of fear.
"If it were just this Knight's death I wanted, I would have sought out someone like—like Niko, maybe," Dymitr says. "But I want to ask Baba Jaga for something specific. Something more like—unmaking. Something only she can accomplish."
His lower lip trembles, just a little. He's containing it, his grief, but now she sees the little ways it escapes—into the glassiness of his eyes, and the tremble of his fingers, and the flatness of his voice.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," he says. "How I know you. I'm sorry for all the things I still haven't told you."
"I don't care about that," Ala says, and she touches his arm, right below the elbow. Squeezes gently. He looks at her, and he looks unbearably vulnerable right now, his gray-brown eyes wide and his hair falling over his forehead.
"Thank you for helping me," she says.
"Never thank me," he replies, and it's as if her gratitude is so distasteful to him that he can't bear it a moment longer, because he stands and walks out without another word. Ala stares at the chair he just left, puzzled.
He's just told her more about himself than she ever thought he would, but she still feels like she's missing the most important things.
Ala is the last to arrive in the lobby of the hospice center ten minutes later. Niko, standing by the door, wears a T-shirt he got from the lost and found, one with three wolves and a moon on it, and he's not looking at Dymitr. Dymitr, closer to the withering fiddle-leaf fig tree next to the front desk, is shrugging on his jacket, and he's not looking at Niko. Sha, her hair now bound back with black ribbon, is marveling at them both like they're a fireworks display.
"Weird vibes coming from both of you," Ala comments, and she realizes she's just like her mother, unable to bear other people's pretending.
"Contrary to what you've been told, acknowledging it doesn't make it less awkward," Niko says briskly, and he spins his car keys around his finger as he leads the way out of the building.
It's late afternoon, and the air is cool, though the deep gold of the setting sun hints at summer. Ala used to love the long days of summer, the heat radiating from the sidewalks; the overgrown grass in all the lawns, irrepressible; the clash of bad music from all the bars in Wrigleyville with their doors and windows wide open. The curse took all that from her, making her dread the day, turning winter into a refuge.
"I wish you luck," Sha says to them, nodding to Dymitr and Ala in turn. Niko kisses her cheek, and holds his face there for a moment to say something in her ear. She pats the side of his head, and as she turns, a glimmer—not of light, but of a feather. Ala glances at Sha's shoes, wondering if the rumors of shedim having rooster feet are true. But then, half the rumors about zmory aren't true, either.
"Thank you for your help," Ala forces herself to say, though she's as awkward with gratitude as she is with apologies. And greetings. And introductions.
"Thank Nicky. I did it for him," Sha tosses over her shoulder as she walks back into the hospice center, serene as ever. And then it's just the three of them again.
They find Niko's beat-up Jeep at the far end of the parking lot. Dymitr climbs into the back, where his bow and quiver wait for him. Ala brings the passenger seat back a little too soon, hitting him in the knees.
"Ow!" he says.
"Don't be dramatic," she replies.
His hand darts out and he flicks the tip of her ear. She claps a hand over it, glaring at him. But it was so childish that she can't help but laugh.
"Settle down, children," Niko says, and he starts the engine.
Ala unzips her window as they drive toward the lake, and Niko reaches into the center console to retrieve a CD. She catches a glimpse of it as he slides it into the player: Jimi Hendrix, *Electric Ladyland*. He skips ahead to the fifteenth track, "All Along the Watchtower," and turns up the volume. The wind is picking up as they draw closer to the lake.
Ala is surprised to see Dymitr's lips moving, singing along. Ala lets her hand dangle out of the car, her fingers blown apart by the wind.
Niko is singing, too, his voice harsh and toneless. With a sigh, Ala joins in.
They're on Lake Shore Drive now, and the waves lap up against the rocky shore, against the boats in the marina. The bike paths and parks expand and contract on their right side as they drive, the buildings on their left shrinking down to just a few stories the farther they go. The feats of architecture that make up the city's downtown are just distant giants in the rearview. Niko exits at Lawrence Avenue, and turns down the music.
"My mother took me to meet her once, Baba Jaga," he says as they drive under an awning of trees, their leaves just uncurling. "Uptown Theatre isn't where she lives, but it's somewhere she seems to have a… presence. We just have to hope she's curious enough about us to want to meet us."
"The fern flower should help with that," Ala says.
"And the nature of his grievance," Niko says, jabbing his thumb back in Dymitr's direction. Ala notices that he doesn't meet Dymitr's eyes in the mirror.
Niko turns on Broadway, then pulls a wide—and illegal—U-turn to drive down a side street, where he wedges the Jeep between a sagging pickup truck with a rusted bumper and a beige Prius with one tire up on the curb. He leads them to the trunk, where there's a long, heavy wooden box about the size of a tool chest. There's a keyhole in the top—he flips the car key around the key ring to get to the old-fashioned metal one he keeps there, and unlocks the box.
Ala lets out a low whistle, standing on her tiptoes to see over his shoulder. The box contains a variety of weapons, though from the outside it doesn't look large enough for any of them. Swords, mostly, though there are arrows, too, and a few smaller blades. Niko takes out his favorite, a falchion with a gently curved blade and a sharp, tapered point. He rummages in the box for the sheath.
"So what do you do if your car gets stolen?" she says.
"Enchanted box. Bigger inside than it is outside, for one thing. But also, after a while, it would find its way back to me. In London I left it under a hotel bed, and the concierge brought it to me in a daze while I was at a sidewalk cafe. Seemed confused about how he'd gotten there or why."
"Clever," Ala says, as if such a thing were commonplace. Most strzygi—most zmory, too, for that matter—wouldn't be able to perform that kind of magic. Either he had help with it, or the constant supply of magic afforded to him by the duty he bears puts that enchantment within his grasp; she's not sure.
Dymitr runs his fingers over the wood with a wondering look in his eyes. Not as familiar with enchantments, then, Ala thinks. And why would he be? Witches are dangerous enough to deal with when you're a strzygoń; a human wouldn't stand a chance.
"Can I borrow one?" Ala asks.
"Take your pick. I'm not precious about them," Niko says. He glances at Dymitr. "Arrows?"
Dymitr nods. "Please."
When they're all armed and ready, Niko locks the box and leads them back to Broadway, to the entrance of the Uptown Theatre.
The theater has been closed for decades, a former "movie palace" of the '20s that fell into disrepair in the 1980s thanks to a cold day, a burst pipe, and a distinct lack of funds. At least, that was the public-facing story. The not-so-human denizens of Chicago—even young ones, like Ala—know better: the Uptown Theatre belonged to Baba Jaga, and a dispute with another witch, resulting in a particularly unwieldy display of Baba Jaga's destructive power, is what caused the shutdown. The echoes of that magic are still obvious to anyone looking for them; the place radiates power, like it has its own pulse. Even the human pedestrians on the sidewalk out front steer their eyes away from it like they know something's wrong with it, though they obviously don't know what it is.
The facade is grand, an elaborate five-story display of intricately patterned stone, with four pillars standing above the wide marquee that reads UPTOWN. No one passing by seems to notice as they approach the boarded-up double doors. Niko steps just to the right of them and presses his palm to the stone, five fingers spread wide.
A marble sign appears under his palm, set into the stone. He takes his hand away to let the others read it:
If you see, then you know.
If you know, then you don't need to see.
Niko looks back at Dymitr, who puzzles over the words for a moment.
"What you need to know is, there's a door here," Niko says, tapping the marble. "Any guesses as to how you pass through it?"
"I hate riddles," Dymitr says.
"Then you'll hate witches," Niko says.
The part of Ala's brain that she trained with Sunday crossword puzzles flickers to life. *If you know, then you don't need to see.*
"We walk through with our eyes closed," she volunteers.
Niko smiles. "Try it and see."
Ala recognizes the challenge in his voice, and not to be outdone, she steps up to the marble sign, closing her eyes. She steps forward, and the grit of the stone gives way like sand around her body. Passing through the wall isn't easy—for a moment, as she's caught between one place and another, she can't breathe, she feels pressure on every inch of her skin, squeezing her—but then she's standing in the lobby of the theater, gasping.
The first thing she notices is the smell, musty and rotten. Wet carpet, mold, and broken plaster. But the signs of deterioration are obvious even without her sensitive nose: cracked, peeling drywall on the ceiling, a thick layer of dust over every flat surface, soft materials yielding and buckling with the weight of time as the hard ones stand untouched. The marble floors are intact, though dirty, as are the elaborately decorated walls—pillars on either side of the hall, covered in birds with spread wings and beautiful women in profile; shields and unfurling leaves. At the other end of the lobby are two grand staircases that join beneath three arches. A single chain hanging just above them suggests an old chandelier—gone now, obviously, the chain hanging empty.
The place should be dark. There are no lights that Ala can see, not even emergency floodlights—she suspects that rumors of the theater's restoration are false, fed by Baba Jaga herself so the city doesn't tear down the building—but still the walls seem to emanate a warm light, from everywhere and from nowhere. The effect isn't like lamplight; it doesn't make the space welcoming. It's more like the menace of a distant fire.
They walk under the grand stairs and into the main floor of the theater. The distant stage is wide and shallow in front of the diamond-patterned fabric that covers what used to be a movie screen—she's sure it's not intact anymore. The rows and rows of seats are so dust-covered and chewed apart by pests that it's hard to tell they used to be a deep, rich red. The facades on the walls and ceiling are as elaborate as the ones in the lobby, though a huge white stain, like a salt stain, streaks the left side of the room. The result of the burst pipe—or the scar of old magic. She can tell that in its prime, the theater was a grander, more beautiful place than the Crow. Its deterioration feels like a loss.
The farther she goes into the theater, the stronger the pulse of magic. She feels it pressing against either side of her head like a migraine.
"Is it true what they say about this place, that Baba Jaga destroyed it herself?" Ala says to Niko. "I've heard a few different stories, each one wilder than the last."
Her voice doesn't echo, though it should. She sounds as quiet and flat as she would in an anechoic chamber.
"I think so," Niko says, and at Dymitr's questioning look, he explains: "A witch came to Baba Jaga with a bargain: if she could take something from Baba Jaga without her realizing it was missing, she would receive Baba Jaga's house. But if Baba Jaga did realize it was missing, she could have the witch's magic."
"Her house?" Dymitr asks. "Why would anyone want her house?"
Niko leads them down the left aisle, now out from under the overhang of the mezzanine.
"A witch's home isn't a source of power, exactly… more a container for it. Take it, and you take a great deal," Niko says. "Baba Jaga, as one of the most powerful witches alive, has a correspondingly more powerful house. It's hard to overstate the audacity of trying to bargain with her for it. It's like an attempt at a coup."
Ala runs a fingertip over the back of one of the seats, and it comes away gray and gritty.
"Baba Jaga allowed the witch to enter this theater, which is a secondary… container, of sorts… to take something, anything. The witch disappeared inside for a few hours, and then emerged, smug and triumphant. Baba Jaga searched her with magic and found that she held only what she'd walked in with—no more and no less. She searched the interior of the theater with magic, too, and everything was in place. It seemed that the witch had taken nothing at all." Niko held up a finger, then turned to point behind him, at the back wall high above them. "But the witch made a tiny mistake. She left a film reel slightly askew, and then Baba Jaga knew—what she took was a matinee showing."
Ala grins. She likes this version of the story. "Nice."
"Not nice enough," Niko says. "Baba Jaga told the witch what she had discovered, and the witch tried to flee before Baba Jaga could take her magic. But you don't renege on a bargain with Baba Jaga."
"What happened to her?" Dymitr asks.
"She was ripped to shreds," Niko says matter-of-factly. He's walking down one of the rows of seats now, toward the wall with its densely patterned facade. There, in the arch of the exit, right by the edge of the stage, is a skull made of stone, set into the wall. Niko traces the outline of the eye socket with his hard fingernail.
"She's buried in the wall here. But Baba Jaga's rage at having been nearly fooled, and by an oath-breaker no less, was explosive. She couldn't contain it. She created a storm inside this place, soaking it through, ripping it apart with wind. Some of it, she restored, but she left the rest, I think as a warning." He shrugs. "Best not to forget what we're up against. Last chance to back out."
"No one's backing out," Ala says.
Niko and Dymitr's eyes meet, and Ala gets that feeling again, that something is strange between them. She smells sweet peach and honey, toasted walnut and warm sage, all intermingled. She can't tell which one of them belongs to which man.
"Please," Dymitr says to Niko.
So Niko draws his blade and presses the meat of his thumb against it, just hard enough to draw blood. Then he touches the bead of blood to the forehead of the skull set into the stone.
"Nazywam się Nikodem Kostka," he says. "Szukam Baby Jagi."