Niko's mortal life was brief, steeped in the fear of death. Not his own fear—his mother's. She watched his every step. He wasn't permitted to do the things other children did: ride bicycles, play in the park, or go to summer camp. The only risk Greta Kostka deemed acceptable was no risk at all.
But a child determined to find trouble will find it, even within the confines of a house.
Once, she was chopping cucumbers for him to dip in ranch dressing, one of his favorite snacks, when the phone rang. She abandoned the vegetable on the counter, leaving the knife beside it. Little Nikodem Kostka dragged a kitchen chair over to the counter, turned it around, and climbed on top so he could see over the edge.
He picked up the knife. It was heavier than he expected for something so slim. He took the cucumber in hand, mimicking his mother, raised the knife, and brought it down on the vegetable as hard as he could.
The cucumber rolled out of the blade's path, but his fingers did not. Blood spurted from his hand, and he screamed so loudly Greta dropped the phone, leaving it dangling from its cord. She seized him around the middle, gathering him to her chest, and breathed a healing spell over his fingers—the last of the magic she had left.
Greta sank to the ground with Niko held tightly against her body. She held him so tightly he squirmed, but she didn't release him. He could feel her heart thumping against his cheek, the tickle of her fast, shallow breaths.
"You can't do this to me, Niko," she said through tears. "You have to be careful. You're so fragile. There are so many ways you could die. So many, so many…"
She had watched his father die. He was a mortal man she'd met in Jordan; he had traveled with her for a time, though she had not been able to say how long, because time meant little to her. A gentle man, she'd told Niko, and the kindest mortal she'd ever known. She had loved him, in a way, which was unusual for a strzyga determined only to get a child and return to her family. He went out one morning for coffee and pastries, and was found dead in the street later that day. Heart failure. It was the suddenness that had rattled her, and now Niko suffered the consequences of his father's mortal frailty.
Niko looked at his hand, still streaked with blood, but healed. There was a white line across the pads of his fingers, the scar lingering as a reminder.
"I'll fix you," his mother said. "Don't worry, dear; I'll fix you."
She took him to see Baba Jaga a week later. To this day, he had no idea what his mother had traded in exchange for his immortality.
As the Knight's blade comes toward his throat, he thinks there should be something profound about this. That for all his mother's efforts to keep him alive past the tolerances of mortality, his life was cut short anyway.
But that's the fate of every zemsta. The Holy Order trains its knights from childhood to kill all manner of creatures, and they get the better of every zemsta eventually. The best thing he can do—or so Lidia Kostka told him when he swore his oath—is take as many of them down with him as possible.
He just didn't think it would happen here, on a quiet side street, with the red light of the Fat Cat Grill sign glowing in the distance and the smell of french fries on the air.
And then, suddenly: Dymitr is there. His blade is the only barrier between Niko and a swift end. Teeth gritted, Dymitr presses the Knight back, at first just a few inches, and then more, stepping between her and Niko. His blade is still crossed with the Knight's. They both hesitate for a moment, and then, all at once, they start fighting.
It's only then, as Niko stumbles back and his sowa form—the owl—recedes, that he sees the purple-red staining Dymitr's hands like a birthmark, and the bright red sheen in his eyes.
Dymitr is athletic, capable with a bow and arrow. But nothing Niko has ever seen made him think Dymitr would be like this—the blade an extension of him, flashing white as he parries, thrusts, and blocks with astonishing grace. Niko has faced a handful of Knights in the last few years, and none of them were like this.
Dymitr and the Knight—the other Knight—circle each other in the light of the streetlamp. The Knight lunges, sword thrusting at Dymitr's leg; he bats her aside with a twitch of his wrist and slashes at her arm, slicing through the sleeve of her jacket as she turns away from the blow.
His feet are quick as he advances, forcing her to trip backward toward the curb. His sword is shorter than hers, but he has reach; he stabs at her, the movement fluid. She blocks him, but he thrusts again, and again, building speed.
They're close now, sharing the same breaths as they strike-block-strike-block, trading blows so fast Niko can't even keep track. Then Dymitr swings hard, and the Knight's grip on her sword falters. The bone weapon clatters to the sidewalk, and she trips over the curb behind her, falling hard on her butt.
He holds the sword against her throat, and they both pause.
Her face is streaked with tears. Without the sword in her hand, the red glint in her eyes is gone, and her palms and fingers are back to their usual shade, pale to match her cheek. Seeing them both in profile now, Niko realizes they have to be brother and sister.
The Knight looks a little younger than Dymitr, with the same light brown hair that appears almost gray, the same stubborn mouth and chin.
"I told you," Dymitr says to her, "to go home, Elza."
He speaks in Polish, which Niko understands, though he sometimes struggles to piece the words together himself. In his own language, Dymitr sounds different. His voice is deeper, flatter. Or maybe that's just because he's shed his harmless persona. Maybe this is how Dymitr the Knight speaks.
"You aren't acting like yourself," the Knight—Elza, apparently—says. Her eyes flick from Dymitr's to Niko and Ala, in turn. "I thought you could use the help."
Dymitr scowls. "You thought sending a flock of birds to peck me half to death was helping me?"
Ala inches closer to Niko. He knows they should take advantage of Dymitr and his sister's mutual distraction and run, but he can't convince his feet to move.
"You were surrounded by strzygi!" Elza replies.
"And now?"
"You got the address you needed," Elza says. "So I sent you a cleanup crew."
She gestures to the pale bodies twisted together on the pavement all around her, the fallen vampire pack.
"You," Dymitr says, as he lowers his blade, "are not helping me. You are an encumbrance. You are a burden."
Even Niko can see how the words wound her. He can feel it, too, as if her hurt is the hard press of a hand. He can't feel sadness, but he can feel where rage coils around it like a snake.
"Go home," Dymitr says again, and his voice is cold and cruel. "Or the next time I see you, I will kill you."
He tosses the sword at her feet and steps back, his eyebrows raised. Elza's tears spill over her cheeks. She grabs the bone sword from the ground and holds both weapons at once, the handles layered over each other. She bends her head and touches the blades to the back of her neck. Her teeth clack together as she clenches her jaw; the sheathing seems to be as painful as the unsheathing.
*We bear the sword, and we bear the pain of the sword*—isn't that what they say? Niko has seen this mantra of the Holy Order written, has even heard it from the mouth of a dying man, like a final prayer, not to his God, but to the other half of his soul, buried in that damn weapon.
Elza turns and stumbles into the dark, disappearing between two of the houses on the lonely street and into the night.
Dymitr turns too, slowly, so he's facing Ala and Niko. Up until this point, Niko has felt frozen. But when he meets Dymitr's eyes again, rage prickles through him like blood rushing back into a numb limb. Dymitr's eyes are the color of stone.
Dymitr doesn't have a weapon. His bow and quiver are on the hood of the Jeep, and he gave the bone sword back to Elza. But the thing about facing a Knight is that they always have a weapon—they have the other half of their soul, buried in their spine.
Niko is so on edge, he almost shifts into his owl form right there. He can feel the wings itching at his shoulder blades, the beak scraping at the interior of his nose. To be strzygi is to be twice-souled, the legends say—to have two complete beings inside of you at once. Whichever form he's in, he can feel the other one alive just beneath the surface, waiting to break free. He squeezes the handle of his sword.
But before Niko can so much as twitch, Dymitr grips his gauze-wrapped hand so tightly his knuckles turn white. His face crumples, and he utters words too quiet and too quick for Niko to hear. Then shadow wraps around him, not unlike the black wings of the crows that swarmed them the night before.
By the time it dissipates, he's gone.
"Fuck," Niko says. "Fuck!" He runs his bloody hands over his hair, frantic. "He saw the address, he knows where to go—"
"What is that?" It's the first thing Ala has said since the vampires surrounded them. He can't read her, can only tell that she doesn't feel angry to him, or hurt, or wounded in any way. It's as if the revelation of Dymitr's identity has left her in shock.
She points, and he sees what she's pointing at: a square of brown paper on the street where Dymitr was just standing. Ala picks it up and cradles it in both hands like it's spun glass. Like it's something precious.
And it is. It's the fern flower.
"He left it," Ala says, frowning. "Why would he do that?"
"He lied to us," Niko says. "I'm not going to marvel at him having a single shred of honor. Come on, we have to go."
"Go?"
"To Baba Jaga," Niko says. "We have to beat him there. Warn her about what's coming to her doorstep."
Ala seems to register his meaning at last. She nods, the fern flower held against her stomach, and follows him back to the Jeep.
The drive from the Uptown Theatre to the address Baba Jaga sent them via falling piece of paper is only five minutes long. Niko and Ala ride in total silence, all the ease of a few hours ago gone in the wake of Dymitr's confession.
The address takes them to a wedge-shaped building right where Broadway merges with Clarendon. There's a Harold's Chicken at the street level. Fixed above the yellow awnings at the front of the wedge is a billboard advertising a nearby nursing home. A dumpster takes up one of the parking spots on Clarendon.
It's the last place on Earth Niko would expect to find someone as powerful as Baba Jaga, but perhaps that's the point of it. She doesn't want to be found.
Niko finds a parking spot on the street, just a few steps away from the entrance to Baba Jaga's apartment. He unbuckles his seatbelt, but he can't quite get himself to open the car door.
"Maybe he didn't lie to us," Ala says. She's been staring at the fern flower for the last few minutes, not even looking up as Niko parked the Jeep. "Maybe—"
"He's a Knight of the Holy Order," Niko says hollowly. "He used us to find the most powerful witch in North America. His own sister knew what he was doing and tried to help him. The simplest explanation is that he intends to kill Baba Jaga, or worse."
"I know," Ala says. "Yeah, I know."
They both get out of the Jeep and walk to the door with Baba Jaga's address marked on it, white number stickers on the mailbox next to the door. The 3 is a little askew.
He reaches for the buzzer, but before he can touch it, the intercom above it crackles to life.
"My invitation was for three," a woman's voice says through the speaker. "Where is the other one?"
"We believe he's on his way here," Niko says. "But we came to warn you—"
"Silly boy," the woman says. "You think there's something you can tell me that I don't already know?"
The buzzer goes off, and the door's lock clicks. With a bewildered look at Ala, Niko opens the door, and they step into the entryway together.
It's all dark wood paneling, glazed over so many times it looks like it's covered in resin, and black-and-white penny tile, like every other entryway in Chicago. They climb the creaky wooden steps to the second floor. The walls are white, but bulging and cracking where the paint went on too thick and the heat and humidity wreaked havoc. At the top of the stairs is a single door with no apartment number and no name on it. There's a welcome mat, though, that says WITAMY with the Polish eagle behind it.
The door opens without him having to touch it.
The apartment beyond is big and open, taking up the entire second floor of the humble building. And it's packed with things, so many his eyes skip around helplessly to take it all in. There are dried herbs hanging from the ceiling here and there; a stack of old pots in copper and cast iron and enamel in the corner near a huge hot plate; a cluster of apothecary tables with wicker baskets clumped together on top of them; a stuffed squirrel wearing a cowboy hat perched on an old writing desk; a guitar with broken strings hanging on the wall; tapestries depicting mermaids and dragons serving as rugs; an array of brooms lined up along the wall in the hallway; a green lava lamp in the center of a dining room table, which is also stacked high with old bones.
Standing over one of the tapestries near the windows—which are covered in gauzy green cloth to block the light from the street—is a woman. She's small and lean, with long, straight hair, like a wraith. Her face is shadowed, and she holds a pair of dice in her palm. As Niko steps into the apartment, she lifts her gaze to his and drops the dice at her feet.
"Snake eyes," she says, without looking down. Her voice is low and melodious, pleasant. Just as he remembered it.
She's right, of course. Both dice show a single black dot.
"Back so soon, Nikodem?" she says to Niko.
Niko is too startled to greet her properly. "It's been years."
"Spoken like a born mortal," Baba Jaga says, not unkindly. "So you say you came to warn me. I assume you mean that you've figured out your companion is a Knight of the Holy Order?"
In the green light of the lava lamp, her face is revealed to be young and beautiful. It's artifice, of course; the last time Niko saw her, she looked older, her face lined. But her eyes are the same: unearthly pale, almost colorless.
"You already knew."
"I'm not the oldest and strongest witch in the world for nothing, child," she says.
"We think he might be coming to kill you," Ala says tentatively, and Baba Jaga laughs. As she laughs, she sheds her youth, momentarily appearing as an old woman with a lined face. But once she finishes, the veneer is back in place.
Ala's eyes widen.
"He may have that intention," Baba Jaga says. "But what makes you think it would be that easy?"
"I…" Ala closes her mouth, frowning. "I suppose I don't."
"Good answer," Baba Jaga says. She tilts her head, and her eyes lose their focus for a moment. "Ah. Here he is now. Let's ask him about his intentions, shall we?"