They broke the surface.
Ren gasped, gulping down the fresh forest air. It had begun to rain, and droplets pelted the river surface and bounced off the riverbank. She sputtered up the rank water. The human was heavier than ever, still not moving at all.
Wordlessly, Wodnik took them each in one hand and bore them to the riverbank. He heaved Ren onto the bank, then the human. The man was totally unconscious.
“Wodnik,” she gasped, between coughs. “Thank you—”
Wodnik didn’t reply. He was already slipping back into the murk, yellow eyes glowing, his toady face as serious as ever. Rain still hammering the water, he blinked once and faded away.
Ren caught her breath. She couldn’t even scrub at her eyes properly, she was shaking so hard. She wrapped her arms around her knees and dug in her nails. It took her a few trembling moments to realize that her left hand was still a paw. She’d scratched her own knee, and a thin line of red blood trailed down her shin. She ignored the blood. She held the paw in front of her and flexed each claw, watching them lengthen to fingers. The fur shivered and melted into smooth, rust-smeared skin. She let out a shuddering sigh. Her bloodstained human hand hugged her knees.
Thunder rolled overhead. It shook the trees to their roots, and Ren put her chin on her knees and shook with them.
Beside her, the human stirred at last. He lurched onto his side, spitting out river water. He twitched a bit but fell back into the mud. Then he was motionless again.
The horse was long gone, bolted into the underbrush. Ren looked over at him, cheek resting on her knees, arms drawn up around her. He had one hand over his eyes, and at least he was breathing. She didn’t ever want to do that again. Didn’t ever want to see the Dragon. Didn’t ever want to see a monster like that . . .
She reached out suddenly and touched his hand. Gently, she ran her own long fingers along the sinewy, puckered skin.
A burn.
The old-fashioned sword. The blood that had disappeared in flames. His horse had been decorated with antlers, she realized suddenly. Not just the ones mounted on its forehead; dozens of pairs had hung from the saddle, in precious metal and glass, so that the horse had chimed and glowed with every step.
Ren examined his hand, thinking.
The remaining fingers were so curled under that they looked like claws. The Golden Dragon had antlers.
The human started to pull back the wounded hand. Ren let it go. It fell to his chest, where the thickened, leatherlike skin looked even uglier against the black fabric. He didn’t open his eyes. Ren ran a hand over his jacket’s silver braid. She’d never seen clothes like this.
She put her hand on his cheek. Spread her fingers, like the rusalka had done. With her thumb, rubbed away the brownish blood. She wasn’t sure why. To see how it felt, maybe.
He’d tried to help her. She’d lived in this forest for seventeen years, and no human had ever tried to help her.
His eyelashes were long. He had a notch out of one eyebrow. Ren ran a finger over that, too. Thunder rolled, his eyes flickered, and Ren imagined she could hear his heartbeat over the roar of the rain.
Ren realized suddenly that she had leaned down very close.
She felt a hand on her cheek. She didn’t know what was happening, exactly. But she did know she didn’t mind. He was cold from the water, and his palm was rough. Ren wondered whether he was close to smiling, and she could just make out a crooked front tooth, beneath his lips.
His eyes cleared.
Click.
Ren jerked back, as—from nowhere—a flame appeared in his hand.
The fire danced, and fear seized her.
What was she thinking? What was she doing?
Her teeth lengthened to fangs as she shot back across the bank, silvery legs lashing out, claws catching the grass. She was a lynx. This was a human. A dangerous, cheating, murderous human. And what if the other humans, the villagers and the hunters, found out she’d just save them like this. . . .
The flame still in his hand, he scrambled backward. With his other hand, he searched the grass. The blood-encrusted blade sparked in the damp.
Ren circled, snarling.
Click.
The flame went out.
She snarled again.
“What are you?” he whispered.
And before she could change her mind, Ren turned and dashed back into the trees.
Tadeusz
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
“YOU COULD HAVE USED THE lighter”—Franciszek gestured to what was left of the cathedral altar—“light it, throw it away—”
Lukasz bit back a curse as Tadeusz wrapped a bandage around his leg. It took every shred of his self-control not to swear at Franciszek. He knew that, for God’s sake. But Franciszek hadn’t been the one trapped alone in a cathedral with a three-hundred-year-old Faustian the size of a house. Back up against the wall, nothing but a few feet of broadsword between him and eternity—
“The dragon will go for the lighter every time,” continued Franciszek, oblivious to Lukasz’s growing irritation. He could never help himself. “Give you enough time to get away.”
They were seated in one of the few remaining pews, shoved up against the side wall. Except for the steady drip of blood on the tile, the cathedral was quiet. After everything, the silence made Lukasz uneasy. He half expected to hear it again. The whisper of scales on stone, the low purr of an ancient engine priming for the kill . . .
Tadeusz yanked the bandage tight.
“God, Tad—!”
“Tsk, tsk.” Tadeusz clapped a hand to Lukasz’s cheek and pretended to be offended. “This is a church, little brother.”
Lukasz pressed his head back against the wall, teeth gritted.
Around them, the pews were splintered, the statues were shattered, and what remained of the choir loft was scattered across the marble floors.
“He did just fine, Fraszko,” said Tadeusz, turning to Franciszek and wiping bloody hands on his trousers. “It barely caught him.”
“But it did catch him,” replied Franciszek, adjusting his glasses. “One day,” he said, in precisely the kind of voice that made Lukasz want to whack him, “you’re going to get yourself in real trouble, Lukasz.”
Less than a year separated them. When they’d been younger, Lukasz had loved having a ready-made partner in crime. But that was changing as they got older. Franciszek was a worrier and a know-it-all.
“Don’t be a jerk,” said Lukasz, “just ’cause your horse doesn’t have antlers yet.”
Franciszek flinched, and Lukasz instantly regretted his words. No one was more aware of the fact that Franciszek had yet to kill anything.
“Fraszko—” started Lukasz.
“Speaking of which, I’ll—uh—collect the antlers and fur,” said Franciszek, not looking at the other two brothers—Lukasz seated, Tadeusz rising to his feet. “I don’t trust the vultures out there for a minute.”
“Fraszko, please—”
But Franciszek was already making his way to the dead dragon. The Faustian was sprawled across the nave, smoke rising gently from its rapidly tarnishing sides. The reporters had taken all their photographs, Tadeusz practically carrying Lukasz through the smiles. They’d been smart to get their pictures quickly. The Faustian’s hide was already spoiling.
Even now, their other brothers circled the perimeter, keeping out anyone stupid enough to come after the hoard in the crypt. Although the dragon had taken up residence almost three centuries before, the cathedral’s devoted monks had never left. Worshipping under such a prescient reminder of hellfire, they had since been dubbed the Order of Faustus and were known mainly for their tenacity, their poverty, and their scorched habits.
Perhaps unused to good luck of any kind, the poor monks had been quite overwhelmed by the size of their Faustian’s hoard—to the point that they’d given almost the entire trove to the Wolf-Lords (although Tad had gifted them more than enough for them to rebuild their leveled cathedral). Reme
mbering the sight of the treasure, heaped among crypts and naked bones, Lukasz could almost taste the gold.
Or maybe it was just blood.
With a sigh, Tadeusz settled beside Lukasz. Lukasz wriggled back into his trousers, doing his best not to yelp as his knee scraped against the coarse fabric. Scarlet pooled on the floor, streaked the wooden pew. Tad crossed his ankles, extracted a glass flask from his leather vest.
“Shall we drink, little brother?”
Lukasz took the proffered flask. Inside, gold swirled through the clear liquid.
“The good stuff, eh?”
He took a long draw as Tadeusz chuckled again.
“The slayer of the Saint Magdalena Faustian deserves the good stuff,” he said as Lukasz passed back the flask. “Even if he is only fourteen.”
Of them all, Tadeusz looked the most like their father. Black haired, with the sharp, handsome face of a bird of prey. Usually Tad looked stately. Like the eldest Wolf-Lord, the first heir, the statesman he was supposed to be. But today, his hair was windswept and his beard was singed.
It began to rain. Lightly at first, then crescendoing to a torrent. Under their scrap of roof, the brothers watched it turn into a downpour. The floor ran black with soot, drops thundering off the Faustian’s lifeless hide. Just beyond the dead monster’s jaws, a pool of Lukasz’s blood scattered and washed away.
“Be patient with Fraszko, Luk,” said Tad after a moment. “He’s only taking care of you.”
“He babies me,” said Lukasz shortly.
“Let him. You’re his only younger brother.”
Smoldering and blackened by smoke, painted cherubs leered down from what was left of the ceiling. They seemed faintly malevolent. Demonic, even. Lukasz glanced away. His leg looked skinny, and through the tear in the embroidered fabric, his skin was painted in blood and soot. Franciszek was right. He’d been lucky not to lose it.
Then Tadeusz said, a little thoughtfully, “Fourteen, my God.”
The sounds of the other brothers drifted through what was left of the walls: horses whinnying, men shouting, the metallic tinkle of treasure loaded and unloaded. The steady thunder of the rain.
“Here,” said Tadeusz. “I wanted to give you this.”
Lukasz glanced over. In the gloom, a cross revolved, suspended from Tadeusz’s hand. It was small and plain, wrought from silver. Next to all the gold and jewels in the crypt, it looked rather small.
“It was Dad’s,” said Tadeusz as Lukasz took it. “He gave it to me before . . .”
Tad’s voice trailed off.
Lukasz had been four years old when their father had ridden out under the great gates of Hala Smoków. When he did not return, the other Wolf-Lords had gone after him. In service of their chieftain, in pursuit of gold and glory—who knew anymore. It didn’t matter. Lukasz barely remembered any of it. Barely remembered the hushed voices. Barely remembered how his mother had wept, lighting the sacred gromnica in every corner of the lodge while she prayed.
What he remembered were the domowiki. How they had howled, that last night. Wailing under the floorboards, screaming from the rafters. He remembered every door in the lodge slamming shut, the force shaking them like thunder, while he cowered in his bed. He remembered his mother’s blessed candles, every last one of them blowing out.
Even then, Franciszek had been the smartest.
When the domowiki cry, he’d whispered in the darkness of their bedroom, it means the head of the house is dead.
What do you mean? Lukasz must have asked. He never knew what he remembered and what he just imagined.
He’s dead, said Franciszek. Dad’s dead, Lukasz.
Gone up in golden flames, consumed by golden jaws. Who knew how it had happened. It didn’t matter. Domowiki did not lie. Lord Tadeusz the Elder, Friend of Wolves and Slayer of Dragons, was dead.
The very next morning, their mother sent them away.
Keep your brothers safe, Lukasz had heard her command Tadeusz, amid wood-carved walls and under the glow of dragon bones. I will kill it and send for you.
But she never did. Ten years had come and gone, and the brothers did not go back.
“I think,” said Tadeusz after another moment, “it is time that I returned to Hala Smoków.”
“Why? We were told to stay out.” Lukasz looked up sharply. His heart skipped a beat. “Or did you hear—?”
Tadeusz’s chin jerked. It was short and compulsive and negated the rest of Lukasz’s question.
“Our home is in the Mountains,” said Tad. “It is time we returned.”
“Why?” repeated Lukasz. “There’s no one there. Our parents are dead.” He ignored how Tadeusz flinched and continued: “It’s been almost ten years. We should build lives out here. We left for a reason, Tadeusz.”
“I understand, Lukasz. But I am the eldest. It is time I went back and rebuilt what was once there. We are the last in a tradition of great warriors, and it cannot die with us.” Then he added, in a softer voice: “When I have killed the Dragon, I will send for you.”
“That’s what Mom said.”
Tadeusz didn’t answer.
Around them, the rain thundered on. Darkness clouded the Faustian’s dull scales. Soon its corpse would begin to erode. Flesh darkening, fangs loosening. In a few months, it would be dryness and dust, as fragile as sand castles on a Granica beach. Soon enough, wind would blow the dust from its flawless silver bones.
“It’s not our home anymore.”
Tadeusz put an arm around his little brother’s shoulders.
“For a thousand years, our people have run with wolves and slain dragons. We are heirs to gold and fire, baptized under ice, destined to inherit a tradition as ancient as the hills themselves. Whatever lengths we travel, Lukasz, whatever worlds we visit: we shall be buried in the shadow of the Mountains, beneath the blessings of wolves.”
At Tad’s words, a chill scuttled over Lukasz’s shoulders.
“Shadow of the Mountains, eh?” He rubbed his eyes. “What about ruined churches?”
But Tadeusz did not laugh. He looked like their father in that moment: heavy jawed, serious. Not the kind of man who joked over blasphemy and gold-flecked vodka.
“You are still young, Lukasz,” he said. “But one day, you will see.”
And then he turned their father’s eyes away. Trained them on the silver Faustian, stripped of its antlers and its fur and gathering darkness. Three hundred years of terrible beauty, now so swiftly fading, crumbling to ruin. And when Tadeusz spoke again, his voice carried the growl of wolves, the roar of mountains, and the echoes of ten centuries.
“One day, Lukasz,” he whispered, “the Mountains will call you home.”
5
LENGTHENING HER STRIDE TO THE flexible gallop of a predator, Ren sprinted home.
She dashed under the ramparts and tore up the front steps, past twin stone lynx statues. She streaked across the cool, dark entrance hall, vaulting over shards of the fallen chandelier. On the upstairs landing, she rounded a corner, carpet shredding under her claws.
Czarn was waiting for her.
He lay on his belly, high in an alcove opposite a wall of windows. The alcove had previously housed a rather vivid rendering of a witch being drowned. Ren despised the painting on principal, and she and Ryś had deposed it early in childhood.
From his vantage point, Czarn surveyed the forest below.
“That was a long swim,” he observed.
He had the kind of voice that could stop a conversation in its tracks: round, slow, a little clipped at the edges.
Ren picked her way across what was left of the shredded canvas. The sky was dull gray, and Czarn looked like just another shadow in the dim light of the hall. His perch was flanked by faded banners in purple and gold, rippling slightly in the chill draft.
“You look quite at home there,” said Ren.
She transformed, slowly this time, back to a human. This was always the gentler part of the change. The transition from four
legs to two came more easily to her.
“I am very noble,” agreed Czarn serenely.
“I meant you’re a snob.”
Czarn chuckled and watched as Ren used the closer banner to scale the wall to the alcove. She settled next to him, long dirty legs dangling over the edge. As darkness fell, a few sparrows swooped in through a broken window, home to their nest among the golden-wrought deer busts.
“Were you waiting for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
Czarn eased onto his side and kicked out his back legs. He said, as the hall dimmed another shade: “Maybe I was worried.”
Ren was about to laugh when she saw the thin stream of black smoke over the trees. It was stark against the low purple rise of the Mountains beyond, already rumbling in the east.
The smoke was coming from the river. The Dragon.
“You saw it?” she asked.
“I did,” said Czarn. Then he added, very gently: “Are you all right?”
Ren nodded, staring at her knees. Her human legs looked appallingly skinny here in the dark. She barely spent any time as a human, these days. There was no time for it. No use.
A raccoon family trundled past, probably on their way down to the cellars to curl up in the empty vodka barrels and bicker with the badgers.
Ren swallowed and confessed: “I . . . I saved a human today.”
Czarn didn’t say anything, but his tail gave an involuntary twitch. He had suffered the most at their hands. He deserved to hate these humans more than anyone else.
Ren couldn’t look at him.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said softly. “I mean, I didn’t want to. He came up to the river, and the Golden Dragon—Czarn, it . . . I think he wanted to fight it, but it left. It left him alone.”
Still, Czarn didn’t say anything. Ren watched the gray sky turn purple, watched the black smoke disappear into darkness. Wondered, for the first time, where that human was now . . .
“He fell into the river,” she said. “And a rusalka almost killed him.”
Here, Czarn took a sharp breath in.
“I’m sorry, Czarn,” she whispered, knotting and unknotting her hands. “I’m so sorry. I just had to know—I was curious. He—he was strange, Czarn. Different from the villagers. There was blood—dried blood that turned to fire—on his sword, and his horse had antlers on its head and—”
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