He is literally just as insufferable as always, she thought as she took a shaky step forward, giving herself a heartbeat to catch her breath. He was still infuriating and condescending and overly convinced of his own self-importance. He hadn’t been consumed yet.
Nadya caught up to him, tried to ignore the little half-glance he cast back at her that was, again, too much like Malachiasz. She had to keep her hope in perspective. The pieces of the boy she loved were only that, scattered pieces.
The boy she should not love.
But Nadya could only think of the boy leaning against a boat railing beside her, long hair caught by the breeze, joking how he had never had anyone in his life who cared enough to worry about him. Revealing behind his flippant guise how desperately lonely he was.
Her splintered heart would not let her abandon that boy. Even if she needed him only so that she could ultimately destroy him.
She didn’t know where he was leading her, each hallway more horrific than the next, and the thought settled like a jumble of snakes in the pit of her stomach. She considered asking him, as if she were with Malachiasz, who would take all her questions with that gentle, lightly superior way he had but answer them all the same. But she wouldn’t give the monster the satisfaction. Finally, he stopped at a nondescript door, looking back at her surreptitiously.
“Where have you taken me?” she asked.
He held one finger to his lips, a smile quirking. “Patience, towy dżimyka, patience.” A jab of pain stabbed through her.
A scream echoed through the hall and Nadya jumped. He opened the door and took a half step back, as if suggesting she enter the room first, but instead he stepped into the dark space, his magic lighting torches near the doorway.
The shadows were slowly chased away as he lit hundreds of candles throughout the room. Somehow Nadya knew what she was going to see when the darkness finally receded.
“You have got to stop taking me into your poisoned sanctuaries,” she muttered under her breath. He was lighting candles at an altar covered in dried blood. It was all too familiar.
She slowly took in the pillars of stone, carved with symbols she didn’t understand. A chandelier made of bones was lighting up the vast, vaulted ceiling, but there was an undercurrent of darkness that stirred in the shadows.
A thread of discordant power jolted through her as she stepped further into the room. Her hand itched.
“Are those . . .” She stopped, forgetting she wasn’t with Malachiasz.
He shot her a wicked smile. Too much like Malachiasz. “Yes,” he said, his tangled voice sounding utterly pleased with himself.
Human bones. Lovely.
As the glow chased the shadows away, it lit upon skull-lined walls, carvings of symbols marring the foreheads. Tears pricked her eyes at how much death she was witnessing in an instant.
The Black Vulture’s cathedral had been beautiful. But this . . . this she didn’t understand the purpose of.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked.
He coughed, violently, and pitched over. When he straightened, he was eyeing the blood that covered his hand. An eye opened at his jaw and he pressed at it absently, blood oozing over his fingers.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “There’s something missing.”
It’s an act. He knows how to manipulate, even like this.
“You’re not here for the girl,” he continued. He coughed again, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
This is destroying him. She watched with mild disgust. “No. Would you let her go?”
He shrugged. “I do not like losing things that are mine.”
“But you’re one half of Tranavia’s political sphere, yes?” She moved around him, carefully, perching on a stone bench.
He made a deeply noncommittal noise.
Something rumbled from underneath their feet, the growl animalistic and monstrous. His head cocked, listening.
“What was that?” Nadya asked, hushed. She shivered, fear trembling through her. There were things in this place that were darker than she knew and older than she could fathom. “Żaneta is a political pawn. I’m hardly here for a noble purpose.” She wished she were. She wished she were here to save Żaneta instead of the monster before her that did not wish to be saved.
He tucked a lock of black hair behind his ear. “She is doing no one much good in her current state.”
“What happened to her?”
“Why do you wish to know?”
She shrugged. “You called her a mistake.”
He watched her silently, clearly puzzling over whether he should bother answering. Who was she to be asking him questions?
“Some don’t take to the changes well. She resisted particularly strongly and it resulted in complications.”
Nadya felt sick at the impassive way he relayed such horror. “Will you let me take her, then?”
“I have not decided.”
She nodded slowly. Another scream, throat searing and piercing, tore through the chapel. She shuddered, wrapping her arms around her body.
“You don’t like the songs of my kind?” he asked, his lips pulling into a smile.
“What is that?”
“Do you think we’re the only monsters that live down here? The Vultures are simply the most capable of appearing palatable.”
Her gaze wandered to the door. Would she see more horrors while down here? She was already haunted by the figures creeping in the corners, hunched like people but with too many teeth, too many eyes.
Movement caught the corner of her eye, and as she watched, blood started to drip from the eye sockets and out the open jaws of the skulls along the wall. She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them.
He breathed out a soft laugh. “Most humans who descend don’t last nearly as long as you have.”
A soft whimper broke from her throat, but that was all. Fear had become her default; this place was so unassumingly malevolent. Things felt wrong, off, and when she went to have a second look the horror would appear.
“Are you not human?” she asked.
A dry glare, but then only fathomless sadness. “No one down here is, anymore.”
Her chest ached in the strangest way.
“Why else are you here?” he asked.
You, she thought, because somehow my life has become intertwined with a horror in a way I can’t escape. And I need you to find my way back to my gods.
The gods he wanted to destroy.
Her head hurt.
“Do you remember your name?” she asked, softly.
He went so still it was if he had turned to stone. Nadya’s pulse ramped up and she wanted to bolt. The tension in the room had become deadly.
He turned slowly, moving toward her. She slid to the back of the bench until there was nowhere else to go.
“What are you implying, towy Kalyazi?”
She reached until her hand hit the next bench, skating back, bridging between the two as he edged closer in a way that terrified her.
“Have you come to be my savior? A benevolent Kalyazi saint come to cleanse the monsters of Tranavia?” His tone was poisonous.
“No,” she whispered. “I-I mean, maybe once, but no.”
She lifted a hand. He climbed on the bench she had slid off of. He crouched there, forearms resting on his knees, hands tipped with long claws on display.
“I met a Tranavian boy in Kalyazin,” she said, voice trembling and words rushing too fast out of her. She had to risk this. “He was strange and thrilling and he stole my heart. He lied to me, I lost him. I am here because I need the help of the king of monsters to bring back something else I lost. I’m afraid this world is going to burn and I need you to help me keep that from happening.”
He cocked his head. That. That was what she needed to keep drawing up in him. That curiosity. That was the crack in his armor. That was what she needed to wrench apart. He was more coherent here than she had expected; she had to use that.
“Why should I help you?”
Why should he help her? What could she possibly say to convince him that, yes, she needed him and, no, he should not kill her here in the dark.
“Because something is missing.” She straightened, moving to her knees. He stilled as the inches between them melted away.
She reached out a shaky hand, fingertips brushing against his cheek. She traced her fingers up over the horns that spiraled back into his hair.
He caught her hand, pulling it down to stare at the scar cutting across her palm. She felt a strange pulse of power as his skin touched hers. Was it his magic, or was this ugliness something else entirely?
“What are you?” he murmured.
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.” Her voice cracked.
And with a swift starburst of pain, he slammed her back against the bench, her head cracking against stone, his hand at her throat. “I’ll consider your request,” he said.
Then he was gone, stalking back across the sanctuary without another word. And every candle winked out, leaving Nadya in darkness.
Twelve
Nadezhda Lapteva
She tore out the throats of those who opposed her, this goddess of magic, this goddess of death.
—The Letters of Włodzimierz
Nadya was left alone in this hall of horrors. She wandered through the dark passageways, desperately hoping for light and finding very little. But it was the sounds that were starting to grate on her. The screams and odd chanting that hummed underneath it all were constant and she couldn’t tune them out, forced to listen to the chorus of agony that haunted this place. And anytime she caught a stretch of light she would see the symbols carved into the wall, painted with blood, and immediately wish she was in the dark. There was so much horror here, she understood why there were rumors of those who traveled beneath the earth going mad before they ever made it back to the surface.
The Vultures she passed skirted around her without a glance. She was the Black Vulture’s plaything to torment, therefore untouchable. The Vultures that she did see looked like Żywia—or Malachiasz when he was only a boy. Merely people. One would never know they were members of a terrible, monstrous cult. It made her far too bold as she explored.
Żywia would find her before long, she was certain. Nadya entered a dank and uncomfortable space, colder than the rest of the rooms she had been in. She could hear the soft rattling of chains and it nestled down in her bones. A dungeon. She peered through the cage bars and nearly choked on her own breath. There was a crumpled form in the back of a cell that she recognized.
No. No, I lost him. I lost him, this can’t be real.
“Kostya?” she ventured.
The figure lifted his head, dark eyes clouded, face dirty. “Nadya?” Then he was at the bars, bloody hands wrapped around them.
Nadya crossed to him in an instant, reaching past the bars to grasp at Kostya’s shoulders, his arms, his face. He was alive. And he looked . . . if not fine, at least whole. Haggard, but alive.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in disbelief. His fingers traced her face almost reverently.
Nadya opened her mouth and closed it. Too much had happened, oh gods, she had changed so much since that day she had fled the monastery. There was no good way to say what she was doing. What she had done.
“That is a very long story,” she said softly. She leaned back, scrutinizing the cell door. She was no lock pick—and didn’t have the tools for it.
But . . .
She flexed her fingers, casting a glance at Kostya as she tugged away from him and he reluctantly let her go.
“What are you doing?” he whispered, following her along the cell bars as she searched for the lock to the door.
“Getting you out.”
He would know the second she used this foul magic. Was it worth tempting his anger?
Kostya’s strong features were beaten down and covered with fading bruises. The gods had a twisted sense of humor to send him back to her right when she was trying to save an abomination of a boy instead.
Her fingers found the lock and she didn’t let herself overthink it. The scar on her palm heated, the magic toxic and dark, but she grasped onto it, willing the mechanism to switch.
The lock fell to the floor with a clatter, ringing out like an alarm.
Pain lanced through Nadya’s palm and she hissed through her teeth, watching in horror as the black lines of the scar threaded out further over her hand like trails of poison, blackening the tips of her fingers.
All right, never doing that again, she thought. But the door was open and Kostya had hugged her with such fierce warmth that she almost sobbed with relief.
She had to get him out.
There was an angry shift in the thread binding her to Malachiasz. He would be here soon.
Kostya let her go, but he had the same frightened light in his eyes from the monastery attack, and it filled her with such panic that she spoke before he could say anything.
“I’ll show you to the door out,” she said. “There’s a group with two Akolans to the east. Find the Akolans, tell them who you are.”
Confusion passed over his face. “What? But what will you—”
She was wrenched away from him.
“Oh, towy dżimyka.” The Black Vulture’s voice was close, his mouth at the shell of her ear. “Badly done.”
Kostya’s expression melted into pure terror. The Black Vulture took Nadya’s hand, pressing a thumb against the scar on her palm. She whimpered as pain lanced up her arm, her knees weakening. She leaned back against him to try to keep from dropping.
“We finished our discussion far too early, it would seem,” he said. “And here you are stealing from me.”
“What—” She broke off. She licked her dry, cracked lips. “What will it take to set him free?”
“Nadya, don’t,” Kostya whispered.
The Black Vulture froze at her name. Nadya looked up at him, afraid to move. A crack shivered in his expression, and he let out a shaky gasp. He trembled against her. His hand shifted to her wrist, clenching it so tightly that he tore open her skin.
He blinked, shaking his head.
“Well, Nadya,” he said, and her breath hitched. “I suppose we have an arrangement to make. Only one will leave this place. Are you going to save the slavhka or the . . .” Disdain threaded his features. “Peasant boy.”
Kostya’s Tranavian wasn’t as good as hers, he’d probably only understood enough to gather that Nadya was going to sacrifice something for his freedom. Noble Kostya wouldn’t want that.
“Don’t lock him up again,” she said quickly. “I’ll go with you. I’ll make my choice.”
The Black Vulture eyed her, and nodded. Immediately another Vulture was there, grabbing Kostya’s arms and dragging him away.
“Nadya?” Kostya said in alarm, beseeching.
“It’ll be fine,” she lied. “I promise.”
Żaneta’s panicked, hopeful face flashed before her. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t make this choice.
Serefin needed her to get Żaneta out. His throne was on the line, and it wasn’t something she could ignore in favor of what her heart wanted. Kalyazin would be better served with him on the Tranavian throne.
But she couldn’t leave Kostya. Time was running out.
“Come along, pet,” the Black Vulture said. “The game has changed.”
She followed him to the bone sanctuary, back down into hell, trapping herself into something she would never escape. She could only save one and she wasn’t included in that deal, not when he had a piece of her name.
When she caught up, he was lightly spinning a chalice over the bloodstained altar. She didn’t want to know what was inside.
“He was taken into these halls ages ago,” she said. “Why is he still alive?”
The Black Vulture shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
His eyes glinted, and the air tur
ned dangerous around them.
“The girl or the boy,” he said, waving a hand. “Make your choice.”
“The stability of your country is at stake here,” she snapped. “And you’re going to turn this into a game.”
He grinned and it was the same as punching her in the chest. “Then consider how much you, also, have to lose.”
It wasn’t a choice. She couldn’t leave Kostya to Tranavia’s will again. He was her best friend. He was the only family she had left. But saving Żaneta meant Serefin could take his throne back from those who would see this pointless war continue until both countries were nothing but ash. It was twisted and impossible.
“He’s not who I came here to save,” she said quietly. “But he is the one I will choose.” This was the wrong choice and she knew it. She was dooming everyone with this decision. But she couldn’t leave Kostya. He was Kalyazi; she had to protect her people first.
But she had another chance here with the Black Vulture. One last attempt. Maybe Żywia—who understood what was at stake—would help her like she had claimed. Maybe Żywia would spirit out Żaneta and save Serefin’s tattered kingdom. Unlikely.
Nadya had just ruined everything.
“Then it shall be done,” he said.
She wondered if there were others from her monastery still here. There was no way for her to save them all, she realized with horror. There was no way for her to do anything. She only had scraps of a power that was killing her; she couldn’t even convince him to let both Kostya and Żaneta go free. She couldn’t even find Malachiasz behind the monster.
Despair chewed at her edges. She shouldn’t have come down here.
She stepped closer, moving cautiously. She had nothing left to lose. “You have my name,” she said, “or, at least, a part of it. I know yours, Chelvyanik Sterevyani, I know you. Do you want it back?”
“No,” he said, frowning. The heaving changes in his features were roiling more chaotically than before, as if a storm were raging within him. A cluster of eyes flickered open along his neck, closing again a few seconds later.
She shushed him, pressing her finger over his lips. He went rigid, one hand slipping back against the altar to steady himself as she shifted closer. Her other hand settled on his hip, sliding up to his waist, his bare skin hot to the touch.
Ruthless Gods (ARC) Page 12