by Gaja J. Kos
Teeth bared, he narrowed his eyes and growled, the sound echoed by each and every werewolf standing in the circle. He didn’t share a mind link with Tristan’s pack or Katja, but in that moment, he didn’t have to. Because as the Upir shimmered behind the veil of power, drumming up more and more of the putrid thing, their instincts acted as one. They jumped.
Claws, teeth, fangs, blades—all became a blur as they tackled the Upir to the ground, slashing and tearing and biting at the creature’s body despite the magic that threatened to overcome the amulet’s protection.
Yet none of them stopped. None of them even hesitated until they were covered in blood and gore, until their own eyes bled from the chaotic whispers that had managed to snake around their protective shields and started to erode their bodies.
Panting, Jens turned around and staggered to the side where he vomited the remains of the Upir that had slid down his throat, cleansing himself of the creature’s presence. As he dry heaved, the pain in his eyes gradually subsided and the crawling beneath his skin returned to the state of mild discomfort he had become accustomed to.
But while his body recovered, regaining its former strength, the town itself wasn’t as lucky.
He barely had time to ram into Katja and send them both flying sideways before the entire building looming above them collapsed, burying half the street in the aftermath of its fall.
“What the fuck!” Greta shouted as she looked west towards the tumbling cloud of dust that covered the territory her brothers were holding.
Zarja placed a blood-crusted hand on the were’s shoulder, already reaching out with her mind to the twins.
“They’re fine,” she said when the answer, as weak as it was, came. “They took down an Upir. And the Upir took down the building,” she added grimly.
Already there were Perelesnyks gathering around the affected area, drinking in the chaotic taint. But as valiant as their efforts were, she knew in her bones that it would never be enough. The fabric of the world was changing.
However, it wasn’t all necessarily for the worse.
That faint essence of Svantovid she carried inside her seemed to feed on the magic now saturating the air, on the battling blend of the Kolduny’s power and that of the Upirs. It was as if something…shifted…in her very DNA, giving voice to the muted whispers she had carried as a child blessed by the god of war, and turning them into a bellow she was unable to ignore any longer.
What had once been instinct, and affinity for the melodic threads of battle, became a force she could never hope to suppress.
A force she didn’t want to suppress.
Letting go of that small flicker of fear-coated doubts, Zarja embraced every inch of her new power—just as Rose had eventually—now understanding more than ever how the transition had affected her friend. How it had robbed her of the life she had had, and granted her a new one.
In Zarja’s case, it was one paved in blood and staggering ruthlessness.
Not a bad choice.
She tore herself away from Greta, allowing this newly found strength to be an anchor, a tether—and her guide to the promise she had made to herself.
Her olfactory senses on high alert and body now fully shifted, she rushed past Mark and Veronika who were engaging a group of Vesnins, then cut through the brown packs mixed in with human soldiers, all of them drenched in the sweet fragrance of vampiric death. Seeing that they were doing fine on their own, she released her control over the surroundings and followed that single trail that set her teeth on edge and filled her heart with an overwhelming need for retribution.
Pavement cracked and buildings rumbled, spewing bits of rock and glass onto the road, but still Zarja pushed on, evading the Keepers above just as gracefully as she evaded the destruction. And when a small park finally took form before her eyes, when her entire skin crawled as if a thousand bugs resided in her flesh, gnawing to make their path to the surface, she saw her.
Adela.
A low growl slipped between her sharp teeth, the image of Mrs. Barle’s head tossed so carelessly onto her doorstep swarming her vision. That vamp fucker of a husband might have been the one to kill his wife, but everything, everything that had happened was merely a consequence of the rolling avalanche brought on by the Upirs’ manipulative actions.
Vaclav. Milivoj. The rest of the fucks her people were now fighting.
And her.
Adela.
The bitch who dared to smile as her gaze fell on Zarja’s hunched, tense form.
Only Zarja’s mind didn’t go red with fury.
Instead, it turned into an ocean of icy calm. Into the very state the Black werewolves were so feared for. Only much, much worse.
She shed the cloak of humanity as easily as the Upir, separating herself from the old tethers until her very soul became a cold, harsh landscape, where the only thing that found life was the pain she would inflict. The slow, agonizing retribution for every death the Upirs had brought upon this world.
When she finally lunged for the female in an explosion of supernatural strength, Zarja didn’t feel the push of chaos against her skin or the subsequent intrusion of the sheer, ancient strength the creature possessed, threatening to twist and break her body.
The only thing she felt was the overpowering satisfaction of hearing Adela’s screams as the taint of her blood coated Zarja’s muzzle.
Chapter 39
The red-scaled dragon incinerated the Keeper the split second before the bastard would have knocked Sander off his perch atop the high-rise. The heat of the fire brushed against Sander’s skin, and he peered up at the Perelesnyk who seemed all too pleased as the blackened lump of flesh tumbled to the ground.
“You just had to steal my fun, didn’t you?” he growled, but a touch of a smile coated his words regardless.
Rorik grinned, showing off the massive, lethal, pearly-white teeth before he angled his leathery wings with grace and swooped away, already scouting the next target.
Idiot.
Sander shook his head in amusement, but the kindling mirth died down as he followed Rorik’s flight, observing the glint of crimson scales that echoed the blood marring the streets far too vividly for his own liking.
As Rorik’s form grew smaller in the distance, Sander looked to his left. To the tug of power that seeped through his own, a blend of darkness and light, of life and death.
The Trinity.
While the three deities weren’t visible to the naked eye, he felt their presence as clearly as if they were standing right before him. A shudder rippled down his spine, and for the first time in his lengthy existence, Sander felt something that eerily reminded him of dread.
What they were—what this power, still new, still growing, promised… The force of them at full strength could wipe out every soul in this world, should they wish it.
Veles, Rose, and Morana were the pantheon. They were the gods the elders had spoken of, gods which had existed in a time when Kolovrat had still been a realm, not just the shard of past he knew today. And yet the three deities wielding their ethereal scythe were even more than the gods of the old world could have ever aspired to be.
He gazed north, observing Death walk down its path of utter power. Observing a force beyond what any realm had been blessed—or cursed—to see.
And yet as paralyzing as their presence was, the tendrils of the Trinity’s power, slithering through the field of magic constructed to keep the vampires out in the open, weren’t malicious. They rolled through the energy-charged field like a spring wind, clearing away the remnants of winter.
But even with the Trinity’s nearly overpowering essence, he had no difficulties discerning the other presence in the air. Magic, like his, only sharper, wielded like a honed blade seeking to cut down the enemies.
Sander gazed into the distance, almost as if he could see the solitary redhead standing on the other side of town, drawing out vampires while striking them at the same time with unimaginable skill. Amusement tugged
at the corners of his lips.
Serafina, his second-in-command, not only surpassed the limitations of the Kolduny, but did so with elegant efficiency.
For some inexplicable reason, he had always been fond of her, even if he thought her to be naive. Young.
And, perhaps, easily influenced.
Now, Sander was glad to admit his mistake. Glad he had judged the Koldunya wrong.
She had saved his life in the circle that day. Had killed for him, even when he had never given her a reason to exhibit such loyalty.
But, somehow, Serafina had seen past his defenses, past the layers of anger and vengeance he had worn around himself like a cloak for all those long decades as he waited to mete out the punishment the old crones and Agata deserved. For all her youth and gentle spirit, Serafina had seen him for the leader he could become. Just as she had sensed the potential the Kolduny could develop under his guidance.
Whatever he had thought of Serafina’s allegiance with the Vedmak-wolf-turned-deity, whatever personal issues he harbored, he couldn’t deny the witch had certainly benefited from her choice of company. It had liberated her from the clutches of misguided belief the crones fought to pass on from generation to generation, and gave her a home where differences were not challenged, but accepted.
Serafina’s stand, what they both had started that day in the clearing—it marked the beginning of a new era for his kind.
If they managed to survive this battle.
The foundations of the building beneath him rumbled, the magic he willed to hold them together barely able to counter the damage caused by the Upirs. With a frustrated snarl, Sander surveyed the town once more.
At first glance, the destruction seemed like nothing more than an echo of what he had seen in Vukovar after the siege had ended. But he knew this echo would last longer than most—perhaps never dissipate entirely.
He whistled as the building creaked and leaned, then ran towards the edge and leaped into the air, the blood-red streets stretching far below him. Winds and magic brushed against his cheeks in the second he free fell, then Anatol’s green scales materialized beneath his body, cutting off his deathly plunge.
A Keeper flew in as soon as he settled onto the Perelesnyk’s back, but before Anatol whipped his head around to char the treacherous bastard, another figure swooped in from above and sent the creature’s massive body flying straight into the lethal embrace of the crumbling building.
Sebastian inclined his head as the entire thing fell, taking the bloody Keeper with it. Sander returned the gesture.
“How is everybody doing?” he asked over the roar of the wind as they flew up, pegging for the eastern side—and the abundance of winged fucks circling there like some overgrown vultures.
The Kresnik’s teal eyes were grim. Weary.
“Some Upirs still remain. And the Bauks wiped out the men and werewolves lying in wait in the shadowed buildings. Dozens of them.”
Sander swore. “What of the Keepers? The Kresniks?”
He could see them flying, attacking—some going down in flames as the Perelesnyks hit them, the others battling on the ground. But with every one the allies took down, more deaths rippled. And not ones he would have wished. His gaze traveled across the eastern territory where the emerald-eyed wolf battled, hoping to catch a glimpse of her among the madness, a glimpse to know that she was all right, still fighting, not—
His thought cut off abruptly as shouts erupted from the south. Shouts that rose in tune with the alarms zinging through his magic and bringing news he had never wanted to hear.
“Fuck!” Sebastian exploded by his side, his translucent wings already carrying the Kresnik towards the source of darkness. Towards the one being who would stand even if the entire battlefield fell.
Because this creature’s soul—it wasn’t here.
Sander snarled as he took in the massive, muscular body of the fucker who urged his stallion to go faster, to break through the ranks of those fighting on the ground.
Koschei.
Koschei, the immortal.
Immortal through darkness and tricks.
The soul-severed bastard had shed his usual skin, shed the wrinkles and gray hair of his old man poise in favor of the radiant glow of a warrior in his prime, the auburn of his hair glimmering blood-red in the blistering sunlight. Guided by his commands, the stallion—one of Baba Yaga’s own—plowed through the defenses as if they were nothing, searing like a bolt of lightning straight through the very heart of the city.
Only the asshole wasn’t alone.
Judging by the touch of magic that rippled from the would-be human bodies, the descendants of Baba Yaga had rallied up and joined forces with the opposition. Against them, the amulets would do little more than absorb some of the magic they cast against their bearers, the vile tendrils touching them just as they would any Koldun or Perelesnyk.
Blood magic. Originating from this world but fueled by a force of an almost divine quality.
Motherfucker.
Scales shifted beneath Sander in a silent question for their next move. He glanced at Anatol, but even as he wanted to command the Perelesnyk to dive down and snag the ever-regenerating asshole between his teeth—to get Koschei the fuck off the battlefield, regardless of the consequences—a piercing shriek whirled him around.
Droplets of gold rushed towards the ground from the ghastly tear gaping in the middle of Sebastian’s wing. The Kresnik was barely keeping himself airborne as he pivoted away from the two Keepers—and one of his own kind—who tried to corner him in midair.
Immediately, Sander dug his heel into Anatol’s left flank, tendrils of smoke rising from the Perelesnyk’s nostrils and mouth as he readied himself for the attack, but the sound of Sebastian’s voice all but rendered them immobile.
Because the Kresnik hadn’t spoken aloud.
He had spoken in their minds.
It was the voice of an ancient. Of one who could defy the laws of nature to further his cause.
The voice of a protector, blessed by the gods themselves to serve life in the face of death.
Despite his every intention to do otherwise, Sander found himself unable to disobey.
Go to her.
Three words.
Three words was all the golden-haired Kresnik said before the Keepers shredded his wings, golden raindrops of immortality lost, falling upon the dying city.
Chapter 40
He didn’t know how it was possible, but he understood Sebastian’s command.
Understood what he was supposed to do. What, perhaps, fate had had in store for him from the very beginning.
Jaw set tight, Sander spied a dash of red hair to his left, the silken strands billowing in the embrace of power.
“Take me to Serafina,” was all he said as the Kresnik’s grunts faded in the distance, Anatol already banking at his command.
Everything seemed to blur together. The blood, the corpses, the debris. Even the stench of chaos and death became one as Evelin took down a vampire. Then another. And another.
She had lost count long ago. If she were to guess, it must have been when she had also lost that initial flair, the wrath that had led her in the first hour of the attack, moving her across the terrain in a fervor for battle.
But not any longer.
Even with the Keepers, she found no enjoyment in stealing their lives once the allies’ group effort had brought them onto the ground. She didn’t as much as look into their eyes—in the eyes of those who had marked her son for death, had murdered Pia, and pounded her into unconsciousness that day she had refused to bend to their will. All she did was rip out their throats, wrapped in a sense of cool disconnection.
Again and again.
A glance at Mark told her she wasn’t the only one suffering from this unexpected numbness. It was as if they were running on automatic now, slicing, biting, and clawing at each and every one of the enemy on the ground, while the Kresniks and Perelesnyks took care of the threats coming from
the sky.
The wasteland wasn’t merely the town around them. It was in their minds, their hearts, too.
Burning heat sliced her side as she scanned for her next target, the magic of Baba Yaga’s descendant scorching away her fur and digging into her flesh until it drew blood. Evelin twisted around, her hind legs flexing as she leaped into the air and flung herself at the ghastly creature. The female cast more and more magic her way, but Evelin ignored the thousands of little cuts crisscrossing her skin. Ignored the blood matting her burnt, dark fur, and the searing pain pulsing in the wounds she tore open before they had the chance to close.
Her gaze dug into the blue eyes of the descendant, noticing how they widened when it became clear nothing would stop Evelin’s leap.
She brought the crone down with a quick, harsh snarl, the sweet crack of bones breaking caressing her ears as the descendant’s skull hit the damaged, eroded pavement. Evelin swiped her claws across the witch’s face for good measure, the gashes deep enough to show the white glint of bone, then propelled herself to the right as a Keeper swooped in.
Her muscles protested the irregular movement, the strain in her legs growing as she adjusted her pose and shot up at the creature, but only empty space rested where she expected the bastard to be. Empty space and bodies. She growled.
He wouldn’t escape her that easily.
Inhaling the death-marked air, she filtered through the smells, tracing the Keeper’s signature. She barely made it two steps when a surge of panic cut off her breath, entrapping the terrifying tang of werewolf blood in her lungs until she nearly choked on its presence.
Her hackles rose, the world swaying before her eyes as she confirmed, once more, that the scent wasn’t just any combination of life and individuality, seeping through the flesh that was supposed to contain it. It was one she knew.
One that had become family.
Her paws dug into the pavement as she pushed herself harder, trying to outrace the promise embedded in the ever-growing smell.