foot in the village. Felka had never called her a monster, she had brought back her clothes, she had been sharp and funny and loyal and good.
Of Koszmar, who had died to save them.
Of Lukasz, who had given up everything—his family, his legacy, his life . . . everything, for her.
“The monsters of our world,” began Ren slowly, “like rusalki and strzygi—they choose the side of hell, and they never change. But these humans—” Ren thought of her friends. Her perfect, terrible friends. “These humans commit terrible evils and they beg forgiveness. They have such a capacity to change, Baba Jaga . . . and I think that is their real magic. They hold such darkness, these humans, but they still choose the light. Of all the things I love about them, I love this best.”
The Baba Jaga’s expression had changed. She watched Ren with softening eyes. The hands had paused in the background.
“Sometimes,” said Ren quietly, “I think they are the last lights burning in this world.”
41
THE STRZYGI CIRCLED. STRINGS OF saliva hung from their mouths.
Koszmar had fought monsters before. He had walked away from family, from honor, from fortune. He had battled dark things in dark places. And he could win.
He almost did.
But his arm trembled. He hurt. He hesitated. The first strzygoń leapt, and without his eye, Koszmar misjudged the distance. It sank its teeth into his arm, and he howled. Too quickly, he went down. Beneath him, the earth seemed to buckle. He hacked at the strzygoń until it fell away. He was on his back. The trees leaned down to watch.
Doggedly, Koszmar got back on his feet. The strzygi snarled.
They snapped around his ankles, and the saber was too heavy. He dropped it, clawed at them with his bare hands. They leapt on his back, tore at his hair, at his shoulders. Koszmar screamed. He searched for his saber. His mind was a mess. He could not think clearly. His arm, he realized slowly, had disappeared under the seething gray bodies. He was disappearing.
Koszmar wanted to live. They dragged him down. He wanted to live. They bit down. He’d give anything to live. They tore in. He’d give anything.
Please.
Blood poured out.
Please let me live.
Franciszek
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
FRANCISZEK AND LUKASZ SAT ON the stone sarcophagus, watching the sun rise and sharing a bottle of vodka.
“An Apofys,” said Franciszek. He put down the newspaper and poured himself another glass. “I’ve never heard of one of those before.”
Dawn broke gently across the spires of King Nikodem’s castle, where just five years before, the Brygada Smoka had been born. They sat in the cemetery, still under the shadow of the Miasto Basilica, while overhead, the city’s clay and copper roofs blazed red-gold.
“Apparently it got into the taxidermy collection,” Lukasz said.
Having watched Raf tumble down that particular slippery slope, Lukasz didn’t drink in the morning. But Franciszek had been at the library all night, and he had spent the evening betting on the boxing rings, so technically speaking, Lukasz considered this the day’s end.
“So?”
Franciszek was looking at him, waiting for an answer.
“Now it has a belly full of sawdust,” said Lukasz casually. He poured himself a drink. “Should make a unique challenge.”
He waited for his brother to take the bait. Mysterious dragon breed and extra danger? Franciszek should have loved planning that one out.
Franciszek only nodded. Sunlight glinted off his gold glasses. But all he said was “How astute.”
Lukasz didn’t respond. A few morning drunks passed the cemetery gates, caught sight of the antlered horses. They crowded to the iron, pointing and shouting. Lukasz saluted. Franciszek watched him thoughtfully.
“So,” said Lukasz, turning back to his brother, “about this Apofys.”
Franciszek’s lip twitched. Everyone had always compared Lukasz with Rafa?, but he and Franciszek had the exact same, slightly crooked mouth. In fact, if Franciszek had taken off his glasses and grown half a foot, they might have passed for twins.
“You know,” said Franciszek, as if he didn’t hear, “you’re too smart for this job.”
Lukasz laughed.
“Yeah right.”
The fireflies were still out. They rose gently from the blue-green dew, flickering among the dull headstones. They came slowly at first, one or two whispers of light in the long wet grass. Then they came faster, nearly rising out of the earth, winking and blinking like little candle flames, a thousand glittering ghost lights in the dark green.
“Dad loved them,” said Franciszek suddenly. “Do you remember?”
“No.”
But Lukasz was lying.
He did remember. Maybe even better than Franciszek did. His mother, leaning against the washbasins in the vast