the barrel, and his shoulder hit metal.
“Damn hinge,” he muttered, wincing.
The darkness moved, and Franciszek reached over his head.
“It’s not a hinge,” he said. “It’s a bolt.”
He tugged on the metal bolt, and the hissing grew closer. Silently—thank God—the door swung open. Wine rushed out over their boots. The sweet, fermented smell was enough to make Lukasz choke. The rustle of scales on stones grew louder.
“Get in,” said Dr. Rybak. “Get in, all of you—”
He was only aware of a hand on his back, and someone had shoved him up, into the barrel.
The door closed behind them. They were plunged into blackness. The remaining wine splashed over their boots, and the tang of fermented fruit was overpowering. It was sticky and warm. He hoped to God he never ended up getting swallowed by a dragon, but if it did come to that, then he was willing to bet this was what it would feel like. Then someone kicked Lukasz right in the bad knee.
“OW! Watch it, Henryk—”
“Well, if you’d stayed behind, Lukasz,” griped Franciszek, “we’d all have more room.”
“Don’t start—”
“SHHHH.”
In the darkness, Lukasz couldn’t be sure, but he was fairly certain that the unassuming Unnaturalist had just shushed them.
Outside, the hissing echoed. Something collided hard with the barrel and it rocked in place for a moment. The wood groaned, and the creature outside smashed against it a second time. Wine sloshed up and over them, and the hissing grew deafening. Lukasz wondered if he was about to die in a barrel filled with wine, Wolf-Lords, and one very brave Unnaturalist.
Then it was silent.
Lukasz could hear the Unnaturalist gasping beside him.
“Do we need a light?” whispered Franciszek.
“No!” snapped Lukasz. “We might as well be sitting in a kerosene lamp, Fraszko!”
Franciszek must have heard the hysterical edge in Lukasz’s voice. His own whisper came back stuttering, apologetic:
“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t think—”
“Quiet,” whispered Henryk. “I’m not sure it’s gone.”
They sat silently in the blackness. Lukasz didn’t know how long they stayed, huddled in that hot ferment, but he did know that he was never going to drink wine again.
At last, in a cautious whisper, Henryk said, “You must have to write a lot of books, with your job.”
It took Lukasz a second to realize that he was talking to Dr. Rybak.
“Yes,” said the Unnaturalist.
Even without seeing his face, he sounded very calm. It struck Lukasz that the Dr. Rybak was in his element. Whatever he’d said about being interested in anthropo—anthr— Lukasz gave up on the word. Monsters from people. Whatever he’d said about being interested in those types of creatures, there was no denying it: Dr. Rybak knew his monsters better than they did.
“What if you wrote a book about Wolf-Lords?” Henryk was asking. “The first and only book in a thousand years.”
Dr. Rybak gave a little chuckle.
“Your people are infamously elusive, my friend.”
There was another silence. Lukasz wondered if he was the only one who felt the tension in the air. Henryk spoke again.
“What if we weren’t?”
“What are you proposing?” said Dr. Rybak in a shrewd voice. “An exclusive interview? Surely there must be some cost.”
“Not an interview,” said Henryk. “You see, six months ago, my brother went back to Kamieńa Forest.”
Lukasz’s throat tightened. They hadn’t talked about Tadeusz in months. He’d assumed it was for the same reason: that they were waiting for him to come back, to tell them the Dragon was dead, to say that it was over and they could go home.
“I think he must have . . . gotten lost,” Henryk was saying. His voice was heavy. “Because we know the Mountains, and we know dragons. Monsters are another thing entirely. But you . . .”
Henryk’s voice trailed away. Lukasz was too stunned to interrupt.
“You need my expertise to get through the forest,” finished Dr. Rybak.
“And you would get a book on Wolf-Lords,” said Henryk. “And Dr. Rybak, that forest is full of monsters. You could write a hundred more books. You’d be famous.”
“Or dead,” said Dr. Rybak.
“I give you my word,” said Henryk solemnly, “I will not let you die.”
“Henryk,” interrupted Lukasz, “what are you doing?”
“And you can take my notebook,” interjected Franciszek eagerly. “It would help. And when you’re done, you could include me as a reference—”
“I can’t—” sputtered Rybak. “I couldn’t—”
“Come on,” murmured Henryk. “What have you got to lose?”
Lukasz was about to argue, when the barrel rocked again. They all fell silent. There was a metallic whisper, and Lukasz knew that one of them—Franciszek or Henryk—had drawn his sword.
The barrel door cracked open.