drama than actual substance, but the Unnaturalist had been right about one thing: in no other life would he have left Hala Smoków. If it hadn’t been for the Golden Dragon, he’d still be there now, probably choosing a black-haired bride and building a wooden lodge amid the ever-changing hills and howling wolves. Like all of his brothers had done before him, Lukasz hated the Dragon. But secretly, he was glad to have gotten out of the Mountains. Biele? had gotten it wrong. Lukasz wasn’t a stranger. He didn’t long for blue hills or wolves or the things his other brothers had wanted; he loved this city. He loved this world. When he died, it would be in the shadow of the Miasto Basilica; it would not be under the unforgiving skies of the Moving Mountains.
“It’s around this corner,” murmured Professor Biele?. “Take care. Frankly, it’s not a very pleasant creature.”
Lukasz laughed. The sound echoed down the corridor, and who knew, maybe the Apofys heard it.
“Not many dragons are.”
He cracked the knuckles on both hands. Even without his gloves, he wasn’t worried. Franciszek would have made him go back and retrieve them. Not anymore, he thought, striding ahead of Biele?. Never again. His throat constricted a second time. Better not to think like that.
More dim gaslights reflected off the painted walls, the rows of oaken doors. The end of the hall had been boarded off. On the other side, there was the sound of a bird chirping. Lukasz’s hand closed over the sword at his side. The Apofys had eaten four Unnaturalists. There was no way a bird was alive back there.
“It’s the Apofys,” confirmed Professor Biele? in a shaky voice. “It practices ventriloquism. Voice-throwing. Most unusual. Likely a technique for distracting prey during hunts.” He glanced from the boards to Lukasz, looming above him. “But of course, you knew that?”
“Right,” said Lukasz, drawing his sword.
The blade, dark with dried dragon blood, scraped against the scabbard.
“So you’ve killed one of these?” asked Biele? hopefully.
It was almost enough to make Lukasz doubt himself. After all, Franciszek was the one with the notebook. Always poring over library books, making notes. Doing the research. But Lukasz knew nothing about this dragon, and he’d done absolutely no preparation. Not to mention the fact that he’d forgotten his gloves . . .
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Professor Biele?. Lukasz had a flash of insight: an Unnaturalist afraid of harming the last of a species. He just wasn’t sure if Biele? was thinking of him or the dragon.
“I’ve killed dozens of dragons,” said Lukasz. He pointed at the office nearest them. “Do these rooms have adjoining doors?”
Biele? nodded, swallowing.
Lukasz crossed the threshold. The office held more gas lanterns, these unlit, and several neat stacks of books. He eased open the side door and edged through a second identical office before reentering the hall on the other side of the barricade. This door was slightly ajar, and Lukasz wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but something was rustling out there. Could that be part of the dragon’s ven . . . ventri . . . ?
He couldn’t remember the word.
Whatever. Lukasz thought of the doubt on Biele?’s face and scowled. Voice-throwing.
He weighed his sword in his left hand; he could fight with both, but he preferred his left. The blade didn’t glitter. It was dull brown down to the hilt, thoroughly coated in dried dragon blood. Even the sight of the poisoned blade was reassuring. He was good at this.
Lukasz eased the door open with the toe of his boot, pressed his back against the frame, and leaned out into the hallway. The barricade on this side was smeared with soot, and a few boards lay, charred and glowing, on the floor. The dragon had been tearing at it.
Biele? was watching him through the barricade. He could feel it. He wondered if the professor knew how close he was to getting killed. Literally playing with fire.
“Unnaturalists,” he muttered under his breath.
Apart from the barricade, the hallway looked like the others, except that nearly all the lights had been smashed. One lonely lamp still glittered, just above Lukasz’s shoulder. The rest was shadow and hazy, warm air. Lukasz froze.
There it was again. The rustle.
Several office doors hung ajar, black smoke spiraling out into the hall. There were holes in the carpet, too, rimmed with glowing red. From these holes, more black smoke trailed up to the ceiling to collect in an inky fog.