was no order to the forest. No organization. And the natural world, Lukasz knew, tended to make sense.
It was the unnatural that brought chaos.
Lukasz could feel it. He could sense the magic at work here. He always could; it was part of what had made him so good at slaying dragons.
What’s your read? Franciszek would ask.
Lukasz would tell him. And without fail, Franciszek would know how to interpret the instinct. How to temper it. How to combine Lukasz’s hunches with his research, and then, together, for a short time, they were unstoppable.
Lukasz’s hand went to his sword. But even now, the atrophied muscle screamed. Relying on that hand had almost gotten him killed by the nawia. Only the memory of Franciszek’s research had saved him.
“Our cat’s out of the bag now,” said Koszmar in a low voice, drawing up next to him. “Do we trust her?”
Lukasz left the sword alone and instead took the rifle from his shoulder and put it across his knees.
The village girl—Felka—sat behind Koszmar, arms wrapped around his waist. Now she said, “If you don’t trust her after last night, then you’re a fool.”
Koszmar sneered at her over his silver-stained shoulder.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
They looked different. Something in her dulled eyes. Something in his flattened, hawklike gaze. Horror had etched itself in the lines at their lips. Between their brows. One night among the nawia, and they’d both aged ten years.
Lukasz reminded himself that not everyone had grown up fighting monsters.
“What do you think?” Koszmar asked again, pointedly addressing Lukasz. His voice was very nasal. As flat as his eyes. “Do you trust her?”
Ahead, the queen was leaning over the black wolf. Lukasz had noticed it had a bad limp, and the run had exhausted it. The queen was whispering to the other lynx. As they spoke, the black wolf struggled back to his feet. He held his front paw tucked up under his chest. He wasn’t looking at Lukasz, or Koszmar, or the girl on Koszmar’s horse.
He was looking at Rybak.
The queen looked up abruptly.
“Set up your camp here,” she said. “This part of the forest is safe.”
Lukasz tried not to shudder at the human voice issuing from the throat of an animal. If she noticed, she did not show it. She merely watched him with her big lynx eyes, oddly similar to her human ones.
She turned to walk away.
“Hang on—where do you think you’re going?” interrupted Koszmar, sounding a little shrill.
The queen looked coldly over her shoulder.
“I am taking my brother and my friend to make sure we have not been followed. Or would you like to have your eyes gouged out in the night?”
Koszmar swallowed, and at the same time Felka whispered “Psotniki” under her breath.
The lynx’s eyes snapped toward her.
“Felka,” she said. “You can come . . . if you like.”
Lukasz stared between the lynx and the girl. It was strange, hearing the invitation from the queen. It was almost . . . shy?
Felka slid, a little awkwardly, down from Koszmar’s saddle. She had a bundle in her arms that looked a lot like the queen’s clothes. Lukasz quelled the twitch of jealousy that surfaced, unexpectedly, deep inside him.
Franciszek, he repeated to himself. This was about Franciszek. This was about surviving long enough to find Franciszek. This was not about currying the favor of some feral queen. . . .
Lukasz massaged the fingers of his ruined hand. If it hadn’t been for that damn book—if it hadn’t been for the fact that Fraszko had tried to teach him—if it hadn’t been for that, they’d all be dead.
“Weird pair,” observed Koszmar as the girl followed the three animals to the trees and disappeared.
Lukasz shot Koszmar a sidelong glance.
“And we aren’t, Kosz?”
A smile flickered over Koszmar’s already hardening face. He took his pipe from his black coat and lit it, and the flicker stretched to a full grin around the pipe stem.
“Kosz,” he murmured. “I do like that. By the way, nice touch with the nawia—how did you know that a baptism would get rid of them?”
Lukasz took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The smell of Faustian smoke filled the clearing. It elicited a visceral sense of loss from him.
“It was in a book, once,” he said.
“I thought you couldn’t read,” said Koszmar, brow wrinkling.
Lukasz didn’t answer. He was looking at Rybak. Lukasz had now saved his life on two occasions. A debt was owed, and he was ready to collect.