what she would be saving.
His other hand—tipped by the iron claws that could so easily tear her to pieces—glanced against her cheek, her neck. Her hand slid back into his tangled hair.
Then she yanked his face down to hers and kissed him hard.
He made a sound that was a cross between surprise and want, taking a shaky step back that knocked him into the altar. He clutched at the back of her head, a hand sliding down her side to pull her closer. She was bleeding from those stupid iron spikes that broke his skin, and his claws were digging into her back, and this was certain heresy.
But what did it matter? The gods had left her anyway.
He kissed her back with a terrifying desperation that made her think maybe—maybe—he could be saved.
His hands slid down her body, drawing a heat that made her gasp against his mouth. He drew back only long enough to sweep her up, turning to deposit her on the altar, knocking over the chalice and spilling blood everywhere. She was level with him, catching his hips between her knees. He diverted his attention to her neck and her breath left her in a rush. She leaned back on her hands, sliding on the blood covering the altar. His sharp teeth grazed against the sensitive skin of her throat and her entire body reacted, jolting against him.
And she let herself fall. Her calculations never quite accounted for the way he always made her feel like there were stars in her blood. Even here.
Her bloody hands clutched at his face as she kissed his forehead, the bridge of his sharp nose, his cheek, trailing back until finally, finally, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, “Malachiasz, please.”
He stiffened, hands that had been unusually careful suddenly going taut, claws piercing her sides. She gasped in pain, wrenched her eyes shut as they flooded with tears.
But she held him still; she nudged her nose against his cheek. “Your name is Malachiasz Czechowicz,” she said, pain choking her voice as his own hiss of distress plunged ten daggers farther into her body. “You’re the stupidest boy I’ve ever met. You’re the Black Vulture, but you’re more than that. You’re infuriating and gentle and too godsdamned clever for your own good. Please, Malachiasz, please remember.”
There was silence. Nothing but the sound of his breath, heavy against her. Nothing but the blood dripping down her sides, her head dizzy as she lost too much too fast.
She cried out as he yanked his hands from her, dislodging his claws from her flesh. He stumbled away.
His eyes were the palest blue and his expression was one of sheer horror.
“Nadya,” he whispered.
Yes, gods, please, let this work.
His hand caught hers. Bloodstained, pale fingers with perfectly normal fingernails. He caught her face between his hands, eyes tracking over her in disbelief.
“You’re here,” he whispered, thumb stroking her cheek. He blinked, realizing just where here was. He stared at the bloody altar in bewilderment, a rattling breath escaping him in a rush.
“Nadya?” His voice sounded confused, like he didn’t know how he had ended up here.
She reached up, clasping her hands over his. “Dozleyena, Malachiasz.”
He shuddered, eyes closing at his name. He mouthed the shape of it to himself. His hands were trembling.
Creeping black decay inched over his cheekbone. An eye flickered open at his temple. Blood leaked out of the corners of his eyes and when he opened them they were onyx black. His head twitched once, a slow, bitter smile pulling at his lips.
“No,” he murmured. “Not enough.” He pulled away from her sharply, claws growing out swiftly from his nail beds as he regarded her.
“You have something else that does not belong to you, little Kalyazi,” he said, cool fingers against her cheek. Then his palm was over her face and it was like her soul was being pulled from her body. She choked, scrabbling at his forearm, digging her fingernails into his skin, trying to wrench his hand away, but he was too strong and she had lost too much blood.
Something snapped in her chest. A sob broke from her, a rush of power that was not hers leaving her as he took back the thread of magic she had stolen.
He pulled his hand away, fingertips blackened.
“My curiosity has been sated,” he remarked dispassionately. “Your death is your own, towy d?imyka.”
He walked away and left her bleeding out on the altar.
13
SEREFIN MELESKI
Svoyatovi Ivan Moroshkin: A cleric of Devonya, where Ivan’s arrows