“What is it?” Mikhail asked.

“Nothing.” He took another, deeper glug of the drink. “Just remembering, I forgot to feed my cat.”

In the distance, a drekavac screamed, and the soldiers huddled closer to each other, their fingers edging toward their rifles’ triggers.

When the flask reached me, it was nearly empty. To smooth my raw nerves, I drained the rest. The liquid burned my throat on the way down, sharper than vodka, with an unpleasant aftertaste. Even so, it did the trick in relaxing me and quieting the torrent of thoughts rushing through my head.

The first chance I got, I tied my rushnyk around my waist, looping one end over my shoulder to secure it in place. I didn’t remove the amber brooch from my pocket, afraid that our captors would take it from me.

“That’s a pretty rushnyk,” the soldier nearest to me said. He had the thin, tight face of a weasel and a pair of small, gleaming eyes to match, but his smile was pleasant enough.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’ve never seen one quite like it.”

“It was my mother’s,” I mumbled, trying not to recoil when he grasped my shoulder, running his fingers over the raised red embroidery.

“Beautiful. Incredible craftsmanship. The patterns are exquisite.” He stared at me as he said it. My skin crawled, maybe from the drink, maybe from the way his eyes glinted in the lantern light, flat and lifeless.

His smile didn’t seem friendly anymore. His teeth were small like his eyes, and there seemed to be too many for his mouth, too closely spaced.

My stomach lurched in repulsion as I recognized the desire in his eyes. Yanking away from him, I drew the rushnyk tighter around my shoulders. I tugged on the knot to secure it, afraid that a sudden harsh wind might blow the cloth away. I needed its protection now more than ever.

When we neared a crumbling stone bridge stretched across the river, one of the men retrieved an iron talisman from his coat pocket and rubbed it restlessly. Held it to his lips. Whispered to it.

On our side of the bridge, a lantern post had been driven into the soil. Yet, as we neared, I noticed another object resting in the lantern’s shadow.

My mouth went dry. I turned away, horrified, then helplessly looked back again.

A hand was nailed to the post, desiccated and skeletal. The skin was so thin that it was see-through and pearly; scaly webbing gathered between the fingers like tattered lace. Dried liquid streaked the wood and stained the ground black.

“Rusalka territory,” a soldier in front of me said, spitting into the gurgling water. A white arm skimmed across the river’s surface, gleaming as wetly as an eel’s skin.

I paused to get a better look, but all I could perceive of the creatures below was luscious, dark hair and sleek, shifting limbs. The dimness, drifting algae, and lily pads obscured their true nature.

“Keep going,” the man behind me said, pushing me forward. His hand dug cruelly into my shoulder. The tension was so thick in the air, it could have been torn with a bayonet. A pungent smell descended over us, not just pregnant with the rusalki’s fermented fish odor, but also the men’s fear, sweat, and dirt.