“You Fraktsiya bastards, what have you done?” Mikhail yelled, struggling in the grasps of two other soldiers.

“No!” I shrieked, rushing toward the stone wall. Leaning over the edge, I frantically searched the inky river below.

Rusalki swarmed in a killing frenzy, an entangled mass of limbs, gnashing teeth, and flared gills.

Hands seized me and yanked me back. I kicked at the weasel-faced soldier, trying to break free. I wanted to choke Dronov. Wanted to kill him. “Why did you do that? Let me go.”

I twisted in my captor’s grip and slammed my fist into his face. His nose broke with a gristly crack both sickening and satisfying.

He wheeled back, clutching a hand to his face as he spat broken swears at me. Dropping his hand, he lunged at me. I dodged him, and as he struck the wall, I gave him a violent shove. The force of the blow sent him over the edge, screaming into the void below.

Lieutenant Dronov swung his rifle in my direction. Without hesitation. I vaulted over the wall, surrendering myself to the darkness and the fall.

32

A rusalka broke my fall. My hand landed on her cheek, a hair’s width from her gnashing teeth. Rolling off her, I went under. Orbs of light drifted through the water. Eyes, I realized. Their eyes.

Webbed fingers trailed across my arms, tugged at my wrist, my flowing rushnyk. A billowing drift of hair brushed against my lips.

A current dragged me along, pulling me farther away from the bridge. My boots weighed me down like anchors. I fought against the flow and surfaced for air. The rusalki ignored me as I swam toward them and instead swarmed around better prey. Reaching the knot of writhing bodies, I shoved them aside.

Needle teeth grazed my wrist. Inky plumes spread through the water; I tasted it in my mouth, harsh and coppery. Blood. Not my own. No. Please. Not Vanya.

An arm. A shoulder. Sodden clothes. I pulled the body free from the mass of rusalki, and all the air rushed from my lungs as a mauled face framed by short blond hair confronted me.

Blond hair. I let go of the body. Blond hair and a weathered face. Not Vanya. The weasel-faced soldier.

I surfaced, gasping for breath. My wet clothes and boots conspired to drag me down again. Blinking water out of my eyes, I searched the banks for Vanya, praying that he had managed to swim ashore while the rusalki swarmed the fallen Fraktsiya soldier.

I allowed the current to carry me farther away, kicking to the side as I neared the riverbank. Ahead, where boulders lined the bank, I spotted a disheveled form hanging from a rock. I could have mistaken it for discarded clothes caught by the current, if not for the hand that emerged to grasp weakly at clefts in the stone.

“Vanya. Vanya.” Croaking his name, I clambered onto the rocky shore. My entire body trembled from the cold, teeth chattering so violently I could barely speak.