I staggered to my feet, wheezing through my bruised throat. It felt as if he had crushed my windpipe. The floor shuddered in the concussion’s aftermath, and the windowpanes rattled like chattering teeth.

“It can’t be,” Koschei murmured. For a moment, a ghost of wonder flitted across his features, and then his eyes returned to me and his expression chilled. “You brought the Otzvuk here.”

As he took a step forward, rot spread across the white tarp. The linen unspooled into frayed strands, and even the luxurious rug beneath it began to decay. I felt his power ripple across the soles of my feet like icy water, tingling between my toes and spilling as high as my ankles, before receding.

His eyes narrowed. “What are you?”

I didn’t answer. My gaze flicked to the bedside table where I placed my gun. It seemed like a world away.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter. Bogatyr or koldunia, you’ll bleed just the same.” His hand curled around the handle of the sword at his hip. As he drew the blade from its niello sheath, I made a dash for the gun.

Koschei lunged at me, and I leapt out of the way. All my years in the wilderness hadn’t taught me how to fight humans, but they had taught me how to be agile and swift. I dodged his shashka’s curved blade, ducking and darting out of the way of every blow.

This pulsing redness immersing the corners of my vision, this trembling in my limbs, the taste of copper in my mouth and the sudden flood of saliva—was this terror?

Koschei seized a fistful of my dress and threw me off balance. I knocked into the bedside table, tipped it over, fell. Medicine bottles and instruments clattered to the floor. My pistol skidded out of sight.

“Leave her alone!” Mikhail shouted, straining against his chain. “Don’t hurt her!”

I landed on all fours, broken glass cutting into my palms. My hands slipped over the floorboards, greased up with salve and oily tinctures.

A boot slammed into my side before I could rise to my feet, leaving me gasping for breath, tears blurring my vision. I fell onto my side, my ribs screeching in pain.

Shattered bottles and rolls of gauze littered the floor. A gleam of steel caught my eye, but then Koschei kicked me again, and I landed hard on my back. Glass crunched beneath me as I hoisted myself up, my body a knot of agony.

The tip of Koschei’s shashka rested a mere finger’s width from my face. I held my breath, afraid that if I inhaled, he would take that movement as an invitation to shove the sword through my throat.

“Don’t, Koschei, don’t do it.” Mikhail leaned forward as far as his shackled wrist would allow, the chain strained taut. “She isn’t a part of this!”

“Why are you doing this?” My voice came out thin and scratchy. “I don’t understand. Don’t you realize how many innocent people are dying because of you?”