“My mother,” I said.

He was about to say more, only to have his words cut out by the slick squelch of tearing flesh. He looked down, watching in stunned silence as the gilt sickle held by the statue of Kosa emerged from his chest.

With a wild cry, Mikhail thrust the crescent-moon blade even deeper. Trails of blood welled from Koschei’s mouth as he reached down, grasping the sickle and reducing it to rust beneath his fingers. As the last smears of ink flaked from my arms, I spun the sovnya in a smooth arc overhead and brought it down upon him.

Koschei’s head struck the floor, but his body remained upright. He took one step forward, then another, before the shashka fell from his slackening fingers and his body came crashing to the polished marble.

Lowering the polearm, I stepped forward uncertainly. As I looked down at his head, he looked up at me—his pupils dilating, the lids still blinking ever so slowly.

His lips trembled as though he meant to speak, but I had cleaved his vocal cords in two. Blood bubbled from one corner of his mouth, spilling down his chin in a froth of red saliva. And his lips continued to move in excruciating slowness, forming the shapes of words.

In time, you will understand... His irises’ golden filaments glowed like fire—even now, as the shadow of death crept across his features, I felt pierced by those eyes, as if he could peer straight into the depths of me... Who the true monsters are.

Koschei’s lips stilled, and his blood inched in a slowly widening circle across the tile floor. As the unnatural radiance of his irises diminished, the golden striations faded into an ordinary hazel. And I knew then that he would not be coming back.

42

Deeper in, part of the fortress collapsed with a deafening boom. Dust sifted from the ceiling, and the chandelier crashed to the floor with enough force to fling its crystal prisms across the room.

As we hurried into the corridor and headed toward the cellar stairs, two Fraktsiya soldiers turned the corner and froze at the sight of us. I barely had enough time to drag Mikhail into the cover of an alcove before they opened fire. Gilded splinters spewed across my shoulders as bullets pulverized the decorative woodwork above our heads. I landed on my rear, gasping for breath.

Koschei’s shashka clattered to the floor beside me, slipping from my trembling fingers. I snatched it up again. The sword would do little good against rapid artillery, but it came as a small comfort to be armed again. I’d hooked the scabbard onto my medic’s belt, and it slapped against my thigh with each step.

A deafening crash shook the walls, and a cloud of plaster dust rolled in from the corridor. In the explosion’s aftermath, the gunfire died into an eerie quiet, punctuated only by distant shouts and the crackling of fire.

“Come on!” I hauled Mikhail to his feet and hurried back into the hall. The ceiling had collapsed farther down the corridor, littering the floor in rubble and blocking off the soldiers’ route.