When among crows, p.13
When Among Crows,
p.13
Baba Jaga pours the mixture into a pot, and sets it on a hot plate to boil. Her fingertips are stained green.
“I can’t say what you’ll become, exactly,” she says. “No ordinary zmora, to be sure. Magic is not mastered and it moves as it will, even through me. But the allegiance you feel to the Holy Order will be broken. They will hunt you as if you are a dangerous animal, and that is, I assume, what you want. To make an enemy of those to whom you once belonged.”
He wouldn’t have put it that way, maybe, but she’s right. He began the process much earlier than this, too. When he fought his sister with her own sword, defending Niko’s life with his own. When he fled the Holy Order with a series of grand lies in his wake, and came to this city with only his bow and arrows and a bag of necessities. And even before that, when he refused to draw his sword at all for months, and honed his skill with the bow instead, so he wouldn’t have to touch the hilt that weighed heavy on his shoulders. He has been betraying them since before Lena died. At least now he’ll do it thoroughly.
Baba Jaga takes the bubbling mixture from the hot plate and pours it into a mug. It’s dark red in color, and thick as syrup. She offers it to him, and he takes it in both hands.
“Drink it all,” she says. “Then you’ll fall asleep, and when you wake, the world will have one fewer Knight.”
He holds the mug against his sternum. Despite the fact that it was just simmering on the hot plate, it feels like ice against his chest. Then he raises it to his lips, resolved to swallow it all at once. The last things he sees are Niko’s fire-bright eyes and Ala’s freckled nose.
* * *
He turns his face into the worn yellow pillowcase and takes a deep breath. It smells like detergent—the starchy, industrial kind they use for hospitals. He takes a deeper breath, and he can smell something else, too. Bacon. Lavender. And something sweet as powdered sugar.
He opens his eyes, and finds himself staring at Ala.
She’s sitting in a chair beside the bed. She looks different than she did when he last saw her. It takes him a few seconds to realize it’s that she no longer looks even faintly monstrous to him. She just looks like Ala: half stern, half soft, always skeptical, rarely unsure.
“Hello,” she says to him.
“Something smells sweet,” he replies. He turns his face into the pillowcase and breathes in, but he can’t find the scent there. She laughs a little, and holds her hand out to him so he can smell her fingers, like a dog.
But then he smells it, that powdered-sugar scent. Pleasant, and light, like angel food cake.
“I’m worried about you,” she says. “That’s what it smells like.”
“Makes me hungry,” he says. “That’s annoying.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
Dymitr considers her. She never struck him as a tender-hearted person before. Yet here she is, sitting in an uncomfortable chair next to his bed, fretting over him.
“You’re worried about me?” he says. “Why?”
“You just haven’t thought about it,” she says. “You were made from the same blood as me. That means you’re my brother, and I’m your sister, and we’ll always worry about each other from now on.”
“Brother and sister.” He thinks of Elza, with a sharp pain, and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. There’s a crack there, where the paint has bubbled away from the drywall. It reminds him of the lines in his palm.
He looks at her again.
“Are you sure you want a brother who’s done what I’ve done?” he says.
“You’ll find there’s a lot of family drama among zmory,” she says, with a smile that he thinks would have looked menacing to him before, but now seems gentle. “We wouldn’t be the first to reconcile after one has killed another’s aunt.”
“Really.”
“Really,” she says. “Eternity is long, Dymitr. Time enough for hearts to soften.”
He wonders what he would look like to a llorona now. If the halo of sorrow around his head would still be as brilliant to them, or if untangling the curse from Ala’s blood, and hearing that she wanted him to be whole, has healed over some of the loss that divides him.
He sits up, and he startles himself with how quick the movement is, and how forceful—he falls to his knees on the carpet right in front of the bed. Ala laughs.
“The old legends used to say that we could transform into a hair and fit through a keyhole,” she says. “We can’t, of course, but we do tend to be fast and light.”
He lifts a hand and stares at it. His fingernail has grown back, and the wound in his palm is healed over. He comes to his feet, and meets his own eyes in the mirror above Ala’s dresser.
He looks like himself—there’s some relief in that. His eyes are still that odd shade of brown-gray, his hair still matches them, as before. The scar in his lip is still there. But there is something different about him, too. Something sharper, and wilder, like a fox that wanders into a suburban neighborhood in search of food—capable at any moment of ferocity.
Ala stands beside him, and he sees some similarity between them. That keenness.
“Sister,” he says to her, and she nods.
“No visions?” he asks her. “Memories?”
“Gone,” she replies, and she smiles so wide it looks like it might split her face in half. “Let’s go say hello to Niko. You can find out how worried he is.”
She leads him out of the room. The scents of her apartment hit him all at once. Stale crackers and dust. Old bacon, rubber boots, petrichor. Mold, rust, and blood. He considers the blood for a moment—he has a feeling about it, an attachment. He follows that feeling into the kitchen, where he can focus on nothing else, though there are plenty of other things to see. He follows it to the kitchen trash can, which he opens, and removes a square of gauze stained brown with blood.
He stares at it. It’s his blood, from the gauze that covered the pulled fingernail.
“Did you wake up a vampire?” Niko’s voice asks.
“No, he’s just discovering his new nose,” Ala replies. “Give him a moment.”
Dymitr drops the gauze back into the trash. Niko is leaning against the sink, his arms folded, the light of the sun glowing behind his head. The menace that Dymitr used to see in his face isn’t gone, exactly. It’s just that it no longer creeps up Dymitr’s spine the way it used to. Instead, he can see that Niko is beautiful, like a statue of a Roman soldier, like a Kupala Night fire, like a well-made sword.
Niko asks Ala, “Do we call him a ‘zmora,’ since he’s male? Or is he a ‘zmoron’?”
Ala laughs. “Technically, it’s ‘zmór,’” she says. “Though if you want to call him a zmoron, I suppose you can.”
Niko smells like powdered sugar, and—Dymitr steps closer, and closer, following his nose to the curve of Niko’s neck in a way that would have been embarrassing, if he’d been in his right mind. He touches his nose to Niko’s throat, and breathes in. He smells like some kind of flower, and ever-so-slightly of dark chocolate—
“You are worried about me,” Dymitr says, pulling away. “And … a little bit afraid of me?”
Niko’s eyes are wide. They skip all over Dymitr’s face, and Dymitr wonders how he looks to Niko, if he’s still beautiful enough to fight for.
“The word you’re looking for,” Niko says, “is awe. I am a little in awe of you.”
Dymitr opens his mouth to argue, and Niko holds up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t,” he says. “You’ll ruin it.”
He curls his fingers under Dymitr’s chin and draws him closer. His breath smells like coffee and mint toothpaste. He kisses Dymitr, gentle and slow. It lights up parts of Dymitr he wasn’t sure existed, as if the fire that flickers in Niko’s eyes has kindled in Dymitr, too.
“See?” Niko says. “It’s good to be something new.”
* * *
The leszy sits on a stump in the Montrose Point Bird Sanctuary, and breathes in the moonlight. A moth flutters around one of his horns, and then settles at the edge of his eye socket, where all the flowers that once grew are now dead, dormant for winter.
He can smell snow in the air, though it hasn’t fallen yet. He is as eager for the forest to fall asleep as he will be for it to wake again, come springtime. He enjoys the sound of the trees settling in for their long sleep, and the earth going quiet as all the things that wriggle and scuttle and busy themselves inside it go still. He stretches out one hoof, and listens.
He hears the pressure of footsteps, too light to be human footsteps, and lifts his stag head to see a man standing in the clearing across from him. He carries a bow and quiver. The leszy recognizes him, though it’s been months since he last laid eyes on the man’s face. He thinks he could even remember the man’s name, if he reached for it, but he doesn’t. The leszy has never understood the wraith’s fixation on names. A leszy has no name, he has only the forest of which he is a guardian.
“He has found me again,” the leszy says.
The man nods, and walks closer. The leszy can tell by his movements that he is different than he used to be. No longer human, perhaps. It’s a strange thing to observe, since it happens rarely, but it does happen, every now and then. And so he accepts it, as he accepts the changing of the land, the changing of all things.
“I am leaving soon on an errand from Baba Jaga,” the man says. “But before I go, I came to test your bow again, if you’re willing.”
The leszy tilts his head.
“The fern flower won’t bloom for several months,” he says. “And he will no longer be able to pick it, even so.”
“This is just a friendly contest, my lord leszy,” the man says. “I no longer have need of the fern flower.”
The leszy considers this for a moment.
“Oh,” he says at last. “Then let me make a target.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My mother and her three siblings came to this country as children and built a good home for the next generation here. I’m grateful to my grandparents for making that journey with four children in tow, and to my aunts, uncles, and cousins for suffusing my childhood with love, honesty, and good humor, even though our contingent lived across the country from the rest. Special thanks to my uncle Stan for helping me with my Polish and being so encouraging about this story, and to my mother for singing “Gdy się Chrystus rodzi” to me when I was young. I can hear her voice when I read the words.
Thank you:
My editor, Lindsey Hall, for being so enthusiastic about all my ideas, the weird ones and the less-weird ones alike. Her notes made this novella a lot stronger (and bloodier). Joanna Volpe, my agent, who continues to be a rock-solid advocate and friend. Jordan Hill, trusted support, without whom I surely would have lost my mind.
Kristin Dwyer and Sarah Reidy for their publicity expertise and strategic minds; and a special shout-out to Kristin for excellent gifs and that one drive we took without car keys across southern Illinois.
I work with a truly wonderful team at Tor, and I’m so grateful for them all. For getting my book Out There in every way: Rachel Taylor, Emily Mlynek, Eileen Lawrence, Stephanie Sirabian, Megan Barnard, Andrew Beasley, Becky Yeager, and Yvonne Ye. For getting my books in fine shape to read: Dakota Griffin, Rafal Gibek, Jim Kapp. For making it absolutely drop-dead gorgeous: Heather Saunders, Katie Klimowicz, and Eleonor Piteira (who doesn’t work at Tor, but whose art graces this cover). For turning Crows into a wonderful audiobook: Elishia Merricks, Claire Beyette, Isabella Navarez, Chrissy Farell, Tim Campbell, James Fouhey, and Helen Laser. For keeping the entire machine running smoothly: Lucille Rettino, Will Hinton, Claire Eddy, Michelle Foytek, Alex Cameron, Rebecca Naimon, Erin Robinson, and Lizzy Hosty. Aislyn Fredsall, for keeping all my many ducks in a row. And of course, Devi Pillai, my publisher, who does not fear the nerds, but loves them (and is them).
New Leaf Literary does great work for my books and books in general, and I am especially grateful to Lindsay Howard, Tracy Williams, Keifer Ludwig, Sarah Gerton, Hilary Pecheone, Eileen Lalley, Kim Rogers, Joe Volpe, Donna Yee, and Gabby Benjamin for that work. Also Pouya Shahbazian and Katherine Curtis, for continuing to find homes for my various projects in the film world, and Goddezz Figueroa for being a pleasure to schedule with. #
Adele Gregory-Yao, for keeping me organized (insofar as such a thing is possible) and engaged with the stuff that isn’t writing. Bless you, as I often say in the gchat.
A few readers gave me special help as I reached outside my comfort zone for this book, including Dill Werner, Ennis Bashe, Rafal Gibek (yes, again!), and Magdalena Beata Chuchro. Thank you so much for the thoughtful feedback you offered during the writing process.
Courtney, S, Maurene, Sarah, Zan, Laurie, Kaitlin, Amy, Kate, Michelle, Kara, Margie, Diya, Jen, Morgan, and all the other writers in my life who make this job feel less lonely. All the authors who read this book early and offered supportive quotes, who are wonderful. My friends who aren’t writers, who patiently let me explain this completely bananas industry to them on the regular. My family—Rydzes (and Rydz-adjacents), Roths, Rockoviches, Rosses, and Fitches (and Fitch-adjacents)—who support me always.
Years ago, I got to go to Poland to meet readers there, and their excitement to learn that I shared a common ancestry with them is what made me feel okay with exploring it, even though I’m a generation removed. I took some creative license, of course, but know that I’m glad to share these delightful monsters with you. Dziękuję.
Am I gonna thank The Witcher 3 for getting me excited about Slavic folklore in a new way? Yeah, I guess I am!
ALSO BY VERONICA ROTH
Arch-Conspirator
Chosen Ones
Poster Girl
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
VERONICA ROTH (she/her) is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Divergent series (Divergent, Insurgent, Allegiant, and Four: A Divergent Collection), the Carve the Mark duology (Carve the Mark, The Fates Divide), The End and Other Beginnings collection of short fiction, Chosen Ones, Arch-Conspirator, and many short stories and essays. She lives in Chicago. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
1. A Prelude
2. A Late Showing
3. A Red Line
4. A Valuable Ingredient
5. A Murder Most Foul
6. An Interlude
7. A Deal Reneged
8. A Secret Told
9. A Knight of the Holy Order
10. A Trade
11. A Promise Kept
12. A Monster’s Death
Acknowledgments
Also by Veronica Roth
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novella are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WHEN AMONG CROWS
Copyright © 2024 by Veronica Roth
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Eleonor Piteira
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates / Tor Publishing Group
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New York, NY 10271
www.torpublishinggroup.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-85548-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-85549-7 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250855497
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First Edition: 2024
Veronica Roth, When Among Crows
