Blessed Monsters Read online

  Serefin woke to the taste of blood in his mouth and a pounding headache. He was soaked to his skin and freezing. His disorientation lasted only long enough for him to open his eye. He immediately closed it, pretending to be asleep.

  All this time in Kalyazin and now they had been captured by highway thieves? It would be funny if it weren’t so damn sad.

  The cords that bound his ankles and wrists were too tight and his extremities felt fuzzy from the lack of circulation. Uncomfortable, but not the end of the world. The weight of his signet ring remained on his little finger, a massive relief. Why hadn’t the girl taken it, if she was that desperate?

  Of course, if she was that desperate, he would be dead on the road, not tied up and left out in the wet snow to gather water in his ears.

  He almost tried to sit up, better to get this over with, but he heard the low murmur of voices and decided to wait this one out.

  As he listened, he became increasingly disappointed. The chatter was utterly useless. One of the girls was lamenting about a girl she’d left behind in her village and she was being thoroughly teased for it. Serefin sighed internally. So much for these being Kalyazi agents of war. He had been certain everything they’d been avoiding since the mountain was catching up with them, but maybe not. These were just tired Kalyazi thieves who wanted to make a few quick coins off some boys on the road.

  Though that didn’t explain why they had been taken alive.

  * * *

  He opened his eye a slit. It wasn’t yet dark.

  “It was all well and good to spend your nights gossiping like babas when we were in Dovribinski,” the girl who’d threatened him said, “but if you keep this up, you’re going to bring the whole wood down on our heads and we’re in kashyvhes country.”

  “Kashyvhes country,” one of the men said derisively. “You and your children’s stories, Olya.”

  “I won’t pray around your tent tonight, then,” Olya said blandly. “You can go without any blessings. I’m not sure they would hold anyway—blessings aren’t like flies, you know, they don’t stick to shit.”

  The whole group erupted into jeers, and Serefin couldn’t help but feel nervous. He knew how dangerous these woods could be, and he didn’t particularly want to be visited by a striczki while he was hog-tied on the damn ground.

  “I thought I told Tsezar to put the Tranavians in a tent,” Olya said, sounding tired, annoyed, and disgusted all at once, which Serefin thought was rather impressive.

  “Why should they get a dry canvas over their heads?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Because I don’t want them dead,” Olya replied wearily. “And the pale one looks like he’s ready to drop at any second. Put them both in the tent. Baba Zhikovnya can decide if they’re worth anything.”

  There was the sound of someone spitting. Then the hard smack of flesh as, presumably, Olya smacked the spitter.

  “I didn’t come here to deal in your witch flesh trade,” a man said.

  “Go back to your starving village then, Stepan, and see if I care,” Olya snapped. “Get them inside.”

  Serefin chewed on the inside of his lip, thinking. He could draw enough blood and—

  He sighed. He was thinking like a blood mage and that wouldn’t do him any good. He still had something, could feel some power under his skin, but maybe that was Velyos’ work. He didn’t want to rely on Velyos for anything.

  “You may have to,” Velyos said pointedly.

  Why couldn’t the god have gone away when he’d torn out his eye?

  “Because that was you breaking the connection with Chyrnog, mostly. And with me, but I had you in a different way than he did. It’s fine, I’m not offended. I got what I wanted.”

  And what did you want? Serefin’s curiosity won out.

  Velyos had wanted to wake other fallen gods who had been banished like him, for vengeance, but what did that mean?

  Was the death of that goddess part of your plan?

  “I am not saddened to see her go. I expected to take a more direct route for her death, I was not expecting the Vulture to do it for me.”

  You feel sadness?

  “No.”

  Serefin shifted his shoulders, attempting to relieve some of the tension in them.

  “What I want is simple, and you have essentially given it to me. Me and my ilk were banished, and I wanted that undone. I wanted my revenge on Marzenya for the banishment, and she is dead.”

  What about Chyrnog?

  “Well, I can’t say that his goals and mine align.”

  Serefin felt a chill. What does he want?

  “The death of the sun, of the world, renewal.”

  Serefin pressed his head down into the dirt a little more. What had he done?

  But … couldn’t the gods not work without mortal intervention? Maybe all was not lost. Maybe the god hadn’t found a human to claim. Serefin would have to hold to that.

  He wanted to go home but running was useless. Everything would catch up to him. These problems wouldn’t stay localized in Kalyazin, and it would fall on Tranavia all the faster because his was the country of heretics.

  “I’m so proud. You’re finally catching on!”

  This is all your fault, Serefin thought morosely.

  “I wanted freedom and Marzenya to pay. I have those things and I am now content to watch.”

  Serefin frowned. But what about the vision? What about the ash and blood and … and …

  “The burning?”

  It seemed then like you were giving me a warning.

  “A warning of the inevitable, perhaps.”

  Serefin withdrew, building a wall between himself and the god. Velyos wanted this chaos, and there was no trusting this god to point him in a direction that wouldn’t be catastrophic. Surely something could be done, but Serefin wasn’t going to figure out what from a god.

  He didn’t know the havoc the fallen gods were wreaking, but it couldn’t be good, and he would hear about it soon enough.

  If he survived this, of course.

  But if gods could be set free, that meant they could be bound. What if they could be bound again? The Kalyazi would have thoughts about that, but their precious gods would turn on them soon, and they’d see it was the only way.

  Though he supposed he shouldn’t expect them all to be as rational as Nadya.

  Olya finally wandered over, loosening the ropes on Serefin’s wrists.

  “You’re already out an eye,” she said. “You don’t need to be out both your hands as well.”

  “Oh, all the better for me to hold the hilt of the blade you’ll kill me with?” Serefin replied cheerfully.

  “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” she said dryly as she moved back to the others.

  But he was able to work his way into a sitting position and inch over to Kacper, who eyed him with some bemusement.

  “You have a type,” Kacper noted.

  “I’m not going to like where this is going, am I?”

  “Your type is girls who could very easily kill you and definitely want to.”

  “And pretty boys who are nice to me,” Serefin finished for him. “And would also like to kill me.”

  Kacper made a thoughtful, vaguely disbelieving sound, but grinned. “My life would be much easier with you dead.”

  “Are you allowed to say that about your ki—?”

  Kacper elbowed him hard. He wheezed.

  “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “I better be,” Kacper muttered. A flicker of worry crossed his face. “Am I?”

  “Obviously.” He slumped against Kacper’s shoulder, tilting his head to kiss his neck. “You can do whatever you want. Within reason.”

  “Oh.”

  “No coups, please.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself, but no promises.”

  Serefin laughed softly.

  “You’ll be a good king,” Kacper said softly, so softly Serefin wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear it.


  Serefin’s face heated. He didn’t know if Kacper was right. It was something Serefin had never thought he was allowed to want, never mind that he was the prince. He was supposed to die on a battlefield in Kalyazin.

  “I hope so,” Serefin whispered, because that was all he had. A fragile thread of hope that he wouldn’t die in the kingdom of his enemies and could pull his country out of the mess they had found themselves in—so much of it his fault.

  The evening twilight cast the wood in a strange, dim light, and Serefin had a terrible feeling they were being dragged into the forest they had already escaped. He could feel it gnawing at his edges, the awareness of a greater force that wanted to take him apart again.

  “Olya, look at this,” one of the thieves called across the camp. She was inspecting a tree, holding a torch close to the bark, a frown on her face.

  Olya got up with exaggerated exasperation, but her expression changed as she inspected the tree.

  “Keep away from it,” she warned. “I don’t like it.”

  “What is it?” the girl asked.

  Olya shook her head.

  “If you dragged us all the way out here to be eaten by witch magic…” One of the other thieves grumbled.

  “Shut up, Stepan,” Olya snapped, but she sounded rattled.

  Serefin and Kacper exchanged a glance.

  Olya turned, her gaze lighting on the two Tranavian boys. Her eyes narrowed. She gestured to a nearby Kalyazi, who hauled Serefin to his feet and shoved him in the direction of the tree.

  “You don’t have to be so handsy,” Serefin protested. “Buy me a drink first.” But his heart fell when he saw what they’d discovered in the eerie dim.

  Something was eating the trees alive. Like mold, a black infection creeping along the bark and worming its way deeper. After peering too long, Serefin was overwhelmed with the sudden desire to plunge his hand in. He was oddly grateful his wrists were tied.

  “Were any of the trees we passed on the way like this?” Olya asked the girl.

  She shook her head, eyeing Serefin.

  “I’m not sure why you’ve brought me over,” he said serenely.

  “You’re a blood mage with a godstouched eye,” Olya replied, her voice flat.

  Serefin froze, stomach clenching. His fingers twitched uselessly, wanting to cover his eye.

  “Untie my hands,” he said.

  “You think me a fool?” Olya replied evenly.

  He didn’t. In fact, he was beginning to think she was much more than a simple thief. Serefin was infinitely tired of bossy, magic-touched Kalyazi girls.

  “How do you expect me to—” He was interrupted when a choir of screams rang through the trees. A cacophonous echo, surrounding them. A thousand terrified screeches.

  A bird, large and black, thudded to the ground at their feet, a scream tearing through it before it cut off, silenced and dead.

  Serefin swallowed hard, dread coiling through him as he lifted his gaze to where hundreds of birds perched in the tree branches.

  All of them screaming.

  * * *

  The group lost three quarters of their members that night. They argued for hours about acrid mold and screaming, dying birds. Olya wearily attempted to explain that they were nowhere near Tachilvnik; the horrors of the deep wood could not travel this far.

  Serefin kept the truth to himself. The rush of old power, dark magic, ravenous and mad, sweeping past them. Clawing and biting and so very, very hungry.

  Instead, he leaned against Kacper, resting his head on his shoulder, and listened to them argue. Most left, complaining of cursed magic and muttering how nothing good could ever come from treating with Tranavian demons, even if they were tied up. Only the girl, an old man, and a boy about Serefin’s age—twitchy in a shadowy way that reminded Serefin of Malachiasz—stayed.

  The boy was excited about the horror, in an unsettling, morbid way. Olya took his enthusiasm with weary patience, as if used to it.

  “The witches will have an explanation,” was all she said.

  “It’s not witch magic,” the boy insisted. He had the look of the people from the very north of Kalyazin. Straight black hair tied back but still managing to hang in his face, and narrow dark eyes.

  Serefin tilted his head slightly to glance up at Kacper, who was frowning.

  Olya crouched down, poking a dead bird with a stick.

  “It’s not blood magic either,” she replied, casting a look at Serefin and Kacper.

  Serefin shrugged. He was trying his best not to think about the screams still ringing in his head.

  Chyrnog was gone. Serefin wanted to be relieved, but he didn’t know where he had ended up, and so long as his dreams were tainted by a massive doorway and arms and hands, grasping, clawing at him, he would worry.

  “The witches will know,” Olya said. “The witches have to know.”

  “When did it become witches, plural?” Kacper asked, voice soft.

  Serefin shook his head. “This might not be the worst situation for us to be in.”

  He could feel Kacper’s incredulity and he didn’t particularly want to explain with the Kalyazi in earshot. He sighed.

  “Magic,” he whispered.

  Kacper rolled his eyes. “Magic is what got us into this mess.”

  “And magic will get us out.”

  6

  NADEZHDA LAPTEVA

  Marzenya has gone silent. I cut my palms, I bleed over her altars, I weep. There is nothing. She does not care. She will let this world burn.

  —Passage from the personal journals of Sofka Greshneva

  Nadya was startled by how cold it was when she left the farmhouse. But of course it was cold. Nothing had changed.

  What happened when a god died—was murdered? Would Marzenya’s domains—magic and winter and death—change anywhere else, or only Kalyazin? How much power did the gods have over the world, truly?

  Nadya had no answers, and she was beginning to wonder if she should stop looking for them. That was what had gotten her in this mess to begin with. If she had gone with Anna to Komyazalov instead of Grazyk, how much would be different? She wouldn’t be dreading the capital; she knew that much. She wouldn’t feel the icy chill of fear grasping at her spine at the mere thought of the seat of the church and the Matriarch.

  She had never met the Matriarch. Magdalena Fedoseyeva, the head of the Church, the mouthpiece through which the gods touched the world now that the world had no clerics. Or maybe she had—she had been to Komyazalov once, when she was so young she could barely remember it. She didn’t think that really counted. But the Church was hiding things from her. They were afraid of her. It wasn’t a difficult leap to realize all signs pointed to the Matriarch.

  Would she know what Nadya had done? That Marzenya was dead? That Nadya had failed so utterly as Kalyazin’s cleric?

  She didn’t want to find out.

  Nadya wasn’t running away—though she did consider it—when she wandered out of the small village and into the woods. A part of her never wanted to step into thickly wooded terrain again, but she wanted someplace where peace was a guarantee. Where no one would stare at her hand and ask questions. She wanted … to test a theory.

  She didn’t know for certain how many fallen gods were free. Katya—while knowledgeable—gave vague responses when asked, making it clear she didn’t know, either. Fine with Nadya. The tsarevna already had too much power over her and she didn’t want to give her anything more that could be used against her. She knew the mistakes she had made; she knew her list of crimes had grown since fleeing the monastery.

  She didn’t trust Katya. Maybe it was uncharitable, but the tsarevna had spent her life hunting Vultures and studying the occult only to meet Nadya—a girl, who was supposed to be divine, dabbling in darkness and leading the worst of the Vultures, the boy she loved, to the seat of the gods. Nadya’s intentions didn’t matter, to Katya it was her fault Marzenya was dead, because Nadya had given Malachiasz the chance to strike.
/>   But not going to Katya meant Nadya had no idea how many gods existed outside the twenty she had devoted her life to. It was an uncomfortable thought. A frozen bite of wind raced around her, spinning dead leaves through the air, as she ran her hand down her prayer beads. Useless. Nothing but a wooden necklace with sentimental value. Her grief slammed into her, and she considered not going back.

  What if she kept walking? Past Komyazalov, past the far western border, to Česke Zin or Rumenovać. Somewhere no one would know her name or her story. Somewhere her gods had different faces and names and it wouldn’t matter, so much, that she had once been able to talk to them and still failed.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  She jumped at the nearby voice. Perched on a rotten tree stump was a figure cloaked in black, with hair like the depths of an acrid swamp. Their skin was sallow, lips thin, eyes large and dark and impossibly sad.

  “Ljubica,” Nadya said.

  “Hello, little cleric.” The fallen god grinned, revealing sharp teeth—like those of a poisonous fish.

  “Not a cleric.”

  “Not a cleric, not a witch, not divine, not mortal.” Ljubica rolled their eyes. “What are you?”

  “Not interested in playing these games.”

  “Not fun!”

  Nadya pressed her lips together. She had come here to try to commune with one of the fallen gods, but she was realizing this was another impulsive mistake to add to her tidy collection. This would only pull her further into this nightmare. All she wanted was to escape. To wake up.

  She wanted Malachiasz and Marzenya to not be dead.

  What she wanted did not matter.

  She moved past Ljubica’s tree stump. After a beat, Ljubica let out an irritated huff and their footsteps crunched through the leaves after her.

  Heavy footfalls for a god, Nadya thought absently. She had no idea what Ljubica was the god of. She also didn’t understand why she could see them. That’s not how this worked.

  “You have a mortal form,” Nadya observed.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it? I’m quite fond of it. It could be different. What will get you to truly talk to me, I wonder?” The figure in Nadya’s peripheral vision changed. Blond and freckled with full, red lips. “No?” Ljubica spun in front of Nadya, forcing her to stop.