Page 39 of Sanctuary

Silence.

If you don’t help me, the boy will perish. She will be angrier.

An image of the fir tree abandoned in the snow appeared before him.

Yes, fine, I will drag the tree.

The unfathomable power that was Chernobog reached out and touched him.

Roman was back on the porch. Power filled him, spreading from him like a dark mantle. It coalesced, and he felt the familiar weight of Chernobog’s spiked crown on his brow.

Finn, who had doubled over, jerked up straight with a startled gasp.

Roman was Darkness, eternal and ever-changing. The end of all things. The Final Cold.

The beast sighted him. It took one massive step forward.

The words dropped from Roman’s lips:

“CHERNOBOSHE, LORD OF NAV, MY GOD, AID ME IN MY HOUR OF NEED.”

A black bow appeared in his hands. He drew it, and a black arrow formed in his fingers, sizzling with power.

Roman fired.

The arrow sliced into the creature, ridiculously small, a needle piercing a giant.

There were few absolute truths in the universe, and yet one of them always endured, for it was woven into the very existence of reality: change was constant. From the moment the Universe was Born, it began to Decay. And Chernobog was the personification of that Decay.

The arrow sank into the creature. A brown stain spread from the wound.

The beast jerked and fell apart, collapsing into gobs of putrid flesh. Chunks of its body rained down, disintegrating into dust as they fell. Another moment, and there was nothing left. Only the empty yard.

At the mouth of the driveway, the Vasylisa cut the warrior’s head off his shoulders. It bounced and rolled to her feet.

The mercenaries fled. This was no structured retreat; no, they turned and ran, a pack of panicked human animals fleeing for their lives, down the driveway and out of sight.

Everything was still.

Roman let go of the bow. It hung in the empty air for a moment and then dissipated like the fragments of a nightmare.

The Vasylisa stepped over the dead warrior’s head and strode to the porch. He watched her come. Her magic was a muted light, hidden now, drawn inward. She was in her late twenties, half a foot shorter than him, and moved lightly on her feet. She was like a snowdrop flower that bloomed through a snowdrift in the bitter cold: strong, beautiful, captivating.

She walked up the steps and looked at the crown still on his head. Her eyes were very blue.

Suddenly he realized he stood in front of her in a torn, stained sweatshirt, old sweatpants, and Eeyore slippers.

“You invoked.”

“I had to.”

“There will be hell to pay.”

She knew. No surprise there. The Wise Vasylisas knew a lot of things. All of the gods talked to them, for the Vasylisas were their instrument for preserving balance. Perhaps Morena had told her.

“It’s not the first time,” he told her.

“But this time it’s because of my family.”

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