Page 76 of Cry of the Firebird

That is…new. The firebird didn't sound nearly as confident. Yvan studied his hands. They weren't burned, but he could still feel the tingling aftershock of the firebird's power riding him.

"It's something we have to get control of if it's going to be useful," Yvan said, curiosity getting the better of him. Yvan held up his hands and focused on getting a small flame to burn in his palm.

Out of his three brothers, Yvan was the most average. Vasilli had his magic; Dimitri had his brute strength, and Yvan had to rely on his wits and swiftness to out-match them. Now he had magic and wasn't sure what to do with it or how to control it. If he could learn how to harness it, he could better protect Anya and himself. He was still having nightmares about Vasilli's vicious thorns killing her slowly and painfully while he stood there, unable to help her.

I find it interesting that you have nightmares over something that didn't happen with the shamanitsa, but you don't even dream of the death of your wife. I can feel the pain of her betrayal deep with you, prince. The grief.

Before the firebird had finished, Yvan was burning. Flames licked out from his skin as the magic reacted to his anger.

"Never speak of my wife again," Yvan hissed. The firebird didn't have a chance to berate him as a different pulse of magic hit him in the chest, driving the air from his lungs and setting his nerves tingling. "What the hell was that?"

That was Anya's power. Quickly, prince, before it's too late!

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Anya stood in an ancient forest, the smell of decaying leaf litter and earth hanging heavy in the air like smog.

"Damn it, not again," she muttered.

Since Baba Zosia had torn apart what was left of Anya's memory spell, she was dreaming so vividly that she wasn't sure if it was memories or her own imagination. Trajan had been able to help her sort through some of them, but the lack of restful sleep was leaving her exhausted.

Anya looked up at the branches above her, and the leaves weren't moving. There was no breeze, no sounds of birds or animals. Careful not to make too much noise, she walked softly, searching for a path.

The trees were eerie, covered in moss and shadow, so when Anya saw a patch of sunlight, she ran for it. The pine and birch trees thinned out to reveal a large clearing and a small cottage built of stone and wood. Smoke was drifting up from the chimney, and well-tended gardens filled with vegetables, flowers, and herbs surrounded the building.

"In the middle of the big dark forest lived an evil witch," Anya whispered as she approached.

As soon as Anya placed one foot on the house steps, the door opened, and a woman stepped out, a sword raised high and pointed directly at her.

"Hello. I don't mean you any harm," Anya said quickly, her arms raised in surrender. The sword didn't lower as a pair of piercing, angry green eyes stared at her. She knew those eyes and the silver hair held back in a messy braid.

"Who are you?" they both asked at once.

"My name is Yanka, and you are trespassing on my land," the woman hissed, wearing Anya's famous 'fuck off' glare.

"Shit. I'm Anya. I think, I mean I am… I'm your granddaughter about five times over," she answered quickly, edging back from the sword point.

After a long ten seconds, Yanka sheathed her sword and studied her with narrowed eyes. Yanka only looked around thirty-five years old to Anya's reckoning, a scar running along her neck to her collarbone.

"What are you doing here?" Yanka finally asked.

"I'm dreaming."

"This isn't the Land of Dreaming. It's the Land of the Dead," Yanka said with a shake of her head.

Anya's heart tripped. "I think I would know if I was dead."

"Would you? I didn't. I thought I was dreaming too when I came to this place. I'm still waiting to wake up."

"I'm not dead," Anya repeated, needing to believe it.

"You hope." Yanka folded her pale, scarred arms and then pulled the sleeves of her dress down to hide them from Anya's gaze.

"I need a drink," she said before turning back towards the door. "Wipe your feet."

Anya followed her through the shadowy hallway and into a kitchen. It was similar to the one she had back at the farm, withwooden cupboards and benches along one wall, a pine table, and a cast-iron stove.

Yanka wore a simple woolen dress and a soft leather girdle pressed with intricate designs. Anya watched her as she opened a cupboard and brought out a large jar of violet liquid.

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