Page 24 of When Among Crows
Dymitr snorts. “I can handle it, thanks.”
“Hmm.” He turns off the faucet and takes a paper towel from the dispenser. He doesn’t ask for permission, exactly, but he moves slowly enough for Dymitr to pull away as he wraps the paper towel around Dymitr’s wounded hand and squeezes, gently, to dry it. Their eyes meet and Niko sees them in the mirror in his periphery, Dymitr an inch or two shorter, their shoulders almost touching, Dymitr’s sudden intake of breath. And then Dymitr stepping away.
“You’ve stopped trying to provoke me,” Dymitr says. He flips the toilet seat lid down so he can sit on it. Niko passes him the first aid kit, and then faces the sink himself with a toothbrush in hand. He needs to get the taste of crow blood out of his mouth.
“As a general rule, I don’t feel the need to antagonize people,” Niko says. “There’s plenty of anger in the world already. But it can be interesting to see how people react.”
He sticks the toothbrush in his mouth to stop himself from saying more. Dymitr opens the first aid kit on his lap and starts an assembly line of wound-tending: antiseptic, gauze, tape. He binds his third finger and pinkie together, like a splint.
Niko spits pinkish toothpaste into the sink and rinses out his mouth. Then he tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it into the trash can beside him. It’s a lost cause.
He can feel Dymitr’s eyes on him, but he pretends not to notice. This intimacy is flowing too fast, too much, and if Niko doesn’t stop himself, he’ll drink it all down at once until there’s nothing left.
“Why do your own people fear you?” Dymitr asks, and it’s not the first time he’s asked, but it’s different now. They’re alone.
Niko scrubs his hands using the lavender-scented hand soap.
“Male strzygi are rare, and they’re sterile,” Niko says. “I don’t know why that matters, but it seems to. Their sterility makes our leadership feel they’reexpendable.” He digs his fingernails into the lines of his hand. “So at any given time, my people designate one strzygon to serve as zemsta.”
“Zemsta,” Dymitr says, with more ease than Niko himself says it. “Retribution?”
Niko nods. He stays focused on his task, cleaning the dried blood from his cuticle beds.
“Bound to pursue vengeance against the Holy Order on behalf of all strzygi,” Niko explains. “I’d call it a job, but that word implies choice. My predecessor—my cousin Feliks—died a few years ago. Struck down by a Knight, as we all are, eventually. And then the duty fell to me.”
“You hunt the Holy Order, only?”
“It’s not in my best interest to kill humans, given that they’re my food source,” Niko says with a sly smile. A testing smile, to see if Dymitr will be alarmed—smiling tends to bring out what’s strange about him. But Dymitr meets his eyes without apparent difficulty. “When someone targets innocents among my people, then yes. I hunt them. And I think the world is better for it.”
“I’m not inclined to disagree,” Dymitr replies. “Is that why Sha said you’d ‘already paid’?”
“Yes,” Niko says. “Sha feels I’ve given enough forcreaturekind,and can expect… what does she call it? ‘Basic kindness.’” He tries to say it like it’s a joke, but it makes his throat ache a little, and it doesn’t come out right.
But Dymitr only nods, and says, “How do you know who to pursue?”
“People come to me with names,” Niko says. “I investigate. And then…” He draws the tip of his thumb across his throat. “I’m better at it than Feliks was. Better than most, I think. And the debt that all strzygi owe me, at all times, means I can always do magic. Which means I will always be more powerful than they are. And that makes them nervous.” He shrugs. “Though to be honest, I didn’t fit in with them that well before I became their vengeance, either.”
“Why not?”
“A story for another time,” Niko says. He bends at the waist to splash water on his face, to scrub crow blood out from the corners of his mouth and the underside of his chin. When he straightens, Dymitr is hovering behind him, his hand now bandaged, holding a paper towel.
“If you can always do magic, you could have stopped them before they demanded my fingernail,” Dymitr says, a hint of accusation in his voice.
“I could have.” Niko suppresses a smile. “But I was interested to see if you would give it. Someone who would do that to help one of us…” He shrugs. “Says a lot about you.”
Rolling his eyes, Dymitr reaches for Niko—to dab asmear of blood on the side of his neck with the paper towel he’s holding.
“You missed a spot,” Dymitr says. “Sorry.”
Niko turns and perches on the edge of the sink, looking up at Dymitr. He’s standing a little too close, and Niko feels it again, the temptation to take, and take, and take.
“You don’t know me,” Dymitr says quietly. Apropos of nothing, Niko thinks, except what they aren’t saying. “Why are you helping me?”
“I know more than you think,” Niko says. Powerless to stop himself, he hooks his fingers through Dymitr’s belt loops and tugs him a few inches closer.
“I know you’re not afraid,” Niko says. “Which is strange, for a mortal, given that I’m actually rather dangerous.” He expects this to compel another roll of Dymitr’s eyes, but Dymitr receives it with complete solemnity. And perhaps that’s fitting. Niko really is dangerous.
He taps Dymitr’s sternum with his free hand. “And I know there’s a deep well of rage in you. I can feel it, like a prickle down my spine.”
