Page 27 of When Among Crows
“Never thank me,” he replies, and it’s as if her gratitude is so distasteful to him that he can’t bear it a moment longer, because he stands and walks out without another word. Ala stares at the chair he just left, puzzled.
He’s just told her more about himself than she ever thought he would, but she still feels like she’s missing the most important things.
Ala is the last to arrive in the lobby of the hospice center ten minutes later. Niko, standing by the door, wears a T-shirt he got from the lost and found, one with three wolves and a moon on it, and he’s not looking at Dymitr. Dymitr, closer to the withering fiddle-leaf fig tree next to the front desk, is shrugging on his jacket, and he’s not looking at Niko. Sha, her hair now bound back with black ribbon, is marveling at them both like they’re a fireworks display.
“Weird vibes coming from both of you,” Ala comments, and she realizes she’s just like her mother, unable to bear other people’s pretending.
“Contrary to what you’ve been told, acknowledging it doesn’t make it less awkward,” Niko says briskly, and he spins his car keys around his finger as he leads the way out of the building.
It’s late afternoon, and the air is cool, though the deepgold of the setting sun hints at summer. Ala used to love the long days of summer, the heat radiating from the sidewalks; the overgrown grass in all the lawns, irrepressible; the clash of bad music from all the bars in Wrigleyville with their doors and windows wide open. The curse took all that from her, making her dread the day, turning winter into a refuge.
“I wish you luck,” Sha says to them, nodding to Dymitr and Ala in turn. Niko kisses her cheek, and holds his face there for a moment to say something in her ear. She pats the side of his head, and as she turns, a glimmer—not of light, but of a feather. Ala glances at Sha’s shoes, wondering if the rumors of shedim having rooster feet are true. But then, half the rumors about zmory aren’t true, either.
“Thank you for your help,” Ala forces herself to say, though she’s as awkward with gratitude as she is with apologies. And greetings. And introductions.
“Thank Nicky. I did it for him,” Sha tosses over her shoulder as she walks back into the hospice center, serene as ever. And then it’s just the three of them again.
They find Niko’s beat-up Jeep at the far end of the parking lot. Dymitr climbs into the back, where his bow and quiver wait for him. Ala brings the passenger seat back a little too soon, hitting him in the knees.
“Ow!” he says.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she replies.
His hand darts out and he flicks the tip of her ear. She claps a hand over it, glaring at him. But it was so childish that she can’t help but laugh.
“Settle down, children,” Niko says, and he starts the engine.
Ala unzips her window as they drive toward the lake, and Niko reaches into the center console to retrieve a CD. She catches a glimpse of it as he slides it into the player: Jimi Hendrix,Electric Ladyland. He skips ahead to the fifteenth track, “All Along the Watchtower,” and turns up the volume. The wind is picking up as they draw closer to the lake.
Ala is surprised to see Dymitr’s lips moving, singing along. Ala lets her hand dangle out of the car, her fingers blown apart by the wind.
Niko is singing, too, his voice harsh and toneless. With a sigh, Ala joins in.
They’re on Lake Shore Drive now, and the waves lap up against the rocky shore, against the boats in the marina. The bike paths and parks expand and contract on their right side as they drive, the buildings on their left shrinking down to just a few stories the farther they go. The feats of architecture that make up the city’s downtown are just distant giants in the rearview. Niko exits at Lawrence Avenue, and turns down the music.
“My mother took me to meet her once, Baba Jaga,” he says as they drive under an awning of trees, their leaves just uncurling. “Uptown Theatre isn’t where she lives, but it’s somewhere she seems to have a… presence. We just have to hope she’s curious enough about us to want to meet us.”
“The fern flower should help with that,” Ala says.
“And the nature ofhisgrievance,” Niko says, jabbinghis thumb back in Dymitr’s direction. Ala notices that he doesn’t meet Dymitr’s eyes in the mirror.
Niko turns on Broadway, then pulls a wide—and illegal—U-turn to drive down a side street, where he wedges the Jeep between a sagging pickup truck with a rusted bumper and a beige Prius with one tire up on the curb. He leads them to the trunk, where there’s a long, heavy wooden box about the size of a tool chest. There’s a keyhole in the top—he flips the car key around the key ring to get to the old-fashioned metal one he keeps there, and unlocks the box.
Ala lets out a low whistle, standing on her tiptoes to see over his shoulder. The box contains a variety of weapons, though from the outside it doesn’t look large enough for any of them. Swords, mostly, though there are arrows, too, and a few smaller blades. Niko takes out his favorite, a falchion with a gently curved blade and a sharp, tapered point. He rummages in the box for the sheath.
“So what do you do if your car gets stolen?” she says.
“Enchanted box. Bigger inside than it is outside, for one thing. But also, after a while, it would find its way back to me. In London I left it under a hotel bed, and the concierge brought it to me in a daze while I was at a sidewalk cafe. Seemed confused about how he’d gotten there or why.”
“Clever,” Ala says, as if such a thing were commonplace. Most strzygi—most zmory, too, for that matter—wouldn’t be able to perform that kind of magic. Either he had help with it, or the constant supply of magic afforded to him by the duty he bears puts that enchantment within his grasp; she’s not sure.
Dymitr runs his fingers over the wood with a wondering look in his eyes. Not as familiar with enchantments, then, Ala thinks. And why would he be? Witches are dangerous enough to deal with when you’re a strzygon; a human wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Can I borrow one?” Ala asks.
“Take your pick. I’m not precious about them,” Niko says. He glances at Dymitr. “Arrows?”
Dymitr nods. “Please.”
