Page 20 of To Clutch a Razor
“Bad luck for you.” The wieszczy’s upper lip curls, revealing too much tooth. Her incisors are pointed, a little jagged at the ends. Good for rending flesh, he supposes.
“I get by,” he says.
“If I do this, I’ll have to flee,” the wieszczy says. “I can’t live here anymore.”
“Then I suppose it’s up to you to decide how much you love this place and the life you’ve made here,” Niko says, shrugging. “If you help me, you’ll no longer be shunned by my people. You can seek refuge with them in the city, if you like. And you will attain some small amount ofredemption for what you did. Only you can say how much that’s worth to you.”
Niko watches her for a moment. He knows of magic that can tug her in one direction or another, but he doesn’t think he’ll need it here. He thinks she’ll agree all on her own.
When she doesn’t respond for a few long seconds, he stands, and pushes his chair in. A newspaper slides off the table and onto the dirty tile floor. The wieszczy sets her mug down on the counter, still mostly full of dark red tea. He nods to her, and makes his way to the door.
“I’ll do it,” she says, when he turns the knob.
He smiles to himself.
It takes fifteen minutes of walking to get rid of the smell of old milk from his nose, and even then, he can’t quite lose it. He steps into a cafe to breathe in the scent of coffee and orders a cappuccino, which he drinks at the blue table outside, his sunglasses still on though it’s far too dark for that now.
He’s just considering whether he wants to stick his finger into the cup to get the last bits of foam from the bottom when he looks up… and sees Dymitr walking down the street.
Niko stops, the cup still in hand. Dymitr stops. Beside him, Ala stops.
For a moment, they’re all still. Niko’s mind is floodedwith questions. But he can’t ask any of them, not here, not in full view of the street. He stands, leaving his coffee cup behind, and nods toward the nearest side street. It’s almost as tight as an alley, hemmed in on either side by white stucco buildings with rust-colored metal fences. Somewhere nearby, a dog is barking.
Niko takes off his sunglasses and hooks them over his shirt collar. Dymitr is there in front of him, with the same air of mild neglect that he usually has, his clothes creased and his hair disheveled. As ever, Niko has the urge to smooth down his edges and piece him back together. But he keeps his hands to himself.
Ala lingers a few steps behind him, looking uncertain. Uneven.
“What are you doing here?” Dymitr says quietly, in English. Demands, really, because there’s urgency in his voice, in his eyes.
“What areyoudoing here?” Niko says. “Did you guys follow me here, or something?”
“Oh, come on,” Ala says, arms folded. “You both know why the other is here.”
And he does, doesn’t he? Because why would Dymitr be here, in this little town in northwest Poland… unless he was from here?
“Mysliwiec,” Niko says. “Your name is Dymitr Mysliwiec.”
People are named for so many things—where they’re from, or some paternal name, or some quirk of theirappearance, like red hair or always wearing green. But they’re also named for their trade, andMysliwiecmeanshunter. It’s almost funny. Niko almost laughs.
He’s here to kill a member of Dymitr’s family.
“Yes,” Dymitr says softly. And then: “Who is your… quarry?”
Niko meets Ala’s eyes, as if she can offer him some guidance—but he knows there’s none to be had. They’re breaking new ground here. A real fucked-up Romeo and Juliet scenario, only the Capulets didn’t hunt down and brutally murder every single Montague they could get their hands on.
Niko says, “Again, I don’t think you really want to know the answer to that question.”
It’s after sunset now, and everything has a blue tint to it, even the faultless gray of Dymitr’s eyes. A group of teenagers walks along the main street, talking too loud; a bell rings; a car drives by.
“I’m gonna… go be the lookout,” Ala says, stepping away from them. “I’ll let you know if anyone’s coming.”
She walks to the end of the street and faces away from them.
A tingle creeps across Niko’s shoulders, and it’s the feeling of Dymitr’s frustration. If it wasn’t directed at him, he would enjoy it more.
“Tell me,” Dymitr says.
“I can’t do that. If it turns out to be someone you care about…”
