Page 45 of To Clutch a Razor
The zmora can’t possibly know.
The fort is in a small clearing. The structure itself is built between two tall trees at the edge of the space, and it’s made of thin branches lined up next to each other like slats. Elza and Kazik spent days searching the forest floor for the right ones, then they brought them to Dymitr, who was the only one patient enough to saw off the ends to make them all even. The top of the fort is neat and tidy, as a result.
The zmora slips through the opening to the fort, and Elza thinks about killing it right here. It would be simple enough to draw her bone swords again and corner the zmora in the fort; it would happen too quickly for the monster to devise some clever illusion to get away. But then she wouldn’t be any closer to answers.
Through the fort’s uneven branches, Elza can see the zmora kneeling beside the metal lunch pail that’s nestled in the corner of the structure. Elza is the one who put itthere, the one who nestled the book of curses inside it to keep it safe.
The zmoradoesknow.
It lifts its head, and through the gap between the branches, Elza meets its eyes.
“How did you know the book was here?” Elza says.
The zmora draws a knife. Elza can see the metal glinting through the branches.
“I’m not here to kill you,” Elza says. “Not today, anyway.”
She holds her hands out in front of her, so the zmora can see that she’s not armed. She could become armed in a matter of seconds, of course, but she’s not eager to draw her swords right now. The zmora goes to the door of the fort, a knife in one hand and the blue book of curses in the other.
“I saw this place last night,” the zmora says. “Thought I’d take a look.”
Last night.It sounds so casual to Elza, like last night wasn’t a series of horrors. But then, as a creature who’s named after the nightmare itself, maybe it doesn’t think of betrayal and deception and murder as a series of horrors.
Last night—the empty night.
Remember the last things,the singers sang.The clock is ticking, death is cutting down the tree of life.
“What are you here for, if not to kill me?” the zmora asks Elza, and Elza can’t think of the last time she spoke to a monster like this. It has such a human face. High cheekbones, sharp, almost wild eyes. It could be someone Elzawent to school with, someone Elza passed on the street. Ordinary. Pretty, even.
“Answers,” Elza says. “If I get them, I won’t kill you. Provided you leave that book behind.”
“We’ll see” is the zmora’s response.
“Last night.” Grief rises up in Elza’s throat like vomit. She swallows it down. “That was really him?”
The zmora doesn’t respond, at first. It sniffs the air, looking thoughtful.
“Do you know,” it says, “a zmora can tell the difference between dread and fear. A person fears what’s unknown, but they dread what’s known. What you’re feeling right now smells very much like dread. So I can tell that you already know the answer to your own question.”
“A yes would have sufficed.”
“I’m not sure it would have, actually. Because if you’re going to have a zmora for a brother, you should really understand more about our kind than ‘monster bad, monster needs to die.’”
“I do not have a… amonsterfor a brother. If that thing is what my brother is now, then my brother is dead.”
“Your brother, who is not a ‘thing,’ killed the person he loves most to save my life yesterday,” the zmora replies. “So you’ll talk about him with respect, or you can fuck right off.”
Elza only notices that her cheeks are wet with tears when a breeze blows cool against her skin. She wipes them with the heel of her hand.
“Who cursed him with this?” Elza asks. “And how? Can it be undone?”
“It probably can. But since he’s the one who asked for it to begin with, I’m pretty sure it won’t be.”
“Don’t lie to me. He would neveraskfor this.”
The zmora tilts her head. “Are you sure about that? Are we talking about the brother who doesn’t like when you call us ‘monsters’?”
Elza opens her mouth to argue further, but she can’t help remembering. Dymitr, sobbing after his first kill instead of celebrating. Dymitr, calling the strzyga who killed their uncle “she” instead of “it.” Dymitr, sparring with Elza in the street to keep her from killing the strzygon.
