Page 11 of To Clutch a Razor
“Just kill me!” the zmora yells. “Just—kill—me!”
The man asks the woman Knight, “Is that really necessary? Lost limbs are so bloody.”
The Knights look at each other for a moment, and that seems to be the answer. The man sets aside his bone sword and wrestles one of the zmora’s arms free from where he holds them against her back. Then, keeping her pressed to the dirt, he bats aside her attempts to hit him and pins her hand to the ground next to her face.
The first time Ala saw this—when it was provoked bythe bloodline curse that was killing her by inches—she didn’t know who either of the Knights were. They were as anonymous as any of the Knights who tormented her.
Now, dreaming of them again, Ala recognizes the woman.
She’s Dymitr’s grandmother.
Even though she’s seen this before, she still expects the woman—Joanna—to position herself over the zmora’s arm, bring her sword over her head like an axe, and swing.
That’s not what she does.
Instead, she kneels on the ground next to the zmora’s head, presses the edge of her bone sword to the zmora’s wrist like a bread knife poised over a loaf…
And starts to saw.
Ala rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom to vomit. She makes it to the sink.
For a long time, sunrise brought her nothing but dread. The first light on the horizon meant the curse would soon latch on to her like a parasite, showing her visions of the Holy Order’s violence against all of creaturekind. Monsterkind. Whatever.
These days, daybreak is a relief. She’s no longer cursed, but she hasn’t forgotten everything the curse made her see. The visions torment her still—but in the form of nightmares.
Ala washes her mouth out, and brushes her teeth. Herhands are trembling so badly she can barely squeeze out the toothpaste.
She can’t take it anymore. This has to stop.
Teeth brushed, she pours herself a cup of coffee and climbs the ladder to the roof to watch the sun come up.
They’re not technically allowed on the roof, but the building’s landlord is negligent at best, irresponsible at worst, so no one’s going to stop them. Dymitr is the one who bought the ladder that’s propped up on her back porch. He’s also the one who put together the table and chairs that are up there. He didn’t mention that he was doing it, just left the finished furniture there for her to find. Dymitr’s like that—always willing to make little improvements, even if the tasks are tedious and annoying; always willing to chop something if she’s cooking, even if he was already in the middle of something else. The other day she put on a pair of socks to discover he’d mended the holes in the heels with neat stitches. She’s not looking forward to the day when he has enough money to move out of her crappy apartment.
Ala sips her coffee, and remembers sitting at the table with her mother in the mornings. Her mother always read the newspaper while Ala did the crossword, and despite often declaring how much she personallyhatedthe crossword, she occasionally offered Ala an answer. She was especially good at remembering who won awards—Tonys, Emmys, Grammys, it didn’t matter.
The sky is deep pink and she only has half a cup ofcoffee left when Dymitr climbs up the ladder himself. He’s quicker than a human would be, and he still seems delighted by it, a smug smile on his face as he walks over to the empty chair beside her.
“Good morning,” he says. And then, with a look of concern: “What’s wrong?”
She hasn’t told him about the nightmares. His grandmother—Joanna, who she just watched cut off a zmora’s hand,slowly—is the one who cursed her family line. And before he knew better, Dymitr killed Ala’s aunt, along with countless others. If he knew the curse he helped her break was still tormenting her, but in a new way, he would blame himself. And he’d be, perhaps, a little bit right.
So it’s better not to tell him.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Ala says. “This is just my face.”
He frowns. “You smell like—”
“Keep your nose to yourself,” she snaps.
It’s very annoying, how good his nose is. How he can probably smell the lingering effects of her nightmare, chocolatey and rich.
He looks away, chastened.
“Surprised you’re up early,” she says. “I saw that Niko returned your bow at some point in the night.”
She spotted the guitar case that holds Dymitr’s bow and arrow leaning up against the wall in the kitchen.
She’s trying to tease him, but his expression is grim.
