Page 28 of To Clutch a Razor
The girl glares at her. “I didn’t want this host. I had no choice—I was exhausted.”
“‘I didn’t have a choice.’ Everyone’s favorite excuse for ruining someone else’s life,” Ala says. “So what do you want, exactly? A new host?”
Niko looks exasperated. One of his hands is raised, as if in surrender, and she can see something strapped to his arm—a weapon, probably. He hasn’t moved to draw it.
Of course he hasn’t. If the host is still alive, there must be a way to save her. They just have to convince the possessing spirit to let her go.
The girl bites her lip in a surprisingly human gesture.
“I’m tired,” she says quietly. “So tired of wandering. So tired of running.”
“What is it, exactly?” Niko asks Ala, again in English.
Ala almost remembers. Her mother had a boyfriend, once—a German creature cousin to the zmora, an alp. He’d spent his youth traveling, and he liked to talk about all the strange things he’d come across. In Northern Canada, an ijiraq, a shapeshifter rumored to steal children—a myth, of course, and the source of too much trouble. A Tata Duende, a forest guardian in Belize with no thumbs and an affinity for braiding. And…
“Dybbuk,” she says, the word surfacing from her mind like a crossword clue. A dybbuk, a Jewish spirit—So few of my people are left in this place, and even fewer of my kind.
The girl visibly tenses.
“A wandering spirit,” Ala goes on. “Whose sin in life was so great they lingered after death, seeking restitution.” She pauses, considering this. “And you thought having a zemsta as a host would give you access to that restitution.”
“I’m tired of wandering,” the girl—the dybbuk, really—says. The clouds pull away from the moon again, so Ala can see the body attached to the girl’s back, the swirling black cloak and the chattering skull. “I want what comes after.”
“Then leave him here,” Ala says. “Leave the girl, too. Come with me into the house of Knights.” Niko opens his mouth to object, and she holds up a hand to silence him, focused on the girl. “Attach yourself to one of them, instead.”
The girl recoils, and Niko takes the opportunity toslip from her grasp, stumbling away from her to the edge of the pond. In an instant his blade is drawn, but there’s no need—the girl is clutching her knife to her chest, her shoulders hunched in.
“I can’t,” the girl says. “Their split souls—”
“Then find one who hasn’t made a sword yet. Walk their feet on a different path.” Ala steps closer. “Save a soul.Won’t that be enough?”
“You don’t know what I did.” The unnaturally deep voice sounds desperate now. “I need—vengeance. Not—”
“If you stop a Knight from becoming a Knight, you don’t just save their soul,” Ala says. “You save everyone they would have killed. You can’t tell me vengeance would be better than that.”
The girl looks down. She’s wearing such ordinary clothes. Blue jeans that are too loose on her, white sneakers streaked with mud from the walk through the woods. A zip-up sweatshirt with fraying hood strings.
“You’ll carry me into the house?” she asks.
“Ala,” Niko says sharply. “You can’t—”
“I’ll carry you in… but only if you give me your name,” Ala says. There’s power in a name, and she can use it to expel the spirit if it doesn’t keep its word.
The girl sinks to her knees in the mud. Though there’s still a cloud over the moon now, the creature with its black cloak and tangled hair appears.
“Adam,” the dybbuk says.
The girl shudders, and then wrenches upright, her backbowing, arching. With a crack that makes Ala wince, the dybbuk breaks from the girl, and Niko lunges to catch her as she falls forward.
But Ala’s focus is on the shadow thing, on the dybbuk, as it clambers over to her. It walks like it bears a great weight, favoring one leg. The empty pits where its eyes were are focused on her; she can feel them, even if there’s nothing to see. Its teeth click, and Ala offers it a hand. She can’t stop herself from shaking.
The dybbuk doesn’t grab her. Instead, with a swirl of its cloak, it spins and disappears. She feels a weight settle on her shoulders—heavy, but not more than she can bear. She hears its whisper in her ear, and the click of its teeth.
“Keep your promise, zmora,” it says.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Niko says, scowling at her. The host—the girl, now—is at his feet, lying on her side. He checks her wrist for a pulse, and then steps over her. “I know you came here to help Dymitr, but you can’t go into that house, with or without a fucking…ghoston your back.”
Ala takes her phone from her pocket. The message from Dymitr is waiting for her—the book emoji.
