Don't Call the Wolf Read online

  They left the professor’s belongings at the front desk and at the top of the staircase took a sharp left at an expansive stone atrium. They entered a dingy hall, hemmed in by doors on either side.

  “My apologies for the lighting,” said Professor Bieleć. “We’ve turned the lamps down. Evacuated the whole wing, you understand. In case the dragon wishes to, erm, explore.”

  The walls had auburn wallpaper and the doors were oak, with brass plates inscribed with what Lukasz presumed were numbers and names. The only light was the dim brown glow of gaslights. They took a right and entered another identical hallway.

  “You know,” began the professor, “when this—this is, um, handled—if you’re available, I mean—I would love—be honored, really—to interview you and your brother.” The professor seemed to hesitate before asking in a small voice: “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to wait for your brother?”

  Lukasz swallowed against the tightness that rose suddenly in his throat. Your brother. How much longer would people describe the Brothers Smokówi in the plural? When would this morning’s events make it into the newspapers?

  When would the world realize that they were down to their last Wolf-Lord?

  “It’s just,” continued Professor Bieleć, misinterpreting Lukasz’s silence, “I have a special interest in historical peoples.”

  “What’s historical about the Wolf-Lords?”

  “Well, they’re extinct, of course.”

  Bieleć was so short compared to Lukasz that he could see the hair thinning over his flushed scalp.

  “There are two of us left,” said Lukasz coldly.

  It was a lie. But Bieleć didn’t need to know about Franciszek. Not now.

  “Indeed,” agreed the professor, clearly oblivious. “And yet, anthropologically speaking, the Wolf-Lords are an extinct people.”

  “Keep it up,” Lukasz returned coolly, “and I’m going to make you an extinct people.”

  Bieleć fell silent.

  They took another abrupt turn into yet another hallway. For a moment, Lukasz wondered whether, in a different life, he might have ended up in a place like this.

  No, he thought. I’d never have come here.

  Bieleć’s lecture might have been more drama than actual substance, but the Unnaturalist had been right about one thing: in no other life would he have left Hala Smoków. If it hadn’t been for the Golden Dragon, he’d still be there now, probably choosing a black-haired bride and building a wooden lodge amid the ever-changing hills and howling wolves. Like all of his brothers had done before him, Lukasz hated the Dragon. But secretly, he was glad to have gotten out of the Mountains. Bieleć had gotten it wrong. Lukasz wasn’t a stranger. He didn’t long for blue hills or wolves or the things his other brothers had wanted; he loved this city. He loved this world. When he died, it would be in the shadow of the Miasto Basilica; it would not be under the unforgiving skies of the Moving Mountains.

  “It’s around this corner,” murmured Professor Bieleć. “Take care. Frankly, it’s not a very pleasant creature.”

  Lukasz laughed. The sound echoed down the corridor, and who knew, maybe the Apofys heard it.

  “Not many dragons are.”

  He cracked the knuckles on both hands. Even without his gloves, he wasn’t worried. Franciszek would have made him go back and retrieve them. Not anymore, he thought, striding ahead of Bieleć. Never again. His throat constricted a second time. Better not to think like that.

  More dim gaslights reflected off the painted walls, the rows of oaken doors. The end of the hall had been boarded off. On the other side, there was the sound of a bird chirping. Lukasz’s hand closed over the sword at his side. The Apofys had eaten four Unnaturalists. There was no way a bird was alive back there.

  “It’s the Apofys,” confirmed Professor Bieleć in a shaky voice. “It practices ventriloquism. Voice-throwing. Most unusual. Likely a technique for distracting prey during hunts.” He glanced from the boards to Lukasz, looming above him. “But of course, you knew that?”

  “Right,” said Lukasz, drawing his sword.

  The blade, dark with dried dragon blood, scraped against the scabbard.

  “So you’ve killed one of these?” asked Bieleć hopefully.

  It was almost enough to make Lukasz doubt himself. After all, Franciszek was the one with the notebook. Always poring over library books, making notes. Doing the research. But Lukasz knew nothing about this dragon, and he’d done absolutely no preparation. Not to mention the fact that he’d forgotten his gloves . . .

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Professor Bieleć. Lukasz had a flash of insight: an Unnaturalist afraid of harming the last of a species. He just wasn’t sure if Bieleć was thinking of him or the dragon.

  “I’ve killed dozens of dragons,” said Lukasz. He pointed at the office nearest them. “Do these rooms have adjoining doors?”

  Bieleć nodded, swallowing.

  Lukasz crossed the threshold. The office held more gas lanterns, these unlit, and several neat stacks of books. He eased open the side door and edged through a second identical office before reentering the hall on the other side of the barricade. This door was slightly ajar, and Lukasz wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but something was rustling out there. Could that be part of the dragon’s ven . . . ventri . . . ?

  He couldn’t remember the word.

  Whatever. Lukasz thought of the doubt on Bieleć’s face and scowled. Voice-throwing.

  He weighed his sword in his left hand; he could fight with both, but he preferred his left. The blade didn’t glitter. It was dull brown down to the hilt, thoroughly coated in dried dragon blood. Even the sight of the poisoned blade was reassuring. He was good at this.

  Lukasz eased the door open with the toe of his boot, pressed his back against the frame, and leaned out into the hallway. The barricade on this side was smeared with soot, and a few boards lay, charred and glowing, on the floor. The dragon had been tearing at it.

  Bieleć was watching him through the barricade. He could feel it. He wondered if the professor knew how close he was to getting killed. Literally playing with fire.

  “Unnaturalists,” he muttered under his breath.

  Apart from the barricade, the hallway looked like the others, except that nearly all the lights had been smashed. One lonely lamp still glittered, just above Lukasz’s shoulder. The rest was shadow and hazy, warm air. Lukasz froze.

  There it was again. The rustle.

  Several office doors hung ajar, black smoke spiraling out into the hall. There were holes in the carpet, too, rimmed with glowing red. From these holes, more black smoke trailed up to the ceiling to collect in an inky fog. Giving them a wide berth, Lukasz advanced down the hallway.

  God, he loved this.

  He moved methodically, checking each office, enjoying the old sense of adventure. This was what he liked. He had to stoop to avoid the black smoke cloud. It was the first time in a long time that he had hunted a dragon without Franciszek’s meticulous research. It was a good feeling. It reminded him, for a moment, of that first hunt, in the cathedral, when he had killed the Faustian. There had been that same sense of the unknown.

  Lukasz sidestepped a shoe.

  The hall seemed to go on forever, getting murkier and smokier with every stride. The dragon chirped. Lukasz caught a flicker of movement. Feathers flashed across the doorframe and disappeared. It chirped again. From the office. Lukasz shot to the wall.

  He pressed his back into the doorframe. He took a breath. The dragon chattered, inside the office next to him. On the other side of that papered wall was a real, live Apofys dragon.

  He grinned to himself. Not for long.

  And with that, he lunged around the door.

  The office was empty.

  There wasn’t even a desk. No bookshelf, no chair. No papers. Just a bare carpet and bare walls. The sun streamed through the window, making the room look somehow even emptier. Lukasz frowned.

  Another ch
irp. Somehow still . . . behind him? In the office?

  Lukasz twisted around.

  The other door—!

  He had been so distracted by the voice-throwing, he’d forgotten that the offices connected. Now the adjoining door swung open. Silently. It was a terrible, dreamlike suspension. Everything slowed down. Lukasz raised his sword. The dragon took shape.

  It was huge, orange, covered in feathers and scales. It had a curved beak and a quizzical, birdy look in its eye. It chirped again. It threw the sound to somewhere behind Lukasz, and he felt himself sweat. It was beating its wings steadily against the doorframe. Its feathers were soft, rasping.

  Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.

  The dull blade of the sword filled the empty space between them. Lukasz concentrated on his heart rate, forcing it to slow down. Letting it fall into time with the wingbeats. He’d done it on every hunt since the Faustian. It worked every time.

  Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.

  “Come on, you feathery bastard,” he muttered. “Come on.”

  Time snapped back.

  The dragon hurtled out at him. Lukasz swung. It twisted midair and flashed away. Its beak clicked. Flames erupted across the office and consumed the opposite wall. Thick smoke filled the room. It was oily smelling, burning. Lukasz choked, stepped back. His vision blurred. The Apofys chirped on his right. Temporarily blinded, Lukasz swung again.

  The beak clicked again. Flames from the left. Heat seared his face.

  This time, it didn’t miss.

  Fire engulfed Lukasz’s left arm. Yellow flames silhouetted his unprotected hand. The sword trembled and dropped. For a moment, he just stared. At his hand, his fighting hand, burning like a torch at the end of his arm.

  Then, pain.

  Lukasz screamed. He was on his knees, screaming. Coughing. Tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. Black smoke pressed in on him. The only light was his own flaming skin. Pure agony.

  The dragon was coming back. He didn’t have much time.

  Lukasz jerked his arm out of his coat and buried his hand in the flame-resistant material. The smell of burning flesh mixed with the oily smoke. The combination of smell and pain was too much, and he vomited.

  You need to get up. But he couldn’t. He was kneeling on the floor, gasping, clutching what was left of his arm to his chest. Get up. The dragon was coming back. You have to get up. He could feel his hand twist and curl in the coat, useless, charred. Get up.

  Another chirp.

  The sound cleared his mind. The chirp had come from the smoke overhead. He needed his sword. Desperate, terrified he might lose another hand, Lukasz scrambled across the room, searching the darkening floor. The smoke pressed in from every side. Where is the damn sword? The dragon chirped again, overhead. But there was another sound. Behind him. It was soft. So soft he’d have missed it.

  Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.

  Missed it if he hadn’t been listening. If he hadn’t been looking for those wingbeats to slow his heart. To calm him down. It had worked for the Faustian. It was working now.

  His hand struck metal.

  Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.

  His right hand, his last hand, closed around the sword hilt.

  Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.

  Wingbeats.

  He whipped around. He was ready. Wingbeats, not chirping. He wasn’t going to fall for the voice-throwing. Not this time.

  The dragon dived down from the smoke, all beak and talons.

  Lukasz swung.

  2

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  AFTER SEVENTEEN YEARS IN THE forest, Ren knew all the monsters by name.

  “Strzygi,” she muttered, edging out of the trees. “Why did it have to be strzygi?”

  She wasn’t sure why she bothered to keep her voice down. They’d smell her long before they heard her.

  But for now, the clearing was still.

  The trees curled around each other like lovers, tangled overhead like beasts at war. It was as if any sunlight that found its way down here was trapped forever. Heating, baking, turning the grass to mush and giving everything this sweet, earthy smell. Heat caressed her, seeping through her bare skin. It ran damp fingers across the nape of her neck, pressed sticky palms to her cheeks.

  Three shapes, shining and red, sprawled on the ground ahead. Ren took a few more cautious steps forward, earth yielding silently under her bare feet. It felt like the trees were watching her.

  They probably were.

  She moved through enemy territory as silently as a cat.

  “It has to be you,” she said, mimicking her brother. “They’ll come for a human.”

  But Ryś had a point. A strzygoń could smell a human from miles away. Maybe it was human blood. Maybe it was human fear. Such a specific, cowardly scent.

  And so here she was: pathetically, nakedly human. Ren was the most powerful, the most respected creature in the whole cursed forest, and she got the pleasure—the honor—of being the bait in her big brother’s trap.

  “Ryś, I’m going to kill you,” she growled under her breath.

  Somewhere on the edge of the clearing, Ryś laughed. Ren rolled her eyes. Wherever he was, safe in the shadow of trees, he was probably grinning that feline smile. At least he was nearby.

  The red shapes were bodies: two men and a woman. Ren cringed as her feet squelched in the bloodied mud.

  The dead man still clutched part of a rifle in stiff hands, its steel barrel shorn clear through by monstrous claws. Ren recognized their clothes from the village: dark coats and vests, white shirts, and striped skirts and trousers. Now blood obliterated every color. The strzygi had been feasting on their guts.

  Ren snarled. The sound was low, utterly inhuman. It echoed in her chest, cut through the brown half-light. And for a moment—for the briefest moment—even the trees seemed to shiver.

  Humans. In her mind, the word sounded like a curse. Careless, stupid—

  The trees, once so silent, rustled.

  Ren stiffened. Ignoring every instinct screaming inside her, she did not move. She blinked, as slow and luxurious as a cat. She felt her vision transform, sliding into familiar angles and shades, as she scanned the trees opposite. The colors had paled, their relative dimness sharpening every movement, every heartbeat in the trees. Everything was still. It was a good thing the humans were dead at her feet. They wouldn’t have taken it well: the black-rimmed eyes of a cat, slit pupils and all, shining in the face of a girl.

  Ren turned around.

  A strzygoń stood before her.

  Her eyes may have been animal, but the rest of her was still human. And right down to the human bone, she trembled.

  Run, whispered a tiny voice somewhere inside her. Now.

  Though roughly the size of the human it had once been, the strzygoń looked nothing like the corpses in the clearing. It stood on all fours, joints locked. With the bulging eyes of a goat, oblong pupils in slate gray, it considered her. It put its head to the side, feathery brows jutting over those terrible eyes. It looked almost like an enormous moth, and again, Ren trembled.

  Run.

  But she was rooted to the spot.

  The strzygoń began to pace. It retained all the right joints for a human, but its limbs bent in all the wrong ways.

  Ren scraped up every last scrap of courage and forced her face into a grin.

  “Still hungry?” She jerked her chin, beckoning it toward her. “Come on, then.”

  She wasn’t sure if it could understand her. It issued a low hiss, feathers ruffling on the lower half of its face. Ren felt her smile falter.

  Run, screamed her still-human heart. Run.

  It took one nauseatingly uncoordinated step toward her. It twitched its head. Almost all the way around, like an owl.

  “Oh, yuck,” she murmured.

  The strzygoń leapt.

  Ren fell back. She hissed. And she changed.

  Her knees shot to her chest and her spine curled up. Her muscles expanded, snapping into place around her limbs. Po
wer tore across her shoulders. Fur raced over her skin. Her world tilted into focus.

  Ren leapt. She met the strzygoń midair. And not as a human.

  As a lynx.

  Her fangs found its throat before it even had a chance to fully register the transformation. It howled as she drove it into the ground. The strzygoń screamed and lashed out with broken nails. They scraped harmlessly off her thick fur. It kicked with its back legs, but Ren easily pinned them. Its re-formed limbs could not match the strength of her forelegs. She bit down. Hot blood splashed over her face.

  The strzygoń slackened. It twitched twice and went still. Ren did not let go right away. Some monsters took more than one kill.

  “Not bad, Malutka,” said Ryś, sauntering out of the trees. “Really waited for the last second to change, didn’t you?”

  Ryś was the only one who dared used that pet name. Malutka, the little one. And only because he was older.

  Ren dropped the strzygoń, still cautious enough to keep a paw on its lifeless corpse.

  She grinned. “Keeps it interesting.”

  “If you ask me,” came a second voice, “killing undead owl-people is a little too interesting.”

  A slender black wolf had followed Ren’s brother out of the undergrowth. Where both the lynxes were low and muscular, the wolf was long-legged and elegant. He walked with the slightest suggestion of a limp.

  Ren smiled back. Her heart was still pounding, but terror had begun to give way to a thrilling kind of light-headedness.

  “Come on, they’re so easy to kill,” she said as scornfully as she could. “I wouldn’t mind a real challenge, you know?”

  “A real challenge?” asked Czarn. “As in, let’s say, taking on a whole pack of these delights, and being wildly outnumbered?”