Page 10 of To Clutch a Razor (Curse Bearer #2)

It amazes him still, how she was so desperate to preserve even that half life, that horror life, that she offered up someone else’s suffering and destruction. No matter what someone is, the living still want to live, most of the time.

“What do you want me to do?” she says.

“A simple task,” he answers. “The Holy Order are performing a ritual to ward off evil spirits. To ensure that their lost brother doesn’t come back as something else.” He smiles a little. “I believe they are mainly concerned that he’ll wake as—”

“A wieszczy,” the wieszczy says testily. “Yes. This ritual comes from my people, after all.”

“So I’ve heard. My request, therefore, is that you let them catch sight of you at the cemetery. They’ll scatter to search for you. And I’ll be able to corner my quarry.”

“You’re so sure you can get them alone?”

“I know her patterns,” Niko says. “And once she sees me, well. I’m not exactly difficult to identify as a strzygoń.”

“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 of redemption 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 flooded with 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 are you doing 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?

“My?liwiec,” Niko says. “Your name is Dymitr My?liwiec.”

People are named for so many things—where they’re from, or some paternal name, or some quirk of their appearance, like red hair or always wearing green. But they’re also named for their trade, and My?liwiec means hunter . 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…”

The tingling sensation turns into something deeper, heavier. It prickles in Niko’s bones. Goose bumps rise up on his arms; he shivers, even as Dymitr puts a finger on his chest and pushes him—carefully, but not quite gently—up against the metal fence behind him.

Niko stares down at him, bewitched for a moment.

“Tell me,” Dymitr says, and now it sounds like he’s begging.

Niko says quietly, “Do you understand that if I tell you who it is and you warn them, you could get me killed?”

Dymitr closes his eyes. His hand presses flat to Niko’s chest. “I won’t warn them. I would never put you at risk like that.”

Niko believes him, even though that’s absurd. He’s absurd.

“The locals call her ‘the Razor,’” Niko says. Even his fluent tongue tripped over the word in Polish—brzytwa. Not all Knights are well known; this one’s address fell immediately from the mouths of the local strzygas, like a curse.

Dymitr laughs, and turns away, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. He paces into the middle of the street, where weeds have begun growing between the cobblestones.

Niko says, “You know her, I take it.”

“Whoever gave you this mission wants you dead,” Dymitr says. “You should leave. Go home, refuse this, don’t get anywhere near her—”

“That’s not how it works.”

“I don’t care how it works.” Dymitr turns on him, crowds him up against the fence again. “If you try to do this, you’ll die.”

Niko tries on a half smile. “Why, Dymitr. Should I be offended that you think so little of me?”

Dymitr doesn’t look amused. “You should be afraid of Marzena My?liwiec.”

“You told me, once, that you didn’t keep track of how many of my kind you’d killed,” Niko says, cold now. “Well, I haven’t kept track of how many of yours I’ve killed, either. You shouldn’t underestimate me just because you’ve had your tongue in my mouth.”

Dymitr flinches a little. “I’m not underestimating you. I’m correctly estimating her.”

Niko did his research before he came here.

He knows the Razor is known for the ease with which she uses magic, and the relentless, methodical way she approaches her kills.

No recklessness for Marzena My?liwiec; she’s like a machine.

He can’t imagine her with a family. He can’t imagine she was ever very kind to the one she has.

So his voice is softer when he asks Dymitr, “Who is she to you?”

“My mother.”

Niko receives the word like a blow. This is too much Shakespearean tragedy for him.

“Your mother is the fucking Razor ?” Niko says. “God, how did you turn out so… normal? ”

Dymitr’s eyes are too bright. “I can’t do this.”

“I have to do my job. She’s a killer, Dymitr.”

“She’s my mother,” Dymitr says again, fiercer this time. “I love her. I will always love her. No matter what happens here, I’ll lose. If she dies — I f you die—”

“I am not going to die.”

“Then you’re going to be the one who kills my mother,” Dymitr says. “And I’ll never be able to look at you again. Do you understand that?”

A tear spills down his cheek and he wipes it away, forcefully, with the heel of his hand. Niko’s chest aches.

“Shh.” Niko covers Dymitr’s hands—currently knitted in his hair—with his own. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

He runs his fingers over Dymitr’s knuckles, and then tugs him closer, so Dymitr’s head touches his chest. He’s trembling.

It’s too much to ask of any heart, Niko thinks. To turn so fully against the ones you love, even once you’ve realized what they really are. It’s just too much.

Dymitr pulls away, red-eyed and disheveled as ever. He looks up at Niko.

“She keeps a knife in her left boot,” Dymitr says. Then his face contorts, as if he’s in pain, and he walks away from Niko so fast he’s almost running—past Ala, past the cafe, and into the night.