Chapter 28
28
ELENA
E lena stood, watching Niko walk down the path that led away from the Vila’s cottages. The wind whipped his torn shirt against his body and swept his hair back from his face, baring his scar. She shivered, thinking of how vulnerable a Shadow could be.
“I’m so glad he’s all right,” Aly said from behind her.
Elena jumped, heart pounding. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“I wasn’t sneaking.” Her friend’s voice held the hint of a smile. “You’re so enamored with your Shadow, a horde of Grigori could attack all over again and you’d have no idea.”
Elena shook her head, her heart still thumping a torrent of uneven beats. She’d tried to be strong for the Vila children—especially Dominika, poor thing—but the truth was, she’d barely held herself together. All she could think of was seeing Niko again, making sure he was safe…and the moment he’d fold her into his arms, like she’d seen the other Shadows do with their Vila.
But Niko hadn’t come to her at first. Hadn’t touched her when she’d sought him out in the square. She’d been back at the cottages for a quarter-hour before he’d come striding up the path—and when he’d found her, he’d offered her only the same kindnesses he’d extended to the other unwed Vila, all of whom fluttered around him in a way that would have irritated Elena if he’d paid them any attention at all.
He hadn’t gazed at Elena with the same intensity he’d reserved for Katerina when she’d come upon them in the courtyard. Hadn’t acted nearly as eager to come to Elena as he’d been reluctant to leave his Dimi.
Why would such a thing be? Elena had done all that was expected of her, and more. She had always honored Sant Viktoriya. The other Vila revered her. So why did her Shadow not bless her with his regard? Did the fault lie with her?
“He’s always walking away, isn’t he,” Aly murmured as Niko reached the end of the footpath and took a shortcut through the garden.
Elena took a step backward, under the grape arbor that shaded the entrance to the side yard of the cottage she and Aly shared. “What do you mean?”
Aly gave her a tremulous smile. “Shadows are so busy. Always somewhere to go. Someone to protect. Do you ever wish he would stay with you—just for a little while?”
Her words echoed Elena’s thoughts so closely, she wondered if Aly’s empathy had tipped over into the ability to read minds—which was, of course, ridiculous. “I do wish that, sometimes.” She wrapped her arms across her body, holding herself close, the way she wished Niko had done. “It’s selfish, I know, but sometimes I want him to myself.”
It was a dangerous admission. For yes, she loved Niko—but her love for him was bigger than the two of them. It was about what their love could yield, how it could bear the fruit of the covenant and uphold the mission of the Saints. She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips, worried what her best friend would think.
“I don’t think that’s selfish at all.” Aly twined one of her auburn curls around her finger. “He protects everyone else—his Dimi most of all. But he’s vowed to swear his heart to you. Why shouldn’t he put you first, when the fighting is done?”
The sentiment felt blasphemous to Elena—but it also called to her, resonating in the deepest, most secret part of her heart. “He’s supposed to protect Katerina,” she said, hating the doubtful note in her voice. “If he didn’t, Kalach would fall.”
Aly plucked a half-ripe grape from the vine entwined around the arbor and rolled it between her fingers. It was a wasteful gesture, and one that was unlike Aly, who always chastised the little ones for picking fruit before it ripened. The children used the fruit as ammunition, flinging tiny green apples or pellet-sized berries at each other; Aly just squeezed the grape until its juice dripped onto the ground, swallowed up by the thirsty soil. Watching her, Elena realized her friend must be unnerved too; huddling in the shelter the village maintained for such occasions, a Shadow and Dimi posted at every entrance and the little ones clutching each other to keep from crying, was an experience that left its mark.
“I know this is the last thing you want to hear, Lena,” Aly said, dropping the empty skin into the grass. “And maybe I shouldn’t say it—but I’d be less than a friend to you if I didn’t speak my mind. There’s something odd between the two of them. Even their magic, of late—a Shadow and Dimi alone shouldn’t have been able to hold off so many Grigori.”
“Katerina is the strongest Dimi to walk in three hundred years. Everyone says so.” Elena’s voice sounded brittle. “And Niko is alpha of his pack. He is worthy of her.” And of me. “Else, Baba would never have made the match.”
“Still,” Aly said, “there is a time for fighting at your Dimi’s side, and a time for softer things. Everyone knows Shadows seek release after they fight—be it in drink or the arms of a woman. I’ve never known Niko to find solace in a bottle. If he is not turning to you—then…”
She didn’t finish her sentence, but her meaning was clear enough.
Elena’s lower lip trembled. She turned away to hide it, but Aly had known her for too long. She swept Elena’s hair back, her touch gentle. “Don’t worry, Lena,” she said, remorse clouding her face. “Please don’t think of it any longer. Today’s been dreadful, and my imagination’s run away with me. I must be a lunatic, to say such things.”
Wordless, Elena nodded. Squeezing her friend’s hand, she went next door to check on the Vila children whose parents were clearing the debris left by the attack. The next time she saw Aly, her friend was all smiles, filled with relief they’d survived unscathed. She didn’t say another word about Niko and Katerina, and Elena was only too happy to let the subject drop. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it, and that night, after Aly had fallen asleep, Elena pulled her shawl off its hook, slipped on her shoes, and made her way through the silent village, determined to rid herself of her worries once and for all.
She tiptoed up the path to Niko and Katerina’s cottage, expecting him to throw the door open and demand to know what she was doing there. A Shadow’s job was to guard his Dimi, and Niko would be on edge now, after the demon attack. But the door remained stubbornly closed, and the seed of doubt Alyona had planted in Elena’s heart bloomed larger still.
She crept up to the side of the house, where a loose shutter banged in the breeze, and stood on her tiptoes to look inside. Katerina’s fire blazed high, casting shadows on the walls. The cottage was dark otherwise, but there was more than enough light for Elena to see the impossible.
Niko and Katerina lay on her bed. She wore her nighttime shift; he was bare from the waist up. Her hair was down, and one of his hands was twined in it. He leaned on his other elbow, looking down at Katerina, his gray eyes fixed on her face.
“It’s harder than it used to be, fighting beside you.” Niko’s voice was husky, but the night was silent save for the chirp of crickets and Elena could hear every word. “Sometimes, I wish our fates lay along another path.”
Katerina made a small sound of surprise, and he loosened his grip in her hair, his hand skimming over her body until it came to rest on her hip with the familiarity of long acquaintance. “I don’t say it from cowardice, my Dimi. You know as long as I draw breath, I’ll keep my vow. I just dream, sometimes, that there is a peaceful place where the two of us coexist, without bloodshed, or demons, or the Dark. Where I’m free to love you the way I wish.”
Katerina curled her fingers around the back of his neck, pressing him down to her. Their lips met, until Niko broke the kiss with a growl.
“When I think of what could have happened—all the things that could have gone wrong?—”
“Hush.” Katerina sounded gentler than Elena had ever heard her. She traced Niko’s bare back, following the lines of his scars. “We’re both here. We’re safe.”
Niko trailed kisses along her throat, then lower still. “I could have lost you,” he said against her skin.
“But you didn’t.”
“I could have. So easily. It would kill me, Katya.”
Katerina propped herself on her elbows, glaring at him. Elena was sure what she must be thinking of: how his mother had died of heartbreak after his father had been sent away. “You’re not allowed to say that. Don’t ever say that again. If I died, you’d go on. You have to.”
Niko groaned, pulling her tight against him. “I know we shouldn’t. But I need to feel you. To know you’re all right. Can I—please?—”
Katerina didn’t answer in words. Instead, she arched so Niko could pull her shift over her head, then moved so he could kick his breeches to the floor. Elena watched in shock and horror as their bodies merged into one by the light of the flickering fire, Niko murmuring all the while how gorgeous Katerina looked, how brave she’d been, how good she felt.
Elena lost her grip on the shutter. It banged against the house, but Niko and Katerina didn’t notice a thing. She thumped onto her heels and ran, down the path that led to the village square and into the darkness beyond. Heedless of the danger, she fled through the woods, tears streaking her cheeks and brambles tearing her clothes. Her breath came in great sobbing gasps, and her head was filled with an incoherent buzzing, like the sound of a thousand angered bees.
How could Niko do this to her? She loved him. She’d trusted him. Soon, she was supposed to stand before the village and give him the gift of herself. As for Katerina—the Dimi was supposed to be her friend.
Niko was steadfast and loyal. No matter what Alyona had tried to tell her, Elena clung to that belief. Someone didn’t change overnight, going from being kind and honest and true to betraying their betrothed in the worst manner imaginable.
It was Katerina’s fault. It had to be. She was the Dimi, the witch who could bend an entire forest to her will. What was one man’s heart, in the face of that kind of power?
She had stolen him. Had used her magic to cast some kind of spell, and woven a web around his heart. Had taken what was Elena’s, disrespecting the time-honored traditions of their village. How could she do this? Didn’t she know that violating the prophecy this way would bring them all down?
Swiping at her eyes, Elena blundered through the woods. The trees rose tall, choking the light of the moon from view, and she moved by touch alone, shoving branches out of her way to forge a path. Then her foot hit the corner of something hard—a stone?—and she tripped, falling headlong.
Hiccupping, she sat up, drew her bruised knees to her chest, and looked around. The waning moon shone down, bathing the place where she sat in light.
She’d tripped over the ruins of Kalach’s old chapel, destroyed by a Grigori raid a century ago. Rose-briar vines encircled the half-broken columns; moss carpeted the cracked steps. It was a forsaken place, a forgotten place.
The forest had reclaimed the chapel, nibbling away at it. Still, this had once been a place of grace, of power. Surely some of that strength and magic remained, embedded in the stones, sunk deep into the earth. If Elena could find peace anywhere, it would be here.
She got to her feet, climbed the moss-covered steps to what remained of the cobblestone altar, and fell to her knees.
“Saints and angels, hear me.” Her voice rose, still thick with tears, into the silent forest. “I am Vila Lisova, betrothed to a Shadow, bearer of Vila and Shadowchildren. I keep your promises; I honor your covenant. Sant Viktoriya, I am your most loyal child. Hear me now, for I call on you for aid.”
Her eyes closed, Elena lifted her face toward the star-streaked sky. Hands folded in prayer, she drew a deep breath, inhaling the scent of roses and ruined things.
One breath. Two. Three.
There was a change in the air, a tempering of pressure. The pattern of the light gracing Elena’s face altered, moonlight sliding sideways into shadow. Her breath hitched.
“Open your eyes, child.” The voice came low, melodious.
Gathering bravery around her like a cloak, Elena obeyed. A monstrous, dark-edged shape loomed in the shadows, and she bit back a scream. Then she blinked, and a man stood on the steps below her, red-haired and clean-shaven. The angles of his face were as sharp as those of the Saints etched into the new chapel’s stained glass windows, as unforgiving as an angel’s. But the scent that drifted from him, stronger than it had any right to be—rosemary and the intoxicating aroma of crushed cloves—could only mean one thing.
“Demon,” Elena whispered, horror plain in her voice.
“Hello, Vila Lisova, mother of Shadowchildren,” he said.