Chapter 10 #2
No, he would never share such things with Berezin—nor with anyone else, save Katerina, should she ask. But as for the rest, he would clear his Dimi’s name.
“Think whatever you like about my choices. You will anyhow, no matter what I say. But Katerina did not know I would join her in the clearing. She was innocent; she expected that once I wed the Vila”—he refused to say Elena’s name, after the ways she’d forced him to scream it—“the relationship between us would return to that of mere Shadow and Dimi once more. She is honorable.”
Next to Berezin, Shadow Morozov gave a choked cough, as if he had a piece of gristle caught in his throat. “Is that what they’re calling it these days,” he said. “Spreading her legs for you, like a common whore rather than a warrior—”
The epithet did what the chains, the ice water, and the insults to his own honor could not.
Red rage darkened Niko’s vision, flooding every sinew of his body.
Heedless of the knife pressed to his throat, he lunged for Morozov, the onyx chains burning where they bit into his skin, the rings that held the chair threatening to rip from the floor.
And with the rage came the shades, streaming from his hands with the same pure, focused intent he channeled when he wielded a blade.
They arrowed straight for Morozov, whose eyes grew wide.
The Shadow let out an undignified gasp of horror and stumbled backward, pressing himself against the door as if trying to dematerialize and come out on the other side.
“Say what you want about me,” Niko growled. “But you will keep her name out of your mouth, if you wish to keep your life.”
Morozov steeled himself, his lips moving in a prayer to the Saints. But there were no Saints here. And if prayer were enough to save a soul from the Darkness, Niko would’ve been liberated from Elena and Sammael’s clutches long ago.
The shades twined around Morozov’s form, an inch from his skin.
As if they were an extension of Niko’s body, he could feel what they felt, sense what they sensed: the acrid, delicious scent of Morozov’s fear, the salty sweat that slicked his spine, the Light that burned within him, a feast for the taking.
The shades hungered, and Niko hungered with them.
Eat, they urged. Take from him what you need, and break free from these chains. Become what you are meant to be, and nothing can hold you against your will.
Deep inside Niko, in a place untouched by Darkness or fury, a warning surfaced. If he did what the shades demanded of him, perhaps he could truly gain his freedom. But at what price? If he took the life of a fellow Shadow, feeding on Morozov’s Light, what would that mean for his own soul?
The shades were him, and yet they were not. They had a will of their own, desires of their own. He could wield them as a weapon, true, but he would pay.
There was a frozen moment where he could see it all: Morozov, flattened against the door, chest heaving, eyes so wide the whites were visible all around.
Berezin, blade in hand, roaring something that Niko couldn’t make out over the storm raging inside him.
Himself, chained to the chair, straining to tear it from the iron rings that held it down.
And the shades, weaving around Morozov, climbing inexorably upward: legs, stomach, chest. Not touching him—not yet.
But…tasting him. The flavors bloomed, unbidden, on Niko’s tongue: salt, strength, power, and Light, all there for the taking.
They deserve to fear you, the voice whispered, and Niko could no longer tell if it belonged to the shades, to Elena, or to his own convictions. Make them beg.
And ah, gods, he wanted to. He wanted to force Morozov to his knees and command the shades to choke the life from him, then take hold of Berezin’s stolen blade and plunge it into the man’s chest. To do to Berezin what had been done to Niko himself, and see how he liked it.
But no. That would be wrong. He should stop. He should—
“Control yourself,” Berezin snapped. It was the command of an alpha, thrumming deep in Niko’s bones.
As the head of the Druzhina, the man held enough power that the shackled black dog within Niko took notice. The force of Berezin’s will pressed down on him, demanding compliance, as if anything else were unthinkable.
He could have fought it. He was still an alpha himself, after all, though his pack had been taken from him.
But deep inside, in the part of his soul that wasn’t consumed by blind fury and hunger, he knew he should obey.
And so he did what he hadn’t done for years, not since Baba Petrova had named him alpha Shadow of Kalach: he surrendered to another Shadow’s will.
Enough, he told the shades. Your work here is done.
They didn’t want to stop; he could feel it.
But they obeyed, just as he himself had obeyed Berezin.
Inch by inch, they unwound themselves from Morozov.
They hung in the air for a moment, as if taunting the other Shadow.
Then Niko crooked his fingers, calling them home, and they came, flowing toward him.
A moment later, they had absorbed into his skin and were gone.
He hung his head, panting, as the chair settled back onto the stones.
Every inch of his body was damp with sweat beneath his soaked clothes, and his heart pounded as if he’d just slaughtered a horde of demons.
The taste of Morozov’s fear still sparked on his tongue, as delectable and potent as aged kvass.
He swallowed once, then again, trying to rid himself of it. Saints, what had he almost done?
“Look at me.” The tip of Berezin’s blade was at it again, lifting Niko’s chin.
Niko could have resisted. But what would be the point? For one thing, maybe it would do him good for Berezin to believe that Niko knelt to him by bond rather than by choice. And for another, he had no desire to be stabbed again. Once had been more than enough. And so he met Berezin’s eyes.
The man was brave, Niko would give him that. There was no fear in his gaze, only determination and contempt.
“You expect us to believe that you still walk on the side of the Light,” Berezin said.
“And yet, you have no more dominion over yourself than a pup after his first Change. You dare to turn your corrupt gift against one of your own.” He spared a glance for Morozov, who had unpeeled himself from the door and stalked forward, gripping the hilts of blessed blades in both hands.
Then his gaze found Niko’s again, and this time, it held naught but steel.
“May the Saints abandon you, Niko Alekhin, former alpha of Kalach. This was a test—of your control, of your purity, of your loyalty. And on all counts, you have failed.”