Chapter 3

3

R oman pulled the smaller pot off the stove and set it on a trivet. "Hand me that stack of bowls over there, will you?"

Finn brought the bowls over. Roman lifted the lid and scooped the rice, cubed venison, and soft veggie mess into the top bowl and handed it to Finn. The boy looked at the food, clearly torn between hunger and being grossed out.

"It's not for you. This is for Trigger. And this smaller one is for your puppy."

Finn blinked. "Can dogs have carrots?"

"Dogs are omnivores. Carrots are good for them, and these two need a quick punch of energy to recover, so some brown rice will do them good, too. Now cats are a different story."

Smoke swirled, and Kor popped into existence on the table, his long, fluffy tail curling around the bowls.

Roman waved at him. "Off the table."

Kor purred.

"What kind of cat is he?" Finn asked.

"Kor isn't a cat. He's a korgorusha. They have a mind of their own, like cats. When they love you, they protect your house and property and bring you presents they steal from the neighbors. When they're mad at you, they'll claw your pillows and break your dishes."

Roman ran his hand along Kor's soft back, sending a bit of smoke curling up from his black fur, worked his fingers under the front left paw, and raised it. Wicked claws shot out of the fur and curled around his finger. "Iron claws."

The kid opened his eyes wide. "Really?"

"No. But they might as well be. They're magic. There is no cutting these. You'd need a hoof trimmer. Trust me, when he claws someone, they know it."

Kor purred louder, his eyes small glowing slits.

Roman gave him another pet.

"Are you going to feed him?"

"He takes care of his own food. But I'm going to treat him."

Roman pulled a bottle of milk out of the refrigerator, poured a bit into a bowl, and set it in front of the korgorusha. "Feed the dogs, Finn. We feed the animals first, then we feed ourselves."

The boy took the two bowls into the living room.

Kor lapped the milk.

Roman brought a sack of chicken feed out, poured it into the long trough he used for the kolovershi, spooned some rice and meat into it, stirred it, set it on the floor, and knocked on the table. The kolovershi flew from the living room, gliding from their hidden perches, past Finn as he was returning to the kitchen, and for a moment he was caught inside the flock. Finn froze. The kolovershi landed in the kitchen and scurried over to their dinner.

"What are they?"

"Kolovershi and kolovertishi. Witch helpers. When a witch or a koldun, a sorcerer, starts working their magic, they attract these guys. They just come out of the woodwork. They feed on magic, and they are what they eat, so each pack is a little different. Some look like rabbits, some look more like owls. These weirdoes are mine."

The melalo waddled over to the trough.

"What about the bird?" Finn asked.

"Him." Roman grimaced. "He's a melalo, a Romani disease demon. Unclean creatures don't have the best origin stories. Some are born from muck, some from corrupted witch spit, but he takes the cake. He's the product of the most vile, sick shit that will turn your stomach."

"That bad?"

"Mhm. Take it from me, kid. You don't need that story in your life. Now, he is supposed to be much more powerful than he is."

The melalo gulped the feed, choked, and kept eating.

"I don't know why the hell he is like this. Maybe because one of his heads died or maybe not enough people believe in him anymore."

"You don't like him." Finn tilted his head.

"I don't."

"Why do you have him if he's that bad then?"

"He showed up on my doorstep half-dead, crawled to my boot, and clung to it. What was I supposed to do, toss him into the garbage?"

Roman poured a little more milk into another bowl and set that on the floor. The cabinet door under the sink opened, and the anchutka crawled out and headed for it.

"And this one?"

"An anchutka. They get a bad rep, but they are just small magic critters. Similar to lesser fae. Don't like salt or iron. Mostly keep to themselves. They only get agitated when people encroach on their territory, and even then, all they do is try to scare you with eerie noises and stare at you from the darkness. They're cowards. After this one eats, she will crawl back into her cabinet and we won't see her until everything is over."

A low whine rolled through the house.

"And that?"

"That's Roro. Roro will get to come out after everyone eats. If I let her out now, she'll tear through here like a wrecking ball, and I don't have time to clean up that mess."

Roman took another pot off the stove and ladled out two bowls of stew. He'd made a big pot yesterday. With his mood getting worse and worse, he knew he wouldn't feel like cooking. Warming up the leftovers for the next three days would be about all he was capable of. Except now things had shifted.

"This is for us. Venison and wild mushrooms. Don't give any to your dog. Mushrooms aren't good for her."

They took their food into the living room. Finn sat on the couch, brought the first spoonful to his lips, tasted it, and began shoveling the stew into his mouth. He mustn't have eaten for a couple of days, but he'd fed the nechist first without complaining. Maybe there was something to this kid.

Roman walked over to the window. Night had fallen, the snow a ghostly blue blanket on the ground. He concentrated. The darkness parted before his eyes. The mercenary assholes had gone to ground just beyond the property line. They were checking their crossbows.

"Our friends are thinking of invading." He tasted the stew. Mmmm, good. His appetite was back. How about that?

Finn raised his head from his bowl.

"Let's see if we can't discourage them a bit."

Roman twisted his left hand in their air, reshaping the magic, and gave it a push. A ball of blue fire shot out from his chest through the window and unfurled about ten feet above the snow, flowing into a six-foot-tall skull made of magic glow. The skull's lower jaw swiveled as if laughing. The four sabertooth fangs on the top and bottom rows cracked against each other loudly.

The mercenaries hit the snow in unison.

The skull exploded into a dozen spheres of ball lightning. The shining clumps streaked in a semicircle and broke against skull torches that slid out of the ground. The carved skulls atop the eight-foot poles ignited, bathing the front yard in an eerie neon light. One of the balls perched atop the Christmas tree. Roman pulled a bit more magic from it and scattered small bits of glow throughout the branches.

Nice.

Finn's jaw hung open.

"Fancy, no?" Roman chuckled.

Finn remembered to close his mouth.

The mercenaries stayed down. Heh. That's right, enjoy the snow.

"Is that so you could see them?" Finn asked.

"It's so they can see each other. I don't need light. I know exactly where they are."

"I don't get it," Finn said.

"They thought they would be slick and sneak up on me in the dark. Now the yard is lit up, so they don't have cover anymore."

Roman dropped into a chair and started on his stew.

"But couldn't you just pick them off in the darkness?"

"I could," Roman agreed. "But I told you, taking a human life comes with a cost. You should only kill when you have no choice."

Finn had stopped eating. He was looking into the fire, lost in thought.

"What is it?" Roman asked.

"Your god is an evil god."

"Chernobog is a dark god, technically."

"When you healed the dog, you told him he was evil enough. You didn't heal me with that magic because I'm not evil enough."

"It's more complicated than that, but go on, make your point."

"Why take care of all these creatures? Why not sacrifice them? Why wouldn't you kill those people out there? Shouldn't that be something your god would like?"

Roman sighed. "You're confusing darkness and death with the profoundly immoral. The Slavic pagan world has three parts, the Tri-world, made up of Yav, Nav, and Prav. Yav is the realm of humans. Prav is where the light, good gods live; deities like Svarog the Smith, God of Fire, and Belobog, God of Light and Creation. Then there is Nav, the death realm, where the dark, evil gods dwell. My god is Chernobog, Belobog's twin. God of Darkness and Death. Do you know what's beyond Nav?"

Finn shook his head.

"Chaos. The end of everything. Nav is the realm that protects us from that." Roman ate another spoonful. "The name of the game is balance. Crops are planted in the spring, they grow, they are harvested, and then winter comes. Their roots and stems decay and nourish the earth. Chernobog is the one who makes that decay happen. As the remnants of the crops die, the soil rests and rejuvenates. Without winter, without the Goddess Morena, Chernobog's wife and consort, there cannot be spring. One cannot just take and take. One must give back."

The logs crackled in the fire. The two dogs had finished their food and sprawled in front of the fireplace, satisfied. Three of the mercenaries had taken off down the road, back the way they'd come. Now where were they headed?

"People don't like death. It scares them, so they call Chernobog evil. Winter is hard, so they call Morena evil. Disease and sickness are cruel and unforgiving, so they call Troyan the Healer, a Nav god, evil because sometimes no matter how much you pray to him, he doesn't answer. But we are crops, Finn. We must grow, thrive, flourish, and die, to make room for other living creatures. Such is life. So no, I won't be going on a murder spree for the sake of killing. To Chernobog, every life out there has value. I will take if I must. But I won't be the one to upset the balance first."

The kid had forgotten about his food again. Something was bothering Finn. Roman could almost feel the wheels turning in his head.

All in good time. Patience was something he had in abundance.

A knot of magic ignited on the edge of the property, and it had a particular flavor. Not Abrahamic, not pagan… But something else. Definitely a divine derivative. And a light divine, too.

The mercenaries were back, and they had brought someone else with them.

The magic flared.

Couldn't even let him finish a bowl of stew in peace. Roman rose and took his staff from where it rested against the wall. Klyuv opened its beak and shrieked.

"Brace yourself," Roman told Finn. "I think we're about to get attacked with some goodness and light."

* * *

The knot of magic spun, churning, just on the edge of Roman's senses. The source of it was hidden behind the trees. The mercenaries were keeping it well outside of his reach. If he shut his eyes and let his mind take over, the knot of magic blazed, bright white, like an angry star.

Whoever that was, they were idling way too high. Whipping that much magic through one's body was bad for you. It cut down on your lifespan.

Roman tapped the floor with his staff. "Vasya. I need you."

Deep within the cold ground, a presence stirred, drowsy and unwilling.

"I know, I know."

He should've been asleep, digesting the rabid bear he'd eaten two days ago, but sometimes things couldn't be helped.

Vasya shuddered and started forward, toward the dirt plugging up the entrance to his lair's underground tunnel.

The leader of the mercenaries walked into the open. Behind him, a pair of armed men walked a blindfolded man between them. He was of average height, with a mane of long, wavy dark hair pulled back from his face into a half ponytail.

"Who is that?" Finn asked.

"A priest of some sort."

"Why is he blindfolded?"

"That's a good question."

The small group halted just outside the property line.

"So whose priest is he?" Finn asked.

"We won't know until he invokes."

"What's that?"

"Invoking is when you beg your god to cover that really big check your fool mouth just wrote."

"Can you invoke?"

"My god is having family issues right now. Not a good time."

Finn squinted at the priest. "What happens if the god doesn't answer?"

"You're fucked."

"Mr. Roman!" The mercenary leader called out.

And they had learned his name. Dabrowski must've let it slip. If they had done a background check, they would've called him by his last name, Tihomirov.

Roman looked at Finn. "Stay here. Don't come out."

The kid nodded.

Roman walked out onto the porch.

"I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot," the merc said. "My name is Wayne Greene. I own Shadow Strike Solutions."

So awesome. So impressive. I've got some shadows for you, buddy. Don't you worry.

"These are my people. They are all good, solid guys. I run a clean operation. I like to do things above board."

You don't say.

"It wouldn't sit right with me if I didn't give you this last chance to avoid bloodshed. The optics of this are bothering me. My team is about to take down a lone man and his pets in a single house in the middle of the woods. There is no glory here. They won't sing songs about this one in Valhalla."

Ah. A neo-Viking. A lot of mercenaries skewed Norse. The idea of being rewarded and celebrated for their lives of violence appealed to them. Instead of seeing themselves as paid muscle-for-hire, they preferred to envision themselves as wolves and reavers in human skin, seeking glory in the name of a higher calling. When one of them died in battle, instead of dealing with the grim reality of replacing him with the next warm body and sending his family his last check, they would make speeches, drink, and growl about seeing their brother in the mead halls of Valhalla.

"So, what are you going to do about it?" Roman asked.

"A man's home is his castle. You want to protect it. I understand that. In your place, I'd do the same. Nobody likes a pack of random strangers showing up on their doorstep and making demands. That's why I'm going to make you an offer instead. Before I unleash hell, I must at least try."

Ah. Personnel management. This wasn't about him. This was about Wayne looking good in front of his crew. They saw themselves as elite. Attacking a peaceful man in his house and child trafficking didn't exactly go with the whole glorious warrior shtick. But Wayne had taken the money, and now he was giving himself an out in case any of them grumbled about this incident later.

Oh, it's such a shame we had to kill that deranged hermit in the woods. Poor guy. I gave him a chance to save himself, I tried to be reasonable, I warned him. If only he had listened to me.

"Let me level with you," Wayne said.

"Oh, please do."

"I'm willing to compensate you for the inconvenience. How much will it take to resolve this matter peacefully today?"

"Finn?" Roman called out.

"Yes?" Finn asked from inside the house.

"Are you here of your own free will?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to go with these men?"

"No. I don't."

Roman stared at Wayne. Seconds ticked by.

"What's your answer?" Wayne finally said.

"I'm waiting for you to say it out loud. Say ‘how much money will it take for us to buy a child and drag him out of your house?' Listen to the words as you say them and then explain to me again how you are the good guys here."

The faces of the two mercenaries behind Wayne told Roman that one had landed.

"It's not like that," Wayne said.

"I know your gods. I've met Odin." And what a memorable, super fun meeting that had been. If he never saw another Norse god in his lifetime, it would be too soon. "They do not celebrate slavers in neo-Valhalla."

That one also landed.

"What you're really asking," Roman said, "is the price of my soul. But I can't sell it to you. It's already claimed. All the money in the world would not make me give you this kid."

Wayne heaved a sigh. "I fucking tried."

"Yes, yes. Do what we both know you were going to do anyway."

The mercenary leader spun around and jerked the blindfold off the priest's face. The man stared at Roman with dark eyes. That was a hell of a thousand-yard stare. He didn't seem to know where he was. The magic inside him had swelled like a raging river straining against a dam.

Wayne leaned to the priest and pointed at Roman. "Look, Farhang. Evil!"

Awareness sparked in Farhang's eyes. A sluice gate had opened, and the chaotic maelstrom of his power had found a target.

Shit.

Roman planted his staff onto the porch.

Light exploded from Farhang, rolling like a blast wave, shaking the snow off the trees. It smashed into the staff and broke on its shaft, rattling Klyuv in Roman's fingers. The house shook behind him. Inside Roro howled with an unearthly voice.

Farhang turned his hands downward and spun them.

What are you?

A loud, triumphant chant spilled from the priest's lips. Unfamiliar words, a foreign language, channeling power. The snow swirled around him, mixing with golden light.

Finn stepped outside.

"Get back," Roman told him.

"No."

The light coalesced into rings that slid up and down around Farhang with an electric strumming sound. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. He was like a volcano about to blow.

The kid raised his head and took a deliberate step closer to Roman.

"What are you doing?" Roman growled.

"Being a human shield."

"Do what now?"

"They won't hit you if I stand close." Finn edged a little closer.

Farhang clapped his hands. "… Ahura… !"

Oh, fuck it all.

Roman grabbed Finn and yanked him to the floor of the porch.

Missiles of golden fire erupted out of Farhang and streaked toward the house.

The bone hands burst from the ground, clamping together into a shield. The golden fireballs hammered into them. The skeletal shield shook under the barrage, sizzling from the impact.

Inside the house Roro yowled like a demon.

Of all the denominations, it had to be that one. What did those svolochi do to him? Had to be something really potent. A restricting amulet would've emitted its own magic, but Farhang was putting out so much power it was hard to sense anything in that blinding light.

"What the hell is he?" Finn squeezed out.

"Get into the house!"

"I will shield you! They want me alive!"

"He didn't get that memo, kid. Inside. Now!"

Slivers of bone peppered the floorboards as the light struck chunks from the bone fingers. Finn scrambled into the house on all fours, landed just inside the doorway, and stayed there.

The mercenaries advanced in a ragged line. He could see them through the gaps in the damaged fingers, eight figures carefully moving in, Wayne in the middle, in the second line. The two shooters remained in their spots on the flanks, waiting for the right moment to put a bolt in his chest.

Beneath the ground Vasya waited, wrapped in dark magic and feeling put out.

Not yet.

The barrage finally died.

Roman peered at the battlefield. Farhang was back in his powering-up pose. The golden rings coalesced and began their up-and-down dance.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

He was going to do it again. If this kept going, the man's heart might give out.

Farhang's eyes were still blank. Focused but blank. He was on autopilot, like an automated Gatling gun. Which meant he would alternate between the two main weapons in his arsenal that were consistent with his faith. He'd done the purifying fire. That left the other option. Now to nudge him toward it…

Okay, so yes, let's do that.

Roman pushed the bone hands apart with his magic, pivoting them open, thrust his staff at the advancing line, and snarled a command suffused with magic. " Imenem Chernoboga! "

Not a true invocation but impressive enough.

Klyuv opened its beak. A swarm of black flies the size of grapes shot out from the staff's mouth like a black cloud, spiraled, and fell onto the mercenaries. The Shadow Strikers cursed, waving their arms. The flies wouldn't kill, but they stung like hell.

Farhang stared at the flailing mercs.

Cleanse them.

Cleanse them.

Farhang rotated his hands. The light rings broke into a glowing wide spiral, picking up snow from the ground. The light-infused snow tornado spun and melted in an instant, turning into a waterspout. The water funnel burst. Glowing water drenched the mercenaries and the flies. Tiny black bodies rained on the ground.

Perfect.

Roman smashed the staff into the porch, driving a spike of pure power into Klyuv, through the shaft, and into the ground below. A phantom cold sprang from him like a magic river and sped through the ground, branching as it flowed. Black ice stabbed through the soil and snow, mirroring the river's course, and clamped the mercenaries into its bear trap, locking them in place. Even holy cleansing water was still water. It froze, especially when fed with Chernobog's ice on his consecrated ground.

He had to give it to Wayne's crew. They didn't scream.

Wayne jerked a machete from its sheath and hacked at the ice that shackled his shins. "I need fire, Farhang!"

Roman sent an icy mote down below. Now.

A crossbow bolt tore out of the tree line and sliced across his left thigh in a hot burn. The snipers. Damn it.

Roman clenched his fist. The lights went out. Darkness drowned the front yard. Farhang stood alone, illuminated by his golden light.

A deep human howl tore through the night.

Another.

Fire erupted from Farhang's fingertips, pummeling the darkness at random.

Roman stepped back, whipping the gloom around himself, clothing his body in it like a shroud. It whetted his eyes and the night opened before him, clear as day. Three mercs and Wayne had broken free and hightailed it back to the woods at top speed. Four others remained anchored. Of those, the one on the right was missing a head, his body still locked upright by the ice, and a second one sprawled on the ground. The last two mercs twisted, one frantically hacking at the ice and the other swinging his short sword at the darkness.

Behind Roman, the door swung open. Finn stepped onto the porch, holding a crossbow, raised it, and leveled it at Farhang, who was bathed in his purifying fire like a torch.

"No!" Roman slapped the crossbow down.

"He's trying to kill us!"

"He isn't in his right mind."

A big, chitin-sheathed body burst from the ground. Huge pincers cut like chitin shears and sliced the merc on the left in half.

"Farhang!" Wayne snarled from midway down the driveway. "Do something!"

Farhang clenched his fists. The magic swelled inside him and tore out like a geyser, sending a ball of searing fire ten feet into the air. The tiny sun flooded the front yard, incinerating the darkness in an instant.

Pain lashed Roman with a burning whip, setting fire to his bone marrow, cooking his eyes in his head, steaming his brain. His insides clenched, and he vomited onto the porch.

Magic backlash was a bitch.

The midnight dawn blazed, furious and vivid, making every snowflake stand out.

The last merc looked around, realizing he was the only one left standing. The ground in front of him exploded outward, and a cow-sized black scorpion lunged out, huge, segmented tail striking. The merc shuddered, impaled by the spike. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp.

The remaining Shadow Strikers stared, shocked.

Vasya locked two of the bodies with his pinchers and dove back underground, taking his dinner with him.

"Fucking kill that bastard!" Wayne howled.

Farhang shoved the ball of light at Roman. He saw it coming, and the familiar rage that always fed him when he'd been beaten down reared its ugly head.

Not today. Not fucking ever. Not in my own house.

Roman planted his feet and thrust the staff in front of him. His body opened, like a door, no longer just a physical form, but a conduit to elsewhere, a place without light, a realm of cold, where power lay waiting. He welcomed it. It filled him, packed itself into a huge, clawed fist, and smashed into the ball of light.

Magic clashed in a burst of purple lightning. The world shook.

The clawed hand squeezed the searing flame ball. It popped and went out.

Blood poured from Farhang's nose and mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

The torches bordering the yard flared with blue fire.

With a blood-curdling howl, Roro tore out of the front door, bounded across the yard, locked her jaws on Farhang's side, heaved him like he weighed nothing, galloped back to the porch, and dragged him into the house.

Roman swung his cloak of darkness around him, pushed Finn through the door, and went in after him. The last thing he saw was the stunned look on Wayne's face.