I rarely fail to go against the grain of any given situation. Where is my Owl's wisdom? Ah. It's usually clashing with my desire to fix things I see wrong with the world.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  “Do not come closer! You’ll risk her well-being and your own!” Dragos shouted back.

  Four men were at the head of the stairs, as far as he could see through the gap. One of them was Ewa’s father, and there was no Nico to be seen. Volpe must have gotten out of the way after trying to explain. What could the man do? An angry mob is senseless. Dragos had seen enough of them; been the cause for most.

  “You will not harm her!” Ewa’s father threatened, then stepped back to give the man with the axe some room to swing.

  Naturally, he misinterpreted Dragos's instructions. Of course he assumed the white-haired man to be some evil striga bent on chaos and destruction for the sake of random misery.

  The wanderer’s chest heaved a long, sad sigh. He squared his feet and prepared to fight, stretching his arms, cracking his neck, sucking in another lungful of air.

  Splinters flew as the axe drove in. The door shuddered. The axe found the wooden bar bracing the door. It took three swings to break through it.

  The mild-looking man beside Dragos disappeared.

  Shadow flowed into sinuous ribbons of darkness, twining, reforming. The zmeu revealed itself, fully formed into the world. Its half-human body, all gangling scaled limbs and wild mane, charged forward, draconic mouth open in a roar that rattled the glass windows.

  Dragos got to see the absolute horror on the men’s faces before Zgavra’s body was in the way. A sudden thump and scream hinted at at least one of the men tumbling down the stairs. The zmeu grabbed the doorframe and leaned out into the stairwell, voice booming.

  “Leave!”

  With scrabbles, clatters, and the sound of another man stumbling over the first, they ran.

  Dragos huffed out a breath and glanced at the alembic. The pathetic drizzle slowed. The condenser’s water had warmed too much. Intermittent drips fell.

  “Bought you a bit of time,” Zagavra said.

  “At the expense of ever being able to explain myself,” Dragos sighed.

  The zmeu snorted. “As if men listen to corpses. You wouldn’t have spoken more than a word before they cut you down.”

  “Also true,” Dragos said, shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. They dropped, his hands flexing and falling still at his sides. He stared with regret at the shattered door and the empty curve of wall that led downward.

  What would it have been like had they not been afraid? Had he not been so strange to their eye? Had superstition and cultish faiths not written him to be a villain on sight?

  He’d probably never know. Lady Ewa’s family lingered below, sure she was abducted by evil. After that moment of rumination, he flung his hands up and turned toward the flask to look within.

  The smoky extract seemed almost ready. The last part was separating oil from water and blending the highly distilled alcohol.

  Once mixed, the serum would only be stable for five minutes, after which it would separate. He’d have to work quickly.

  Zgavra turned its back to the door, rubbing clawed hands together. The gleam in its orange eye revealed its delight.

  “You live for this distress, don’t you?” Dragos accused it.

  The zmeu’s head tilted, and after a second of consideration, it answered, “Yes.”

  “Great,” Dragos sighed. He drew the iron poker from its loop and used it to slide the alembic away from the fireplace. He moved the flask to catch the next drip, glancing at the now open stairwell.

  “They won’t come back,” Zgavra said with confidence.

  “Not without a bigger mob,” Dragos mumbled under his breath, positioning the teacup under the spout and taking the flask.

  Every few blinks, he shot a look at the splintered door, but no footsteps came. Instead, he heard voices. Not one, but many, tangled in vehement debate. He couldn’t make out what was said. He assumed it amounted to ‘kill the witch.’ Usually did.

  He used a brush made of straw to whisk the alcohol into the essence from the alembic, crafting an emulsion.

  With great care, he carried the concoction over to where Ewa slept, caught in the arms of his pain remedy. He began painting the concoction on her scalp, carefully daubing it between the twists of her hair. From there, he worked upwards, drizzling and scraping the straw brush to coat, separating the locks to work it in.

  The voices grew louder. They were moving toward the stairs. His heart beat harder as he focused. He could not let them distract him. Every drop had to be spread with care, until her hair was saturated.

  “Is it over yet?” Ewa’s sleep-heavy voice made him jump. He froze to keep from spilling the emulsion.

  “Almost,” Dragos said, resuming his careful painting. “Your father wants to kill me. Zgavra did something a little rash to scare them off, but I think they’re coming back. You’re lucky to be so loved.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He could hear her smile. His gaze was reserved for his work. The few drops left he held over her hair until they fell.

  “Wash your hair in moving water, the faster moving, the better.”

  Dragos stood from his crouch beside her and handed Zgavra the flask and the brush. Ewa’s startled gasp made him grin at the zmeu. “Take all these. Go quickly.”

  “What about them?” Zgavra’s ungainly large head tipped toward the door, thick mane falling across a blazing eye. His glance suggested he stay.

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  Dragos shook his head. “Better to get these away from them before some new disaster befalls. I’ll escape. I always do.”

  “With my help,” Zgavra protested.

  Dragos met its gaze and grinned. “What did I do before you came along? Go. This needs to sit for a time before I cut the excess off.”

  The zmeu gathered the bundled items and the alembic, though surely still too hot to touch by human hands. With a last glance at Dragos, he jumped out the window that was not blocked by the system of suspended human hair.

  “What was that?” Ewa whispered.

  Dragos turned to face her. “A zmeu. Don’t worry, he won’t make off with you. I’ll make him promise not to.”

  “You have a pact with a beast?” She did not mean beast as an animal. Ewa meant it as a creature of darkness. The thing that strigoi and Solomonari were known for. Reviled for. And here he was, an albstrig? with a monster, living proof that superstitions were right. Except they weren’t. Not entirely.

  “I gave it a name, and it respects me. It has to do as I say in certain cases. It’s—complicated,” Dragos said, realizing that nothing he said, or could say, would make it better.

  “You are a complicated man,” Ewa said, a soft smile touching her lips.

  That was what he wanted to say. What he intended to mean. He bowed his head briefly and huffed out a chuckle. “Essentially.”

  She called him a man, not a striga, which was enough.

  “The emulsion has to soak in. Ten minutes, and we can cut free everything below the treatment. If I did it right, it will stay at that length. You’ll never be able to cut it shorter or style it differently, but the curse is reduced.” At least, that was the result he hoped for.

  Ewa’s eyes closed with relief. Her chest heaved once, exhaling all the pain and misery she’d retained for a fortnight in one long, trembling breath. Dragos dearly hoped he hadn’t just lied to her.

  The voices below went silent.

  At first, Dragos hadn’t noticed, so focused on watching Ewa’s curse balance with his mind’s eye. The blend of Zior and Umbre danced, attaining new, complex patterns of movement, different from the wild swirls of bright sparks. Energy and madness without control.

  When he noticed the silence, he paused. Some little thing scraped on stone. With a lurch, he stood up straight and rushed to the crate left on the table. The last item requested: a kitchen knife sturdy enough to chop through bone and sharp enough to slice a tomato with a touch.

  He found the line where the affliction was balanced and started to saw. The cutting sound filled his ears. He grit his teeth and kept going, slipping glances at the splintered wood and the open maw of the stairwell. Twilight was nearly upon the world, and shadows drew long.

  “Don’t forget. Running water. You could contaminate a water source with this.” May not, but better safe than sorry, in his estimation. It was no life-threatening curse, but spreading it would be unfortunate. Ewa had the time and the means to do it right.

  “I will,” she said, her whole body trembling. He hoped with excitement, but regardless, the cure seemed to be working.

  A louder scuff on the stairs warned Dragos he didn’t have much longer.

  “The curse is gone, then?” she asked hopefully. “My head tingles. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  “I can’t undo what I haven’t done, but you’ll be able to move again,” he said, this time with more confidence. He sawed away.

  “I’m so glad,” she breathed.

  A hint of someone’s head appeared at the floor level, peering into the room. Dragos spotted him as he sawed through the last lock. Ewa’s hair fell to the floor.

  “Burn the rest, far away from the house, far away from where people go. Don’t breathe the smoke. Set it and leave it, and return to burn the rest if the fire goes out before it’s done.”

  “I will,” Ewa promised, slowly sitting up. She winced; having hardly moved for so long, her bones had stiffened into the position she’d lain in.

  Footsteps clattered up the stairs. Ewa’s father in the lead, axe in hand. In a rush, other men followed, swarming the stairwell. Dragos lunged for his box and cloak, swung the straps over his shoulders, in motion as he stuffed his cloak in a strap, pinned there by his body.

  “Farewell, Doamn? Ewa!” Dragos shouted and, with a running leap, jumped up to the windowsill. He grabbed a handful of the hair he’d cut free, still suspended by ropes, and climbed down.

  A second later, as he swiftly descended, Ewa’s father appeared, looking down. The oncoming night painted his features too dark to see, except for the bright snarl of his teeth.

  Ewa’s hair shuddered as the Boyar hacked at it. Dragos grabbed handfuls as he descended, then felt one give. Fingers slipping, he snatched onto another handful of locks and descended faster.

  His luck gave out before he’d quite gotten to the ground. The Lord hacked, and Dragos fell, hands full of enchanted hair. He twisted like a cat before landing on a hedge, face gouged by a branch just under his eye. Another branch jabbed through his shirt, piercing his skin before snapping against tensed muscles.

  His feet crushed what he’d landed on, and he flailed to fling himself out of the tangle of sharply poking bushes. He half tumbled, half climbed out, clothing torn, bruised, and scratched, but alive.

  He looked up at the angry face glaring down at him. A mere shadow, but the rage emanated from his figure. The man disappeared as quickly as he’d looked out.

  Dragos almost ran right then, but he noticed a glint in the twilight. Gold. The gold adornments of Ewa’s hair shone with promise. He paused long enough to work a few free before dashing off into the night.

  They’d have paid him with death. He preferred gold.

  He returned the next night.

  Dragos couldn’t exactly leave without being sure his treatment worked, and the house had been silent that day. No one went out looking for him. He assumed Ewa had talked some sense into her father or at least convinced him to desist from the chase.

  The long ropes of hair had been taken down at some time when he’d slept high in the crook of an old oak tree. They were likely burned, as he’d suggested. At twilight, he crept to the hedge where he’d fallen. It bore similar scars to his shape, bruised but mostly whole.

  He craned his neck and looked up at the open window. On a lark, he found a stone hefty enough to make the flight and tossed it up. It clattered beneath the window. A moment later, a head poked out. Long locs dangled, but not so long they weighed her down. No longer so copious that they tore from her head when they grew too fast.

  Ewa.

  She waved from high above, and he waved back. Relief touched that place deep within him, the part that insisted he help people. The piece of him that still struggled against the darkness in the world, despite the seeming futility.

  “Better?” He called up, glancing around to be sure no one saw him.

  “Much,” Ewa replied. He caught some change in her expression, and she held up a finger. “Wait right there!”

  A moment later she returned to the window. Something dark fluttered down, swirling on the wind. Dragos trotted to the side and held out his hands. A scarf. In the gloaming, he couldn’t tell its shade. It was not the dull earthy tones of peasant garb.

  “For your hair,” Ewa called.

  A shout from the front of the house pricked Dragos's ears. Ewa looked that way, her frown clear enough. He didn’t wait to see who came. As he ran, he looked back and waved at the girl in the tower.

  Her silhouette waved back, lit by the warmth of the firelight behind her.

  The forest welcomed him into its shadowy boughs, and he found a spot to watch that distant figure until she eventually left the window.

  With a heart both happy and heavy, Dragos slipped into the dark.

  Doamn? (do-AHM-nuh): Lady, miss, ma'am

  Alembic: A distilling apparatus with a rounded, necked flask and condenser.

  Strigoi (stree-GOY): All manner of creatures with wounded souls. It could refer to the undead, to witches, or ghosts, depending on the context.

  Solomonari (so-lo-mo-NAH-ree) [rolled r]: A race of wizard strigoi that rode zmeu. Legend has it they worked blood magic and made pacts with demons and animals. Their school, known as The Dark School, was also known in distant lands as Scholomance.

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