Stitched: A Slavic Urban Fantasy Series (Kozlov Chronicles Book 1) by Elena Sobol

Author:Elena Sobol [Sobol, Elena]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2022-02-19T06:00:00+00:00

14

The roots of the World Tree coiled like the feet of a tentacled giant. Up close, I couldn't see around them. We stood at the foot of it like it was a mountain. Once again, I tilted up my head to see if I could find the top. Maybe the whole point was that there wasn't one, and its boughs reached into infinite worlds. Realities upon realities.

Coria looked giddy, and Tynan looked apprehensive as we stepped between the bulbous growths. Alysa was so still around my neck, someone could have mistaken her for an azure scarf. The sirins screeched as they flew into an entry in the root work. I couldn't help but check my shirt. It looked as miserable as my sore, bruised hands. It didn't feel right to talk to a prophetess looking like I'd been run over by a steam roller. On the other hand, if she wanted me to look presentable, maybe she shouldn't have tried to kill us. We followed the rustle of wings into the dark.

The dark didn't last long. Light filtered through the gaps in the roots and checkered the ground. Dust danced in pockets of sunlight. This made the shadows seem impenetrable in contrast. I kept going until my eyes adjusted to the dark. Then, I cringed as my sneaker crunched on a bone. I looked down and saw a very human-looking femur sticking out of the ground. Yikes. Coria sniffed behind me, and I heard Tynan slide out his sword. Those two have seen plenty of monster lairs, but even I’ve watched enough CSI to tell a human-eating one when I see it.

"Stay in the backpack," I told Alysa. She slipped through the zipper opening without a sound.

"Dmitry," the same deep, carrying voice came from above me. I looked up and saw a burst of red and a pair of deep-seated eyes. They were bright green and seemed to glow in the gloom. "Welcome. You traveled hard to find the answer you seek."

"Could've traveled a little easier," I said, "if it wasn't for your storm."

A dry laughter came from the dark. "Oh, but we have so very few visitors. My daughters are starved for entertainment."

I looked around and saw dozens of smaller forms clustered in the pockets. Their wings rustled and their eyes bore down on us. Entertainment wasn't the only thing they looked starved for. Better play it safe.

Awkward, I bowed. "Gamayun the prophetess," I said. "Thank you for seeing me."

Green eyes sparked with humor and drew closer. A face emerged into the light, then a body. I was relieved to see that unlike the more awkward Google search results, the Gamayun didn't actually have an—ahem—anatomically-correct torso. The feathers started just below the collar bones. Leave it to the pervs in the Middle Ages to put boobs on a bird.

"That's better," she crooned. "No one likes an impolite boy."

The wings were entirely red and the specks of crimson went up her wings and onto her shoulders. From there, it specked the skin and the gray of her other feathers.

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