Chapter 1: The Taste of Strawberry and Iron

The strawberry daiquiri tasted like copper pennies and regret.

Dmitry Kozlov set down the blender with more force than necessary, the metallic clang echoing through the empty bar like a death knell. His hands trembled—not from exhaustion, though he'd been pulling doubles for three weeks straight—but from the familiar, unwelcome tingle that crept up his fingers whenever that part of himself stirred.

The berry-red stain on his palms seemed to pulse in the dim light of Murphy's Tavern, as if responding to some internal rhythm he'd spent six years trying to silence.

"Dima, you okay?" Alysa's voice cut through his brooding. She leaned against the bar, her practical brown eyes studying him with the kind of concern that made his chest tight. Freckles dotted her nose like constellation points, and her auburn hair was pulled back in the messy bun she favored during closing shifts.

"Fine," he lied, wiping his hands on the bar towel. The stain didn't budge—it never did. "Just tired."

Alysa Petrova had been his anchor to normalcy for two years now. She was everything his old life wasn't: predictable, honest, delightfully mundane. She complained about rent, binged Netflix shows about serial killers, and made the world's worst coffee. She was also the only person in this gray city who looked at him and saw just Dmitry—not the grandson of legends, not a walking catastrophe wrapped in a bartender's apron.

Which made what happened next so much worse.

The ferret on his shoulder stirred, tiny claws digging into his uniform shirt. To anyone watching, Ryzhiy appeared to be nothing more than an exotic pet—an oddly colored blue ferret that Dmitry claimed to have rescued from a sketchy exotic dealer. The kind of eccentricity people expected from someone with his accent and perpetually haunted expression.

But Ryzhiy's sapphire eyes held intelligence far older than Dmitry's twenty-four years, and right now, they were fixed on the tavern's front door with laser focus.

"We have a problem," the ferret whispered, his voice barely audible.

Dmitry's blood turned to ice water. Ryzhiy never spoke where others could hear. Never.

"Alysa," Dmitry said carefully, not taking his eyes off the door, "maybe you should head home early tonight."

She laughed, the sound bright and oblivious. "Nice try, but I'm not leaving you to close alone again. Besides, I need the overtime if I'm going to make rent this month."

The door chimed as it opened, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

The thing that walked in looked human at first glance—tall, pale, wearing an expensive coat that probably cost more than Dmitry made in three months. But its movements were wrong, too fluid, like oil poured into a human-shaped container. When it smiled, revealing teeth filed to needle points, the last of Dmitry's hope died.

A rusalka. A water spirit, the kind that drowned unfaithful lovers and collected their souls like bottle caps. And it was looking directly at Alysa.

"We're closed," Dmitry said, his voice steady despite the panic clawing at his throat.

The creature's head tilted, studying him with pale, fish-dead eyes. When it spoke, its voice was like drowning—wet, suffocating, wrong. "I'm not here for drink, grandson. I'm here for the girl."

Grandson. The word hit like a physical blow. They knew. Somehow, they knew who he was.

Alysa glanced between them, confusion creasing her brow. "Dmitry? What's going on?"

The rusalka moved faster than human eyes could follow. One moment it stood by the door; the next, it had Alysa by the throat, lifting her off the ground with one pale hand. Her feet kicked uselessly at the air, and the sound she made—a strangled, terrified wheeze—shattered something inside Dmitry's chest.

"Let. Her. Go." The words came out low and dangerous, and the lights in the bar flickered.

The creature laughed, a sound like drowning cats. "The Black God sends his regards, little prince. Your grandmother's debts are coming due, and payment begins with the mortal's death."

Alysa's lips were turning blue.

Six years. Six years of careful control, of meditation techniques learned from YouTube videos, of suppressing every instinct his grandmother had beaten into him. Six years of pretending he was normal, that the power in his blood was just a childhood nightmare he'd outgrown.

But as he watched the life drain from Alysa's face, Dmitry Kozlov remembered exactly who he was.

The berry stain on his hands erupted into flame—not orange fire, but something deeper, darker. Crimson light that tasted of iron and old magic, the kind that predated churches and automobiles and the careful lies people told themselves about the world.

"I said," Dmitry snarled, and his voice carried the weight of winter storms and grandmother's fury, "let her go."

The power hit the rusalka like a freight train. It shrieked—a sound that shattered every glass behind the bar—and released Alysa, who crumpled to the floor gasping. The creature staggered backward, its human mask slipping to reveal something wet and terrible underneath.

"Impossible," it hissed. "You severed the ties. You chose the mortal world."

"I changed my mind."

Dmitry raised his hand, and the crimson fire responded. It wrapped around the rusalka like chains, and where it touched, the creature's stolen flesh began to smoke and burn. The smell was horrific—rotting fish and sulfur and the particular stench of magic gone wrong.

"The Black God will—"

"The Black God can kiss my ass," Dmitry interrupted, and squeezed.

The rusalka imploded with a wet pop, leaving nothing behind but a puddle of brackish water and the lingering smell of the grave.

Silence fell over the bar like a heavy blanket. Alysa lay on the floor, coughing and clutching her throat, her eyes wide with shock and terror. The crimson fire around Dmitry's hands flickered and died, leaving only the familiar berry stain and the taste of copper in his mouth.

"Well," said Ryzhiy, his voice now clear and carrying the weight of centuries, "that was dramatically stupid."

Alysa's head snapped up, her gaze fixing on the ferret with dawning horror. "Did... did your pet just talk?"

Dmitry closed his eyes and felt the last of his normal life crumble to ash. "Alysa, I need you to listen very carefully. Everything you thought you knew about the world? You were wrong."

He opened his eyes and met her terrified gaze. "And I'm sorry, but there's no going back now. They know where you are. They know what you mean to me." His voice cracked on the last words. "Which means you're as screwed as I am."

Ryzhiy stretched lazily, his sapphire fur catching the bar's dim light. "Oh good, we're finally having the conversation. I was getting tired of pretending to be a normal pet. Do you have any idea how degrading it is to eat regular ferret food?"

"What the hell is happening?" Alysa's voice pitched toward hysteria.

Dmitry looked at her—really looked at her, maybe for the last time as the woman who'd known only the carefully constructed lie of his mundane existence. Her freckles stood out stark against her pale skin, and there was a bruise forming on her throat where the rusalka had grabbed her.

"My name is Dmitry Kozlov," he said quietly. "My grandmother was Baba Yaga. And the war I've been running from for six years just found us both."

Outside, something howled in the distance—a sound no earthly creature should make. More were coming. They'd tasted his power now, caught his scent on the magical wind. The careful barriers he'd built around his ordinary life were crumbling, and there was nowhere left to hide.

Ryzhiy's ancient eyes gleamed with something that might have been approval. "Welcome back to the family business, boy. Try not to get us all killed."

The howling grew closer.