The place is almost empty.
A few old women in headscarves are scattered among the pews, their heads bowed in prayer. Candles flicker in ornate holders along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the painted icons of saints and martyrs.
We stride through the main church building and head out back to where the plot of land that’s the cemetery is.
The cemetery’s less impressive than the church, crowded with weathered headstones and crooked crosses. A wrought-iron fence surrounds the perimeter, its spikes rusted with age.
Standing alone among the many graves is The Deathless himself.
He’s dressed in all black, his dark hair falling past his shoulders, head bowed as he stares down at a headstone I can’t read from this distance.
Instead of the mask I’m told he often wears, he’s got a chunky knit scarf wrapped around his neck, coming up to the bottom half of his face.
It has the same effect—only his eyes and browsare visible.
He holds a candle in gloved hands, head bowed as if in the middle of prayer.
Aleksei and I exchange a glance then start moving through the cemetery, weaving between headstones. We keep our footsteps as soundless as possible on the overgrown grass.
We’re maybe twenty feet away when Koschei speaks without turning around.
“You should not have come here.”
I glare at his back. “We’ve got business with you. The kind that ends with you in the ground.”
Koschei slowly turns to face us. Though the thick scarf he’s wearing obscures most of his face from view, I can make out distinct Slavic features.
Sharp angles and void-like eyes.
“Many men have tried to put me in the ground,” he says calmly. “They are all dead now.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Aleksei growls beside me.
Koschei’s gaze shifts to the former Bratva soldier, recognition flickering in his dark gaze. “Ah, yes. The traitor. The sovietnik will be pleased to hear you have finally crawled out of hiding.”
“Fedorov can choke on his own blood,” Aleksei spits. “I am going to enjoy watching him die.”
“You will not live long enough to see it.”
Koschei springs toward us before I even register what the fuck’s happening.
One second he’s standing still as a statue, the next he’s a blur of motion, leaping through the air at us. His leg shoots out as he strikes a fighting pose and lands a hard kick to Aleksei’s chest. The ex-Bratva soldier’s sent stumbling back.
Koschei follows up with a spin and then a punch to Aleksei’s jaw. His fist connects, packing power but impressively fast.
Next second, he’s rounding on me, launching another attack.
I’m ready for him—or so I think—as I throw up my fists and go offensive. But Koschei dodges the punch I throw, easily sliding to the side then even anticipating my next blow. He blocks that then kicks out his leg in a sweep that takes me down.
Fucking hell, he’s fast.
I’ve trained for years on my footwork. On my defensive maneuvers.
In the boxing world, I’m one of the fastest, most agile heavyweights.
Yet Koschei puts us both to shame as he ducks and dives any blow we aim his way. He does a backflip as Aleksei rushes at him with both fists raised, throwing punches as chaotic as The Tank had during our match.
Koschei’s long out of the way by the time Aleksei’s fist slams into a crumbling statue of some saint. The stone cracks even deeper, chunks of marble scattering to the grass.
