Czernobog glowered. "One blow is all it takes, one blow. That is the art." He patted his upper right arm, where the muscles were, with his left, scattering gray ash from the cigarette in his left hand.
"It's been a long time. If you've lost your skill you might simply bruise me. How long has it been since you swung a killing hammer in the stockyards? Thirty years? Forty?"
Czernobog said nothing. His closed mouth was a gray slash across his face. He tapped his fingers on the wooden table, drumming out a rhythm with them. Then he pushed the twenty-four checkers back to their home squares on the board.
"Play," he said. "Again, you are light. I am dark."
Shadow pushed his first piece out. Czernobog pushed one of his own pieces forward. And it occurred to Shadow that Czernobog was going to try to play the same game again, the one that he had just won, that this would be his limitation.
This time Shadow played recklessly. He snatched tiny opportunities, moved without thinking, without a pause to consider. And this time, as he played, Shadow smiled; and whenever Czernobog moved a piece, Shadow smiled wider.
Soon, Czernobog was slamming his pieces down as he moved them, banging them down on the wooden table so hard that the remaining pieces shivered on their black squares.
"There," said Czernobog, taking one of Shadow's men with a crash, slamming the black piece down. "There. What do you say to that?"
Shadow said nothing: he simply smiled, and jumped the piece that Czernobog had put down, and another, and another, and a fourth, clearing the center of the board of black pieces. He took a white piece from the pile beside the board and kinged his man.
After that, it was just a mopping-up exercise: another handful of moves, and the game was done.
Shadow said, "Best of three?"
Czernobog simply stared at him, his gray eyes like points of steel. And then he laughed, clapped his hands on Shadow's shoulders. "I like you!" he exclaimed. "You have balls."
Then Zorya Utrennyaya put her head around the door to tell them that dinner was ready, and they should clear their game away and put the tablecloth down on the table.
"We have no dining room," she said, "I am sorry. We eat in here."
Serving dishes were placed on the table. Each of the diners was given a small painted tray on which was some tarnished cutlery, to hold on his or her lap.
Zorya Vechernyaya took five wooden bowls and placed an unpeeled boiled potato in each, then ladled in a healthy serving of a ferociously crimson borscht. She plopped a spoonful of white sour cream in, and handed the bowls to each of them.
"I thought there were six of us," said Shadow.
"Zorya Polunochnaya is still asleep," said Zorya Vechernyaya. "We keep her food in the refrigerator. When she wakes, she will eat."
The borscht was vinegary, and tasted like pickled beets. The boiled potato was mealy.
The next course was a leathery pot roast, accompanied by greens of some description-although they had been boiled so long and so thoroughly that they were no longer, by any stretch of the imagination, greens, and were well on their way to becoming browns.
Then there were cabbage leaves stuffed with ground meat and rice, cabbage leaves of such a toughness that they were almost impossible to cut without spattering ground meat and rice all over the carpet. Shadow pushed his around his plate.
"We played checkers," said Czernobog, hacking himself another lump of pot roast. "The young man and me. He won a game, I won a game. Because he won a game, I have agreed to go with him and Wednesday, and help them in their madness. And because I won a game, when this is all done, I get to kill the young man, with a blow of a hammer."
The two Zoryas nodded gravely. "Such a pity," Zorya Vechernyaya told Shadow. "In my fortune for you, I should have said you would have a long life and a happy one, with many children."
"That is why you are a good fortune-teller," said Zorya Utrennyaya. She looked sleepy, as if it were an effort for her to be up so late. "You tell the best lies."
At the end of the meal, Shadow was still hungry. Prison food had been pretty bad, and prison food was better than this.
"Good food," said Wednesday, who had cleaned his plate with every evidence of enjoyment. "I thank you ladies. And now, I am afraid that it is incumbent upon us to ask you to recommend to us a fine hotel in the neighborhood."
Zorya Vechernyaya looked offended at this. "Why should you go to a hotel?" she said. "We are not your friends?"
"I couldn't put you to any trouble…" said Wednesday.
"Is no trouble," said Zorya Utrennyaya, one hand playing with her incongruously golden hair, and she yawned.
"You can sleep in Bielebog's room," said Zorya Vechernyaya, pointing to Wednesday. "Is empty. And for you, young man, I make up a bed on sofa. You will be more comfortable than in feather bed. I swear."
"That would be really kind of you," said Wednesday. "We accept."
"And you pay me only no more than what you pay for hotel," said Zorya Vechernyaya, with a triumphant toss of her head. "A hundred dollars."
"Thirty" said Wednesday.
"Fifty."
"Thirty-five."
"Forty-five."
"Forty."
"Is good. Forty-five dollar." Zorya Vechernyaya reached across the table and shook Wednesday's hand. Then she began to clean the pots off the table. Zorya Utrennyaya yawned so hugely Shadow worried that she might dislocate her jaw, and announced that she was going to bed before she fell asleep with her head in the pie, and she said good night to them all.
Shadow helped Zorya Vechernyaya to take the plates and dishes into the little kitchen. To his surprise there was an elderly dishwashing machine beneath the sink, and he filled it. Zorya Vechernyaya looked over his shoulder, tutted, and removed the wooden borscht bowls. "Those, in the sink," she told him.
"Sorry."
"Is not to worry. Now, back in there, we have pie," she said.
The pie-it was an apple pie-had been bought in a store and oven-warmed, and was very, very good. The four of them ate it with ice cream, and then Zorya Vechernyaya made everyone go out of the sitting room, and made up a very fine-looking bed on the sofa for Shadow.
Wednesday spoke to Shadow as they stood in the corridor.
"What you did in there, with the checkers game," he said.
"Yes?"
"That was good. Very, very stupid of you. But good. Sleep safe."
Shadow brushed his teeth and washed his face in the cold water of the little bathroom, and then walked back down the hall to the sitting room, turned out the light, and was asleep before his head touched the pillow.
There were explosions in Shadow's dream: he was driving a truck through a minefield, and bombs were going off on each side of him. The windshield shattered and he felt warm blood running down his face.
Someone was shooting at him.
A bullet punctured his lung, a bullet shattered his spine, another hit his shoulder. He felt each bullet strike. He collapsed across the steering wheel.
The last explosion ended in darkness.
I must be dreaming, thought Shadow, alone in the darkness. I think I just died. He remembered hearing and believing, as a child, that if you died in your dreams, you would die in real life. He did not feel dead. He opened his eyes, experimentally.
There was a woman in the little sitting room, standing against the window, with her back to him. His heart missed a half-beat, and he said, "Laura?"
She turned, framed by the moonlight. "I'm sorry," she said. "I did not mean to wake you." She had a soft, Eastern European accent. "I will go."
"No, it's okay," said Shadow. "You didn't wake me. I had a dream."
"Yes," she said. "You were crying out, and moaning. Part of me wanted to wake you, but I thought, no, I should leave him."
Her hair was pale and colorless in the moon's thin light. She wore a white cotton nightgown, with a high lace neck and a hem that swept the ground. Shadow sat up, entirely awake. "You are Zorya Polu…," he hesitated. "The sister who was asleep."
"I am Zorya Polunochnaya, yes. And-you are called Shadow, yes? That was what Zorya Vechernyaya told me, when I woke."
"Yes. What were you looking at, out there?"
She looked at him, then she beckoned him to join her by the window. She turned her back while he pulled on his jeans. He walked over to her. It seemed a long walk, for such a small room.
He could not tell her age. Her skin was unlined, her eyes were dark, her lashes were long, her hair was to her waist and white. The moonlight drained colors into ghosts of themselves. She was taller than either of her sisters.
She pointed up into the night sky. "I was looking at that," she said, pointing to the Big Dipper. "See?"
"Ursa Major," he said. "The Great Bear."
"That is one way of looking at it," she said. "But it is not the way from where I come from. I am going to sit on the roof. Would you like to come with me?"
She lifted the window and clambered, barefoot, out onto the fire escape. A freezing wind blew through the window. Something was bothering Shadow, but he did not know what it was; he hesitated, then pulled on his sweater, stocks, and shoes and followed her out onto the rusting fire escape. She was waiting for him. His breath steamed in the chilly air. He watched her bare feet pad up the icy metal steps, and followed her up to the roof.
The wind gusted cold, flattening her nightgown against her body, and Shadow became uncomfortably aware that Zorya Polunochnaya was wearing nothing at all underneath.
"You don't mind the cold?" he said, as they reached the top of the fire escape, and the wind whipped his words away.
"Sorry?"
She bent her face close to his. Her breath was sweet.
"I said, doesn't the cold bother you?"
In reply, she held up a finger: wait. She stepped, lightly, over the side of the building and onto the flat roof. Shadow stepped over a little more clumsily, and followed her across the roof, to the shadow of the water tower. There was a wooden bench waiting for them there, and she sat down on it, and he sat down beside her. The water tower acted as a windbreak, for which Shadow was grateful.
"No," she said. "The cold does not bother me. This time is my time: I could no more feel uncomfortable in the night than a fish could feel uncomfortable in the deep water."
"You must like the night," said Shadow, wishing that he had said something wiser, more profound.
"My sisters are of their times. Zorya Utrennyaya is of the dawn. In the old country she would wake to open the gates, and let our father drive his-uhm, I forget the word, like a car but with horses?"
"Chariot?'
"His chariot. Our father would ride it out. And Zorya Vechernyaya, she would open the gates for him at dusk, when he returned to us."
"And you?"
She paused. Her lips were full, but very pale, "I never saw our father. I was asleep."
"Is it a medical condition?"
She did not answer. The shrug, if she shrugged, was imperceptible. "So. You wanted to know what I was looking at."