Chapter EighteenIs the heat playing tricks with the acoustics?
“Who is there?” I drag the scorching air into my lungs. “Show yourself.”
“My name is Yaroslav,” the vapor says in the same soothing baritone. “I am—”
“The bannik and the father—or more accurately, the rapist—to be,” I say, ignoring the frantic hammering of my pulse. “Except, that’s not happening today. Or ever.”
The temperature in the room seems to rise a few more degrees. If it weren’t for the humidity, the wood benches might start to spontaneously combust.
With a whoosh, the surrounding vapor gathers in a single spot a few yards away from me.
I wipe another stream of sweat from my eyes in order to see, and by the time I complete the gesture, the vapor is gone.
A man covered only by a small towel around his waist stands
