She crooks a finger at Dymitr, still not really looking at him. Her fingernail is long and acid green. Strzygi fingernails are matte black, like bird talons, so most strzygi paint them. “He’s oświecony,” Ala says. “A cousin.” “We’re almost at capacity.” “Well, I was told to hurry, and I’m fighting,” Ala says. “Which, last time I checked, means I can bring somebody in to mop up my blood.” The strzyga narrows her eyes at Dymitr. They’re inky black. Owl eyes.
