Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

8. Blood

Strzybog whistles. “You really weren’t kidding about claiming the mortal.” I think he’s surprised and a little awed.

Meanwhile, the villagers panic. There are a few high-pitched screams in the crowd and an overall shakiness. Some cower away, trying to get lost in the crowd while a few crane their necks to spot the owner of the terrifying voice.

“Great,” I mutter, clenching my fists to overcome my own shaking. “As if they needed another reason to hate me.”

Ida straightens and comes over, her hips swaying, her head raised high, beautiful chaplet on display. She approaches the circle, standing closer than I do and facing it squarely. She looks at the gods with bold eyes, taking in each face save for Woland’s, who is still obscured, and drops into a graceful bow.

“I shall bring you the best mead my family makes,” she says after straightening.

Before she saunters away, she gives me an arch look. I grit my teeth and turn to the black cloud, bidding my body to stay still as I address him directly for the first time.

“Will you also have her family’s best mead?” I ask, trying to sound polite, but an angry edge creeps into my voice. I’m done with the fear and the constant turmoil in my body. I lock it all down and force deep, soothing breaths into my chest, ordering myself to be calm.

And yet, anger lingers, only growing stronger. I do not like being ordered around the way he just did. Like I’m not even here. Although, to be fair, I don’t take any orders well. Wiosna called me an awful, obstinate child every day until she died.

“No,” Woland’s voice is lower, meant just for me, yet it still chills the skin on my back as an unpleasant buzzing starts in my ears. “I will have some of your wine.”

“It’s sour,” I say instantly. “Nobody likes it.”

I make my own dewberry wine that I personally quite enjoy. It’s tart and fresh and, unlike other drinks, doesn’t muddle the mind quite so fast. I always donate three bottles to every Kupala celebration and usually have to take two back home after. Some people believe my wine is poisoned. But mostly, everyone prefers sweeter, more potent drinks, like Ida’s mead.

Another reason why she is the queen and I am not.

“Do you want me to repeat myself?” he asks, his voice growing even more unpleasant with impatience.

“Fine,” I bite out. Gods, he terrifies me, and yet, I have a strong desire to show him he doesn’t rule me. That I am no one’s to be claimed.

That desire makes my tone brusque and disrespectful. “Dewberry wine for you, then.”

I turn away with a swish of my skirts. I don’t even take half a step when a firm, crushing force grips the back of my neck, turning me back around. I grunt from effort and pain, then clench my teeth to force back a whimper.

Damn, it hurts.

“You will address me with respect and by my name,” he says in a low, threatening voice that sends shivers down my neck.

“No. It cuts my tongue,” I reply at once, my anger growing in reaction to pain.

Woland’s yellow eyes flash through the curtain of smoke, and I slam my eyelids shut to protect myself from the agony of looking at him. Suddenly, there is a pressure against my body coming from every side, like bundled fabric swathing me.

“Open your eyes,” he says, his voice boring into my head like the buzzing of flies.

“I won’t. It hurts,” I say through clenched teeth, because the grip on my nape doesn’t lessen. I need to brace firmly against the pain to not make any humiliating sounds.

“And it will continue to hurt until you build immunity to my gaze. Open your eyes.”

I shake my head and lock my knees, breathing fast through my nose. “I don’t need to build immunity to you. You will be gone come dawn.”

He pauses. I open my eyes just a crack, looking down so I don’t incidentally glimpse his face. Then I open them wider, gulping nervously. I no longer see the meadow, the grass under my bare feet, or the river. Everything around me is bathed in dark, soft shadows that slither across my skin like feathers.

The only source of light is a small bonfire separating us. The boundary.

When I look up for just a moment, I see Woland completely uncovered and naked in front of me. It seems like he draped his shadows over both of us so no one would see me, just like they can’t see him.

“We are outside time and hidden away,” he speaks, his voice patient, and yet with a current of irritation. I think he hates explaining things but forces himself to do so for my sake.

But why?

“Outside time?” I repeat, looking at his sternum, which seems like the safest place. Because gazing into his eyes hurts. And looking at his nakedness makes me feel uneasy and hot.

“Yes. Time has stopped for everyone outside this shadowy enclave. We may speak without being heard or disturbed.”

I strain my ears, shocked to discover the absolute silence surrounding us both. The only sounds I hear are Woland’s slow, even breathing and the thudding of my heart, punctuated with my fast, shallow breaths.

The silence is oppressive yet surprisingly soothing. My shoulders drop as I relax into the quiet. After the din of Kupala, this moment of peace is a gift.

“You stopped time,” I murmur under my breath, and suddenly, my body goes rigid again.

Time. He rules time.

I look up sharply, right into his bright, yellow eyes, and blood trickles down my cheeks at once. But I don’t care about the pain and the gruesomeness of it. Because Woland, the terrifying demon who wants me for some reason, has the very thing I need to save myself.

“Can you walk into the past?” I ask, breathless from my discovery.

He tilts his head to the side, his dark gray forehead wrinkling in thought. I don’t break eye contact even when the pain sinks deeper into my eyes. It feels like two thick, hot needles piercing my pupils, going deeper and deeper the longer I stare.

“Why?” he asks. “Do you have a need to visit the past?”

The pain grows brighter and hotter, my eyes bleeding profusely. The blood flows down my cheeks in warm rivulets and falls, staining my dress. But I don’t care. He is the solution I’ve always sought, the very thing that will save my life.

He is also the most dangerous creature I know. Seeing how unpleasant he is, I have no doubt he’ll never give me anything just because I ask for it. I have to be smart. Cunning.

“I’m just curious,” I say, trying to sound unaffected.

His full mouth splits in a wide grin, revealing red gums and white teeth. I recoil, pain exploding in my skull with a flurry of white-hot sparks. And then, it’s gone. The pressure vanishes, and I blink, red spreading across my vision. My eyes feel whole and normal again, only the faintest tingle remaining, like an echo of the piercing agony.

“See?” he says, his shockingly thick, black tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. “Now, you can look at me without pain. We shall do the same with my name. Repeat it about twenty times and it will stop cutting you.”

I blink again and again, the bloody film in my eyes clearing. Then I look down at myself. Like I suspected, my dress is ruined.

“No, thank you,” I say, looking up warily. “I’ve bled enough for tonight.”

“You’re not squeamish,” he says with a smirk. “Maybe you just don’t feel compelled to call me by that name? I have many others, so you can take your pick. Diabel, Czart, Kusy, Szatan, Loheli…”

I shake my head, and he laughs, warm and pleasant. He’s clearly enjoying himself while I’m tense and afraid, the blood covering my skin making it itch.

His eyes glint, a cold spark in the midst of the demonic yellow, and he raises his arm. Slowly, he reaches over the bonfire separating us, and I stare mutely at his large, yet graceful hand tipped with those beastly claws. When it almost grazes my breast, I take a convulsive step back.

No. It’s not right. He cannot cross the circle.

My back presses into the soft yet unyielding wall of shadowy fabric. I can’t push past it, no matter how hard I try as my alarm grows. His hand is closer and closer. I’m trapped and at his mercy.

Woland bends his fingers and runs his knuckle up my cheek, gathering my blood. His touch is gentle, his skin warm, and yet, I want to scream from terror as I realize what’s happening.

His hand crosses the boundary without any effort at all. He can leave the circle if he wants.

“You can’t…” I begin, but don’t finish. My throat is dry, my heart pounds feverishly fast, and Woland’s eyes close as he brings the bloodied knuckle to his mouth.

With the yellow glow extinguished, he looks far less demonic.

Until he licks the blood off with a slow, obscene stroke of his tongue. My gorge rises, and I swallow hard, trying not to vomit. When his knuckle is clean, his eyes open. They look softer. Hooded.

“It’s been a long time since I drank mortal blood.”

Before I gather my scattered wits to answer, he twists his fingers, and a beautiful crystal cup shining with a thousand prisms appears in the air. He catches it deftly and raises his other hand, making a beckoning motion to me.

Something tickles my cheek and my stomach where the sticky blood made the dress cling to my skin. I watch with horror as the blood suddenly lifts off me, thousands of crimson drops suspended in midair. All of it comes off completely, and not a droplet stays on my clothes and skin. My dress is clean again.

After a moment of perfect silence, the blood flies through the air and splashes into his crystal cup. Woland raises it to his mouth and drinks.

The horror of it sends me into a panic.

I want to run, but as I turn and press my body into the black barrier, there is no give. It pushes back the more I try to power through. I pound on it with my fists, but it’s like beating into an unending pile of feathers with nothing hard underneath.

I cannot cross, so I slump in defeat. But I refuse to watch the devil drink my blood. I keep my back to him.

When a hand curls around my throat from behind and yanks, I realize my mistake.

Never turn your back on the devil.

I choke, my breath trapped as he squeezes my throat, dragging me back. Heat sizzles over the backs of my legs, and I turn with effort to avoid being burned by the fire between us. Woland’s large hand slides to my nape and rests there as I face him, looking up with more courage than I feel.

His black mouth is tainted with my blood.

“I haven’t dismissed you, mortal,” he says, his face twisted in displeasure. “Do not turn your back to me when we speak.”

I want to massage my hurting throat but force myself to be still even as a slimy chill crawls down my back from his touch. I wish he’d let me go. My palms sweat and my knees tremble, the weight of his hand on my nape making everything worse.

When his thumb strokes up the side of my head behind my ear, I almost jump out of my skin.

“Please,” I say. It comes out as a sob. “What do you want from me?”

“Just a trifling,” he says. “But before I tell you, you must stop lying to me.”

My lips fall open and his grip on my nape tightens. The tips of his claws press into the soft skin on the side of my neck.

He smacks his lips, licking the last traces of my blood off. “I enjoy the blood of liars, but from you, I expect full honesty. Why do you want to step back through time?”

I dig for the last dregs of my willpower and press my lips together. I know enough to be aware how important this information is. If I give away the thing I want the most, he’ll have more power over me, and he already has enough.

I will not be ruled by the devil. Fortified by that thought, I lift my chin and look him squarely in the eyes, my lips pursed.

His forehead lines with a frown and he lets me go, scratching a line down my neck as his hand falls away. I keep my face impassive. This time, when he licks my blood off the tip of his claw, I watch him do it with as much calm as I can muster. Woland gives me a sinister smile and steps back as his shadows unravel from around me and snap back to him.

“Very well. Let’s see what the rest of the night brings.”

And suddenly, I’m out of the quiet, shadowy cocoon. The noise of Kupala crashes into me in full force, and I notice for the first time how the wind rustles in the trees, how the river murmurs constantly. The crackling of fires and the curious, scared, worried whispers of the people mix with the sounds of nature. Nyja talks quietly to Strzybog, and Foss snorts from time to time, smoke coming out of his nostrils.

When I look at Woland, he’s completely hidden. Meanwhile, Ida is already busy pouring generous cups of mead. I breathe out, forcing my body out of the protective hunch it wants to curl into, and go to fetch wine for the devil.

I take my time, fruitlessly trying to get my body under control. But all my terrified sweat cools quickly in a sticky layer, making me shiver from the cold now that the immediate danger is over. I have to focus on pouring the wine so I don’t spill it with my shaking hands.

“Are you all right?”

Bogna touches my hand, her sweet face lined with worry on my account. I force a smile and nod, setting the cup aside.

“I just have to pour a cup,” I say, doing my best to stay calm so I don’t worry her further. “It’s nothing.”

“And then, give it to him,” Bogna says with a shiver, taking the bottle of wine. “I don’t know how you can stand it. Everyone’s terrified of them. They look so strange. Like us, and yet…”

She trails off, pouring the cup with a steady hand. A wave of tender gratitude rises in my chest, making it hurt. I’m so used to dealing with everything on my own, and Bogna’s help, though trifling, makes my chest hurt.

“Thank you. Now please, go and have fun,” I tell her when she presses the full cup into my hands and holds on, squeezing my fingers soothingly. “I’ll be fine, I promise. And you be safe, too.”

She nods and goes back to her friends, taking a longer way just to stay far away from the circle. I don’t blame her at all. I hate going back there and facing Woland again.

When I walk carefully so as not to spill anything, Ida is already done, talking to Jarota nearby and pointing at our musicians. The crowd seems more relaxed, and inside the circle, even Foss cracks a smile after taking a sip from the cup he has sniffed suspiciously first.

“I take back what I said. It’s not swill,” he says, and Nyja shakes her head fondly.

As I approach, the black cloud of Woland drifts closer to the invisible boundary. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll yank me inside the circle once I offer him the wine. I suppose it doesn’t matter since he can come out, but can the others? What if Foss or the Rodzanica want to hurt me for some reason and the circle prevents that?

I cut off that reasoning and brace myself, getting ready to yank my hand back as soon as Woland has the wine. I won’t be trapped with them. Once I’m done serving Woland, I’ll disappear in the crowd, I decide. Enough is enough.

When a clawed hand slides out of the shadows and takes the cup, I breathe in relief when he doesn’t even touch me. His claws do go over the boundary just a bit, but only to taunt me. The cup out of my hand, I take a step back, getting clear of the circle. The breath of relief I heave is so big, my chest hurts.

Because it’s over. I can disappear. I will be safe. Relief washes over me and I almost laugh with the headiness of it.

That’s when a snarling, angry voice hisses in my ear. “Told you I’d get you.”

Before I have time to turn, Swietko pushes me with all his might and I fall forward, right into Strzybog, who catches me with a sound of surprise.

I straighten and turn in a panic, trying to escape, but my knee bumps into something hard and solid, like a wall stretching between the two nearest fires.

I cannot cross the line. I’m trapped in the circle.