22. Foul
By the time the sun sets, my exhaustion thoroughly catches up with me. I’ve poured countless brews down Swietko’s throat, checked on the protections around my cottage, and forced myself to eat the broth Alina’s sister brought for us all.
My stomach is heavy with foreboding, the silver knife strapped to my thigh burning like an accusation. I hate that I promised Darobor that I’ll stay home. Woland’s words from last night, telling me he made the monster for me, echo in my mind. The werewolf is my responsibility in a way, and I desperately want to be out there, trying to help.
And yet, I must admit I wasn’t very helpful last night. Because what did I do? I cowered behind the men and watched until the beast was gone. I don’t imagine I’d do anything different tonight, and so I reinforce my decision to stay put.
I am behind my cottage now as dusk settles over the world. The moon will rise any moment and I need my final protection in place.
With water from the well, I douse the fire I used to burn the flesh off Swietko’s amputated arm. Hissing steam rises above the charred wood and bone, and I heave in more water, my tired muscles protesting the effort.
Despite myself, I wish for some of Woland’s magical water. Just to keep me going until the werewolf is dealt with. But of course, Woland is nowhere to be seen, and I’d never ask him for a favor.
Gods, I need to finally get some sleep and screw my head on straight so I can hate him properly, without accepting suspicious drinks from his hand or feeling all hot when he touches me. Although yes, I do hate him.
Just not enough.
I look up and shiver, noticing the first glow of the moon tickling the clouds over the forest. Chors will be out any minute. The fire’s remains are still too hot, Swietko’s blackened bones smoking, bits of charred flesh sticking to their surface. I grimace and wrap a cloth around my hand, grabbing the thickest, longest bone. It will have to do.
With quick steps, I go to the front of the cottage. Alina is inside, so I bark for her to come out. She was supposed to be in the garden, waiting for me to be done.
“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, tying her kerchief over her hair as she walks out. “He moaned in pain, so I sat by his side. Oh. What… What’s that?”
She points at the black, still smoking bone in my hand. I purse my lips. Its heat is unpleasant even through the cloth, and I am deeply aware that I’m holding a piece of her husband, burnt to a crisp.
“Something that will bar his way if he turns into a werewolf,” I say, deciding to keep it vague. “Will you tell me when the moon comes out?”
She nods, and I allow myself a small, weary sigh. When Alina is distracted, watching the sky, I cautiously peer into my cottage. Swietko is on the table, his movements sluggish as he groans quietly. I lay his charred bone across the threshold and cover it with the filthy cloth I unravel from my palm.
I know he’s chained up, but werewolves are strong. Bone of the victim, or in this case, the beast itself, is supposed to keep the bies out. Hopefully, this one will keep him in if he turns.
And if that happens, my cottage will probably get wrecked. But I can suffer through my furniture getting ravaged. What I cannot abide is being wrong. Ever since Czeslawa said two werewolves will roam tonight, I was ready to pay almost any price to prove I was right and Swietko is harmless. Or, at least, sufficiently contained.
“Jaga, did you do any digging?” Alina calls, her back to me as she faces east. “Because the ground is really uneven here. Someone could trip.”
“I buried lamb bones I got from Waclaw at my gate,” I say with a frown, making sure the bone is stable across the threshold.
If it rolls away for some reason, we’ll be in danger. I’d prefer to bury it, just like the charred lamb bones, but there is no time. This makeshift barrier will have to do. According to the lore I remember from Wiosna’s lessons, neither Przemyslaw, nor Swietko, should be able to touch or cross it.
Przemyslaw, because it’s the bone of his victim. And Swietko, because it’s his bone.
“The moon’s up,” Alina says.
I back away from my front door, looking intently at Swietko. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound. His body looks normal, reassuringly human and at peace. I do my best to breathe evenly although my heart beats fast, excitement briefly pushing exhaustion aside.
I don’t want him to turn, but if he does, I’m thrilled to have such a good view. I want to see it. The werewolf curse, though terrifying, is pure magic. The kind of power I hunger for.
Seconds pass. A few male voices carry from the village, sentinels calling out to let everyone know the moon has risen. Swietko’s leg twitches, and I ball my hands into fists. Any moment now…
“Don’t hold your breath,” Woland whispers in my ear, his voice amused, phantom lips brushing my skin. “This one wasn’t worthy of the privilege.”
I blink heavily, still staring at Swietko. My mind is sluggish, so at first, I don’t understand what Woland means and what the privilege is supposed to be. Alina reaches my side, rubbing her arms worriedly as she peers in through the open door. I keep mulling over the devil’s words, my thoughts churning laboriously.
And then, finally, I have it.
“Privilege my ass,” I mutter, making Alina look at me strangely. I shake my head. “Just talking to myself. Your husband is fine. If he was cursed, he would have turned the moment the moon rose.”
That’s what Wiosna taught me about werewolves. They don’t need the direct light of the moon to change, and the shift can’t be controlled. Chors’ appearance in the sky is what triggers the beast to come forth.
So no, Swietko wasn’t worthy of the privilege of being cursed. I suppose Woland doesn’t find him evil enough, and I admit he’s right. If all petty, unpleasant people got cursed, there would be no mortals left.
“I think you can go ba…” I begin, but an alarmed male shout interrupts me. It comes from the other side of the village, loud enough to hear in the distance.
Alina gasps, and I press my hand to my chest. The werewolf had to wait nearby to be in the village so soon after moonrise. I wonder if it’s still wounded, giving the men an advantage, or if it magically healed.
Another shout follows, then another, moving closer. I know I am as safe as can be, with the lamb bones Waclaw gave me guarding my gate. Good thing I buried them, too, because once I started selling my pouches, I didn’t leave any for myself.
A panicked shout, closer yet. It’s like the men have lined the main roads and follow the werewolf’s passage through the village. But now, something’s changed. There is frantic shouting, and I think I make out the words, “Passed the bait!”, but I’m not sure.
I turn to the gate, hoping to get a closer look from just behind my protection, when my heart freezes in confusion that tastes like terror.
Someone dug here. It’s just as Alina said, there is a hole in the ground, obvious and hastily made. Even before I take the first step to look, I know what I’ll find.
The bones protecting my home are gone.
“Get inside!” I snarl, turning to Alina.
Her eyes grow big and she opens her mouth to speak. I shove her toward my cottage.
“In the house! Now!”
She turns and runs inside, and I make to follow, relieved she doesn’t disturb Swietko’s bone when she crosses the threshold. We should be safe inside. Now, I only have to…
“Not so fast.”
There is such delight in Woland’s voice, such infinite triumph, I don’t instantly understand what he says. And then, I see it. His shadows spring from the grass around my feet, wrapping around my ankles like vines, trapping me.
I growl and try to get free, but I can barely lift my feet at first, and then, I can’t move them at all. The shadows hold strong, tying me to the ground. I struggle, pushing and pulling, but the harder I fight, the tighter they get.
Until, suddenly, they vanish. I fall down with a cry of surprise, my hands landing in the grass. I scramble to my feet, but before I take a step toward the safety of the cottage, I freeze.
A menacing growl reverberates behind me. It starts low and cruel and grows louder with every moment, until it explodes into a terrifying snarl.
I whip around, too shocked to make a sound. The blood in my veins turns cold.
The werewolf is here, its eerily human eyes—Przemyslaw’s eyes—staring at me as it takes a slow, deliberate step over the dug up hole in my path. Another growl builds deep in its throat.
There is a scream from inside my cottage, Alina crying out in terror, and then the door slams shut. I swallow thickly, reaching down to unstrap my knife. With slow, deliberate movements, I hike up my skirt and grab the warm, wooden handle while the beast takes another prowling step toward me.
Its long, yellow teeth are bared, saliva dripping down its muzzle. It walks on all fours, as misshapen and badly made as it was last night. I know the slowness of its movements is deceptive. Any moment, it can jump and bite through my neck.
I am as good as dead.
“I’d tell him to sit, but I think he wants to play first,” Woland says behind me, sounding amused and at ease. His voice is normal, without the odd echoing quality it sometimes has, and I can’t shake the feeling he’s here in the flesh. “Good doggy.”
If my eyes weren’t glued by the beast, I would take a look at him just to see what true madness looks like. Because only the devil would be mad enough to call the horrifying mass of raw muscle and rotten fur a doggy. He is completely unconcerned, whereas I am barely holding myself from panic. Woland’s insouciant attitude doesn’t calm me in the least.
I back away slowly, keeping my eyes on the werewolf. I don’t blink, my eyes stinging from the effort, but I fear any sudden movement will set him off. Even something as small as the flutter of an eyelid.
“Did you dig out the bone?” I murmur softly, trying to make my voice as soothing as Darobor’s was last night. I can’t, though. There is a trembling edge to my words, betraying my terror.
The beast’s growl turns harsher, and it shakes itself off, bits of decomposing fur falling away. I swallow, taking another agonizingly slow step back while Woland chuckles.
“No. I actually expected you to be out there again like the reckless witch you are. But this is even better. Never underestimate the power of petty revenge, poppy girl.”
The werewolf throws its head as if trying to chase away a fly. I push Woland out of my mind, knowing any distraction can kill me now. His words fly right over my head, too. He always speaks in riddles, and I have no mental space to untangle his meaning.
My sweaty palm slips on the handle of the knife, and I grip it desperately, stepping back and to the left. The last thing I want is to get trapped against the wall of my cottage, so I move slowly toward my vegetable garden.
It’s still hopeless. I’ll probably get bitten in half before I so much as raise my knife.
Blood rushes in my ears, hot and thunderous, my entire body trembling with the need to run. I swallow the urge, down and down into the tight pit of my stomach, because the werewolf is so much faster than me. I’ll never outrun it.
“It’s like you’re dancing,” Woland says with idle curiosity. “One-step-two, and one-step-two, and… Oops.”
The werewolf’s foot rolls on uneven ground and it snarls with fury, spraying saliva. I breathe shallowly, its stench driving me to run just like every other terrifying part of it. My body shakes from the unnatural slowness I force myself to move with.
I see Woland from the corner of my eye as I get level with the front wall of my cottage, stepping onto the soft ground of my cucumber patch. He leans against my door as if making sure I can’t hide inside. His dark gray forearms are folded on his chest, his pose relaxed. When I take another step, losing him from sight, he laughs, bright and hearty.
The werewolf’s eyes flash, human and yet not. I try to take another slow step back, but my balance wobbles. I land too hard, my breath whooshing out of me.
The monster jumps.
It’s too fast, too strong. I can’t outrun it, so I don’t even try. Instead, I fall and roll, crushing my cucumber plants that sprawl on the ground. The werewolf lands close behind me, a deep snarl of fury tearing the air.
“Well done,” Woland mocks me.
I don’t have time to look up and see where he is, because the beast lunges at me. Led by pure instinct, I roll again, and the long, razor-sharp claws miss me by a hair.
“Careful or you’ll lose a piece.”
I take advantage of the fact the beast needs a moment to right itself, its uneven hips affecting its movements. I roll up to my feet but stay low on bent knees. When the werewolf roars and swipes at me with its paw, I jump back with a grunt.
But I’m too slow this time. A long gash opens down my chest, barely missing my nipple. My dress is torn, quickly soaking up blood. I hiss from pain, but there’s no time, no time at all. The claws make for me again, and I veer away, my foot catching on something.
I land with a cry, just managing to roll to my back before the werewolf is on me, its foul body pinning me to the ground. I scream and jab with my knife, but the beast knocks it out of my hand. It’s lost somewhere in my garden.
A drop of hot, putrid saliva lands on my cheek. I clench my teeth, and yet, I can’t keep back a pleading moan of terror. The monster’s disgusting breath envelops my face and presses inside my nose with my every shallow, choking breath. I try to wiggle away, but it snarls, settling its massive weight more firmly over me, its misshapen hips pinning mine to the ground.
It opens its jaws wide, too wide, and lowers its head with a beastly gurgle. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face far to the side, waiting for death.
I wait. And wait. My heart hammers in my chest like it”s trying to escape before it’s forced to push my lifeblood out of my body when my jugular gets torn out. The foul stench burns down my throat, the sticky moistness of the werewolf’s rotting flesh seeping through my dress.
And still, I wait. Until finally, I realize it’s not moving. The werewolf is utterly still, not even breathing. As if it’s frozen.
Terrified I’m wrong about this and yet compelled to see for myself, I open my eyes a crack.
I shriek when I see Woland’s glinting yellow irises just in front of my face. He peers at me curiously, his face just behind the werewolf’s paw, braced against the grass by my temple. I blink. Woland blinks back, and I realize he’s lying on his side in the grass, except I can’t see even a hint of green. We’re swathed in his shadows.
Just like at Kupala when he stopped time to be alone with me.
I turn my face up slowly, gasping when I see the view frozen right above me. The werewolf was about to bite down when Woland froze time. Its maw is wide open, red and black flesh glistening wet inside its mouth.
It should be dark here, with shadows covering us from all sides, but just like at Kupala, I see everything clearly. The muted, unearthly light makes it all even more horrifying.
My heart beats faster and faster, stuttering in the cage of my ribs. My mind desperately grapples with the fact I’m not dead. I should be. And yet… I look, fascinated, at a drop of saliva hanging off the werewolf’s fang. It seems about to drop, yet it, too, is frozen. Like all of him.
“Enjoying yourself, poppy girl?” Woland asks, hints of laughter in his voice. “He’s a large beast, that one. Bet you like having him on top, hm?”
I turn my head, the only part of me I can move without effort, back to him. His eyes crinkle when he grins, white teeth flashing.
“You’re disgusting,” I say, my voice wobbly and weak. “Why are you doing this?”
He laughs quietly, and I try to slide out from underneath the werewolf. I struggle and tug, breathing hard, but its weight is too heavy to shift. It’s like being frozen makes that weight even more difficult to move. There is no give. The furry body is like stone.
“Already trying to leave?” Woland asks, his voice infuriatingly amused.
But of course, this is all a game to him. My life is his plaything. I don’t answer, heaving and pushing until I shift a bit. Just enough to give my left arm, which is pinned to my side by the werewolf’s paw, some wiggle room.
I clench my fist, my fingers closing around cool, loose soil.
“Come on, Jaga. You know just as I do it’s no use trying to crawl out. Let’s negotiate.”
I grimace, realizing he’s right. I’m trapped, my life still hanging by a thread, because I’ll die the very moment time is released from his spell.
My fear surges, and I do my best to slow down my breathing, even though it’s hard. Every breath fills my nose with the werewolf’s rotting stench.
If I dare take a deeper breath, it tickles my gagging reflex, threatening to make me retch. I walk the thin line between hyperventilating and puking, my chest constricted, my guts roiling with terror and disgust.
When I turn my head to look at Woland, he blows me a kiss with a low laugh. I clench my teeth as my gorge rises.
I realize with complete clarity my life means nothing to him. All he wants is entertainment, and he’ll do anything to get it. Even sic a rabid beast on me.
And when I die, torn apart by those mangled jaws, Woland will laugh.
His grin widens, his eyes sparkling with mirth while my life hangs by a thread. And it’s all his doing. Even if he didn’t steal my protective bones, he stopped me from getting to safety. He makes me feel so powerless, so utterly useless, I want to scream. I hate him so much. Even more than when he killed Bogna.
My hate grows sharper when he caresses my cheek with his knuckle, and I have nowhere to go, no way to stop him. I can’t even spit in his face because of the angle. All I can do is glare, and when Woland brings his finger close to my mouth, I snap at him with my teeth.
He withdraws his hand with an amused look.
“You’re a bit of a beast yourself, aren’t you, my witch?” he says, his voice dropping into the low, seductive purr that fooled me so well at Kupala. “You’ll get to bite me yet. You’ll get to have your revenge. But first, you must survive.”
I don’t answer, letting all my hatred pour out through my glare. Woland grins, his dark lips revealing the red heat of his mouth.
“And if you want to survive, you must give in. Tell me you’re mine, poppy girl. Say it now.”