25. Name
And just like that, my brief moment of joy is wiped away and replaced with tension. I look down, making sure my breasts are covered, even though it probably doesn’t matter. Wiosna said he watches me all the time, and I assume that includes bath time. He’s seen me naked. Gods, I even had his mouth between my legs.
I blush at the memory, and then growl at myself as tingles run over my skin. I hate that the lines between us are so blurred. I hate him and will destroy him, but that hate and thirst for vengeance are just one side of my feelings.
There is also lust. I can’t deny it—all I can do is control it. Confusion, too. I still don’t understand why he helped me defeat the werewolf today, because that’s what he did. Stopping time, and then giving me his blood and my knife back when I refused him—that saved me.
I don’t forget how he gave me the magical water to drink, which is his most confusing action. It would have seemed like a caring gesture if it were anyone but him. But the devil is incapable of kind, generous impulses, so his motivation must have been something else.
But then, what do I know about him? Too little.
It all swirls in my head, confusing and frustrating. How we danced. How he pressed his hand to my mouth so I wouldn’t warn Bogna. How he kissed me, threatened me, choked me, drank my blood, and caught my chaplet.
And now, he’s here again. He reveals his presence but doesn’t speak or try to approach me. His ambiguity and unclear intentions drive me mad, and I just want to know—why is he here? I’m wary of asking him, though. For one, he’s a liar. And I am still so much weaker than him, my magic barely a spark. He has all the advantage.
I dive under water again, shutting off the world. I hold my breath and think about what to do.
Because it’s clear I must react. Waiting for him to stop is useless, because Woland will keep coming back and trying to claim me. It’s a good thing, I remind myself. This way, I’ll have access to him once I grow powerful enough to punish him for killing my friend.
What else do I know?
He wants my soul. He desires me. And if my instincts are right, he needs me alive. That’s the only plausible explanation for why he saved me.
I take a hungry gulp of air when I emerge, water sliding down my face. The devil sits on the river bank, his antlers silhouetted against the moon. His eyes must be closed, and it’s a relief of sorts.
His gaze is like a physical thing, a touch and a threat, and his presence without it isn’t as overwhelming.
When he tips his face up, leaning back on his hands, I get the impression he’s tired. For a time, he doesn’t move, just stays motionless on the bank, and I watch him.
I can’t defeat him yet. He won’t go away, and he intends to hunt me until I let him use me. But maybe I can use him back. He rules time, I remind myself.
And if he doesn’t want to risk my death, maybe that’s enough for me to stop being so afraid.
“Mind handing me the soap?” I call out, not too loud. My voice carries over water.
His eyes flash open, two pinpoints of light. “You wanted to do a spell,” he answers. “Use your magic and get it yourself.”
I huff, irritated, because my magic is shit, and I hate looking incompetent. Yet, there is nothing for it. I’m not about to come out naked onto the shore, no matter how comfortable he is with his nudity around me. I won’t reciprocate.
But I really want to wash my hair. I’m pretty sure there are bits of werewolf in it.
A spell it is. I take a deep breath and a long exhale, centering myself. Magic can be used with words or without, and the second option is much harder. Bending reality to one’s wishes is all about powerful intent, and words help to center it.
Some rhyming magic spells I learned from Wiosna, but she also taught me that any words can work as a spell as long as they convey the right intention.
Woland watches me as I raise my hands. I expect the spell to fail despite Wiosna’s reassurance that his blood will make it easier. And so, to avoid looking stupid, I make my little magic spell silly. Like it’s child’s play.
I imagine my pot of soap is a kitten. I call it to me.
“Here, pussy, pussy, pussy,” I coax, opening my palm expectantly. “Come, soap. Come, pussy, pussy, pussy.”
Woland coughs out a surprised laugh, his eyes flashing brighter. Excitement flutters in my belly and I feel a pull, as if something unspools inside me like a thread. My pot of soap rises above the river bank and gently floats toward me.
“Here, pussy, pussy,” I whisper to keep it going. I grin, my heart beating faster and faster with joy, and I urge it to fly right into my hand. “Yes! Come here.”
But the pot never makes it to me. A sharp pain pierces my chest, and I cry out, clutching my heart. The pot wobbles in the air and drops, falling into the water with a splash.
“No!”
I lurch to where it disappeared, already knowing it’s useless. I won’t find it at night.
Then, right before my eyes, it emerges and spins once before floating gently into Woland’s waiting hand.
I blink hard, disappointment and humiliation weighing like stones in my gut. On top of it all, my head pounds with pain, my vision going blurry. I blink time and again, trying to right myself, but I’m suddenly so tired. It’s like all the exhaustion Woland’s blood kept away comes rushing back, and the shock of it is too great to bear. I shiver, my knees going weak.
Meanwhile, Woland wades into the river and snaps his fingers. All at once, a circle of soft golden lights surrounds us both, mellow and flickering. I breathe shallowly, trying to get my bearings. When he stops in front of me, the water barely covering his hips, he raises my pot of soap up to his face and takes a long sniff.
“Mmm. Lovage,” he says softly. “Are you hunting for a lover?”
Damn him. I’m in pain, humiliated, and utterly annoyed now. I make to snatch my soap out of his hand, but he raises it high over my head with a laugh.
“Call it nicely again and maybe I’ll give it to you,” he says with a mocking look. “But first, answer my question.”
“Lovage is supposed to repel evil,” I say, which is completely true and the very reason why I use it in my soap. “I’m dismayed it doesn’t work on you.”
He laughs, shaking his head once. “Maybe you don’t want to repel me.”
I try to scoff but can’t keep back a wince. My head hurts like a menace, and I press my fingers into my temple, trying to make it go away. “So you admit you’re evil?” I ask, my voice coming out muffled and tense.
Woland doesn’t answer. He grabs my hand and takes it away from my face, his other palm settling possessively on my nape. He tilts my head back, making me look at his face. My pot of soap hovers at his side, suspended by magic.
“You used it all up, didn’t you?” he asks, looking intently into my eyes. “Such a gluttonous little witch. I gave you a day’s worth, and you burned through it within hours.”
“What?” I snap, the pain too much to control my manners.
“The magic,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the side of my neck. “My blood is pure magic, and you used it all up. So careless.”
I close my eyes, biting back a whimper of pain. My head swims, my body growing deceptively light, and I know I’m minutes away from collapsing. If I don’t get to the bank, I’ll drown.
“So mortal,” the devil whispers, his fingers tangling in my hair. “You’re like one of your poppies, Jaga. My magic kept you alive as long as it lasted, and now, look at you. Wilting by the second. It felt good, didn’t it? Invincible. Divine. Would you like some more?”
I make to shake my head, but more pain bursts behind my eyebrows. I try to open my eyes but see nothing. It’s like I’m blind. True fear settles in, because I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
“I’ll make it go away, poppy girl,” he says, his lips at my ear, his arm around my back, holding me up.
I lean on it shamelessly, too weak to keep standing. His breath is hot against my ear, and I’m suddenly freezing, the river leeching warmth from me. I gasp and press closer, his body heat like salvation.
He makes a surprised noise but holds me to him when I press to his long legs and torso, my head lying on his chest, my arm wrapping weakly around his lower back. His cock hardens, pushing against my stomach, but I’m too busy shivering to really care.
“Do you want me to make you feel good?” he asks, his fingers trailing my shoulders and nape, his body so hot and strong, like an anchor keeping me conscious. “I’ll make it all better.”
My teeth chatter and it takes a few tries, but I finally stutter out, “N-not… giving you… my soul.”
He chuckles, stroking my wet hair and back. “I won’t ask for your soul tonight. In exchange for my blood, I want some of yours.”
I blink hard. The pain is unbearable, but even worse is the utter weakness. In my infirmity, I cling to him, and I just know that if he leaves me now, I will beg him to come back.
That’s what makes up my mind. I hate feeling weak and helpless above all else, so I nod. “Yes.”
It takes a mere moment, and then his thumb is in my mouth, rich, hot blood welling on my tongue. I suck it greedily and swallow, not caring that his cock jerks hard against me.
All at once, a healthy glow of power seeps into me, but it’s not enough. I want more. I want so much that I’ll never feel weak again, never depend on anyone, and so I suck on his finger, making shameless, grunting sounds of avarice.
The more I take, the harder he gets, until his shaft is like a spear trapped between our bodies. Woland makes a low, encouraging sound, his palm cradling my head. “Drink up, little witch. The more you have, the more I’ll take. Keep drinking.”
Unease tries to flutter in my belly, but it’s drowned in the flood of wellbeing. I suck greedily, harder and harder, the divine energy soaking into my bones, making me light and powerful. When the trickle dies down, the wound in his thumb closing, I dig my teeth in like a beast to make it flow again, faster and faster.
Woland grunts when I bite down, his hips flexing. His hand slides from my head to my back, keeping me in place, and he ruts into me, his cock sliding between us, hot and rigid.
And still, I drink. Stars burst under my eyelids, my core spasming with pleasure, and my mind explodes with possibilities. It’s like the world opens up for me, layers peeling off to reveal the hidden, the magical, the forgotten. My eyes are closed, but I feel the flow of magic, the river a lazy, sparkling current of energy, the sky a dome with tiny holes through which the stars peek in.
Somewhere ahead of me is a tree. Its branches reach the sky, its roots descending deep into the core of the world. The tree is life, energy, creation, and all that is. I feel the wind playing with its leaves and the powerful vitality of creatures nesting within its roots.
One of them slithers, a flash of energy, and sparks of delight tingle across my spine.
I’m on the verge of something, a terrifying, magnificent epiphany that hovers right under my fingertips. It’s the answer to all my questions, the ultimate truth, and I take a breath to pull in another drop and uncover this final piece when Woland yanks his thumb out of my mouth with a sharp hiss.
“Enough!”
I lurch into him, too drunk, too sober, too soon. My body buzzes, alive and strong, and my mind glitters like an intricate spiderweb bejeweled with morning dew at sunrise. I hold on to him, this devil, this man at the core of it all. He is the secret and the key, the question and the answer.
I want to peel him open the same way I just did the world.
When he grips my hair and yanks back, forcing me to look at his face, I laugh. The pain isn’t pain but pleasure, because I am all and nothing and everything. I decide what is.
His eyes burn, shadows twining around him like smoke, past, present, and future braiding into one.
“My turn,” he growls, furious and so aroused, I can see it on his skin like flecks of silver. I reach with my tongue, trying to lean in and lick it off him. He grunts, the spike of his erection pulsing. He wants me, and yet, he doesn’t take me, just repeats, “My turn.”
“Then drink,” I say, my voice a complex melody melding into the night.
I hear everything, the grasshoppers chirping their lusty songs, scores of them in the grass calling out to invite mates. I hear the grass as it whispers, the worms plowing the earth, birds sleeping in their nests. And through that song, Woland’s heartbeat weaves like a dark, insistent drumbeat that gives it all meaning.
“Say my name,” he says hoarsely, something desperate and starving in his eyes.
I hear his unspoken please and it undoes me.
“Woland.”
He growls, a beast and yet a man, and bows over me. Just as his name carves a wound into my tongue, he seals his mouth to mine and pulls.
This is not a kiss. It’s a devouring. My tongue is in his mouth, held fast by the vise of his lips, and he sucks, drinking my blood from the wound his name gave me. I moan, and he swallows the sound. When I writhe, hot and in need of release, he wraps his shadows around me, bringing me up and up and up so I straddle his waist and he can kiss me without leaning low to reach.
Too soon, my wound heals—it’s magic, I’m made of magic—and he growls, releasing my mouth.
“Say my other name.”
“Diabel.”
Pain blooms in my mouth and he licks it better, sucking and grunting from pleasure. Strong pulls make blood flow from my tongue onto his, and I’m vaguely aware of movement, water splashing, the world spinning.
“Again.”
“Kusy.”
The next time I say his name, he lays me down on soft grass and pins my wrists to the ground with his large, graceful hands. He drinks from my mouth like it’s a spring of the clearest water, his hips settling between my legs. I’m naked and wet, warm and buzzing, and when he presses his cock into my inner thigh, I wish he weren’t so tall so he could slide inside me and keep drinking from my mouth.
“Again!”
“Czart.”
I lose track of time, wrapped completely in his arms, his shadows, his feral demands. The bulk of him above me obscures the sky, but I don’t need to look at the stars. There is a sea of starlight inside me.
My need mounts, a hot, insistent beat in my pelvis. I throw my leg over him and raise myself shamelessly, my muscles strong and vibrant thanks to his magic.
I rub myself over his taut, hot skin, back and forth like an animal in heat. He doesn’t have to prompt me anymore, because I chant his name against his lips, chasing my orgasm, hating the thought he might stop. He kisses me deep, his tail wrapping around my ankle that’s thrown over his hip, his tongue invading my mouth like he has to keep conquering me, like once or even ten times is not enough.
When his shadows pool at my core and push inside me, I moan into his ravaging mouth and he growls, his tongue going deeper, so deep, it chokes me. In that unearthly, infinitely dark place with no air and no limits, I shatter for him, filled with his tongue and his shadows, drunk on his blood, completely unraveled.
When I float down to the earth, his lips are on mine but don’t kiss me, his breathing harsh and shallow.
“Woland,” I whisper, making him shiver. My tongue doesn’t bleed.
My clear, bright mind makes the connection and I realize what happened. He made me take his name, just like he promised.
And I loved it.