Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

38. Lore

Another night, another wake. I stifle a yawn, looking at Magda’s form stretched on my table that’s no longer a place for patients, apparently, but for corpses. I dressed her in a long, brown, linen dress and combed her hair into a loose braid. She looks so peaceful and entirely too young to be here.

“Why did you do it?” I whisper, rubbing my eyes. “Was it really worth it, dying for a man?”

She doesn’t answer, but if she did, I wouldn’t even be surprised. After everything that happened yesterday and today, my limits of belief have stretched to include a great many things.

Like Woland giving me pleasure in return for nothing.

Saving my life, I can understand. He’s made it clear he wants me alive. But that orgasm was completely unearned and all for me. Oh, he took pleasure from choking me, I’m sure, but he could have taken so much more. He could have sated himself on me and I would have given him everything. And yet, he never took. He only gave.

I crumple my dress in my lap, breathing out with annoyance. Here I am, allowing myself lewd, inappropriate thoughts while I’m supposed to guard a soul. What if Rod comes and somehow reads my mind? All those gods seem to be so in the know, it’s not that unlikely. Maybe they see inside mortal minds. I bury my face in my hands and groan.

It’s still early, though. I’m probably safe, but my body feels charged and primed for more pleasure, and I can’t shake off that sensitive need, no matter what I do.

I’m only thankful Woland isn’t here.

“Waiting for Rod, poppy girl?”

I open my eyes and look up through my fingers. Woland leans over Magda, watching her critically from every angle, like a farmer appraising a newborn calf. I blink and sit back against the wall, straightening my dress over my lap.

My hands are empty tonight. I learned my lesson about wielding knives around demons.

“Why are you here?” I ask. It comes out tired rather than demanding. “Don’t you have a life?”

“Currently, dear Jaga, you are my life.”

I scoff, his tone of voice making it clear he’s joking. Also, he’s given me a non-answer. Again. It’s like he can’t communicate in clear, direct sentences. Everything is a riddle.

He stares at Magda for a moment longer and then straightens in a graceful motion, his antlers brushing against a roof beam. I finally notice he’s clothed. A long sort of robe sits low on his hips, falling down his legs. His upper body is still bare, lean muscles and gleaming dark skin on display, but his cock is hidden.

I wonder if it has anything to do with what he did to me today. Is he trying to put up a boundary between us? Or maybe it’s because I asked him about his nudity last night. It might also be completely unrelated to me, though I doubt it.

“Why the skirt?” I blurt out, feeling uneasy and defensive, I don’t even know why.

“Because you keep ogling me.”

I shoot to my feet, sputtering with indignation. “I keep ogling you? It’s you who has no shame! You parade around with your cock out like it’s public property!”

When he bursts into a low, warm laughter, I realize I’ve been played. He wanted to get a rise out of me, and he did. Now, he leans over Magda and whispers in her ear, though loudly enough for me to hear, because it’s for my ears. Of course.

“I bet you’re the first mortal who got to have the word ‘cock’ spoken out loud during their wake. And twice now. Lucky girl.”

I sit down, embarrassed and angry. Woland straightens and gives me a charming, satisfied grin. I have a childish urge to stomp my feet, which I suppress with a great effort.

A wake is not a place to throw a tantrum, and I’ve done enough damage as it is.

I am so ashamed, and yet so relieved Wiosna didn’t see any of it. She’d rise from the dead to box my ears like she used to when I was a girl.

“So you know I saw Rod last night?” I ask to change the topic. I sound petulant, which I hate.

“Of course,” he says, turning his palm slowly in a controlled gesture.

A large, comfortable-looking chair appears by the table with a soft thud. Woland sits down, spreading his legs wide, and leans his elbow on the table, right by Magda’s head.

I know if I ask him to remove his elbow, he’ll point out I already defiled the wake with lewd words, so I don’t. He smirks like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. When he sprawls more comfortably, the skirt, which I realize is just wrapped around him, falls open to reveal a thigh. I sigh and look away.

“What do you want, Woland?” I ask, looking at Magda’s palm, open and lifeless on the table, fingers loosely bent.

“To solve you, poppy girl. Believe me, I want to avoid forcing you as much as you probably do. I’m too old to do it that way. There must be something else that will convince you.”

When I look at him, he seems honest and curious, his eyes watching me with bold assessment. I shake my head.

“Even I don’t know what would ‘solve me’, as you say. You started out wrong, and then you kept making it worse. I didn’t forgive you for killing my friend, and I never will.”

He waves his hand dismissively with an impatient sigh. “You will once you meet her. What are your other objections?”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Once I meet her?”

He nods curtly. “When I take you to Nawie. What else do you oppose?”

I am silent for a while, digesting this, and his eyes drill into me like he desires nothing more than to get a key to my heart and mind. It’s not pleasant, being an object of such intense attention, and yet, it flatters me.

“This,” I say finally, waving my hand in his general direction. “You keep assuming I’ll let you own me and make all my decisions for me. Yes, you offered me freedom, but we both know it’s on your terms only. I object to being your slave.”

“But you don’t,” he murmurs, the yellow in his eyes gaining a glittery intensity. He leans forward, clasping his clawed hands in front of him. His tail rises to his side, the tip jerking tensely. “You love being in my power. When I take away your air and force you to take pleasure—don’t lie. You enjoyed it.”

He watches me without blinking, and I fidget uncomfortably. And yet, I force myself to meet his gaze, because I won’t cower. No matter how embarrassed he makes me.

“Yes,” I answer, and he sags just a little, as if he expected a different answer. I raise my finger. “But that was sex. I don’t care for that in real life.”

“Is sex not real life?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

He looks sophisticated like this, a man of the world, and it strikes me how odd this is. That he would take interest in me. I am special, but not that special.

I’ve come to accept his attention without questioning it too much, but I really should spend more time trying to find out why he wants me.

“It is a part of life,” I concede. “A small part, separate from other parts, like… eating, working, or traveling into other words.”

His eyes glitter as he laughs, leaning back. His elbow returns to the table, and I suppress a wince.

“Wrong on each count, my innocent mortal girl. It’s not a small part of life, it’s enormous. It absolutely can encompass eating and travel, and even working. My, that gives me ideas. You’re working right now, aren’t you? And yet, we’re engaging in verbal foreplay. That’s part of sex.”

I feel the blood leave my face as I pale, shooting an alarmed look at Magda. Oh, for Perun’s sake, he is right. This shouldn’t be happening.

“You have to leave,” I say, my voice too shaky to sound as firm as I want it to.

Woland grins wolfishly, and I know he won’t do as I say. He never does.

“Are you saying I can’t be here because you can’t contain your lust when I’m around?”

I mutter a curse under my breath, and he raises that elegant eyebrow in a challenge. I hate that he infuriates me so much. I’d rather be cool and composed like he is, but it’s my second sleepless night after a horrible day filled with terror and shock. I’m at my wits’ end.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I answer, gritting my teeth. “Oh, please, just go. Or behave, at least.”

He settles in with a pleased smile, as if I said exactly what he wanted. “I can do that, whisperer. I’ll be perfectly polite. But if we have a conversation with no indecencies, and you still look at me with so much longing by the end, you will concede you want me.”

I don’t blush this time, just look at him with as much cool as I can muster.

“I want you. Now, please, let’s talk about something that’s proper for a wake.”

His eyes widen, and he’s silent for a moment, before he finally nods. “Very well. Are you curious why you could see Rod last night?”

I sit forward, instantly interested. The familiar suspicion that Woland will probably lie to me plays in the back of my mind, but I push it away. At the very least, he’ll keep me awake while talking.

“Yes. Tell me.”

He smiles, shifting in the chair into a yet more comfortable, sprawling position. The robe slides aside even further, and I fancy I see the faintest hint of his length just under the edge of the fabric. My nostrils flare with annoyance and amusement. He seduces me playfully, and it’s so different from his normal behavior, I’m intrigued.

And yet, I can’t allow myself to forget where we are. I’ve already failed dismally as a whisperer. I hope with all my might I’ll never meet Magda or Jacek in the afterlife. If I do, I won’t be able to look them in the eyes.

“It’s thanks to me,” Woland says with a satisfied grin. “I come over here so often, the borders between worlds grew thin and porous all around your village—around you. I am a god, Jaga. Wherever I go, turbulent currents of magic gather, and it’s that magic, and that thinning of borders, that allows you to see what’s hidden.”

I have no way to check if it’s the truth or not, because everything he’s told me goes so far beyond the scope of the stories I learned as a child. I decide to accept his explanation.

“Does it mean other people here could see him, too?” I ask, wondering what other consequences there are.

Woland shakes his head once. “No. They lack a certain… characteristic that you, my dear, have.”

I huff, irritated he won’t say whatever it is in clear terms.

“What characteristic? Magic? Being the devil’s chosen? Having a certain amount of freckles?”

He chuckles and doesn’t reply, studying his claws with great attention. I clench my jaw and tap my foot, giving my irritation at least that small outlet. Woland looks up, his smile filled with satisfaction born from knowing something I don’t.

He won’t tell me if he doesn’t want to, but there are other things I can ask. And my mind is teeming with questions.

“Fine. Can you tell me why some souls are taken directly to Wyraj and some go to Nawie? It’s been bothering me. I know Wiosna is in Nawie, and Bogna, too, as you said. But Rod told Jacek he was taking his soul to Wyraj. Why is that?”

Woland grows serious, tapping his chin in thought as he watches me, like he’s thinking whether to tell me or not. I hold my breath until he nods.

“Very well. Let’s discuss the duality of the soul. Be warned, though, what I am going to tell you is not the official version of the lore.”

“Duality?” I frown. “So… There are two souls? How come? And what’s the official version? I never heard of this.”

He smiles grimly and raises his open palm. Above it, in perfect miniature, appears the figure of a stork in flight. The stork carries a small, dark bundle in its beak.

“But you have heard of it. You believe storks bring souls from Wyraj, don’t you?”

I nod slowly. “Well, yes. But that’s just one soul per person.”

He grins. Another image appears over his palm, a silhouette of a pregnant woman. There is a small, golden light in her stomach. The stork flies over her, circling, and drops the dark bundle. It falls into the woman, and now, there are two lights in her stomach, one dimmer and smaller than the other.

Woland is silent, letting me figure it out for myself. I consider it, trying to put it all together, but this entire thing is too strange. I watch the two lights pulsing gently inside the phantom woman, their rhythm interchanging and slightly out of sync.

“You’re saying a baby already has a soul of their own before they get one from Wyraj.”

He crumples his fist, and the illusion disappears. “Yes. Once a mortal is conceived, they come into existence in both realms at once, the physical, and the spiritual. You, mortals, are self-sufficient. You don’t need a special delivery from Wyraj to be complete as a person.”

“No. Wait. That’s wrong.”

As a midwife, I was treated to a few long, serious lessons about babies’ souls from Wiosna. It is believed a conceived baby doesn’t have their soul right from the beginning, they only receive one after a certain time passes. That means miscarriages or pregnancy terminations we sometimes perform in the early months are purely physical acts.

They don’t involve deaths, but removals.

Wiosna stressed it very much. She was convinced this belief made things much easier on a woman who miscarried or needed to have her pregnancy stopped.

Woland tilts his head to the side. “Is it? Why do you think it’s wrong?”

“Well, what happens if a woman miscarries in the early months?” I ask, tapping my foot faster in agitation.

He shrugs. “Nothing. The baby dies, and since they don’t have an ancestral soul yet, Rod doesn’t come. The inborn soul leaves the body at the moment of death and goes to Nawie. A miscarried soul becomes a nawka. Nyja takes care of them.”

I shake my head, thinking. Something knocks at the back of my mind, an echo of a memory. Finally, I remember.

“Wait. Didn’t Strzybog say she raised the nawkas to be her… army?”

Woland snorts with disgust.

“He would say that. Strzybog is a petulant child who resents those brave enough to fight for a change. There is a war, Jaga, and he chose not to actively fight. Others don’t have that privilege. But Nyja doesn’t force anyone to join in. She offers them a choice, and most choose to train as soldiers once they are old enough. But whatever they choose, she takes good care of them. The nawkas have a much better life in Nawie than they could have here, difficult though it may be to accept.”

It is difficult to accept. I struggle with his explanation, until finally, the question bursts out of me.

“But what’s the point? What’s the point of them having souls if they won’t even experience life?”

Wiosna belabored this point so much, and it was clearly of great importance.

Woland laughs, long and hearty, throwing his head back like I just told him the funniest joke. I clench my fists, fuming. I hate feeling ignorant, but it appears I know very little about the things that matter.

When he’s finally done laughing, he looks at me fondly.

“The point is, my darling innocent, that mortals fuck and make babies. Some babies live, some die. That’s how mortality works. Regardless of when you die, your innate soul goes to Nawie, and your ancestral soul is taken to Wyraj. Your soul in Nawie gets to live there as long as it wishes. Some stay indefinitely. Some choose eternal sleep.”

“And the ancestral souls? What happens to them?” I ask.

“They roost in the Great Tree until Perun sends them back here,” he says, his fond smile vanishing. “He reuses them, over and over. They serve a purpose.”

A chill crawls down my spine. There is something hard in his voice, something nasty that’s not directed at me. He tenses, his hoof tapping to the rhythm with my foot.

“What purpose?” I ask, expecting him not to answer.

But Woland shakes off whatever rage came over him and looks at me squarely.

“Do you know how the first mortals were created?” he asks, his eyebrow raised.

I nod slowly, because I do know this story, but I’m uncertain how much truth is in it. He folds his arms and gives me an encouraging nod, so I sigh and recount the tale in brief words.

“One day, Perun bathed in a lake. After he came out, he wiped himself with straw and discarded it on the shore. Mokosz was with him, needy for his attention, but he left her alone. Once he was gone, Weles, Perun’s brother, emerged from the lake. He gave Mokosz what she wanted, lying with her, and then, together, they made little figures from straw and mud. Weles blew his magic into the figures’ mouths, but nothing happened, so he went away, angry and humiliated.

“Shortly, Perun came back and saw the straw figures. There were two, one made by Weles, the other, by Mokosz. Perun had the same idea as his brother, and he blew a life-giving breath into them. They started moving. Thus, the first man and woman were made.”

Woland nods slowly, his jaw clenched. “Ah, yes. The official version. Well done.”

“Well, what’s the unofficial one?” I ask, folding my arms.

He stands up, raising his hands up so high, they almost brush the thatch of my roof. I’m startled anew by how large he is.

“The unofficial, truthful version is that the figures came to life after Weles gave them his breath,” he says, turning away from me.

He looks at Magda’s body, and I can’t see his expression, but his voice is steady.

“See, Weles rules magic. He gave the straw figures the best of what he had: his cunning, his love of freedom, a spark of his magical skill. He made it possible for those qualities to be inherited by the first people’s children. It happens even now, that spark proliferating with every new mortal life. Thus, when a baby is conceived, they receive that spark from Weles’ breath. They have an innate soul.”

I don’t move, looking at the back of his head, mesmerized by the tale. It’s so different from what I was taught. In all the tales, Weles is the one who always falls short of his brother, the one who pulls pranks, who wields black magic, and sends monsters to threaten Wyraj.

Woland’s story paints a completely different picture of the dark god.

“When Perun saw those little figures walking and talking,” he continues softly, “it was right after he found out his neglected wife fucked his brother. He was livid, but Perun’s fury is never incendiary. He sits with it and plots, making sure to come up with a plan that will hurt not once, but forever.”

He falls silent, and I don’t dare rush him, so I wait, curiosity eating at me. Woland sighs and moves his hand over Magda’s body. A soft, questioning trill comes from inside her chest.

“And so, Perun came up with a way to despoil his brother’s creation,” he says. “He grabbed the straw figures, and though they fought and begged him to let them go, he forced their mouths open and blew his own breath into them. They grew limp in his hold, instantly subdued, and Perun laughed, putting them into this world so he could watch what they came up to. But he quickly lost interest, because the figures were lifeless and apathetic, seemingly devoid of a will of their own. He knew Weles would despair once he saw the damage, and that was all Perun wanted.”

He finally turns to me and gives me a long, piercing look. “This is all unofficial, Jaga. Once you’re in Slawa, never speak about this story. You’ll be executed for heresy.”

I snort, surprised by his seriousness. “But it’s just a… a tale…” I drift off, realizing I’m speaking nonsense.

No, it’s not just a tale. I met Rod. I saw the ancestral soul. I know gods exist, so somewhere in Slawa, Perun, Weles, and Mokosz live. And for some reason, Perun wants everyone to believe the version of the story I was taught.

“I won’t talk about it,” I promise. “But what happened next?”

He nods once and sits in his chair, comfortable but not as seductively sprawled as he was before.

“Weles did everything he could to cure his creations of the malady Perun cursed them with. He succeeded, and the mortal people started reproducing. Centuries passed, and they grew in numbers. When Perun realized how many there were, and how they celebrated Weles, who walked among them and taught them his art, he grew furious.”

I grip the edges of my stool, waiting impatiently for him to continue. But Woland raises his hand, and a moment later, my cupboard bangs open, a clean cup and a bottle of wine floating to him. He pours himself some and sends the wine back.

“I’m sorry I didn’t offer you a drink,” I say through clenched teeth, angered by his casual treatment of my home, yet too curious to risk berating him.

He acknowledges my words with a graceful tip of his chin and drinks a few sips.

“Perun and Weles fought, and Weles lost,” he says. “But the mortal race was too great in numbers, and many knew the magical arts. They were a threat to Perun, and he decided to turn them into his allies, instead, and haters of Weles. He designed a new, better version of his life-giving breath and forced Rod, his brother’s son who was conceived that day by the lake, to work for his cause.”

“The ancestral souls,” I say quietly. “But… I don’t understand. What do they do?”

He smiles darkly and passes his hand over Magda again, eliciting another trill, this one more subdued. A clear sign of the ancestral soul still sitting inside her dead body, even though her innate one apparently left the moment she died.

A chill presses at my sides, a sudden feeling of wrongness. I never questioned why the souls stayed on inside the bodies after death. Now that I think about that little bird, Perun’s creation, sitting calmly inside a cold corpse instead of fleeing like her natural soul must have done, my skin crawls with revulsion. A thing that chooses to patiently wait in such a cold, rigid space must be an abomination.

“They put limitations on mortals,” he says, his eyes glinting like yellow amber. “They imprint a love of light and fear of the dark, an affinity for Perun and his gods, and a distaste for Weles and those who serve and support him. And finally, they create a fear of magic and block the ability to wield Weles’ art in any mortal who has it. In other words, they kill everything that’s powerful and free in a mortal. The ancestral soul is not a gift.”

His eyes burn with wrath when he looks at Magda’s body, Perun’s control device chirping within.

“It is poison.”