Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

42. Branded

I wake at dawn, feeling strong and well-rested. My body is eager to perform my normal morning chores: get water from the well, light a fire for a breakfast brew, wash my face, braid my hair. But my mind is still in turmoil. It wants me to sit in bed until I make sense of everything that happened, but I already know it’s impossible.

I don’t have all the information. Too many missing pieces to even try to understand.

But I have to do something, so I come out of bed and go over to my patient room, where the light is best. I examine myself long and hard, looking at every inch of skin I see, counting my fingers and toes.

I touch myself everywhere I can reach, taking stock of my scars, freckles, and beauty marks. I reach behind for the large, brown beauty mark on my lower back and trace its shape around and around.

When I look at my palm, the silver mark left by Chors is still there. I wonder if Woland knew all the elements of me when he brought me back to life or not. Chors seemed to think Woland wouldn’t be happy about the mark, but he didn’t say a word about it. Maybe that means he doesn’t know.

Good. I’d rather keep my secrets.

My body seems to be just as it was before yesterday, but I don’t stop. I weigh my breasts in my hands and look closely at my nipples, and then I trace my shape between my legs, because Woland is the kind of man who might get the idea to improve me for his future enjoyment.

But either I’m wrong about him or I don’t see it. My labia are uneven in size, just as they always were, my pubic hair coarse and plentiful.

It’s strange to reacquaint myself with my body like this. I don’t think I’ve ever paid so much attention to all the details of me, because I simply took myself for granted. I knew it was my body, and I knew what it looked and felt like.

Yet now, even though everything seems to be in order, I still don’t feel at home in my skin.

But when I brush out the tangles from my hair and braid it, my fingers fly through the strands, remembering exactly how to do it. I pin my hair up and put on a plain dress with an embroidered neckline.

As I put my slippers on, they fit my feet perfectly, molded to my shape and gait by frequent use, but it still doesn’t feel right. When I eat, the food tastes like it used to, or maybe even better, because I’m so hungry.

Everything is so normal, I want to scream. Because there is nothing to mark what I went through. No scars to trace with trembling fingers when the memory of that pain comes back and makes me want to vomit. Nothing to anchor the memory in reality and convince myself it’s over.

If that pain left physical wounds, my entire body would be riddled with scars, in and out. I need them. Scars tell me the ordeal is over. They mean I never have to go through it again. But without them? How do I know this won’t happen the next time I die? I could be killed by the next bies Woland sends my way, or maybe die of illness.

Will he bring me back again if that happens? If so, the devil’s cruelty surpasses my worst expectations. To put me through that pain just because I can aid his war effort is so evil, I don’t comprehend it.

He should let me die and find another handy tool. Someone who would obey him the first time. Except, that won’t happen now that I’ve defied him so many times. Woland is as stubborn as me.

He won’t let me go. And now I know, even death won’t keep us apart.

I bury my face in my hands, but I can’t even cry. Last night seems more and more like a dream.

I wish Wiosna were here. She’d tell me to pull myself together and do something productive with my time. She’d probably chide me for slacking on my spellcasting.

A spark of excitement flares to life in my belly at the thought. What if Woland removed the seal on my magic when he put me back together? What if I can use my power now? From what Wiosna told me, it must be strong, if I cursed people at will as a child.

If only I can access my magic, maybe I won’t be as defenseless. Maybe there’s no reason to fear whatever next thing Woland is plotting, because I’ll be able to hold my own this time.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and then I open them and go to my bedroom, where the window is the smallest and a thick-branched cherry tree grows right outside, hiding it from view. I don’t want to risk anyone peeking in and seeing me. Anything that looks even remotely like magic must stay hidden. It’s already bad enough that Ida thinks I’m a witch.

There is no Wiosna here to tell me I can’t do this, so I decide to fix my ripped blanket with magic. I take it in my hands, put the torn sides together, and focus.

Power swirls in my chest, a familiar warmth. I smile, certain it will work this time.

“Be whole,” I whisper to the blanket. “Be new.”

The magic rises and froths in my chest, whirling faster and faster. I try to push it out, funnel it into my intent. When Woland’s blood was in my body, it came effortlessly. His magic flowed where I told it to.

Yet mine doesn’t. The familiar pain of the magic shattering against a wall makes me bend in half with a choking gasp. My stomach heaves, my legs shake, and I fall to my knees. The blanket remains torn, and I can’t hold back from cursing with the foulest words I know.

And to think that after everything that happened yesterday, I can’t even have this.

It takes me a few minutes to put myself together, and when I do, I decide time for feeling broken is over. I go into my herbal garden and weed it, the sun beating against my back. The sensation is unpleasant and reminds me of the long hours I spent in full sun, wounded and dying.

And yet, I grit my teeth and do it. I desperately need control in my life, because it feels like even my body isn’t my own. So I work on my garden, leaving the rows of herbs meticulously weeded. I water them carefully so as not to spill water on the leaves. Wet leaves get sun damage so easily.

If someone passes my cottage, I call out, telling them to spread the news. The poludnica is gone. It’s safe to work through high noon. People cheer and ask me what happened, but I wave them away, grumbling about the state of my garden.

It’s another thing I learned from Wiosna. I’m turning into her.

When I’m done, I prepare a few smudging bundles and go over to see Sobiemir in his carpentry workshop. Smudging the space is a lengthy process, and I spend it thinking about dying and the things I regretted the most.

And the thing is, my biggest regret wasn’t failing to avenge Bogna. It wasn’t losing against Woland, and it wasn’t my failure to unlock my magic. I wasn’t sad because I’d leave my community and whispering post behind—that didn’t even cross my mind.

What I regretted the most was not saving my twelve-year-old self.

I pause for a long time after I make that discovery, the smoke thickening around me. I feel like I’ve been so misguided, so utterly foolish.

Somehow, because of Woland’s games, I lost sight of my greatest, most important goal, and it killed me. If I had focused on the right thing, I would have done everything differently.

I failed myself—the current me and the one from the past. And yet, there is still hope. I got another chance, and this time, I’ll make things right.

As I pass the smoking bundle over Sobiemir’s tools resting on a bench, I decide I’ll start by taking Woland’s trade. It might be a trick, but my mission is too important not to try. Besides, what is there to lose? My mouth doesn’t feel like mine, anyway. Might as well put it to good use.

By the time I’m done, and Milka invites me to dine with them tonight, I’m back into the swing of things. And even though both she and Sobiemir shoot me long, curious glances, I pay them no mind. Most likely, I just look more tired than usual.

I accept the dinner invitation with a smile and go back home to pack a basket. While I haven’t come to terms with my death and don’t expect to be done working through it for a long time, I feel better now.

Having a goal centers me.

Many fields surround the village, and I do a full circuit, stopping by every worker to check on them. Some haven’t covered their heads, and I tell them off until they do. Some look half-delirious from the heat, and if they are able-bodied, I order them to sit in shade and sip chicory brew for a few minutes before they go back to work.

If they are too young or frail, I order them to go home. Those who look unsteady, I assist. Some people shoot me curious looks, so I keep wondering if there is some dirt on my face. But when I feel it with my fingers, there’s nothing sticky or crusty. I finally decide it only feels like everyone is staring because I’m so uncomfortable in my body.

It’s late afternoon by the time I reach Darobor’s field. It wasn’t a conscious choice to leave this place for last, but it makes sense as soon as I see the damned pear tree. Hot and cold shivers go down my spine, and my legs feel leaden with reluctance to approach.

I hate this place. If I could, I’d burn this entire field to the ground. And yet, I am also curious, and so I finally come over, looking for any signs of what happened here.

But there are none. The wheat should be trampled and bloodied where I fought the poludnica. And if the nature of my death and rebirth were to be marked here, the ground should be still wet with my blood.

And yet, there is no sign. Just like my body, the field looks untouched.

Darobor raises his hand wielding the sickle to shade his eyes when he sees me come over. His wife and children work further up the field, and I go over to him first.

“Lotta’s boy did his rounds this morning,” he calls out when I walk closer. “He said the poludnica was gone, so most people stayed in the fields. And look, no one’s dead!”

He grins. I do a double take because I’ve never seen him smile widely like this. But as I stand in front of him, smiling back, his expression sobers, his brows furrowing. He reaches out, his finger stopping shy of touching my chin.

“Jaga, what the bies? Did she brand you?”

I urgently feel the skin below my lower lip. It’s smooth and clean, and I frown, about to ask him what he means, when I remember.

This is the place Woland kissed last night. And that kiss was filled with magic, at least, that’s what I thought. But it was such a minor thing after everything, I plain forgot about it.

“Yes,” I say, my mind whirring with questions. “The poludnica. It couldn’t be avoided.”

I’m so grateful Darobor jumped to this conclusion, because I wouldn’t be able to come up with a good lie right now. He looks at me intently, like he’s about to ask more questions, but then only nods.

“You did good. One day, you’ll have to tell us all how you did it. So we know how to deal with a poludnica.”

I force a smile onto my face and nod. He touches the narrow brim of his straw hat and goes back to work, and I check on everyone else before I’m finally ready to go home.

It’s late afternoon. I have only enough time to wash my hands and face before I’m expected in Sobiemir’s house for dinner. And yet, I still take a long moment to examine my face in the basin of fresh water.

What I see makes me livid and scared.

Indeed, there is a brand on my chin. Perfectly symmetrical and in the rusty color of my freckles, it’s a strange symbol I’ve never seen before. It looks like two crossed sickles, connected with a thin line in the middle.

The shape is sharp and exact, as if burned into my skin. Just like Darobor said, I’m branded. And yet there is no scar, no raised skin, nothing to tell it apart by touch. It feels like a part of me, seamlessly blended.

Even though I know it won’t work, I wash it with my strongest soap and rub viciously with a coarse cloth. All that does is make my skin irritated, which makes the mark darker and more prominent. I stop and just stare, hating Woland and fearing this new devilry.

I already know it’s not a blessing. But what does it do? I have no idea.

Dinner in Sobiemir’s house is pleasant enough, but I am uncomfortable. I know Czeslawa excelled at this, going from home to home and sitting in a place of honor. But I feel unsure of what’s expected of me. In the end, I tell their children harmless little stories about the house spirits, who are supposed to keep our homes tidy and clean as long as we give them a sacrifice while building the house. A black hen is usually enough.

“They are tiny,” I explain when the children ask why they’ve never seen the spirits. “And they only come out at night, when you sleep. Domowy, who is the most important of them all, keeps the spirits in line.”

“What if I didn’t go to sleep?” asks little Benia, who is six years old. “I want to see them! I’m going to stay up tonight as long as it takes to see Domowy!”

When Milka sends me an alarmed look, because she’s afraid her children will be rowdy at bedtime, I give her a reassuring smile.

“If you don’t sleep, they won’t come out and they’ll fall behind on their work. There is this old story about a man who drank a whole skin of wine every night and went to bed very late. His house spirits didn’t have enough time to take care of his home, livestock, and everything else, and his house fell into disrepair.”

The girl doesn’t look convinced, so I grin, making sure I show her too many teeth.

“And do you know what else happened? Rats took over the house. Because the spirits usually keep them out, but when the man didn’t go to bed, they couldn’t do their job. If you, too, try to stay up to see the house spirits, you might wake up with a fat, smelly rat in your bed!”

The children scream in horror, and I laugh. But when I look at Milka to see if she appreciates the way I convinced her kids to go to bed early, she looks appalled. That’s gratitude for you.

All in all, the dinner isn’t a success, and I resolve not to do this often in the future. Not that I expect many invitations after Milka tells all the mothers in the village the whisperer likes to scare children with foolish tales.

I go home, humming a song under my breath. I am strangely at peace, my decisions all made. I’m willing to see Woland and get what I can out of him, and I weave tenuous, uncertain plans for the future. One thing is certain: I’m done being the victim and the prey in our game. I want to use him, too.

This time, when I call his name, he appears at once.