Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

47. Fun

I am yanked to my feet. Darobor is in my face, roaring out his grief and fury. Then I’m spun around, and Roza screams at me, tears falling down her cheeks. Maja and Alutka wail with horrendous grief, and Ida screams, tearing out her hair.

“I should have told her! I should have told them what you are!”

I, too, am sorry she didn’t. My world burns and crumbles around me, and I keep waiting for this nightmare to end. Because it can’t be real. It can’t.

Through the open door, I see more people gathering in front of my cottage. A lightning splits the sky, and thunder follows.

“You will pay for this!” Darobor spits, yanking me by my hair until I fall on my hands and knees.

Shadows press at me from every side, dark and cold and slimy.

“Run,” Woland whispers in my ear. “Run, little witch.”

Everything is shrouded in his dark smoke, so I feel my way out through the door, stumbling and almost falling. I make it out to the gate when the shadows release, and I’m thrown back into reality.

“Magic!” terrified voices scream behind me. “Seize her! She’s a witch!”

Hands reach for me, my curious neighbors who just came to watch the commotion trying to stop me. But I knock them aside and run, gripping my dress in my hands. I run like that day when my eyes changed color.

They chase me just like then, too, except this time, they have every right to do so.

I am a witch. I killed the baby, I killed Jarota, I killed Sara, and all those others who will die because of me.

“Drown her!” they scream, and I think that yes, they should.

My heart beats out a cry of terror, and so I run faster and faster, fighting for my worthless, poisonous life. I can’t stop, I can’t give my life away, even though I should. But the animal in me is stronger than my conscience, and she wants to live.

So I run. Into the cold, into the wild, without a scrap of food or weapon.

“Tolimir, get your bow!” someone screams.

“I knew she was a witch!” Swietko roars, joining in the hunt.

Thunder cracks above me, so loud, I moan from fear, my bare feet skidding in the mud. I’m almost out of the village, my old cottage flashing past me in the rain. Ahead are the fields and meadows, and then, the river and the forest.

I run, knowing I need to hide between the trees. If Tolimir is going to shoot me, that’s my only chance.

Another thunder cracks. The rain beats harder, its force bruising my head and back. There are terrified screams behind me, people asking if it’s witchcraft, others saying to let me go or I might kill them all.

But Darobor isn’t done. He chases me with rage in his eyes at the head of the pack. Right behind him are Janek and Leszek, Maja’s husband. He’s another one who won’t give up easily.

My strength flags. The sleepless nights and the fact I haven’t eaten today are catching up with me. But I keep running, my feet splashing the cold mud, my eyes blinded by the rain. Somehow, I stay ahead. I fly through the meadow where the Kupala celebrations were held, the river on my right. It’s a roaring, swollen beast that’s about to flood the land.

An arrow zings past me, so close, I sob from fear. But it misses, and I’m almost to the line of trees. I speed up with my last breath.

And then, just as I’m about to enter the forest, lightning strikes.

It strikes just behind me. I hear the sizzle when celestial heat bursts into mud, I feel the tingles in my feet as the force of the strike spreads all around me.

When I look back, everyone chasing me is still, staring at a cottage-sized hole in the ground. Steam rises over it, thick and gray. I stare, too, because I’ve never seen lightning do that kind of thing.

I drag in a shaky breath, balling my hands into fists. The silence breaks.

“Witchcraft!”

“She’ll murder us!”

“Let her go!”

One by one, they turn and run away. Even Janek and Leszek, even Swietko and Tolimir, even Ida, whose blonde hair flashes in the fray. Darobor stays long enough to give me a venomous look filled with vengeful promise.

“Don’t ever come back here,” he says, turning away to follow the others.

I stare after them until the thick sheet of rain and the smoke curling above the hole obscure them from view. I am completely blank, my mind devoid of thought as I stare, growing colder and colder. I’m soaked to the bone, and my feet are freezing.

In the back of my head, a thought appears. It says I should wash the mud from my feet and check for injuries, because I won’t feel any pain in this cold.

Since I have no other ideas about what to do with myself now that my life fell apart, I trudge to the river bank, staying close to the forest wall. Who knows, Tolimir might still have an eye on me, an arrow nocked and ready.

But when I look at the village, sad and soaked in the distance, I see no one. They have all left, back to their lives, to their grief and anger.

The water overflows already, and I step carefully, wading into where the grassy river bank is flooded. I rinse off my feet and follow the least muddy path I see, entering the forest. When I’m safe among the trees, I sit down on a stump and examine my feet. They are red and freezing like the rest of me, but not bleeding.

I let go of my foot and just sit there, staring ahead. I wish I felt something, but it’s like all my emotions have leeched out of me along with my body heat.

What if I just stayed here? I could fall asleep. In this cold, I might die easily, without even being aware of what’s happening. Wouldn’t this be justice?

I think about Maja’s baby that died in my arms. About Sara, who only wanted to learn and listen to my stories. And then Milka and Sobiemir, Jarota, and countless others who might die yet because they were close to me today.

Will Maja die, too?

Her baby was such a perfect, beautiful creature.

When my face grows hot, I realize I’m crying. My tears scald my cheeks, but I don’t sob. I’m numb from the throat down, sheer inertia commanding my limbs. And so I sit there for what feels like hours, until I don’t feel my fingers and toes.

At some point, the rain ends. Some time after that, red and gold rays of sunshine penetrate through the soaked canopies. Birds come out of their nests after the long rain, chirping as they fly out in search of food.

The shadows are long, the air still humid and cool, everything wet. The water painting every leaf and soaking into moss glitters in the light of the setting sun.

And then, the golden light crawls away, Dadzbog going to rest in Wyraj. I get up, my body shaking, and look around. It’s so strange to see the world still standing when it was blown to bits just hours ago.

Yet, the place where I sat bears my mark. A few small bushes of lingonberry are wilted, their fruit dried to husks, leaves blackened. Some goutweed grows nearby, its delicate white flowers now dark with rot.

So it’s not over yet. I still bear his curse.

I shake out my legs and arms, stretch my back, brush my hair from my face. Through all those long hours of sitting on this wet, cold stump, my mind finally figured out another goal.

Slowly, I walk deeper into the forest, keeping the river on my right side. I know that tomorrow, or even tonight, Darobor and Leszek, and maybe others, too, will come looking. I understand the need to avenge their loved ones. Of course, they will hope I stay close by so they can catch me and channel all their rage into hurting me.

So I must go.

It’s not even fear that guides me. It’s sheer survival instinct, something so ingrained, it doesn’t even take a thought to act on it.

I walk slowly but steadily. It’s easy without a heavy bundle of belongings. There is nothing to worry about, nothing to remember. Just put one foot in front of the other, over and over, until I’m too tired to go on.

Clear puddles fill the hollows in the ground, and I crouch by a deep one to drink. Rainwater tastes pure and sweet, and I have my fill, quenching both hunger and thirst. Then I walk some more. Dusk turns into night. The moon has grown bigger since I saw Chors, and now that the sky is clear, its light gently silvers my path where the trees aren’t too dense.

I manage not to think until exhaustion makes me stumble, so I stop and lie down, not bothering to find a dry or hidden place. What’s the point? If I get sick, Woland will heal me. If wolves find me, he’ll chase them away.

Before I fall asleep, I smile grimly. Yes, Woland will save me. Right after stealing everything that made my life worth living.

The next day, my hunger grows too great to satisfy with water alone. The weather is hot again, and as all the rain dries in the heat, the air grows unpleasantly stifling. I am deep in the forest now, but the river is still nearby. I follow its current, picking wild strawberries, raspberries, wood sorrel leaves, and unripe hazelnuts.

I don’t make haste and I don’t stop for long, because every longer rest makes the plants die around me. The forest is bright and filled with sounds, small animals rustling in the undergrowth, birds calling to one another high above. I keep walking for a full day without thinking, without feeling. I let my base needs guide me—to the river to drink, into the undergrowth for food, to a bed of moss when I’m tired.

That night, I sleep more comfortably, curled up in the roots of an old oak. I wake to find myself covered with its leaves, shrunken and black at the edges.

My curse affects even the mightiest of trees. I walk away from that place in haste, doing my best not to think about the dying tree.

But it’s like Daga said all those years ago.

Her blood will poison the roots.

On the third day, fissures appear in my armor of numbness. Images flash in my mind. Sara avidly listening to my tales. Darobor asking me to teach her. The baby in my palms, still alive, red and warm from her mother’s womb.

I don’t ruminate on them, just let them pass, walking, always walking. I find more plants to eat, digging up some roots, picking berries, munching on nettles. I don’t have hot water to make them not sting, but that’s fine. I barely feel their hostile touch on my numb fingers.

In the evening, I see a large, black bird resembling a chicken. It sits on a branch, glaring at me with bright yellow eyes. It seems to watch me with awareness much sharper than animals usually display. I’ve never seen a bird like this, so I stop to look. It makes a nasty, screeching sound and launches into a heavy flight, disappearing among the branches.

And I think I know what it was. I know tales of klobuks, black birds resembling roosters that live deep in the woods and come close to human settlements in winter. In the stories, if someone invited a klobuk into their home, the bird would steal from their neighbors and bring its loot to its host in exchange for food and a warm place by the hearth.

I wonder if meeting the bird means I’m so deep in the woods, no mortals come here. Or maybe the opposite—maybe there’s a village nearby.

The fourth day, I walk further, and there is no village. Instead, I see bright lights flashing between the trees, accompanied by sweet, female giggles. I have no idea what kind of licho it is, and when I try to follow the voices, the lights scatter, and everything falls silent.

My armor is cracked in many places now. I don’t cry, because there’s no point to that, but a dark cloud of hate and despair nestles in my gut and chest. It obscures even the fear of being out in the wilderness alone, the fear that ruled my entire life.

It doesn’t anymore. There is nothing to rule, because my life is ruined.

My zmora is restless, stirring inside me and asking to be let out, because the amount of hate I feed her requires an outlet. I keep her leashed, though. There is only one person I wish to hurt, and she can’t even fight him.

On the fifth day, when I emerge from the river after a long afternoon soak, Woland comes.

“I brought you soap for your hair,” he says gallantly, offering me a beautiful pot made of something that resembles polished white stone but shines brighter than any stones I’ve seen.

I look at it for a moment, the darkness inside me roaring. How dare he?

“You can shove it up your ass.”

He sighs, sounding impatient. “I hoped your lone travels would soften you a little. Clearly, I was wrong. Jaga, what’s even the point? You have nothing to go back to. No aim to reach for, either, and soon, the nights will grow cold and food will be scarce.”

He looks at me critically, no spark of arousal in his eyes even though I’m nude.

“You’re already thinner,” he chides me, growing more displeased. “I don’t have time to bring you meals. Come with me. You’ll be provided for.”

“No.”

I turn away, grabbing my dress. I’ve washed it as well as I could in the river, and it’s still damp. I shrug it on and twist my wet hair up, pushing a stick through it so it’s out of the way.

When I try to walk around him and resume my aimless wander, he grabs my wrist.

“Look at me.”

I laugh bitterly, staring at sunlight playing over lush fern leaves, their color a delight. It’s light green in the sun, vibrant and alive. I could spend an eternity looking at it and thinking of nothing.

But even if the only other thing I could look at instead of Woland was a pile of shit, I would stare at it until my eyes bled.

He grabs my hair and turns my head firmly. I close my eyes when his irate face swings into view.

“Now you’re being childish,” he growls, his grip tightening.

I shrug. This kind of judgment might have hurt me in the past, but now I simply don’t care.

“Fuck. Jaga,” he snaps. I think there’s an edge of despair to his voice.

He kisses me, and I let him, standing numb and unresponsive. My body doesn’t ignite from his touch. There is a big, gaping hole where my libido was, and there is nothing he can do to bring it back.

Woland releases me with a vicious curse, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s disgusted. I huff softly under my breath. That makes two of us.

He doesn’t let me go yet. I look past him, watching the sunlight glittering on the river. From the corner of my eye, I catch his expression, angry yet thoughtful. His nostrils flare, but there’s calculation in his eyes.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asks, his voice so controlled, it sounds inflectionless.

I burst out laughing. It’s brief and violent, leaving me gasping for breath. It’s the kind of laughter that doesn’t feel good, it just tears out of me. When it passes, I shoot him a contemptuous look.

“What do you think?”

Woland deflates with a long exhale, his posture hunching, his grip on my hair loosening, though he doesn’t let go.

“They held you back,” he says slowly, like I’m a child and he’s trying to explain a basic, obvious concept.

I shrug. That is so beside the point, so utterly removed from what my anguish and pain are about. If he thinks an argument like this can convince me of anything, that means he knows nothing about me.

“Jaga! For fuck’s sake.”

He shakes me, but not very hard. If I were in a better frame of mind, I would admire his restraint. It must be very frustrating to talk to me when I’m like this.

When I give him no response, he’s silent, breathing slowly though audibly, and I know it costs him to stay calm. Finally, he bows low over me, his tall body folding until he touches his forehead to mine. When I try to twist my head to the side so I’m not forced to share his breath, he doesn’t let me.

So I grit my teeth and endure it, and as I stand like this with him, more and more cracks appear in my armor. My breathing grows shaky, my body hot and cold in turns, and when I think I’ll either cry or go mad, he folds me into his embrace and holds me close.

And I don’t cry. I force myself to endure it, too, even as my shell of numbness breaks into pieces, my peace shattering once and for all. Pain, grief, and guilt pour in, burrowing into my muscles and bones, flooding my stomach and lungs. I choke on them, shaking, and Woland holds me through it, murmuring meaningless words of comfort.

“It wasn’t your fault. I did it all. Blame me.”

“You did nothing wrong, darling.”

“I’ve got you now. You’ll always be safe.”

These are all lies, and I push them out of my mind, but a strange thing happens. My body seems to accept what he says and it slowly calms until I am no longer shaking, the big hole in my chest seeming to have shrunk just a little.

“Why did you do it?” I ask hoarsely, bracing for more lies.

Woland holds me closer, his big, warm palm stroking down my hair and back. I am rigid in his hold, unyielding, but he doesn’t take the hint. He keeps running his hand down my back, and I hate him even more when I realize I like the way it feels.

“I understood you were determined to win,” he says simply. “If I kept giving you external foes to fight, you would never give up, so I had to rig the game. I made you the villain, and it worked, because you couldn’t fight yourself.”

I swallow thickly. This sounds very much like the truth, because it’s so callous. Like it’s all a scheme, a strategy to make me do what he wants. I don’t matter to him as a person. All that matters is that I do what he wants.

“A game, huh?” I say, my voice low.

Since I know how he enjoys my rage, I won’t show it, even though I burn with fury.

“It kind of is,” he says softly, running his claw along my spine in a way that makes me want to sag against him and ask for more. I don’t. “We both want different things, and we both fight to bring our goals to completion. I’m not afraid to fight dirty, poppy girl.”

“So anything goes?” I ask. “Anything—as long as it gets you what you want? Why start with the werewolf if you could have done this all along? Why not just slaughter everyone on day one?”

He hums in thought, like he’s really considering my question. I wait, mildly curious, and that small echo of curiosity is the first thing I feel that isn’t grief, hate, or complete numbness. I lean into it, sighing with relief.

And then I curse myself. I’m not supposed to feel better. I don’t deserve it.

“There are many reasons,” he says, his claws still running up and down my back on either side of my spine. “Once I have you, we’ll be doomed to stay close, at least until the war is over. I didn’t want you to hate me as much as you do now. If we were allies, it would make things much easier.”

I snort. Nothing he’s done so far seems like he did it to keep me from hating him.

“I also wanted to see what you were capable of,” he continues, ignoring my unvoiced disbelief. “It baffled me at first. That someone like you, so young, mortal, and weak, would be the one to… Would be important. At Kupala, I already saw some of your strength shining through. It intrigued me. I wanted to learn more.”

It would have flattered me before he turned me into a walking curse and made me kill a baby. Now, I’m just angry. It’s all a game to him. One big manipulation, where lives are just pieces to be arranged as he wants.

“But most of all,” he says, brushing loose strands of hair off my nape, “it was fun. It’s been ages since I last played with mortals. You reminded me how entertaining it is.”

I push him away, stumbling back in disgust and fury. He lets me, and when I glare at him, unable to contain the hate that spills out, he grins wickedly.

“There she is,” he murmurs with satisfaction. “Much better. Fight me, little witch. Get it all out.”

I am too far gone to realize I’m playing right into his hands. Everything that broke through the dam when he held me comes rushing out, and I scream, stomping and shaking. The torrent feels powerful enough to tear me apart if I don’t let it out.

“You think killing a baby was fun?” I scream so loudly, my voice scratches my throat. “She died in my arms! She was perfect and healthy and could have had a good, long life, but she’s dead! I held her when it happened! I felt her life go! Tell me how fun it was for you! Tell me how entertaining!”

A look of confusion crosses his face, like he’s not quite sure what I’m talking about. I roar with grief and pain, turning away from him. I tear at my hair, my anguish pouring out through my skin. Everything itches, like my body is too small to contain all the things I feel, and the flood of emotions pushes at the seams of my being from the inside.

“This is about the baby?” he asks, baffled. “But she’s fine. She’s a nawka. I told you Nyja cares for them, I told you she’ll have a better life there than…”

I whirl to him, hissing from fury. “She’s fine? If being in Nawie is so much better than staying alive, why don’t you let me go? You brought me back from the dead because it’s different! It matters!”

His silence is like a confirmation. I press my hands to my face, hiding from him, but the itching grows worse under my skin. I scream through my palms, shaking with the violence of it, but it feels like no amount of screaming will make it go away. I’m stuck with this pain until I die, and probably after, too.

I want to hurt him so much, just as he hurt me. I know that my magic is trapped, and still, I try to fashion it into an arrow and shoot him. Yet, even at the peak of my fury, my power fizzles and dies in my chest, leaving me gasping for breath.

Woland huffs, seeing my failure, but says nothing. I give him a long look filled with hate.

“And you know the best part?” I ask him, my voice low and guttural. “If you had told me this was going to happen, if you told me from the start, I would have agreed to be yours. I would have done anything not to kill her, not to kill any of them.”

He shakes his head, making me grit my teeth to the point of pain.

“No, you wouldn’t have agreed,” he says with conviction. “You would have looked for another way out. Most likely, you would have just left the village, sacrificing yourself to keep everyone safe. That’s what you wanted to do, wasn’t it?”

I stare at him without words, and he nods with satisfaction.

“The point of this exercise, Jaga, was to deprive you of everything that matters to you. I removed all your support, your sense of mission, your pride in your work, and the people who respected you. I took it all away to break you, darling. And that’s because I’m still holding on to hope you will come willingly. The final solution is extreme—although the better I get to know you, the more appealing it is. But you will hate it. So please, poppy girl. Let’s just solve this, once and for all. Let me claim you.”

I slump, a sudden exhaustion filling my body, my limbs growing heavy. When he lays it out like that, it all feels so hopeless. He can do anything to me and everyone around me. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to fight him anymore.

But I will never be his. At least in that, I still have a choice. And if he forces me, however he plans to do that? I suppose I’ll have to avoid it.

My body constricts, growing cold. There is only one way to stop him.

I’ll have to die for good.