Chapter 6 Well of Souls
Chapter six
Well of Souls
Jaga’s steps echo in the distance, farther and farther away, when I finally rise from the bench. I twist into shadows and reappear by her side, wordlessly falling into step. She doesn’t acknowledge me, and I’m glad for once.
Better be silent than fight again.
When we reach the enormous doors at the other end of the Hall of Fires, Jaga puts her hand on the wood and commands it like she did the door downstairs. “Open.”
This time, it doesn’t work. She glares at me as if it’s my fault, and I suppose it is. I created the wards down here.
“I just need a drop of your blood to prime it, and the door will open for you after that.”
Everything inside me rebels against giving her more freedom to come and go as she pleases. I haven’t forgotten her pointed questions about the topography of Nawie. But I can’t keep her locked up forever.
Even if she tries to run, there are hundreds of levels between us and the surface. I’ll catch her.
“All right.”
She comes over, pulling away a side of her coat. My eyebrows rise when I see three small, thin daggers at her belt. Jaga gets one and sticks it right in the middle of her palm without a wince or a hiss of pain.
I watch, mesmerized, as blood bubbles out of the wound, filling her cupped palm. The scent of it fills my nose and shoots straight to my brain, scattering my thoughts.
My heart launches into a frenzied rhythm, and my mouth is parched, throat thick with thirst. The world sways, darkening at the edges, and all I can think is, her blood.
I haven’t had any in months. Jaga’s fed off me, but I didn’t drink from her, and instead of lessening my addiction, it only made it worse. I forget what I was supposed to do, my face growing numb, eyes playing tricks.
Her palm looks enormous, filling my vision. I think I moan in longing.
“Oh,” Jaga’s voice is smug and knowing. “I suppose you want a taste.”
I think I say yes, or maybe moan again. My tongue is numb. I stop breathing, because if I smell any more of her gorgeous blood, I’ll fall on her like a rabid beast and feed.
Jaga laughs, the sound distorted, coming from afar.
She turns her hand. Blood splashes onto the marble.
“You can have it off the floor like a dog.”
I don’t wait for my dignity to catch up. I’m on my knees at her feet before she stops speaking, my tongue lapping at the sweet drug. I am a dog, a faithful servant, and my mistress just gave me a treat.
The floor is clean and shiny with my saliva way too soon, not a drop left. I pant, shivers running down my spine. How I missed her, missed that sweetness, and it doesn’t matter that only Woland drinks blood—I do now, too. When it’s hers.
When I look up, tortured, my thirst not even half-quenched, I catch her off guard. Her eyes are filled with wonder, and she shifts from foot to foot, her hips making a tiny yet obvious movement.
She likes seeing me on my knees like this. She likes being in power.
“Here.”
Jaga slowly lowers her bloodied hand to my face, watching me with dark, curious eyes. I nuzzle my cheek against the side of her palm, then grab her wrist and tug. She gasps when I pull her lower, but it’s too late. She won’t shake me off now.
My mouth is in the cup of her palm, my teeth in the wound, and I pull blood out of it in long, greedy sucks. She sways and grabs onto my hair for balance, pulling on it. I think I groan in pleasure.
Harder.
She must understand what I want, because more of my hair is now in her fist, and she pulls so hard, it hurts.
Her blood fills my mouth, and nothing can top this, maybe only drinking it straight from her cunt.
She pants in effort, little shaky moans escaping between her teeth, and I drink my fill, her palm torn open for my pleasure.
She told me to use her body, after all. So I dig in with my teeth until they scrape bones.
Harder.
Her hips sway in rhythmic, needy motions, and I’m hard, my need matching hers. I fill up on her, every sip bringing me closer to coming in my pants. She is delightful. Delicious. My home.
When her fingers slip listlessly through my hair, I realize she’s weakened.
I’ve aided myself unconsciously with magic, pulling more blood than her body allowed.
I took too much, but it’s all right. Before I pull away, I pierce my tongue with a crafty spell and let my healing blood fall into the mess I made of her palm.
The wound heals, but Jaga is still faint, her knees shaking. I kiss her hand, licking it clean, and tug her into my lap.
“Come here.”
She does, wretched and boneless, and I cradle her in my arms.
“Remember how I taught you to take my name? Let me return the favor.”
That night, I kissed her blood out of her mouth. Every time she said my name, it made her tongue bleed, and I made her repeat it, over and over, between hungry kisses.
She makes no sound of protest. I split my tongue open and forbid it to heal.
We kiss.
It’s gentle and messy, her lips shivery and weak against mine, her tongue inert when she busies herself swallowing the thick trickle flooding her mouth. I caress her face and her neck, and when she tangles her fingers in my hair, I cover her palm with mine to keep her there.
It’s bliss. She lets me do anything, and she’s willing, her hips still warmed with that arousal, her lips and tongue growing animated when she regains her strength. When I forget to stop myself from healing, too swept up in the pleasure, she grunts with annoyance when the flow of blood stops.
“Take it,” I murmur against her lips, refusing to stop the kiss.
She bites my lip hard until it splits. My cock swells, and I tug her closer, until her leather-clad ass sits right on top of it. She squirms, kissing me harder, and I cover her breast with my palm. My gorgeous poppy girl arches into my touch.
“I need you,” I grunt, fumbling in search of a way to unfasten her corset.
There’s a flutter of wings, brown feathers raining down on us. I pull away just in time to see the swarm of wrens transform into Nyja.
In all the centuries I knew her, she’s never had worse timing than this.
“Weles! Come right now!”
I jump to my feet, still holding Jaga. Nyja’s voice is frantic. Something terrible has happened.
“To the Well of Souls!” she screams before turning into birds again, and I follow, shadows twisting around me and Jaga as we shoot through the dark belly of the mountain, right to the bottom of the shaft running from the mountaintop to the heart of Nawie.
When we land in the enormous cavern glittering with lights, it’s chaos and noise around us.
Tiny birds flutter around, their wings beating unevenly, terrified and lost. Larger birds swoop over and under the chaos, cawing and chirping, fear in their eyes.
Some fly straight into walls, and fall unconscious to the ground.
It’s a swarm the likes of which I only saw when mortals had a bloodthirsty battle before. There are over a thousand souls here, souls of people that just died, and half of them are nawkas.
Nyja is up on top of a black pillar twice as tall and thrice as wide as her, a shot of golden light igniting her white dress and hair.
Her arms are raised, beckoning to the birds that fly in spirals around her, a whirlwind of wings and feathers.
The noise is ungodly, chirping and squawking voices rising together in a cacophony of fear.
“Someone’s killing pregnant women!” Nyja shouts, her palms open wide, her form shining brighter.
Birds flock to her, sitting on her head, in her palms, on her shoulders. As soon as one sits, it’s sent away, Nyja pulling them into the right part of Nawie, nawkas to their realm, the mothers to go with adults.
They will reunite later, but the initial sorting is necessary. Souls must have a place to call their own. It’s the only way to help them feel safe after the trauma of death.
“What’s happening?” Jaga asks, eyes wide open in awe.
“Soul threshing,” I explain. “Wait here. I must help.”
The longer they are trapped in the Well of Souls, the more they will suffer.
I let Jaga to her feet and transport myself in a flash of darkness to the second pillar, twin to Nyja’s.
These are ancient constructs, runes and blessings carved into their black, polished surfaces.
They are what brought the souls here, the magic infused in the pillars an irresistible attraction for the departed.
I raise my arms, letting my magic shine through. I am the Father, the Maker, the one who breathed life into first mortals. My power curls around me, bright silver shot with green, darkness slithering around the edges and promising peace.
“Come to me,” I call, not with words but with spirit. “Come home, little souls. Come rest.”
More and more birds tear off from Nyja’s whirlwind, lessening her load. They hesitate, circling over my head, until finally, a tiny little bird, a nawka of a child not yet born, floats down and sits on my finger, its miniscule claws barely scraping my skin.
“Welcome home, little one.”
I send it back to the level where youngest nawkas live.
Nyja’s helpers will take things from here, coaxing the little bird to take the form of a child if it so chooses.
It will have friends soon, infinite fields and forests to play in, and maybe the halls of Nyja’s academy where she schools her warriors.
It will stay as long as it wants and do as it pleases.
More birds flock to me, encouraged by the first brave little soul.
Soon, I’m covered in them, welcoming each one, the echo of my creative breath present in every frantic heartbeat.
Though… Not every one. I don’t recognize the brush of magic in one bird, then in another, but there’s no time to dwell on it.
With so many souls coming through at once, it’s impossible to focus.