Page 58 of Devil's Deal

Swietko’s house is far on the other side of the village. Mine is closer, but my table is not big enough to support him properly. The best place for him would be the whisperer’s cottage, the one where Wiosna lived that now belongs to Czeslawa. There is a large table for patients.

“The whisperer’s here,” Darobor says.

I look up in time to see Czeslawa. Her face is pale and unsure, looking between Swietko and me with growing alarm.

“What are you doing, stupid girl?” she asks, her voice shrill enough to carry. The murmurs and pained whimpers around us stop. In the aftermath of the bloodshed, everyone’s itching for a diversion.

“Saving his life,” I growl, too winded to care about staying polite. “What does it look like to you?”

She takes a step back, clutching her chest. I narrow my eyes, trying to discern if she’s truly afraid or pretending. When she shakes her head frantically, raising her arms in apparent despair, I know it’s the latter.

“Don’t let her win,” Wiosna hisses in my ear, vicious and unforgiving.

“He was bitten!” Czeslawa cries out. “Bitten by a werewolf! He cannot be saved!”

I glance at Swietko. He is stable for now and doesn’t lose any more blood. A short rest might even do him good before we move him and start sawing. I rise to my feet and face Czeslawa, reveling in my height advantage.

I won’t, I silently promise Wiosna, even though she can’t hear me.

“A bite does not make a werewolf,” I say calmly. “You should know that. Only gods decide who will become a foul beast.”

Czeslawa’s face turns splotchy with anger. She hates being contradicted. Darobor looks between her and me, his brow furrowed. The men are quiet, watching.

“Are you really willing to risk it?” she asks in a menacing voice. “Look what one of those beasts did to us! And you want to risk having another one slaughtering us all in our beds? You are mad!”

A ripple goes through the crowd, murmurs of worry and agreement. I clench my fists and jut my chin forward, refusing to cower.

“There is no risk, because unlike Przemyslaw, Swietko didn’t slaughter his wife in gods’ sight,” I say loudly.

Czeslawa’s eyes widen and people around me gasp, clearly unprepared for my revelation. Maybe it’s not wise to flaunt my knowledge that the werewolf is Przemyslaw, though, really, that’s obvious. But it’s not something Jarota announced.

Well, at least now, I have everyone’s attention and a slight advantage. I continue in a raised voice, looking at the men while Czeslawa gathers her wits. My eyes fall on the five wounded ones sitting at the side of the road, which gives me an idea.

I want them on my side, hoping avidly werewolf wounds don’t doom anyone to become a beast.

“A werewolf’s bite isn’t contagious. Nor is a werewolf’s scratch. No one who was wounded tonight was infected with anything other than filth from its claws. So will you tend to the wounded, whisperer, to make sure they can heal properly? If you’re so afraid of Swietko’s ugly wound, I will treat it myself. And I will not ask for payment. They risked their lives for us. This is reason enough to treat them for free.”

I look back just in time to see Czeslawa’s expression turn venomous. That’s right, she cares about her wealth the most, so my little speech struck her where it hurts. And I care about payment, too, but I’m petty enough to forego mine if she’s forced to give up hers.

“Scratches don’t get infected,” she says stiffly while men watch her, the wounded ones wide-eyed with a new fear. “And of course. Go to my cottage. I will bandage the wounds.”

I am ready to smile in triumph when she turns to me, her eyes filled with hate. With the wounded men gone and some standing farther to watch out for the monster’s return, our audience is much smaller. And yet, it’s big enough that whatever she says will make an impact.

And so it does.

“Why should anyone trust you with Swietko’s treatment?” she spits, her voice cold. “When everyone knows he hates you, and you, him. Maybe you want him to turn into a beast or die in agony. Maybe that’s why you’re lying. I suppose we’ll see what happens with this poor soul, hm?”

She leaves with a huff, and I am left standing over unconscious, barely alive Swietko who will likely die even if I do my best, thereby confirming her words.

His death will damn me.

Somewhere in the distance, a pair of yellow eyes flashes tauntingly, the devil’s gleeful laugh carrying on the wind.

Chapter twenty

Butcher

Swietko is still unconscious when men carry him from a hay cart they used to transport him to my cottage. I quickly clear off the mess left over after making protective pouches, and they lay him down on the table. His legs dangle over the edge, and I purse my lips, bringing a stool to support his feet.

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