Page 60 of Devil's Deal

Because it has to be me. That’s one of the most fundamental rules of whispering: the whisperer is the one who cuts, sews back together, and administers medicine. Even if the job is hard like this, it cannot be delegated.

Because if something goes wrong, a whisperer will be forgiven. It’s a part of the job. But another person might be crushed by grief and guilt, and so, I can’t ask anyone here to help me with the cutting.

It’s for me only.

Swietko is still unconscious, his breathing ragged and harsh, but I can’t imagine he’ll stay that way while I saw off his arm. Cold sweat trickles down my spine, my dress tacky with it.

Gods. I’m really doing it.

“Is the saw clean?”

Darobor hands me the gleaming blade. I clench my jaw and steel myself.

One deep breath. Two. I cut.

The sound of sawing through human flesh and bone is like nothing I’ve ever heard. It’s visceral, wet, and jarring when the blade hits bone. I fight the urge to heave, my throat so tight, I can barely breathe. It’s easy enough to cut through skin and muscle, but once I reach bone, it becomes a struggle.

“Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods,” Alina repeats, rocking back and forth like a lost child. Her hands are clenched tight and pressed to her chest. I am about to snarl at her to shut up, because I’m sick and tired of the gods right now. They are the ones who brought this curse upon us.

I don’t get a chance to say anything harsh and cruel, because Swietko wakes up.

His scream of utter, inhuman agony drowns out all the other sounds, and I can’t believe I thought Alina’s mindless prayer annoying. This is a thousand times worse.

“Hold him!” I bark through clenched teeth, doing my best to keep his arm steady.

Darobor presses Swietko’s shoulder into the tabletop, Janek leans into his legs, and Waclaw grips his head. I saw, back and forth, back and forth, the blade crunching against bone. My arms burn, my dress is heavy with sweat, but I don’t stop. The faster I get it done, the shorter his suffering.

“You’re almost through,” Wiosna says, her voice calm. Teacherly. “Keep going. You can’t fail now.”

Her steady presence sparks a new wave of determination, letting me ignore the pain in my body, the fear of getting it wrong. I saw and saw while Swietko screams and screams. His mindless, animal suffering hacks at my soul, seeping into my mind like poison.

His flesh is red, blood trickling slowly from the wound. I clearly see where the layer of his skin ends and raw muscle begins. His bone is so white in the red. I cut, stroke after stroke, and he screams in inhuman agony.

For a moment, I am confused. Am I a healer or a butcher?

“Keep going!” Wiosna hisses, and I realize I’ve slowed down. My strength is flagging.

There is not enough will in me to heal, not enough determination to save him. I will fail.

But I cannot. Woland wants me to lose. He wants people to die. I must keep going.

And so, I let the healer in me go and reach for the butcher. I feed rage into my body, letting it flow freely. Hating Swietko is so easy, after all. I remember the names he called me. How he pushed me into the fire circle. The way he always looked at me, with a scornful sneer, like I was no better than vermin.

Gripped by hate and vengeance, I pant in fury, no longer feeling pain. I work faster, harder, and Swietko screams louder, and louder, and louder… Each scream feeds my rage, making me go harder. The sight of his face twisted with unbearable pain feeds a dark, hungry place inside me.

More. More pain. More agony.

I’m lost in a frenzy of fury when his arm falls to the floor with a wet splat, barely missing my feet. I drop the saw and pant in the sudden silence. He faints again, and Janek is already by the hearth, carefully gripping the charred handle of the ax. The blade gleams orange.

“It’s hot,” he says, his voice thick like he’s keeping himself from retching.

I grab a towel from a wall hook behind me and wrap it around my palm.

“Hold him!” I snarl, my hands heating up from the handle and shaking from the weight of the ax.

And yet, a wild, buoyant joy sings in my veins. Because I get to brand Swietko. I will brand my enemy, press fire into his naked flesh, and make him hurt again.

After this, he will never be able to forget me. Whatever he did to me will pale in comparison to what I’m doing to him. And it doesn’t matter I’m saving his life, because I know deep down, Swietko would rather die.

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