Page 72 of Devil's Deal

Woland gives a mirthless laugh. “Then you’ll take me standing. But not today. Brace yourself, poppy girl.”

That’s all the warning I get. His shadows release me and he walks away. I grip the earth in my left hand tighter. Suddenly, time comes rushing back, the air filling with sounds, and I hear each and every one, my hearing sharper than normal.

Something lands on my cheek. The drop of saliva from the werewolf’s muzzle.

I don’t wait, don’t think, don’t look. With a wide arch, I raise my hand and fling dirt into its eyes. The beast snarls and jerks away, just enough to let me free my right hand. I grip my knife, but it’s too late. The jaws gape open and lunge, right for my throat.

Driven by instinct, I cover my face with my left arm, my movements preternaturally fast. The werewolf’s teeth close around my forearm, and I don’t feel the pain yet, just gratitude. I’m alive.

Using the few precious seconds I bought with my arm, I yank the knife free and bury it in the werewolf’s throat.

Hot blood squirts down my fist, the growl building in its throat turning into a whimper. For a moment, we’re both frozen, Przemyslaw’s eyes filling with pain as they look out from the monster’s face.

Then they close. The werewolf breathes out, and I fancy there is something in its breath, something more than just air. Something charged.

Those eyes stay closed when the face around them shifts, fur disappearing, the muzzle turning into a human jaw, teeth shrinking and letting go of my bloody arm. My knife is still buried in its throat. His throat. Because the werewolf is gone, the human body of Przemyslaw in its place. His bulk falls on top of me, heavy and lifeless.

I’ve just killed Przemyslaw.

Chapter twenty-four

Rival

I should feel relief, but I don’t. Sharp pain throbs in my forearm, and I know it’s bad. With the werewolf’s jaw no longer crushing it, I can take a look at my wound even before I try rolling Przemyslaw off me. He’s heavy, but not as heavy as the werewolf. I can handle him.

As I raise my hand, bracing for the worst, sharper and sharper pain shoots through it. I grit my teeth, but when I see the wound, I have to blink a few times. It’s not what I expected. For one, the punctures are small, and… I blink again, making sure my eyes work properly.

Because what I see doesn’t make sense. It almost looks like the wounds are shrinking.

I stare, the pain slowly waning, until all that’s left of my injury is my fresh blood coating healed, unbroken skin. I don’t understand what happened. It’s a kind of magic I’ve never seen before.

“Enjoy,” Woland says, his voice gruff.

I look up in time to see him melt away and become one with the shadows. A moment later, it becomes obvious why. Voices come from the path outside, rushing closer. I hear Darobor, and surprisingly, Czeslawa.

Panic streaks through me. What will they do when they see dead Przemyslaw on top of me? Will they believe he was the werewolf? And what about my knife? It’s still buried deep in his throat. Even if I hide it in time, they’ll ask how I killed him.

All of that rises in a gut-wrenching whirlpool of nerves. I breathe in, trying to stay calm… And just like that, my emotions settle. I think clearly. My mind is rid of the exhaustion that plagued me for two days, my body strong and vibrant. It handles the anxiety with shocking ease.

Just what kind of magic is in Woland’s blood and, more importantly, why did he give it to me?

But there is no time to ponder these questions. People come in, gasping and cursing when they see me. Czeslawa shrieks, too shrill and fake. I grit my teeth.

When no one moves, everyone watching me from a distance like I’m a wild animal about to strike, I lose my patience. “Well, will you help me get him off or not?” I ask, pleased to hear how confident I sound.

Good. There is no room for self-doubt here.

“Together,” Darobor says, nodding at Tolimir. They come over and slowly roll Przemyslaw off my body. I sit up, remembering just in time to cover myself where my dress got torn. There are gasps from the men, and a cry of shock from Czeslawa.

I get to my feet, doing my best not to move too swiftly. Strength buzzes in my veins, intoxicating and powerful. I feel like I could run ten times around the village and not even break a sweat, but I can’t show it. These people have to see me exhausted after the fight for my life.

They have to see me mortal, even though I feel anything but.

“As it turns out,” I say in the charged silence, sweeping my gaze over the crowd, “werewolves turn back into people when they are killed.”

There are eight men here with Czeslawa, and I hear more voices coming in from the direction of the path. Soon, the entire village will try to cram into my vegetable garden and take a look at the naked body bleeding into my cucumbers.

“Are you trying to say Przemyslaw was the beast?” Czeslawa asks, such artful disbelief in her voice.

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