Page 96 of Devil's Deal

Something breaks free in my mind, a shackle I’ve kept in place since forever, holding the worst parts of me in a cage. I’ve always had such a tight hold on it all, barely letting it show in my words or even thoughts. But there is so much, buried under all the locks and debris I covered it with. So many parts of me I don’t dare show the world.

And it is all out now. My evil is free, and I don’t have enough strength or air to stop it.

So a zmora is created from hate? I can hate better than anyone.

With barely an effort, I unleash the feelings I’ve kept bottled up since I was a little girl. Hate for those who bullied and belittled me, those who humiliated my mother, hate for my absent father, Woland, and all the men who rule their wives with their fists.

I hate Czeslawa for trying to kill me, taking my place, living in the cottage that was promised to me, spreading gossip about me when it finally feels like I have a chance. I hate her for every dismissive look and scoff she sent in my direction from the moment she set foot in the village. She becomes the focal point for my fury, her smug, superior face swimming before my eyes as I drift between consciousness and death.

Suddenly, the zmora yelps and lets go. I take in a shuddering breath, my ribs springing away to their natural shape with a crushing pain. This is her fault, too. Everything is her fault.

The pain just makes me burn hotter. My hatred pours out, a dark current of sizzling, flickering shadow that I see. It moves in the moonlit gloom of my cottage, coalescing, reshaping itself, flickering in and out of vision until it’s still.

The zmora screeches and hurls itself at the door, but the door is blocked.

Something stands in the way.

“Oh, Jagusia,” Wiosna whispers, true fear in her voice.

I buzz with energy and magic, my hate a glittering, beautiful thread of darkness connecting me to the creature blocking the door. I don’t see her yet, because moonlight doesn’t reach there, but I feel her. She’s fueled by this dark, infinite energy I’ve just unlocked.

I have years’ worth stored up, ready for the taking.

She takes a step forward, revealing herself.

“So that’s how you make a zmora,” I whisper, taking in the strange, tenebrous thing my hatred created.

She’s bigger than the other zmora, which now cowers back by my hearth, as far away from my monster as it can go. My zmora is large and proportional, her arms long and muscular, her breasts full and dark. Her skin seems dark blue, so unlike the pale zmora’s.

Despite the breasts, she is not fully human-shaped. There is something odd about her long, powerful legs, like they can bend the other way, and her neck is too long, corded with muscle. Her eyes flash red, their irises catlike.

When she takes a measured, slow step toward the other zmora, it squeals in terror and scrambles into my hearth, as if trying to go up the chimney. My zmora titters, the sound high-pitched and eerie, before she swipes out with a long arm.

The smaller zmora goes sprawling to the floor, its feet swept out from under it.

My zmora’s toes and fingers are tipped with blood-red claws, and her hair is red as well—so red, it looks like sunset blazing in the sky. It’s long and looks soft enough to pet—none of the wet measly strands of the other zmora. I instantly know why the hair is like this. It’s another part of me I hide, another thing I’m forced to push down.

When my zmora opens her maw to growl, the sound makes my skin break out in goosebumps, and yet, I am not afraid.

She is a part of me.

“Banish it!” Wiosna urges, desperation ringing in her voice. “Before it goes on a rampage!”

A rampage? I tilt my head to the side and look at my powerful, strangely beautiful, terrifying zmora. It’s like looking into a magical mirror that doesn’t show you a mere reflection but the truth of who you are at your core.

It feels like she’s me. Right now, I can tell at once what she’s doing when she crouches in front of the small zmora and bares her vicious, long fangs in a snarl.

She’s playing with her food.

The smaller zmora whimpers and tries to shuffle away, but my monster grins and grabs it by the throat. Slowly, she rises from her crouch, bringing the smaller zmora up with her until its feet barely scratch the floor.

“That’s right,” I murmur. “Choke the bitch.”

My zmora laughs, a low, satisfied sound, and her fist tightens. Her strength is impressive—she holds the smaller monster clean above the floor now, her arm muscles hard with effort. I drink her in, mesmerized by that strength.

“Jaga! What are you doing? You have to stop it!”

Wiosna is frantic, but she can’t do anything. She’s just a voice hovering in the air, and for once, I won’t let her keep me from getting what I want. And I want justice. This sniveling, ugly monster came into my bed and terrified me in my own home. It wanted to kill me, and now, it will pay.

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