Page 101 of Devil's Deal

I hold on to that.

He sits on the floor, his head carelessly leaning on the wall, one leg bent, one straight. He’s the picture of relaxed wickedness, and yet, his tail keeps twitching with tension. When I speak, his yellow eyes pop open and focus on me.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I ask, my voice guttural.

“I can’t,” Woland says simply. “So many things you don’t know, poppy witch. So many turns of fate. You’re woven into the fabric of it all, whether you like it or not.”

“So I’m significant?” I whisper.

It should be obvious. Why else would Woland bother himself with me? And yet, I have no idea how significant I am, and what he needs me for.

“Significant,” he repeats with a soft huff. “Maybe. The problem is, I don’t know exactly what your role will be. It might turn out you’ll be more valuable dead than alive if you don’t give me what I want.”

“My… my role?” I ask, ignoring his threat. “My role in what?”

He exhales and closes his eyes, his claws rapping out a silent rhythm on his knee.

“There’s a war,” he says finally, surprising me. I thought he wouldn’t answer. “A real war. It’s nothing like your pathetic mortal skirmishes over a patch of land or whatever else you kill each other for.”

He falls silent, his shadows pouring out of him and creeping down my floor. They climb on top of my bed. I’m too weak to move, so when they crawl under my thin blanket and press on my limbs and stomach, I don’t even try to shake them off.

A moment later, a wave of potent relief courses down my spine. I moan from how cool, how pleasant and easy it suddenly feels. My pain is still there, but Woland’s shadows pour something into me. Something that makes my muscles loose, my body soft. The horrible, aching tightness in my abdomen releases.

“Go to sleep,” he says, sounding the most exhausted I’ve ever heard him.

“That war…” I murmur, battling the deep, blissful relaxation that tries to take me under. “Is it in Slawa?”

He laughs bitterly, leaning back against the wall. His antlers scrape the white-washed stones.

“Slawa, Wyraj, Nawie… Those names mean nothing to you. They are just words you mortals comfort yourselves with when someone dies. Words you call out during your mortal celebrations that are just an excuse to fuck whoever you want.

“You would rather they didn’t exist as real places, wouldn’t you? It’s endearing, truly. Your naivety. Until I showed up, it was all just a fairy tale to you, but to me, it’s a reality I live in every day. While you make your potions and do your little spells, I am forced to watch my friends bleed out when I know I could stop it any moment if only…”

He snaps his mouth shut and sits up straight, his eyes gleaming with malevolence.

“If what?” I whisper, mesmerized.

Woland bares his teeth in an angry grimace and doesn’t reply. His shadows tighten around my ankles and wrists like manacles. More power pours in, and blackness swallows me whole. I fall asleep.

When I wake up the next morning, he’s gone, and I feel better than I ever did on my period before. The throbbing cramps are still there, but so faint, it’s easy to forget them. I get water from the well and wash in a basin, pouring the bloody water out under my cherry tree after I get dressed. It always has the best fruit.

But when I go back inside, it shocks me to see him again. He stands leaning against a wall and watches me with an intensity that’s hard to endure. I look away.

“Leave,” I grit out, knowing he won’t obey. I’m surprised he gave me the privacy to wash, honestly. “I have to do my hair.”

“Then I’ll stay,” he says with a smirk. “I might even help.”

I shake my head. “Touch my hair and I’ll beat you with a poker,” I grit out, my hand twitching toward my hearth.

“You’re back in a fighting spirit, I see. I’m guessing you feel much better. Where’s my thank you, poppy girl?”

I let my hair out of my braid with practiced movements and start brushing.

“I never asked you to help me.”

I expect an amused or offended retort, but Woland is silent. I look up in surprise to find him following the movements of the brush as it rustles through my red strands. His unblinking eyes seem mesmerized. I’m about to ask what his problem is when his eyes meet mine, and an odd, soft look flashes across his features.

“Your little friend was right,” he says quietly. “It should be admired every day.”

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