Page 121 of Devil's Deal

He’s always scorned and lonely, and yet, he helps mortals. Without him, the nights would be infinitely darker and scarier.

By the river, I sit on the flat stone Woland sat on when he watched me bathe. For a time, I just look and breathe, listening to the quiet murmur of the water, tasting the cool, humid air on my tongue. It’s always so fresh here, as if the air itself is cleansed by the river.

When I’m ready, I throw my head back and look directly at the silver crescent. It looms above me, faraway yet so bright. I squint, trying to see the man in the moon, but no matter how long I look, I don’t see a face.

I don’t know how to call him, so I just start with the simplest way. Apprehensive, yet thrilled, I murmur under my breath, “Chors.”

“Rod told me you’d call.”

I startle, forcing back a shriek of surprise, because his voice comes right from next to me. When I turn, there he sits, looking at me with his head tilted, a graceful palm braced on the stone between us.

He is breathtakingly beautiful.

His hair is dark and long, framing his face in soft waves. His skin shimmers as if covered with silver dust, highlighting beautiful cheekbones and a smooth forehead. Everything about him is proportional, graceful, lean, only his eyes are large and long-lashed. Glowing silver irises surround pupils blown wide in the dark.

I stare, and he studies me, too, his face serious and a little melancholy. He sits close enough that if I shifted just a bit, my hip would touch his little finger. His long limbs are comfortably arranged, projecting an air of effortless elegance.

He wears a black shirt and trousers, everything intricately embroidered with a silver thread.

And his voice is so melodic and husky, I immediately want to hear more of it. That, finally, prompts me to speak.

“You and Rod don’t look alike.”

He hums in thought, lifting his face up to look at the moon that’s still in the sky even though Chors sits by my side. I suppose what I said is not entirely true—they have the same dark coloring—but otherwise, Chors doesn’t look like Rod’s brother at all.

“Maybe that’s because he has a goddess for a mother, and I don’t. My mother is the eternal river,” he says thoughtfully.

The murmur of the water changes, matching the rhythm of his voice. I gasp under my breath. The river seems to have stopped flowing. Now, small waves lap at the shore, as if reaching toward Chors. Like the river wants to touch him.

“Water likes you,” I whisper, watching, transfixed, as the waves beat against the shore, clamoring for him.

“I was born from water,” he says, stretching out a languid hand.

A few glittering drops rise from the surface and float to him through the air, splashing into his open palm. He smiles.

“How is the moon still up in the sky when you’re here?” I blurt out, my mind wiped clean by this man’s ethereal beauty. I forgot what I was supposed to ask him, I only know that I want to be in his company for as long as he allows, and listen to his voice.

He looks at me, smiling gently. “The moon is not me. But it exists because I do. It’s an emanation of my power, just like the sun is an emanation of Dadzbog’s.”

I don’t understand it but still nod, and he looks away, gazing at the moon’s reflection on the river.

“Is it true?” I ask, even though I know it’s a sensitive topic. “The tales about the wolves biting off pieces of you?”

He snorts and looks at me like I’m daft. Suddenly, he seems much more real, his brows furrowed with a slightly mocking tilt, his mouth curved in amusement.

“The only true part is that I run with the wolves, and they run with me,” he says with a scoff. “Do I look half-eaten to you?”

“Well, no,” I say defensively. “But that’s because you’re currently growing. Not shrinking after a full moon.”

He nods once, conceding the point. I chew on my tongue, but since he already thinks I’m an idiot, I might as well ask another question.

“And the part about Dadzbog telling you to starve?”

The corners of his mouth drop, and his frown tightens. More water rises from the river and falls into his open palm. He squeezes his fist like he wants to hold it, and I have a ridiculous notion he takes comfort from that. Like it’s a touch.

The water trickles down his fist and forearm, small drops darkening the stone we sit on.

“There is some truth to that.”

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