Page 126 of Devil's Deal

Sleep, my darling, and I shall

Brush all nightmares from your brow.

She looks around again, slowly, as if for show, and then looks at me. A hoarse laughter comes out from her throat, clashing with the song.

I finally understand. Woland isn’t here. He’s not coming.

She nods once, seeing the despair and pain in my face. My fingers jerk to the side in one last desperate attempt, brushing against cool iron.

Oh gods.

The song swells, growing louder, the notes burgeoning with seductive passion. It’s a song of a temptress, and I hate it more than anything in the world. I’d do anything not to let this cursed melody be my funeral dirge.

Sleep, beloved, on my breast,

Let me give you peaceful rest.

Fury rushes through my veins, and it’s not even at her. I’m furious at Woland for trying to force my hand and then abandoning me. Even more, I hate the gods who curse those who die violently, as if having a horrible death isn’t punishment enough.

Most of all, I’m furious with myself for ending up here. I can do better.

The stanza doesn’t repeat after it ends. It’s quiet, not even the wind rustling the wheat. The poludnica looks up at the sky, raising her arms, as if giving worship to Dadzbog.

When she brings them down, she aims for my face, fingers curved to stab. Playtime’s over.

I grab the thick nail from the ground and jam it in her eye.

Chapter forty-one

Silence

This screech is the worst yet. She thrashes until she falls off me, and I grit my teeth, moaning through the pain as I roll up to my knees. My left arm is useless, so I frantically search with my right hand. She doesn’t notice, and keeps rolling on the ground while her scream grows more and more high-pitched.

Finally, I find another nail. And then, my hammer.

Black spots dance across my vision, and I blink repeatedly, but it doesn’t clear them away. I breathe deeply, trying to feed some strength into my unsteady body. I shake so badly, the hammer falls out of my hand. It’s too heavy.

I look at it numbly.

Right. Can’t use a hammer and a nail with just one hand.

I grip the nail and lurch up to stand. The world rocks around me, and I bend over, heaving in deep, calming breaths.

Can’t lose it now. Have to keep going.

A moment later, I’m steady enough on my feet to walk the few steps to the poludnica’s side. I drop to my knees by the thrashing, screeching bies, and climb on top of her when she rolls onto her stomach.

She stills, feeling me on top of her. A pitiful whimper rises from her throat.

“Don’t move, and the pain will end,” I lie, my voice so hoarse, it’s barely louder than a whisper.

But she hears me. When I grip her right hand and yank it from under her chest, she doesn’t resist, her whimpers growing louder, pleading. She doesn’t move when I lay her palm flat on the dry ground, between the wheat stalks.

When I line up the tip of the nail with the middle of her palm, she’s silent.

I press in with my right hand, putting my entire weight into it. The nail goes through her palm and into the ground. She screams so loudly, my ears pop, but the nail’s gone through the dry, loose layer and into the dense one, and it keeps going. I press and press, putting all I have into it, until the nail is all the way through. It’s long enough to keep her palm pinned.

She screeches and struggles against me, but she doesn’t try to yank her palm out. I think the pain must be too great.

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