Page 131 of Devil's Deal

His kiss lands on my chin, right underneath my lower lip. He kisses me the same way he did in my cottage, except now, there is a brief moment of heat, a whisper of magic against my skin. When he moves away, he looks at the spot he kissed in evaluation, his thumb tracing the place. I gasp when his touch gives me a prickle of pain.

“What did you do?” I ask, wary and tired.

So very tired.

“What I should have done from the start,” he says, resolve burning in his eyes. “Sleep, Jaga.”

Shadows whirl around us, and suddenly, we’re no longer in the field but in my cottage. He lays me on my bed, and even though I feel like I should stop him and ask questions—so many questions—my eyelids lower, and deep inertia fills my limbs.

Before he leaves, he says something that sounds like, “You’ll never die again.”

Chapter forty-two

Branded

I wake at dawn, feeling strong and well-rested. My body is eager to perform my normal morning chores: get water from the well, light a fire for a breakfast brew, wash my face, braid my hair. But my mind is still in turmoil. It wants me to sit in bed until I make sense of everything that happened, but I already know it’s impossible.

I don’t have all the information. Too many missing pieces to even try to understand.

But I have to do something, so I come out of bed and go over to my patient room, where the light is best. I examine myself long and hard, looking at every inch of skin I see, counting my fingers and toes.

I touch myself everywhere I can reach, taking stock of my scars, freckles, and beauty marks. I reach behind for the large, brown beauty mark on my lower back and trace its shape around and around.

When I look at my palm, the silver mark left by Chors is still there. I wonder if Woland knew all the elements of me when he brought me back to life or not. Chors seemed to think Woland wouldn’t be happy about the mark, but he didn’t say a word about it. Maybe that means he doesn’t know.

Good. I’d rather keep my secrets.

My body seems to be just as it was before yesterday, but I don’t stop. I weigh my breasts in my hands and look closely at my nipples, and then I trace my shape between my legs, because Woland is the kind of man who might get the idea to improve me for his future enjoyment.

But either I’m wrong about him or I don’t see it. My labia are uneven in size, just as they always were, my pubic hair coarse and plentiful.

It’s strange to reacquaint myself with my body like this. I don’t think I’ve ever paid so much attention to all the details of me, because I simply took myself for granted. I knew it was my body, and I knew what it looked and felt like.

Yet now, even though everything seems to be in order, I still don’t feel at home in my skin.

But when I brush out the tangles from my hair and braid it, my fingers fly through the strands, remembering exactly how to do it. I pin my hair up and put on a plain dress with an embroidered neckline.

As I put my slippers on, they fit my feet perfectly, molded to my shape and gait by frequent use, but it still doesn’t feel right. When I eat, the food tastes like it used to, or maybe even better, because I’m so hungry.

Everything is so normal, I want to scream. Because there is nothing to mark what I went through. No scars to trace with trembling fingers when the memory of that pain comes back and makes me want to vomit. Nothing to anchor the memory in reality and convince myself it’s over.

If that pain left physical wounds, my entire body would be riddled with scars, in and out. I need them. Scars tell me the ordeal is over. They mean I never have to go through it again. But without them? How do I know this won’t happen the next time I die? I could be killed by the next bies Woland sends my way, or maybe die of illness.

Will he bring me back again if that happens? If so, the devil’s cruelty surpasses my worst expectations. To put me through that pain just because I can aid his war effort is so evil, I don’t comprehend it.

He should let me die and find another handy tool. Someone who would obey him the first time. Except, that won’t happen now that I’ve defied him so many times. Woland is as stubborn as me.

He won’t let me go. And now I know, even death won’t keep us apart.

I bury my face in my hands, but I can’t even cry. Last night seems more and more like a dream.

I wish Wiosna were here. She’d tell me to pull myself together and do something productive with my time. She’d probably chide me for slacking on my spellcasting.

A spark of excitement flares to life in my belly at the thought. What if Woland removed the seal on my magic when he put me back together? What if I can use my power now? From what Wiosna told me, it must be strong, if I cursed people at will as a child.

If only I can access my magic, maybe I won’t be as defenseless. Maybe there’s no reason to fear whatever next thing Woland is plotting, because I’ll be able to hold my own this time.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and then I open them and go to my bedroom, where the window is the smallest and a thick-branched cherry tree grows right outside, hiding it from view. I don’t want to risk anyone peeking in and seeing me. Anything that looks even remotely like magic must stay hidden. It’s already bad enough that Ida thinks I’m a witch.

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