Page 133 of Devil's Deal

I urgently feel the skin below my lower lip. It’s smooth and clean, and I frown, about to ask him what he means, when I remember.

This is the place Woland kissed last night. And that kiss was filled with magic, at least, that’s what I thought. But it was such a minor thing after everything, I plain forgot about it.

“Yes,” I say, my mind whirring with questions. “The poludnica. It couldn’t be avoided.”

I’m so grateful Darobor jumped to this conclusion, because I wouldn’t be able to come up with a good lie right now. He looks at me intently, like he’s about to ask more questions, but then only nods.

“You did good. One day, you’ll have to tell us all how you did it. So we know how to deal with a poludnica.”

I force a smile onto my face and nod. He touches the narrow brim of his straw hat and goes back to work, and I check on everyone else before I’m finally ready to go home.

It’s late afternoon. I have only enough time to wash my hands and face before I’m expected in Sobiemir’s house for dinner. And yet, I still take a long moment to examine my face in the basin of fresh water.

What I see makes me livid and scared.

Indeed, there is a brand on my chin. Perfectly symmetrical and in the rusty color of my freckles, it’s a strange symbol I’ve never seen before. It looks like two crossed sickles, connected with a thin line in the middle.

The shape is sharp and exact, as if burned into my skin. Just like Darobor said, I’m branded. And yet there is no scar, no raised skin, nothing to tell it apart by touch. It feels like a part of me, seamlessly blended.

Even though I know it won’t work, I wash it with my strongest soap and rub viciously with a coarse cloth. All that does is make my skin irritated, which makes the mark darker and more prominent. I stop and just stare, hating Woland and fearing this new devilry.

I already know it’s not a blessing. But what does it do? I have no idea.

Dinner in Sobiemir’s house is pleasant enough, but I am uncomfortable. I know Czeslawa excelled at this, going from home to home and sitting in a place of honor. But I feel unsure of what’s expected of me. In the end, I tell their children harmless little stories about the house spirits, who are supposed to keep our homes tidy and clean as long as we give them a sacrifice while building the house. A black hen is usually enough.

“They are tiny,” I explain when the children ask why they’ve never seen the spirits. “And they only come out at night, when you sleep. Domowy, who is the most important of them all, keeps the spirits in line.”

“What if I didn’t go to sleep?” asks little Benia, who is six years old. “I want to see them! I’m going to stay up tonight as long as it takes to see Domowy!”

When Milka sends me an alarmed look, because she’s afraid her children will be rowdy at bedtime, I give her a reassuring smile.

“If you don’t sleep, they won’t come out and they’ll fall behind on their work. There is this old story about a man who drank a whole skin of wine every night and went to bed very late. His house spirits didn’t have enough time to take care of his home, livestock, and everything else, and his house fell into disrepair.”

The girl doesn’t look convinced, so I grin, making sure I show her too many teeth.

“And do you know what else happened? Rats took over the house. Because the spirits usually keep them out, but when the man didn’t go to bed, they couldn’t do their job. If you, too, try to stay up to see the house spirits, you might wake up with a fat, smelly rat in your bed!”

The children scream in horror, and I laugh. But when I look at Milka to see if she appreciates the way I convinced her kids to go to bed early, she looks appalled. That’s gratitude for you.

All in all, the dinner isn’t a success, and I resolve not to do this often in the future. Not that I expect many invitations after Milka tells all the mothers in the village the whisperer likes to scare children with foolish tales.

I go home, humming a song under my breath. I am strangely at peace, my decisions all made. I’m willing to see Woland and get what I can out of him, and I weave tenuous, uncertain plans for the future. One thing is certain: I’m done being the victim and the prey in our game. I want to use him, too.

This time, when I call his name, he appears at once.

Chapter forty-three

Worship

“You’re not dying,” he says, instantly irritated.

I am by the river, sitting on the same stone where I sat with Chors. It seems to be my lucky place for calling on gods and devils. But I also like the river at night. It’s safe and private here, and the air is so refreshing.

After spending the day in the fields, which I now hate with a passion, I need this reprieve.

“Did I interrupt something important?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He’s nude today, his skin covered with a sheen of sweat. I’m really curious what he was doing.

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