Page 144 of Devil's Deal

Chapter forty-six

Nawka

I grab my basket and follow Milka, a horrible, premonition squeezing my chest. As she runs ahead, splashing mud and water from the puddles with every step, I try not to rush and think instead.

Because this can’t be a coincidence.

Jarota’s cough wasn’t normal, either, I think, slowing down as cold rain soaks into my hair. When he came in, it was for his joint pain. And when I asked if he had coughed before, he said no.

Could he have gotten sick in my cottage?

And if so… Is Sobiemir sick because of me? I had dinner at his home a few days ago. The brand was already on my chin.

“Jaga!” Milka waves me over frantically, and I grit my teeth.

I don’t know what to do. If Woland’s brand spreads sickness around me, I can’t go into Milka’s house. I will not only make her husband worse—her children will fall sick, as well, if they aren’t yet.

On the other hand, maybe I’m wrong. And if that’s the case, my failure to help could kill Sobiemir, too.

I curse under my breath and walk faster, joining Milka on the porch of their house. This is an impossible choice, so I decide on a compromise. I’ll come in, assess him, and give her some medicine. I’ll be out in a few minutes. If I am the source of the curse, spending as little time as possible among people should be the right solution.

In the privacy of my mind, I curse Woland’s name thrice.

“Through here.”

Milka leads me into their bedroom. We pass the children playing by the hearth in the kitchen, and they stare at me, their eyes big, faces drawn. My heart squeezes. Are they sick as well? Milka said nothing about the kids, only Sobiemir.

In the bedroom, I breathe with relief. There is no sickly scent, and Sobiemir burns up like a furnace, which is a good sign. He has a hacking cough, but there is no blood, and he’s lucid enough to answer my questions.

She exaggerated. He’s ill, yes, but definitely not dying.

I give Milka a few tinctures and explain how to care for him before I leave in haste, bidding her to come for more medicine when she runs out. The rain pelts my head as I run home, the path empty, everyone staying inside.

Now that I think of it, I don’t remember a rain like this ever happening at this time of year. Usually, brief summer storms hit, but never such a thick downpour lasting over a day. Is this also the devil’s work? Or am I losing my mind?

Back home, I dress in dry clothes and focus all my magic, all my intent, on erasing Woland’s mark from my skin. The magic rises and breaks, leaving me gasping for breath. The mark stays on, and I fall to my hands and knees, wheezing from effort. Black dots dance across my vision.

“Woland,” I growl under my breath, but of course, he doesn’t come.

When I am strong enough, I get to my feet and pace, thinking what to do. The worst thing is, I am not sure. This could all be an unlucky coincidence. The brand might only make plants wither, which is also a problem, but not as bad as spreading infection.

I stop and look out through the rain-splattered window, biting my cuticle until my finger bleeds, a nervous habit I thought I got rid of.

“Let’s assume the worst,” I mutter, forcing my scattered thoughts to focus. “And if it is the worst, what’s the solution?”

My chest squeezes with fear, and my stomach sinks low with foreboding. I try hard to convince myself the brand doesn’t affect people, because in my heart of hearts, I already know what I must do to avoid hurting anyone.

And it scares me to the bone. Being forced out of the village has always been my biggest fear.

I nibble at another cuticle, thinking harder. Even if the solution is obvious, I still don’t want to do it. I’ve devoted my whole life and suppressed important pieces of me to avoid precisely this: losing my community and being on my own in the wilderness.

It’s death. Or, it used to be. Right now, losing my home and security means something else—being driven to despair so horrible, I’ll have no choice but to take Woland’s deal.

I have to face the truth. This is the outcome he wants, and that’s why I have to assume I’m right. The brand on my chin kills not just plants, but also people.

I groan, trying to find another answer. Anything but this. After all, I might be wrong.

But if I’m right and I stay here, I’ll be responsible for much suffering and death. Already there is one body, waiting in a damp house for a burial that’s likely days away. It will take time to get a zerca from another village to bury Jarota, especially in this weather.

---