Page 17 of Devil's Deal

“Oh, don’t look so startled, little witch,” Nyja says with a laugh. “I don’t bring death to people. Where I come from, they call me the Mother of Nawkas.”

Suddenly, I understand how she knows me and my heart pounds harder in my chest. Nawkas are the spirits of babies and small children. Those miscarried, stillborn, or taken in their early years by a fever or another tragedy. I’ve assisted in enough births to see my fair share of dead babies. If she came to collect their souls, of course, she saw me.

Nawkas come to see their parents sometimes in autumn, for the Dziady celebration. They appear as small black birds that circle overhead, calling out their farewells.

“What happens to them?” I ask, stepping closer, so close the heat of the nearest fire warms my knees. “After you take them?”

She smiles and reaches out as if to touch my cheek, but her hand stops just short of the invisible line marking the circle.

“Oh, yes, you were always compassionate, weren’t you? Wrapping their little bodies in the best linen cloths you could find. Well, you’ll be happy to know I take care of them, back in Slawa. I raise them.”

“To be your little army,” Strzybog mutters, frowning at Nyja.

“And Strzybog you already know,” she speaks smoothly over him, her face not even twitching to show she heard him. I blink, unsure what to think of it. Army? And what the hell is Slawa? I know of Wyraj and Nawie, the two lands of the gods, the first ruled by Perun, the second belonging to Weles.

Could there be a third one? Why does no one know about it?

“This here is Foss, a dragon,” she says, sweeping her hand back to point at the man with red eyes and a silver tail. “He’s in his smaller form now, as the big one wouldn’t fit in this puny little circle you mortals set out for us.”

Her mouth twists in displeasure, and I have a distinct feeling she doesn’t like being trapped in the circle. But that insight is quickly replaced by awe and worry. I had no idea dragons could speak and change shapes.

Worst of all, dragons are Perun’s servants. They create storms and bring down punishments on the unjust. And Nyja called me a witch. Surely, that alone should earn me the biggest punishment of all.

That dragon is dangerous. And I hope with all my might he, like the goddess, can’t get out of the circle.

Nyja gives me no time to work myself into a panic as she sweeps her hand to the other side, pointing out a tall, slender woman who watches me with big, dark eyes.

“And don’t be put out by our quiet friend here. She rarely speaks at all, and to mortals, never. She’s a Rodzanica, but I don’t know which one. They are all alike, anyway.”

I press my lips together to keep back a gasp. The Rodzanica sisters are royal goddesses, albeit from the wrong side of the sheets. I stare at her and she stares back, sad and impassive.

Her skin is pale, so pale, even the face of the moon seems dark in comparison. I’ve only seen that kind of pallor on the dead before. Her long, black hair is braided in two thick plaits that fall down to her waist. She wears a simple white dress tied with a red sash, and her beautifully shaped mouth is turned down at the corners. She’s tall and willowy, more a specter than a woman.

She is one of the three sisters, daughters of Mokosz and Rod, who is the son of Mokosz. The very existence of the Rodzanica goddesses is an incestuous crime, so they were banished to Nawie and never saw the sun until Perun granted them a place in Wyraj.

“I, um. Thank you for coming,” I say. Because my unease grows the longer she stares at me.

The Rodzanica sisters are supposed to be the ones who mark every mortal’s fate after birth. They gather around the crib of a newborn child and put an invisible mark on their forehead to signify how their life will go.

She looks at my face so intently, the skin on my back crawls with foreboding. I wonder what she sees there. What mark she and her sisters gave me.

The Rodzanica doesn’t answer me when I speak but looks aside, studying the nearest bonfire. I notice with trepidation it looks low. If no one feeds it, it will go out soon.

The dark shape in the back stirs, and my insides twist anxiously. Before fear takes over, I clear my throat and speak up. Gods or not, I refuse to cower.

“And that’s… Woland.”

My voice doesn’t break as I say the unfamiliar name, even though it stings my tongue as soon as I pronounce it. As if the name itself is a weapon and a warning.

For a moment, I convince myself it can’t be true. Words do not sting or hurt.

But then, I taste blood in my mouth.

“Bold of you to say his name,” Nyja says with a laugh, looking over her shoulder at the dark, antlered shape.

As she does, the shadowy mist finally falls away, revealing his head. I stare, unable to look away, unable to blink, even as my eyes sting with the very same pain that his name cut into my tongue.

“Careful or you’ll bleed,” Nyja warns, but I don’t listen.

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