Page 18 of Devil's Deal

Primal terror seizes my body, rooting me to the spot. My limbs grow numb as a bone-chilling cold spreads from my feet up, through my pelvis and stomach, to my hands and face.

When I try to blink, I can’t. My eyes sting, and something warm trickles down my cheek, but I can’t close my eyes. I can’t move.

I can’t look away.

His presence is overbearing. He isn’t truly as large as a tree, but the robustness of his form and the canopy of antlers above his head make him seem like one. A dead, cursed tree, because there is no color to him, no life, only menace twisted around him like clothing.

He wears black, and it looks like tatters of smoke woven around him, yet I glimpse his skin underneath. It gleams dark gray, as if he covered himself with the ashes of the dead. His nails are black, opaque claws, thick and sharp like animal claws. His fingers are dark gray and long, curling at his sides.

The smoke covering him blows away for just a moment, giving me a glimpse of his nakedness. I try to close my eyes out of shame, but it’s as if a magic force keeps them open. I see a thick, black manhood and a ring of thorns at the root where mortal men have hair.

The thorns circle the base of his shaft like a crown.

The smoke blows back to cover it, and my eyes move higher, fearfully taking in a strong stomach and torso, lean and yet robust because of his size. His shoulders are broad, arms beautifully shaped in a way that would look pleasing on a mortal man, yet on him, it’s wrong. A jagged piece of beauty among death and terror.

When I look at his face, a scream lodges in my throat, painful and sharp just like the taste of his name on my tongue. I can’t let it out. My body is not my own. Someone else—he, it must be him—controls it.

His eyes are shockingly bright in the dark gray face, their irises deep yellow. The colors seem to swirl and twist in a hypnotic dance that keeps my gaze trapped as I stare, my body growing number, my mind dazing. More hot wetness trickles down my cheeks, and I think I hear a worried female voice in the distance, asking someone to stop.

I don’t pay it attention as I take in a prominent hook of a nose and a cruelly edged face, with broad yet sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. In that face, his mouth is surprisingly beautiful, thick and lush, perfectly shaped, and black against the dark gray of his skin.

His ears end in sharp tips. A thin line of red just where his lips meet is the only splash of color save for his demonic yellow eyes.

Something cold grabs the back of my head and makes me look down. A breath wheezes out of my throat and I finally blink, a red film spreading over my eyes until I blink it away.

As the other gods stand aside, I have a clear, unobstructed view of his feet.

Except, they are not feet. They are hooves, black and bony, his legs muscular and thick. Behind his thighs, a long, hairless tail swings, its tip ending in a sharp, triangular shape. It looks like the tip of an arrow.

Behind me, someone screams. I think the others finally noticed the gods.

Chapter seven

Wine

“Wash your face, idiot girl,” Nyja hisses as the screams grow louder, the music grinding to a halt in a chaos of shrill flute sounds and uneven drumbeats.

I look away from the demon, back in control of my own body. When I wipe the wetness from my cheek, there is dark red blood on my hand.

“Now,” Nyja says, her voice like a powerful beat that pushes into my ribcage and seizes my heart. I gasp for breath and stumble to the river, kneeling on the grassy bank as I quickly wash blood off my cheeks and out of my eyes.

My hands shake and my body feels like in the throes of sickness, weak and trembling, my heart losing its rhythm, confused. I spit into the river, and my spit is dark with blood.

I can’t believe it, yet I also can’t disbelieve it when the proof is so clear before me. Speaking his name makes my tongue bleed. And looking at him makes me weep bloody tears.

Yet, he forces me to look. If his appearance alone didn’t convince me he is a demon, that very act would. And yet, both Nyja and Strzybog seem familiar with him. They treat him like their equal—or maybe even someone superior?

I don’t understand it.

When I stand up and take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, the chaos quiets slowly. I risk a glance behind. Everyone gathers into a silent, tense crowd far away from the gods and yet close enough to see. Jarota stands slightly in front of the crowd, twisting his hands helplessly around his staff.

It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do.

I chance a look inside the circle, bracing for the sting in my eyes, but the demon shrouds himself in shadows again. Now, I can’t even see his silhouette. He’s just a menacing black cloud in the back. If I didn’t know he was there, I would just think it’s some aspect of the presence of the gods.

I think he’s hiding from everyone else here, and yet, he revealed himself for me to see. And even forced me to look. Why?

My nape tingles and I turn my eyes away, wiping my wet face and nervously righting my chaplet on my head. Then I look at the fires again, especially the one that sputters and chokes, giving more smoke than heat now.

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