Page 19 of Devil's Deal

“Um… What happens if that fire goes out?” I whisper, hoping only the gods hear me while the mortals don’t.

Surely, they’d find a way to fault me for speaking to the gods before the zerca.

No one answers me. Nyja speaks up, facing the crowd.

“Thank you for inviting us to spend Kupala Night in your midst,” she says in a clear, strong voice that carries easily to the farthest reaches of the meadow. I don’t know if it’s magic or charisma, but she speaks like she’s used to addressing large gatherings.

“We thank you, oh, blessed ones,” Jarota replies, not even half as loudly as Nyja. His voice trembles, but he seems to have found his footing. “We haven’t had such an honor in lifetimes, divine ones. Please, tell us what you require.”

“Keep the fires lit. If even one goes out, we’ll leave this place,” Nyja says at once, and I slowly take a step back. Because I suddenly realize I’m standing suspiciously close. I should make my way to the crowd.

There’s immense safety in being one of many.

As I think it, taking another cautious step, pain explodes over my left breast, as if a knife cut my skin. I hiss in surprise and look up. A pair of deep yellow eyes, focused on me, flashes in the black smoke and then vanishes.

Do not run away, is the unspoken order.

I freeze in terror and uncertainty, not even knowing how I know that’s what he wants. I’m itching to feel my chest to see if blood blooms over the place that still radiates sharp pain, but I don’t dare move, not even to look down. My guts twist into tight knots of anxiety, because I realize the circle doesn’t really hold them back.

His magic can clearly cross the line of fires.

“Swietko, Darobor,” Jarota calls out at once. “Feed the fires so our guests can stay and bless us with their presence. And thank you, oh mighty…” He frowns as if trying to place who she is. He fails, just as I did.

“I am Nyja, the lady of the last breath,” she says, her voice suddenly sounding kinder, softer, like a caress from a loving hand. Yet, it carries, and people gasp, some falling to their knees right away. Nyja smiles without showing her teeth.

“Thank you, oh mighty, beautiful goddess, Nyja!” the zerca calls, standing taller.

I think he finally realizes he’s doing the one thing his entire life and vocation was always about—speaking to the gods. Pride and sense of importance radiate from him as Nyja inclines her head with a gracious smile.

Meanwhile, there is no sign of the men Jarota ordered to feed the fires. I see a commotion in the crowd and a flash of Swietko’s red face as Darobor tries to drag him to the circle. Both are reluctant, but Darobor is a responsible man, one of the few who respect their wives and don’t abuse drink. He won’t turn his back on a direct order from the zerca.

Swietko is a piece of shit and a coward. He’s also the weaker of the two. Darobor drags him out of the crowd, and as soon as they are exposed and have no one to hide behind, Darobor lets go and Swietko straightens, pretending he didn’t have to be dragged out to do his duty.

“I thought mortals loved us,” Strzybog mutters, and I can’t tell whether he’s truly put out or mocking.

“Oh, they do,” the dragon answers, scorn clear in his voice. “As long as we stay away and don’t ever show our faces.”

I turn to object, because it’s obviously not the truth, but pause as Darobor and Swietko go over to the pile of wood at the edge of the meadow. They are tense, their eyes brimming with fear. Jarota looks proud, but his face is etched with wariness.

And the people behind him watch the gods with wide, fearful eyes, clearly on the brink of terror. They don’t run away only because nobody else is running. Yet, I have a distinct feeling any louder noise could startle them all into a stampede like a herd of sheep.

“Jaga likes us,” Nyja says, a playful smile on her lips as she looks at me. I can just see the edges of her sharp teeth. “She’s not afraid.”

“No, I’m not,” I say truthfully. “I’m terrified.”

Strzybog laughs suddenly, warm and pleasant. “You hide it well,” he says with a conspiratorial wink as a gust of gentle wind flies past my face, pressing to my cheek like a touch.

A moment later, Strzybog curses, clutching his side with a wince. He turns sharply to the menacing cloud of shadows behind him.

“What the fuck was that for?”

Woland doesn’t answer, and a queasy awareness crawls down my spine. I think my mind is trying to forget him among everything that’s happening, and when he obscures his presence, it’s easy. But maybe I should force myself to be aware of him at all times.

Somehow, I know. He’s the most dangerous of the gods. And if I’m not mistaken, Strzybog just touched me using the wind he commands, and Woland did something to punish him for it. That makes him even more terrifying. Because it’s one thing for him to make me, a mortal, bleed and hurt.

But Strzybog is a god. The fact Woland can hurt him sits wrong in my stomach, like a jagged rock. It just doesn’t fit, because Woland is no one. There is nobody by that name in our stories and folk tales, and certainly nobody that looks like him. Unless…

I glance at the dark cloud again, remembering what I saw. With my eyes bleeding and my heart pounding from terror, I couldn’t really make sense of it. But now, I remember his shape, the color of his skin, the tail, the hooves. The antlers don’t fit, because Wiosna always said he had horns, but she could have had it wrong, couldn't she?

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