Page 20 of Devil's Deal

Everything else is just like in the stories. Well, save for his name, but as I think hard, trying to remember every detail, I don’t think he ever had a name in the stories. Even just calling him the devil was supposed to bring evil to one’s door.

No wonder his true name was forgotten.

I stare at the smoke shrouding him as I think, my breath growing faster and more laborious as my throat constricts, my legs tensing with the need to run. I have half a mind to kick one of the fires, the one closest to the river, into the water so he is forced to leave.

Because he is the devil. The most evil, horrible, disgusting of demons. The one who rules flies and other vermin; the one who drinks blood not for survival, like upirs, but for enjoyment.

The one who kills with a look and curses everything he touches.

And for some unfathomable reason, he’s taken an interest in me. My knees wobble as I swallow convulsively, trying to lessen the discomfort in my throat, but it only gets worse.

Especially when the shadows blow away for a moment, revealing those yellow irises that are still trained on me. My eyes sting sharply, and the shadows coalesce, hiding him again.

I flinch but stay put, remembering his power can reach me easily. It’s no use running. I have to find another way of escaping his attention.

Swietko and Darobor arrive, heaving a few dry logs each. If I weren’t so spooked and uneasy, I would laugh at how ungainly they look, trying to put the wood into the fire without stepping too close to the circle.

Strzybog looks half-amused, half-appalled, his mouth twisted in a pitying smile. But Foss, the dragon, doesn’t pity the men. With one big stride, he steps over to the very edge of the circle while Swietko is bent low over the ground, picking up another log. When he throws it into the flames and straightens, the dragon bares his fangs at him with a hiss.

“Fuck!”

Swietko falls back on his ass, his mouth open in terror, his eyes popping out of their sockets. And no wonder. He just saw a scaled, fanged face with red eyes hissing at him.

If I had any self-control or calm left in me, I would hold back. But I don’t, and so I burst out laughing. Swietko looks utterly harmless with his hair disheveled, face frozen in terror, his legs akimbo as he sits in the grass, staring up at the dragon who probably just wanted to amuse himself with a stupid prank.

But as he turns his wide eyes on me, Swietko’s face contorts, twisting from fear to hate. The change is so fast and so striking, I blink, my laughter sticking in my throat.

Uh-oh. Shouldn’t have laughed.

He doesn’t say anything, just gets up with stiff movements and picks up another log to feed the next fire in line. When he’s done, he brushes past me, so close his shoulder knocks into mine as he hisses in my ear, “You will pay for this.”

Both Swietko and Darobor hurry back to the crowd, seeking safety in numbers. I slowly step away from the circle, hoping the shadows might hide me, but at this point, everyone already saw me up here. I’m scared to think what people will say after Kupala is over. Will this be the tipping point? Will my proximity to the gods everyone fears finally be the thing that drives me out of the village?

Or could it be my saving grace? After all, gods are revered.

Anyway, it’s too late to do anything about it. At least I’m not inside the circle. I think I’d piss myself from terror if something forced me to be trapped with them.

“Thank you, dear friends,” Nyja calls out gracefully, and Jarota bows as if he single-handedly fed all the fires that now crackle merrily, strong and in no danger of going out.

“Can we offer you nourishment and drinks?” he asks, his voice much stronger now. He’s really in his element, which is fortunate. At least one person in the village is happy about the divine visit.

“Bring us five cups of your finest drink,” Nyja says, her demand coming naturally, like she’s used to giving orders.

Jarota bows deeply, and Nyja stands back, evidently done speaking. I can’t help but be awed by her manner, her confidence and the air of certainty. She is exactly where she wants to be, or fakes it perfectly.

I wish I could have such queenly air someday.

“I won’t drink their swill,” the dragon mutters, and I snort at his rudeness. He looks at me sharply. “If you have something to say, mortal girl, say it out loud.”

A cold prickle shivers down my spine, so I stand straighter and face him, pretending I’m not afraid.

“I thought higher beings such as yourself had better manners than mortals. I’m disappointed,” I say, my heart trying to choke me. “And our mead and plum wine are quite good, thank you.”

Meanwhile, Jarota looks around, evidently troubled. He’s trying to decide who should serve the wine. I suppose he thinks serving it himself is beneath him, or maybe he’s afraid of approaching the gods. Probably both.

I want to snort again, but I think better of it. Even though all I want is to be inconspicuous and safe, my every word and gesture only invite more scrutiny.

“Well, what if our lovely…” Jarota begins, his eyes settling somewhere in the crowd.

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