Page 5 of Devil's Deal

But within the frames, there is a raging inferno that moves and flickers. For a moment, I glimpse depth that almost makes it look like… a tunnel. A passage.

Something that, I suddenly realize, leads from this place to another.

On the sacred roots of the Great Oak. I think I summoned the devil.

The others scream and try to run, but the fire shoots out of the doorway with a violent crackle. It shapes into long ropes which wrap around each of my tormentors. Round and round they go, thin loops of bright flame pressing their arms to their bodies, tangling around their legs.

They scream and struggle, but there is no smoke, no sizzle of burning clothes and skin. The ropes look like fire, but they don’t burn.

My hand slips on the handle of the knife as I look into the fiery doorway. I would never admit it, but I’m terrified. Even the pain seems to fade as terror consumes me, but I can’t run, and I’m too afraid to look away.

All I can do is kneel there in the cold moss and gaze into the door of fire, waiting for whoever created it to come out.

Maybe it’s Rod, Weles’ son, coming to claim my soul. Or maybe Perun has come to punish me for calling the devil’s name. After all, it’s fire. God Swarog wields flames, and he serves Perun.

I’ve never met a god or a bies. I’ll admit, a part of me never believed gods pay attention to us, mortals. Until now. Everything Wiosna told me comes rushing in, all the knowledge I have about the godly plains, Wyraj and Nawie.

But how could it help me? I might know everything about gods, monsters, and the creatures that supposedly slip between the worlds, but those are stories. Wiosna never taught me how to address a god. All I know is I should bow and show deference.

I’m already on my knees.

Pain flares as sparks shoot out of the fiery door, reminding me it’s pointless. I’m about to die. It must be Rod, then. He is the one who carries souls to Wyraj.

Daga screams, her voice plaintive and weak, while Miroslaw sobs quietly. Jaromir snarls, struggling against the fiery rope. I don’t pity them, but I don’t feel glad, either. I have no illusions I will be spared. Gods treat all mortals the same.

Or maybe it’s really him. The dark, evil creature with hooves and a tail every mother scares her children with.

Only Weles himself is worse than the devil, but Weles doesn’t wield fire.

A darker shape takes form in the middle of the inferno. The flames jump and coalesce, moving to the edges as a shadow fills the door. I watch with wide, unblinking eyes. It’s humanoid, and I glance at the top of the shadow’s head, certain I will see horns.

But I don’t. The shape is round, like a human head. I look down. The darkness gathers and swirls, and suddenly, a red leather shoe steps over the edge of the flame, followed by a black-leather-clad leg.

I breathe out with force, wincing when pain shoots through my stomach. No hooves.

A red coat hangs around the visitor’s thighs. I slowly raise my eyes higher, taking in a tight black corset peeking from between the flaps of the coat. My eyes widen. A woman.

I know we’re not allowed to look into the eyes of gods if we ever meet one. Wiosna drilled it into me with conviction, but I can’t help it. Curiosity makes me look higher, taking in the woman’s wavy red hair. Red like mine.

I gasp when my eyes finally reach her face. There is something familiar about her. I can’t quite pin it down, though. The pain, the fire, the screams around me fill my head with chaos.

So I just stare, taking in her long, strong neck, a sharp chin, her round cheeks dusted with freckles. Her lips are full and red, her eyebrows dark slashes over eyes that… that…

She focuses her gaze on me, and I stop breathing.

Her eyes are mismatched. Just like mine.

One green, one purple. They glint in the light of the fire, clear and assessing. A moment later, a proud smile curves the woman’s mouth.

Oh, Perun. Maybe they were right. Maybe I am the devil’s daughter, but the devil is a woman.

Suddenly, she laughs. It’s a full-throated, untamed laughter, deep and cruel. It’s so loud, so dominant, even the screams and sobs fall silent. My tormentors gape at the woman, just like me.

A cackle. She’s cackling.

“I’m not your mother, little one,” she says with amusement, coming closer.

“Then who are you?” I ask without thinking.

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