Page 55 of Devil's Deal

“There is one thing,” Wiosna says carefully. I frown, having forgotten what our conversation was about. “But I’m not sure if I should…”

A panicked man’s shout coming from the other side of the village interrupts her. I hop off my stool and rush in that direction, my insides tight with terror, the silver knife on my thigh burning like a burden.

The beast is here.

Chapter nineteen

Beast

The night is stifling, the heat of the summer day still thick in the air. As the moon rises higher, its uncanny glow gives a reddish undertone to the darkness. I run cautiously, mindful of stones and protruding clumps of grass in my way. I can barely see. The smoky light of torches flashing between cottages guides my steps.

The shouts don’t sound terrified yet, only alarmed. Maybe it’s not the werewolf, after all. I slow down, my heart slamming at a dizzying pace as hope crawls up my spine.

Maybe the beast gorged itself on the lambs last night. Maybe it will strike tomorrow, on the last night of the full moon. Or maybe it will sleep through the full moon and come back next month. Maybe I can prepare.

All my flimsy hopes are blown to smithereens when I hear a new sound reverberating underneath the men’s shouting.

A low, blood-curdling growl.

“There he is,” Woland whispers right in my ear. I flinch, feeling a brush of something warm against my cheek. Like a touch of a finger even though I see no one. “He’s magnificent, poppy girl. And I made him just for you.”

He laughs, low and pleased, but the sound is drowned out by a male scream of terror. I brace myself, pushing down the nausea roiling in my stomach, and run. Not away, but toward the sounds.

With every step, I get closer to the chaos. There is a cacophony of screams, some from the men, some from women and children, probably watching through open doors of the nearby cottages. Foolish, curious people.

The clang of weapons runs through the din, underscored by the patter of running feet and barked orders.

A sudden loud snarl makes me stumble. It’s followed by a sharp shout. I’m almost there.

When I turn a bend in the road at full speed, I almost fall over in an effort to stop before I barge into the men. They block the way, their tense backs to me. Through a break between two hunched men, I glimpse movement.

The space is lit with torches on tall poles, stuck into the ground on either side of the dirt road. A sheep carcass lies on the ground, clearly bait. But why here?

We’re practically in the center of the village, on the main road where all travelers pass. Cottages line the road densely, each surrounded by a small yard. I look left and right, connecting the houses to names and faces.

In a flash, it becomes clear why the bait was placed here. All the surrounding lots are protected with my pouches. If my protections work, this is the safest place in the village.

If they work, the werewolf is cornered. He can’t cross the boundaries of the protected lots. I have to admit it’s rather clever. Also, whoever figured out this plan really trusts my whispering.

Another snarl tears the air. It’s so loud, I flinch.

The men step back on cautious feet, shifting positions, and I finally see it. All my thoughts scatter. My knees threaten to buckle.

From that bit of fur in Waclaw’s barn, I inferred the werewolf was as tall as a man. I was wrong. It towers over everyone, bigger than Przemyslaw ever hoped to be when he was still human. And yet, its size is the least troubling difference between the man and the werewolf.

I used to think of the beast as he, just Przemyslaw shifted into a monster. But now it is clear it’s an it. There is no sentience left in its nightmarish form. No humanity.

The ugly, hunching body is misshapen and lopsided. As if its bones broke in too many places and grew back wrong, making its right shoulder roll in toward its chest, its protruding hipbones uneven. Its head juts forward, deeply sunken eyes peering at the gathered men.

There is not a trace of the human left. Fur grows on its body in mangled, bloody clumps, naked, wet flesh shining through. I swallow to keep down nausea as the stench hits me, rotting corpse and guts spilled open. It stinks like death.

The werewolf takes one skulking step toward the men—toward me. I jerk back on instinct, just in time to make room for their retreating steps.

The men form a half-circle, almost as wide as the cottage fences allow them, but it doesn’t feel like the beast is cornered. No, it’s the other way round. They fall back with its every lurching step. They are the prey.

The werewolf’s furry, pointy ears twitch and it releases a low, bloodthirsty growl. The black lips of its muzzle pull back from its sharp, misaligned teeth. Its gums are black, like it’s rotting from within.

“No closer,” Darobor says in a strong voice. “It’s safe. It’s good. See? We’re all friends here.”

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