Page 61 of Devil's Deal

He’d rather go out in the glory of fight than live the rest of his life as a cripple. He’ll hate me so much more if I save him, because he’ll owe me a debt that cannot be repaid.

Oh, how he’ll suffer. For the rest of his hopefully long life.

“Stop smiling,” Wiosna whispers harshly into my ear. “You look deranged.”

I didn’t even realize I was grinning. Now, I do my best to control my expression, but forcing back the grin does nothing to tame the exuberance in my chest. I press the hot iron to Swietko’s stump, press it hard and good, and his flesh sizzles.

The room fills with the scent of roast meat. Swietko wakes again, but this time, he doesn’t scream. His mouth is open in agony, all tendons in his neck taut like they are about to snap. He arches off the table. Waclaw and Darobor curse, desperately holding him down.

He seizes, and I remember I should have put a strip of leather in his mouth, but it’s too late for that. Then again, if he bites off his tongue, who am I to care? I won’t miss his insults.

“Jaga!” Wiosna barks in my ear, furious and upset. “Control yourself!”

Oh, yes, the smile. The wide, triumphant grin is back on my face, my teeth bared, my lips stretched so far, they tingle. I press them together and grunt, pulling the ax away. It sticks to Swietko’s meat for a moment, as if reluctant to part from him, and then it lets go. I drop it, backing away into the wall.

He collapses back on the table, shallow, painful breaths wheezing out of his mouth. I stare at the browned, sealed flesh where his arm just was. He looks so… lopsided. Wrong.

My knees shake. Suddenly, I’m drained. My vision swims, the room gently swaying around me as I lean against the wall. I pant, but the stench of burning flesh, so delightful just moments before, scratches my throat.

I want to retch and retch until it’s all gone. Until this entire ordeal is over.

“Stand straight. You’ll rest later. He needs more spirits, and then you need to make a tincture and a blood-replenishing brew. But first, remove the tourniquet. Now, girl. Open your eyes!”

I do as she says, taking in three wide, scared pairs of eyes glued to my face. Alina is the only one who doesn’t look at me. She’s at Swietko’s side, tears streaming soundlessly down her cheeks as she strokes his hair with a trembling hand.

I blink. Shake my head. And push away from the wall, barely catching my balance as my legs tremble under me.

“Right,” I grunt, my throat sore. “Please give him more to drink. But I have to… do this first.”

I unwind the spoon tightening the tourniquet and unwrap it, trying not to look at the burnt flesh. It’s horrible, and yet, I did what I had to. He stopped bleeding, and with any luck, he’ll live through the night.

But what about tomorrow? Can I trust Wiosna? Or is Czeslawa right and there’s a risk of Swietko changing into a werewolf?

Or maybe that’s all irrelevant since Woland is here, likely watching everything for his sick entertainment. If he cursed Przemyslaw, he can do the same to Swietko.

Gods. Why didn’t I consider that before?

“I’ll do it,” Alina says hoarsely, taking the cup from Janek’s hands.

I blink again, desperately trying to focus. My eyes fall on the arm under the table, and on the tools. There are burnt pieces of Swietko on the ax’s blade. I wonder if Darobor will use it after this.

But no, I have to focus. What did Wiosna say? Ah, treat the wound.

“Watch over him,” I tell them and go out without waiting for a reply.

The air is cooler now, and I gulp deep breaths, trying to clear out the stench of burned human flesh. And yet, it won’t leave entirely. It’s tangled in my hair and dress, stuck to my skin. I feel it on my lips, a greasy, revolting presence.

I go to my well and wash my hands and face in cold water, not caring that my hair and dress get wet, too. It makes things a bit better, and yet, I’m still weak and shaky when I get up and look at the sky. The moon is high, Chors watching over the mortal domain.

That stench is still in my mouth, so I pick a few leaves of mint and chew. Then, I head to my tall, robust mullein plants. Their tiny yellow flowers glint in the pale moonlight, and I gather a handful of the large, fleshy leaves, stroking the fuzz covering them so it won’t prickle.

Too soon, I’m back in the cottage, crushing the leaves on a clean strip of linen. Once juice comes out, I drape them carefully over Swietko’s stump and wrap it up so the compress stays on.

“Fresh mullein leaves are the best for healing wounds,” I say hoarsely, not lifting my head. “He has to stay here. Tonight, and possibly… tomorrow night, as well. It’s another full moon.”

I don’t look up, don’t explain. A marrow-deep weariness overwhelms me, and even though I speak and move, it feels like I am outside my body. When a heavy hand lands on my shoulder, I flinch and look up with a snarl. But it’s only Darobor, his eyes too piercing and kind, his expression steady.

“Can we speak outside?”

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