Page 62 of Devil's Deal

I nod numbly and follow him. As we walk out, Alina sings a mournful lullaby to Swietko. As if he’s her child in need of soothing.

“Will he turn, whisperer?” Darobor asks when we stand in front of my cottage, the cool air drying my sweat and promising relief.

I look up at the moon, feeling helpless and exhausted. There’s no use lying.

“He might. I don’t know.”

I look at him, really look, taking in the deep lines in his swarthy face. He is in his late thirties, and yet, this night aged him by at least ten years. I see silver hair around his temples, where earlier, there was only fair brown.

Then again, it might be the light of the moon making him look older.

His features are solid, a firm nose, thick brow ridges, cheeks full from eating well. He’s big and strong, and suddenly, I can’t help but feel grateful for him. He’s one of the few people I respect in our village.

It helps that he was never openly against me.

“You’re a good leader,” I say when he doesn’t speak, watching me with a deep frown. “With a strong stomach. It would have been slaughter without you.”

Darobor nods once. “You’re a good whisperer. You did well in there.”

He points at my cottage with his chin, and I sigh, trying to dislodge a sudden tightness in my chest. In my current state, I’m stripped of my usual defenses, and so his praise strikes close to the heart. I used to be so hungry for it as a child, and Wiosna dished it out so rarely.

I always went above and beyond to please her. And yet, Wiosna’s clipped affirmations of my skills never hit as close to home as Darobor’s does now.

Maybe it’s because cutting off Swietko’s arm was the hardest thing I ever did. Or maybe because Darobor is a man. There is something fatherly in his eyes as he watches me, pride mixed with worry, and a weak, suppressed part of me rears its head, ravenous for more. I shake my head, wishing I weren’t so exhausted.

I need to put my walls back up. It won’t do getting used to a man’s praise, becoming dependent on others. It’s not how I’ve survived until now.

“I’ll do my best to contain him if… If anything happens,” I offer. “But truly, I don’t know what to expect. The lore… It says he shouldn’t turn from the bite alone. But if the gods decide it, who’s to say what will happen?”

Darobor nods, taking my admission in stride. “Do you have a chain?”

I blink, too exhausted for my mind to work as fast as normal. When I get his meaning, I shake my head. “No. We used to have one, when we kept a goat, but I think my mother sold it.”

“I’ll bring you a chain.”

And with that, he’s gone. Soon, Waclaw and Janek leave, too, going back to their families. Alina stays by Swietko’s side, stroking his hair and murmuring a soothing song while I make a brew of St. John’s wort and dried rowan berries to help his blood replenish faster.

As I pour it down his throat, I don’t know whether I’m saving a human life or helping a new werewolf grow stronger.

Chapter twenty-one

Cup

Chors slowly makes his way across the starry sky. I sit outside, a shawl wrapped around my shoulders, as I make more pouches in the light of a lone, flickering candle. Alina’s in my bed, sleeping while her husband lies on the table, unconscious. A sturdy chain is wrapped around his leg. It goes out through my only window and connects to a thick birch tree outside.

My hands shake when I measure out herbs and tie the little pouches with string. I have to blink again and again, because my vision grows blurry from exhaustion. My eyes barely work, so when I see black, oily shadows racing up my path, I think it’s just a trick of my weary mind.

Until they wrap around my wrists and force them away from the pouch I’m making, pinning my arms to my sides.

I would scream if I were better rested, but my only response to this new licho is an uneven heartbeat drumming sickly against my ribcage. I know who this is and I am helpless against him. And so I let his shadow restrain me, waiting for him to come out.

A cloud obscures the moon. Woland peels away from the black mass of my hedge, tall and naked as always, his antlers towering high.

“Don’t waste your breath,” I whisper hoarsely. “I’m not letting you win.”

He snorts, coming closer with even, measured steps. I’m dizzy like in a trance, so I take him in without censure, looking at his black hooves, the powerful muscles playing under his gray skin, his cock swinging rhythmically with each step.

He is so unabashed about his nakedness, and for once, it doesn’t embarrass me. I am too tired to care.

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