Page 64 of Devil's Deal

“Why?” I snap, shooting to my feet.

I don’t even wobble. Gods. That wasn’t normal water. He gave me something… Something healing. I don’t understand it.

“Because you’re delicious to play with,” he says with a dark laugh, turning on his hoof.

I blink. He’s gone, and I’m left standing alone in front of my cottage, livid and humiliated. I shouldn’t have let him in, shouldn’t have taken anything from his hand. I hate myself for being too weak to shove him away.

But there is still so much to do, and no one’s ever accomplished anything by loathing themselves. So I get down to work.

By the time the first rooster crows, I’ve put Woland firmly out of my mind. A pile of pouches sits on a sheet spread on the ground, all my herb and bone supplies put into those little linen bags. I wipe sweat off my brow and look at the sun rising beyond the woods in the east.

The clouds burst into flame of color, pink, red, and golden, the dome of the sky turning blue. Chors is gone, off to sleep in his father’s cavernous realm, Nawie. It’s Dzadzbog’s time to rule.

Birds praise his rise with sweet, lilting song, and I close my eyes, savoring the cool air, digging my bare toes into the dew-wet grass. I am bone-tired in my mind, but strong and rested in my body. Whatever the devil gave me, it’s still holding well.

I try to guess his reason for helping me out but abandon it pretty quickly. There are too many possibilities. Maybe he wants to watch me die a horrible, gruesome death, and it’s no fun if I get myself killed with negligence. Or maybe he just wanted to use my moment of weakness to humiliate me—make me give in.

But with Woland, there seems to be no rhyme or logic. He might have simply done it for the reason he told me. To play.

A grunt of pain comes from my cottage. I sigh and get up to tend to my patient. But even though my head is heavy from the lack of sleep, I still manage to smile to myself. I shall enjoy tending Swietko’s wounds, because I know he will hate every minute of it.

I end up disappointed as the day passes in a blur of mental exhaustion. Swietko is unconscious most of the time, my potent herbal brews and vodka keeping him under until the worst of the pain is over. When he is lucid, he just moans in pain, and there’s no enjoyment in that.

I still can’t say for certain he won’t develop an infection, but his chances look astoundingly good.

Alina stays by his side, only leaving to fetch bread and cheese, which she shares with me. I bring my own food and we are about to have a veritable feast. Alina chatters about some fresh gossip, her voice carefree. She’s convinced the worst has passed and her husband will live.

Now that last night’s ordeal is over, she brims with positive energy and hope. It’s strange to watch her smile while her husband lies on my table, dirty with blood and mutilated, his face twisting in pain through fretful sleep. I feel like most wives in this situation would despair, but not Alina.

As we lay out our food on a small table outside, she jokes his most important parts are still attached to him and hopefully functional. I choke on a sip of nettle brew. That woman really wants children badly.

When we eat and I try to refuse her bread, she pushes it in my hand.

“Please, Jaga. It’s the least I can do,” she says, her eyes bright with joy. “Later, when I have time, I’ll bring you furs. We have so many. Swietko was such a good hunter.”

She looks away with a small smile, and I nod without commenting on her word choice—was. But then, she’s right. He won’t hunt again with one arm missing. I wonder if that’s what she is so happy about. Maybe she hated it when he disappeared into the woods for long hours every day.

I know better than to ask.

In the afternoon, I leave Alina to mind her sleeping husband and go to see Darobor. He sits with Waclaw by the barn at the back of his house. They drink weak, diluted mead in the shade of a pear tree, tall sunflowers swaying in the gentle breeze nearby.

It would look so peaceful but for their haggard faces and bloodshot eyes. There is a circle of small stones on the weather-worn wooden table between them. One big, jagged rock is in the middle while smaller ones surround it.

Looks like I walked in on a strategy meeting.

“Is that the werewolf?” I ask, pointing at the rock in the middle. “Because the resemblance is uncanny. It’s even got two pointy ears.”

Waclaw blinks at me like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying while Darobor frowns.

“This isn’t a matter for jokes,” he admonishes me, echoed by a quiet harrumph carrying on the wind. Wiosna. She’s back.

I do my best to grow serious, but truth is, I am lightheaded and drunk on exhaustion. It’s the oddest feeling and an impossible contradiction. My mind practically shuts down from not sleeping a wink in over two days, while my body feels strong and vital.

Maybe Woland’s goal is to drive me insane. Because if he got to know me even a bit, he knows I’ll put off sleep for as long as I can. Especially now that I’m needed. Without my body forcing me to rest, I’ll power through until my mind snaps.

“You’re right. I apologize,” I tell the men, showing them the supply of pouches I made. “I thought you might have a use for these. They seemed to work well enough last night.”

And they did. At no point did the werewolf try to get into any of the houses by the road, even though there were people watching everything through open doors. Granted, the beast might have been too busy with the men trying to attack it, but I don’t think it could cross over the protective lines created by my pouches.

---