Page 76 of Devil's Deal

I blush at the memory, and then growl at myself as tingles run over my skin. I hate that the lines between us are so blurred. I hate him and will destroy him, but that hate and thirst for vengeance are just one side of my feelings.

There is also lust. I can’t deny it—all I can do is control it. Confusion, too. I still don’t understand why he helped me defeat the werewolf today, because that’s what he did. Stopping time, and then giving me his blood and my knife back when I refused him—that saved me.

I don’t forget how he gave me the magical water to drink, which is his most confusing action. It would have seemed like a caring gesture if it were anyone but him. But the devil is incapable of kind, generous impulses, so his motivation must have been something else.

But then, what do I know about him? Too little.

It all swirls in my head, confusing and frustrating. How we danced. How he pressed his hand to my mouth so I wouldn’t warn Bogna. How he kissed me, threatened me, choked me, drank my blood, and caught my chaplet.

And now, he’s here again. He reveals his presence but doesn’t speak or try to approach me. His ambiguity and unclear intentions drive me mad, and I just want to know—why is he here? I’m wary of asking him, though. For one, he’s a liar. And I am still so much weaker than him, my magic barely a spark. He has all the advantage.

I dive under water again, shutting off the world. I hold my breath and think about what to do.

Because it’s clear I must react. Waiting for him to stop is useless, because Woland will keep coming back and trying to claim me. It’s a good thing, I remind myself. This way, I’ll have access to him once I grow powerful enough to punish him for killing my friend.

What else do I know?

He wants my soul. He desires me. And if my instincts are right, he needs me alive. That’s the only plausible explanation for why he saved me.

I take a hungry gulp of air when I emerge, water sliding down my face. The devil sits on the river bank, his antlers silhouetted against the moon. His eyes must be closed, and it’s a relief of sorts.

His gaze is like a physical thing, a touch and a threat, and his presence without it isn’t as overwhelming.

When he tips his face up, leaning back on his hands, I get the impression he’s tired. For a time, he doesn’t move, just stays motionless on the bank, and I watch him.

I can’t defeat him yet. He won’t go away, and he intends to hunt me until I let him use me. But maybe I can use him back. He rules time, I remind myself.

And if he doesn’t want to risk my death, maybe that’s enough for me to stop being so afraid.

“Mind handing me the soap?” I call out, not too loud. My voice carries over water.

His eyes flash open, two pinpoints of light. “You wanted to do a spell,” he answers. “Use your magic and get it yourself.”

I huff, irritated, because my magic is shit, and I hate looking incompetent. Yet, there is nothing for it. I’m not about to come out naked onto the shore, no matter how comfortable he is with his nudity around me. I won’t reciprocate.

But I really want to wash my hair. I’m pretty sure there are bits of werewolf in it.

A spell it is. I take a deep breath and a long exhale, centering myself. Magic can be used with words or without, and the second option is much harder. Bending reality to one’s wishes is all about powerful intent, and words help to center it.

Some rhyming magic spells I learned from Wiosna, but she also taught me that any words can work as a spell as long as they convey the right intention.

Woland watches me as I raise my hands. I expect the spell to fail despite Wiosna’s reassurance that his blood will make it easier. And so, to avoid looking stupid, I make my little magic spell silly. Like it’s child’s play.

I imagine my pot of soap is a kitten. I call it to me.

“Here, pussy, pussy, pussy,” I coax, opening my palm expectantly. “Come, soap. Come, pussy, pussy, pussy.”

Woland coughs out a surprised laugh, his eyes flashing brighter. Excitement flutters in my belly and I feel a pull, as if something unspools inside me like a thread. My pot of soap rises above the river bank and gently floats toward me.

“Here, pussy, pussy,” I whisper to keep it going. I grin, my heart beating faster and faster with joy, and I urge it to fly right into my hand. “Yes! Come here.”

But the pot never makes it to me. A sharp pain pierces my chest, and I cry out, clutching my heart. The pot wobbles in the air and drops, falling into the water with a splash.

“No!”

I lurch to where it disappeared, already knowing it’s useless. I won’t find it at night.

Then, right before my eyes, it emerges and spins once before floating gently into Woland’s waiting hand.

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