Page 92 of Devil's Deal

“Not so fast. Do a spell first.”

I groan, and she tsks at me. “This is important, Jaga. You’re up against a powerful enemy. Who knows what else he’ll try against you? You’re so defenseless, it’s pathetic.”

I clench my jaw, furious but unable to contradict her. Wiosna is right. I can’t allow Woland’s absence to lure me into a false sense of safety, and I can’t forget my two ultimate goals: to avenge my friend and save my younger self. I need magic for both.

“Fine. I’ll try to boil some water using magic.”

Wiosna grunts with disapproval. “Don’t be lazy. We shouldn’t use magic for things we can do with honest work.”

I throw up my hands in exasperation. It seems I have forgotten how nitpicky and infuriating Wiosna can be, but of course, she’s eager to remind me.

“Then maybe I should exorcise you?” I growl through clenched teeth. “That can’t be done with honest labor, can it? Unless I can sweep you out with a broom?”

I grab my broom and shake it menacingly, my body vibrating with anger. I am so grateful for Wiosna, truly, but in moments like this, I wish I could escape her for a bit. It was way easier to do when she was alive.

“Don’t get cheeky with me, girl. We both know you’re too weak to actually make me go away, and I’m having too much fun here to go. Now do as I say, because I give good advice.”

I put away the broom, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down. I’ve been doing so well, building up my reputation, serving clients, preparing new brews… Like a true whisperer in her own right. But with Wiosna around, I often feel like an apprentice. Like I’m not capable and never will be, because no matter how hard I try, she’ll always find something new to criticize me about.

With a sigh, I give up and cast around for something that would require magic but can’t be done with the work of my own hands. My eyes fall on the tallow candle I’ll have to light soon if I want to do anything after dark.

I hate those candles. They stink like burning lard, because that’s what they are, and fill my cottage with oily, unpleasant smoke. I’d much rather use the much more expensive and better smelling beeswax candles, but I can’t afford any for now.

But what if I could have a pure, odorless, magical light? That’s not something I can make myself.

I go to my cupboard and come back with a small metal bowl. Wiosna is thankfully quiet when I close my eyes and focus, imagining a small, golden light, like the tiniest ray of the sun held captive in my bowl. I call forth the smallest shard of Dzadzbog’s shield, a miniscule bit of light that will glow just like a candle, yet give no heat or smell…

“Light,” I whisper. “Light.”

Something moves within me, my blood fizzing with power.

“Light,” I urge.

My hands holding the bowl grow hot, and the bowl heats up, the metal not yet scalding, but close. There is a pang of pain in my chest and a sensation of falling, but I push through. This is just the seal resisting me, and so I chant under my breath, “Light, light, light,” and push that power to come out and create.

Brightness filters in through my closed eyelids, a brilliant, golden light. When I open my eyes, it goes out, just a sparkling echo lingering in the air for a moment before it, too, is snuffed out.

A sudden pain pierces my chest, my heart constricting into a ball, my lungs filling with heavy darkness until I choke. The bowl slips out of my hands, and I lose my grasp on the thread of power. Everything unravels, and all I can do is lie on the floor and whimper, pain and defeat carving deep into my gut with every choking breath.

By the time I crawl to a semi-seated position on the floor, it’s completely dark out, and there is no light in my cottage, magical or not. I curse as I climb up onto the bed, needles of pain piercing every inch of my spine.

Just before I fall asleep, Wiosna whispers.

“There is always tomorrow.”

But when I wake up, it’s not tomorrow yet. I lie in the pitch blackness of my cottage, aware of a great weight resting on my chest and another breath, not my own, wheezing right above me.

When I try to move, the weight increases and the wheezing turns into a chuffing, inhuman snarl. I freeze, the memory of the werewolf pinning me to the ground vivid and horrible in my mind. I open my mouth to speak, to call out, anything, but it’s like my breath is squeezed right out of me. The thing grows heavier and heavier, and now it moves, the weight shifting on top of me.

My breasts are squished flat until they hurt, my stomach is pushed in until it’s concave, and my breath grows gasping and shallow. I’m being suffocated in my own bed. My body is numb and leaden, frozen in fear. I can’t move.

“What…” I manage to rasp out, hoarse and barely audible.

The weight bears down, my breath pushed out of me. The thing is so heavy now, I can’t take in air. My ribs bend under the pressure, making the space inside me too small. My mouth gapes open, like a fish taken out of water. I gasp and gasp for air, but it doesn’t come. It doesn’t come. It doesn’t…

Light, I think with the last of my strength as the chuffing sounds drift away, my consciousness ebbing. Light!

My chest tears open with pain just when a shocking, brilliant brightness floods the cottage. There is a shriek and a scuttle, and the weight disappears from my chest. I wheeze, my crushed lungs barely inflating, my ribs throbbing with pain. My mind reels from terror.

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