Page 95 of Devil's Deal

I’m still sleepy as I go around my errands that day, seeing a few clients and making more tinctures for autumn and winter. If I’m going to replace Czeslawa, I need to be serious about stocking up.

My sense of duty is the only thing that keeps me going, even when the heat of the day makes me want to curl up in the shade of a tree and nap until evening. It doesn’t help that my bleeding is about to start. I already suffer from the first waves of cramps, though these are still manageable.

I swelter in my cottage, sipping cold yarrow brew with honey, and chop, clean, and organize my herb supplies.

As a young unmarried woman, I’m not supposed to wear a kerchief, but I still have one wrapped around my forehead to keep the sweat from falling into my eyes.

By the time dusk settles in, I sway on my feet from exhaustion, and even though I know I’ll get sweaty right away, I still go out for a quick dip in the river. A few girls are bathing, future Kupala maidens, and they give me curious yet wary looks when I undress and splash into the water.

As I let the current brush the kinks out of my muscles and soothe my overheated skin, I think about Woland. I should be glad he’s gone, but instead, I find myself missing his presence, which is ridiculous.

“You hate him,” I whisper to myself, and it’s true. I feel that hatred buzzing in the pit of my stomach, buried for now, but ready to leap out.

But I also can’t deny the attraction. He flatters me. There is something addictive in being a god’s—or demon’s, since I still don’t know what he is—coveted prize. Even now, him being away and apparently busy with bigger priorities wounds my pride. I’ve come to expect his attention and desire.

It’s obvious he doesn’t desire me very greatly, though. I try not to think about it, but my cramps, general grumpiness, and exhaustion get to me. And so I remember how it was when I lay under him, my legs spread open in welcome. How I trembled when he was about to take my virginity.

But he didn’t. He turned away. I was scorned and discarded, and the more I think about it, the uglier, less desirable, and more furious I feel. These feelings are idiotic, though, because I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t expect and crave his desire.

And so I push it all down and lock it away, and yet, my body betrays everything I feel. I’m glad for the gloom of the early evening, because it covers my blush of shame.

Back in my cottage, I do the light spell and fall into dreamless sleep. I wake up with the zmora snarling down my face.

I lie completely still, keeping my eyes closed because it’s too dark to see, anyway. The zmora’s weight on my chest is painful but bearable, and I can still breathe. Even though each slow breath seems like it will choke me, and all I want is to take huge gulps of air, I do my best to breathe evenly.

The moment it senses I’m awake, the torture will start. I need to speak fast and clearly, but my throat is thick with fear, so I wait.

Something moist and cold touches my cheek, and it takes all I have not to flinch. The weight on top of me shifts, cold hands clawing at my sheets and nightshirt. The zmora’s chuffing grows impatient, a ululating growl pushing out of its throat. It sits down more firmly, constricting my ribcage.

Now.

“Will you please come to breakfast tomorrow?” I ask calmly.

The zmora jerks and shrieks, and now my eyes are wide open, and in the moonlight falling inside through my window, I see the monster, its big head hovering above me. It huffs and bears down, its weight doubling. I grunt, my lungs crushed and hurting for air, my heart galloping with terror.

I’m suffocating.

“W-Wiosna,” I grit out. “Why… is it… still here?”

Wasn’t inviting it to breakfast supposed to solve the problem? That’s what the tales say. And yet, the zmora still sits on top of me, bending my sternum inward until I’m terrified it will snap. I can’t breathe. I’m being crushed into pieces.

At that moment of despair, I have a ridiculous urge to call for Woland. I bite my tongue until I taste blood. No.

“Because it hates you,” Wiosna says. “What, did you think it would get scared of you mentioning breakfast? Make your little light spell and chase it away!”

I try to focus, but it’s futile. Bursts of white dance across my vision, my mind drifting in the haze of terror. My body seizes, but the bies presses me down into the mattress. I’m dying, echoes in my mind. Bested by a stupid zmora.

It takes so much effort to wrench my thoughts away from the panic of imminent death. I desperately try to think of light to scare it away, but my mind slips from my grasp, more terror pouring in. My ribs groan, bending to the point of breaking.

I need light, I desperately think. I need light.

There’s the barest flicker of power in my collapsing chest. Weak sparks burst across my eyes, brightening the zmora’s gaping maw for just a moment. It winces and shies away but doesn’t come off. The light is too weak and gone in the next second.

The monster’s panting breaths grow excited, its chuffing louder and louder, until it overshadows even the roaring in my ears.

I am helpless. I’m about to die.

And I don’t accept it.

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