Page 121 of Devil's Doom

When a ball of fire rushes past my arm, the heat kissing my skin, I turn slowly and watch as it soars right through the struggling barrier of the fence.

I wonder if I can cross here. Maybe the fence is weak enough to let me through. And yet… Yet… No, this is the wrong place to cross. I was supposed to go to Nawie… Long ago… Wasn’t I? But why?

Isn’t my place here?

Woland loves me. Doesn’t he? I swallow thickly when I remember him as I saw him last, a heart he ripped out of a dragon in his hand, his teeth tearing into the steaming, hard muscle. His eyes were so cold and impersonal as he looked at me.

Isn’t he the devil and a liar? Is he even capable of love? I turn in place, losing myself in the smoke and the screams. The fence flickers, growing fainter.

I could cross. I could vanish. He’d never find me.

“What are you doing?”

Lutowa grabs my arm, pulling me away from the hole. I realize with a jolt I teetered right on the edge of it, loose earth scattering down the rough slope onto the broken stone. She pulls me away from the fence, up a hill, past bodies, past fighters, past screaming, bleeding, suffering people.

I see an upir with his guts spilling out, and I yank my hand out of her grip. Before I manage to kneel at his side, Lutowa grabs me with a growl.

“No. The master wants you by his side. It’s time.”

I shake my head, trying to turn to go back to the upir. His red hair is darker than Lech’s, his face different, and yet, he reminds me of him. Lech isn’t my friend anymore, but I can’t let him die.

“Because he has to hold you to transport you, and he refuses to go without you. Come on!”

I blink behind me as she drags me away, but smoke covers the upir’s body, and I lose sight of him. Lutowa pulls me fiercely through the crowd until a familiar rumble of a voice greets us.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

Claws that stink of blood close around my shoulder, and darkness descends around us, thick and restful. Plaintive moans of pain mix with ragged breathing until the smoke disperses, the familiar light globes flickering around us.

Sounds of suffering fill the rebel cavern. Woland looks around as rebels who stayed behind rush to mingle among the wounded, bearing medicine, drink, and eggs. He still holds my shoulder, and when I try to pull away to help treat patients, he growls and tugs me back.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

I spot Draga nearby, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling, tears flowing down her temples. I try to rush to her side, desperate to comfort her, but Woland growls and grabs my hair, yanking hard to make me look at him. Pain explodes in my scalp.

“Jaga. Are you hurt?”

I grunt as I try to slide out of his grasp. “Let go, I’m needed.”

“You did what you could.” His eyes flicker to the far side of the cavern, and he nods once. “Nienad is back. He’ll take care of them.”

“But Draga,” I gasp out, desperately trying to loosen his cruel fingers tangled in my hair. “Draga lost an arm. I have to see her, I have to…”

“There’s nothing you can do for her now.”

I want to protest, but his shadows wrap around us both, and the chorus of moaning, screaming, sobbing voices grows quiet. We’re back in our chamber, fire crackling in the fireplace. Woland still holds me tightly. I smell smoke and blood, and it’s as if my nostrils are coated with that scent from the inside. I fear I’ll always smell it from now on.

Around me, the chamber looks strange, the familiar things growing out of proportion. I startle when a log falls in the fireplace, sending sparkles into the air. Woland still holds my hair, guiding my face up to look at him.

“I lost you for two minutes. I sensed you, and then, you were suddenly gone,” he says, his voice grave, as if admitting a horrible crime. “I can’t let you leave right now. Not even to go to your friends.”

His expression is hidden behind his neutral mask that I know so well and hate. My confused, still stuttering heart gives a powerful beat, and I finally understand the battle is over. We’re safe. It’s done.

My legs shake, and my throat burns. I’m parched. The back of my mouth is coated with the same grimy scent as my nose. The scent of burning and death.

“You ate a dragon heart.” I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. He is unhurt, but his clothes are torn and filthy with soot, his hands bloodied. One claw is broken. Ashes coat his antlers.

“He tried to hurt you.” Woland’s voice is tightly controlled, not quite bored, but not revealing any other emotion, either.

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