Page 131 of Devil's Doom

“Lech, what is this?” I turn to the upir.

We’ve eaten here together plenty of times. We talked to Milen and his staff. I can’t imagine a good reason why the rebels would want to trash his place.

“It’s the nearest tavern to the exit,” Lech says, rolling his eyes. “I should have predicted this. Relax. They just need to blow off some steam.”

I shake my head, taking a step forward. “That’s not blowing off steam. That’s ruining Milen’s livelihood. Hey!” I scream, putting my hands around my mouth to be heard over the uproar. “Stop right now! What are you doing?”

Nobody listens. A stool leg flies at my head, and I send it away with a fling of my wrist. Glass breaks deeper inside the tavern, and the scent of wine fills the air. A kobold roars and grabs a chochol, throwing him on top of a table. The table breaks in half. Another bottle shatters, and Milen shakes his head with a cry of despair before disappearing through the kitchen door.

Lech grabs my hand, so tight I can’t wiggle out, and pulls me outside before I can protest. Rada stands there, looking scared, her hands frantically smoothing Dar’s back in the sling. The boy is awake, looking around with curious eyes.

Lutowa comes out right after us. Somehow, she managed to grab a chicken leg and munches on the meat steaming in the cold.

“This isn’t a good place,” she says after swallowing a big bite. “All the hot-headed morons stopped here to let it all out. They can’t fight like this in the tunnels since the master would punish them, so they bring it to the surface. Let’s go find somewhere else. I’m starving.”

“No.” I jut my chin forward. “I’ll stop them. Then we can go.”

I’m about to go back, ready to pierce Lech’s hand if he doesn’t let go of my wrist, when three people come out of a narrow alley opposite the tavern. I stop and stare. It’s Woland, Strzybog, and… her.

She doesn’t wear a cloak this time. Her only clothing is a bright red, linen dress, its color as vivid as that of a rose in bloom. It’s tight with flaring skirts, the neckline low and intricately embroidered. Her generous breasts almost spill out of it, her skin creamy and perfect, glowing in the weak winter sunlight.

Her hair is loose, a lustrous, wavy curtain of blonde strands that move around her narrow shoulders with grace. And her face is the pinnacle of beauty. I think she’s even more beautiful than Rada, with perfectly symmetrical features, a full, sensuous mouth, and big eyes so blue, they would pierce me with their beauty if she looked at me.

But despite our two eerie meetings, she doesn’t even spare me a glance. Mokosz stares at Rada, something cold and serpentine flickering across her face, marring the perfection.

By her side, Strzybog laughs. Unlike his mother, he looks right at me, his expression lecherous.

“Well, hello there! Long time no see, poppy girl.”

I flinch, and Woland growls low in his throat when a sudden playful breeze ruffles my hair. I swallow thickly, not knowing what to do. These are gods, and while I have no respect for Woland, the other two make me uneasy.

I expect Woland to tell Strzybog not to call me poppy girl, even though the god of the wind was the first one who gave me that nickname. But Woland is silent, his golden eyes flickering to Mokosz. She’s tall, just a few inches shorter than him. It strikes me how close they stand, their hips brushing.

Woland is naked.

“And who might that be?” Mokosz asks in a low, melodic voice that sounds like a warm call bringing workers home from the fields on a late summer evening.

Her eyes are on Rada. Strzybog laughs, leering at the wila. He stands tall and handsome, but his eyes are mocking, his laughter superficial. The clothes he wears are as vivid as his mother’s, green and blue, and he’s equally underdressed for this weather, with his shirt open, golden hair peeking out.

I suppose gods don’t feel the cold like we do.

“Oh, I know her!” he exclaims with delight. “She’s one of mine. It’s actually a funny story, Mother. I was pissed at you one day, can’t remember for what, and you know what I did? I went into the mortal world, deciding I’d make a wila more beautiful than you. I found that sad, pitiful girl who took her life after her young lover knocked her up and left her, and here she is! More beautiful than a summer dawn. Oh, this is precious. If you could see your face!”

He laughs heartily, while disgust and anger fill my belly with heat. Rada’s eyes are wide and terrified. She doesn’t react when Dar fusses in his sling, trying to crane his neck around to see who’s talking. Her arms hang down her sides, loose and shaking.

If I could, I’d swipe the god of the wind off the face of the world right now. I finally understand everything Woland told me about him. He is a vain, thoughtless god, selfish and shallow. The way he plays with the lives of others makes me sick.

But he’s right about one thing. The face Mokosz makes, one of cold, rigid fury, is a sight to remember. All sorts of alarm bells go off in my mind. I have a sudden fear she’ll strike Rada here and now, punishing her for the simple crime of being more beautiful than a goddess.

I step in front of my friend, hiding her from Mokosz. The goddess’ eyes flicker to mine, and her expression softens.

“And the redhead?” she asks in a calm voice, her fury wiped clean. “Is she also your creation?”

Strzybog snorts, as if the very idea offends him. “No. She is Woland’s…”

“Fucktoy,” the devil says smoothly, his voice bored. “Can we go? We all know your good-for-nothing son is just fucking with you. You are the most beautiful woman in all the worlds, and more gorgeous for every drop of divine power that flows in your veins. There is no competition, my goddess.”

His voice drops lower, into a husky, seductive cadence I know well. He takes her hand, palm up, and lowers his head reverently, planting a kiss in the middle of her palm. She laughs with delight and grips his antler, pulling him up.

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