Page 27 of Devil's Doom

“Ouch. I’m so sorry, Alina. I had no idea he would do that,” Lech says, his voice grave, but when I look at him, he grins.

It takes me a moment to understand he’s mocking my single eye. It fails to irritate me, since my entire attention is focused on keeping my food down.

“I think I’ve seen enough,” I say, fighting nausea.

“You sure?” Lech asks with amusement. “It’s only just started. There are a few more prisoners to be tried, you know. I’m sure whatever crimes they committed must be as heinous as they are riveting.”

Screams of utter agony pour out of the cage. Both boy and girl have shed their childish disguises. They hack, claw, and bite at the bloody mess of their victim, tearing him to shreds in a torturously slow display of beastly cruelty. Brown feathers sticky with blood float out of the cage, and a small being covered in dark fur runs closer, ducking between two dragons, and grabs a few feathers with deft fingers.

The dragon next to them turns, leaning low to grab the creature, but the being is already gone, vanishing in the crowd.

“A token from the trial,” Lech says mockingly. “It should fetch a soft-boiled egg, at least.”

But I don’t hear him. The dragon straightens, and I am frozen, not even able to draw a breath. By gods, I recognize him. Those silver scales. The red eyes. A trace of white hair at the temples.

But no. Surely, I must be mistaken. I swallow convulsively, my heart beating faster and faster, until he turns for a moment and I see his muzzle clearly.

My body grows rigid, tremors of panic coursing through my limbs. I know this dragon. I’ve met him before. And if his eyes land on me, he will see right through my weak disguise, because he knows exactly what I look like.

It’s Foss, the dragon who came with Woland to Kupala Night.

Chapter eleven

Rada

“I have to go,” I murmur to Lech, frantically smoothing down my hair and checking if the eyepatch sits tight. “Now. Let me go.”

“What? Why? You haven’t seen the best part yet,” he says, his voice airy and just a bit sarcastic.

But his hold loosens enough to let me slip away. I dive into the crowd, moving as fast as I can. I’m not charming like Lech, so no apologies await the people I jab with my elbows. They grumble and curse but let me pass, and I push through, finally ducking into a narrow, empty street.

“Alina!”

Lech is right on my heels, and I stop, leaning against a wall where I’m sure the dragons can’t see me. The upir gives me a long, inquiring look when he catches up.

“You look like you’ve just seen death,” he says with a frown. “Wait, that’s an unfortunate expression. Youhavejust seen a death, but that doesn’t explain why you ran away. What happened?”

“I… I don’t feel well. It might be the food,” I say, pressing my hand to my stomach with a grimace.

It’s not a total lie. I feel nauseous, and my frantically beating heart makes my insides squirm with fear.

Foss knows exactly what I look like, and the shade of my hair or a stupid eye patch won’t fool him. My only saving grace just now was that I was one of hundreds in a crowd. If we met face to face on the street… I shudder just thinking about it.

Lech raises his eyebrows in genteel disbelief. “The food. Right. Well, maybe it’s for the best. We’ll come watch a full show another time. The good news is, ouresteemedguards hold a trial every evening.”

I snort. Only Lech can make the word “esteemed” sound so scornful.

We set out on a slow climb up the streets toward the bridge. The ache in my muscles turns dull as I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I am beyond disturbed, and my emotional turmoil feels strangely close to numbness. I wonder with detachment if I have three hardboiled eggs in me for my room, but that doesn’t worry me much. Somehow, foregoing my newfound comfort doesn’t seem important after what I just saw.

By the riverside, we pass an outdoor tavern, tables and benches packed under a wooden roof resting on four sturdy pillars. A fiddler walks among the candle-lit tables, playing a slow, mournful song. People talk in hushed voices, drinking mead and beer, and two wilas dance in the shadow at the edge of candlelight, entwined in a loving embrace.

I have a hard time reconciling this peaceful, romantic scene with the cruelty I just saw. This part of Slawa is magical and fills me with yearning, while that one makes me clench my fists in helpless rage. How can they be pieces of the same whole?

“What happens to people when they die?” I ask softly as we walk down the slope on our side of the river, the milk bar a few streets ahead, its hypnotic music guiding us home.

“The people of Slawa turn into crows, storks, or swallows, and live in the branches of the Great Oak in Wyraj,” Lech says, sounding exhausted. “They serve Perun and his gods, and after their servitude is over, they are allowed to be born again, here in Slawa. Wyraj isn’t like Nawie. No one gets to stay there forever.”

“Oh. Death doesn’t seem that bad then.”

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