Page 30 of Devil's Doom

She looks up, her eyes like deep, glistening pools of molten silver. “I would be honored if I could see you, too, from time to time. It’s rare that… Rare that women are kind to me.”

She turns her face away, hiding behind the shiny curtain of her hair. I think about another person who is beautiful beyond measure, the god of the moon, Chors. I met him once, and he was sad and a bit awkward, just like Rada. I can’t help but think that maybe she’s right. Maybe beyond a certain point, beauty is not a blessing, but a curse.

I wouldn’t know. My face is too strange with the mismatched eyes to be considered beautiful, my hair too red and different, and my body too thin, as Woland, and then the lecherous utopek, gladly pointed out.

“I’d love to see you as often as you’ll have me,” I say earnestly, already in love with the shy, sensitive, glorious wila. “I can help if you have any trouble with Dar, and you can tell me more about Slawa. Lech showed me around, but I feel like I still know next to nothing.”

“He said you’re brave,” she murmurs, suddenly looking up, her eyes serious. “Well, to be honest, he said you’re stupid first, but then he called you brave. It’s high praise, coming from him. I haven’t known Lech for long, but he has good instincts about people. He likes you.”

“I suppose we tolerate each other.”

We chat for half an hour before I leave, promising to visit her again tomorrow. I wander the streets of Slawa and look inside various shops. In one, I purchase a hair dye much stronger than what I whipped up from walnut shells. In another, I manage to buy a tub of magically infused face paint that promises to change the lines of my chin and nose—just enough to survive a chance meeting with Foss, hopefully.

A few days later, I visit the rune shop again and get a contraceptive rune for myself. It’s just in case, if Woland ever finds me and tries to heal my scars. The rune is a small rectangle of wood that I wear on my wrist like a bracelet. I know it’s not the best protection, but it gives me peace of mind.

The next weeks pass peacefully. I spend a few more days with Lech, and I chat with Rada, who is a sweet, kind girl I have a strong urge to protect. She loves her son fiercely, and I bring them both gifts, a wooden rattle for him, a pink hair ribbon and a bag of fried sweets for her. We become friends, and even though I am no closer to mastering the art of time magic, I grow comfortable for now—even happy. Since no one seems to be looking for me, and Woland is far away, I allow myself to rest.

To have friends for once.

When the oaks in Perun’s grove clothe themselves in the glory of red and yellow, the streets grow busy with preparations for the early celebration of Dziady. Many of Slawa’s people will visit the mortal world and bring back an abundance of magic. Dziady is when the dead go to visit the living, and the barriers between worlds are thin. Upirs will feast on mortal blood, and mamunas will finally empty their breasts into the eager mouths of careless mortals.

The city becomes livelier, building façades decorated with glowing orbs and colorful ribbons, magical torches floating over the squares, shop fronts sparkling with golden paint.

Amidst the excitement, tension grows. As I walk the cold streets with Lech, I notice Woland’s sign appear more and more often, painted on walls and sometimes on the cobbles, too. Chochol workers wash them off under the dragon guards’ watch, but more signs are added every day.

There are other symbols, too. One is especially prevalent, a triangle pointing downward, with something akin to horns drawn above it. It looks like a crude goat head. When I ask Lech what it means, he shakes his head and only tells me when we’re safe in my room, the curtains drawn, the door locked.

“It’s the sigil of Weles,” he whispers, serious for once. “Don’t ever utter his name when others can hear. Don’t look at his sign. We won’t speak about this again.”

I buy a bottle of mead and share it with Rada when everyone in the city celebrates outside. People dance in the streets all night, music filling every alley under the light of Hunter’s Moon. For once, everyone has magic aplenty.

Zlotomira feeds Dar her hypnotic milk so he can sleep through the noise, and I get a bit drunk with Rada. Lech comes in at dawn, looking grim and tired, his clothes soaked with rain even though none fell in the city.

He tells us the news. Rebels attacked Perun’s fence during the festivities. They failed to damage the fence but killed a few of Perun’s warriors.

As I listen to what happened, I imagine Woland fighting dragons, ripping them apart with his claws and magic. My heart stutters with worry and longing before I force myself to think of something else.

Lech gets drunk on vodka and Rada’s blood, and in a drunken stupor, grumbles that the attack makes no sense. Rebellion leaders sent people out to be dragon fodder, and for what? Nothing of substance was gained and now, we will all pay the price.

In the evening, lightning falls from the sky.

Chapter twelve

Storm

I run to the milk bar, my feet sliding on wet cobbles. I’ve only gone out to a shop two streets away to get Dar a healing brew for his cold, but the rain is so thick, I am soaked. It’s been raining for three days now, and most people hide in their homes, only a few shops open for business.

A lightning cracks down the leaden sky, thunder shaking the world. I scream and duck, hoping it didn’t hit the milk bar. From what Lech told us yesterday, over twenty people are already dead, either killed directly by lightning or crushed under rubble of the houses that were hit.

Someone cries out in the distance. Another bolt of lightning falls on the other side of the river, and I clench my teeth and speed up on the final stretch, battling a howling wind of sorrow inside me.

The rain is an eerie reminder of Woland’s curse that made me spread illness and death everywhere I went. As freezing water pummels my head and back, I shiver not just from the cold but also a flood of guilt and regret.

My fingers twitch around the medicine, reliving the phantom feel of the baby I delivered who died in my arms, poisoned by my touch. Hot tears mix with rain on my face, but I only allow myself to cry for a moment. Only when no one will see.

As I step into the shelter of the milk bar, I leave the memories firmly behind. There is no cursed mark on my chin anymore, and Woland has no idea where I am. With a nervous gesture that has become a habit, I finger the pendant at my throat. I’m safe. And now, I’m out of the rain, too. No longer banished, I am welcome. I have friends here.

I’m all right.

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