Page 4 of Devil's Doom

There is a crystalline quality to the late summer air. It smells different, too. Purer than home. I breathe deeply and watch everything with wonder, taking in the tall spires of the pines that sway with gentle creaks. A narrow, overgrown path cuts into the slope, definitely not an animal tract. It’s delineated with stones.

And further down the slope, something glitters. Water.

I don’t go yet, even though my throat is parched, my body sluggish. Slowly, I eat the apples, looking around for any signs of my benefactor. I know szyszymoras hide well in the woods, impersonating the trees they herd and protect.

If one is nearby, I don’t see them. There is only the forest, calm, swaying, and ancient, and the birds chirping cheerily as they fly among the branches. I don’t move, watching them with sudden bone-deep pleasure. It’s been so long since the last time I could sit and admire the world around me.

One bird flies into a small hollow in a tree nearby. I wonder if it has a home there.

The hollow closes with a loud snap. I gasp when a few brilliant blue feathers burst out, but no bird.

The other birds fly away, tittering, and I stare at where the hollow was, expecting it to open any moment. It never does. The bark looks perfect, blending in with the rest, until I’m not sure where exactly the hollow was.

When the shock wears off, I laugh under my breath, relieved. It's indeed a szyszymora. I know from the tales they can open hollows at will and catch animals that wander in—to eat. Szyszymoras are mostly carnivorous.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” I say as I get up, brushing needles from my skin. “Give my most honorable greetings to the King of Bees. May you be well and healthy, and if we meet again, I hope I can repay your kindness. Goodbye.”

There is no answer, and I’m not sure whether I should expect one. I don’t know if the forest guardians can speak, and even if they do, I might not merit the honor.

With one last wave, I set out down the slope, looking around curiously. The forest that was so terrifying at night is so different in sunlight. I remind myself to stay alert. Yes, I met a friend and was able to rest, but it doesn’t mean I’m safe. I could still starve or freeze, especially when the nights grow colder. I could still be eaten or torn to shreds.

And yet, as I reach the glittering, silver river, narrow enough to cross it in five steps, I can’t help but smile with pleasure. The water is so perfectly clean, I see the sandy bottom and silvery fishes that dart to and fro. A big, dappled toad watches me from the opposite bank. Ferns sway behind it.

I leave my blade in the grass and wade in, hissing when cold water chills my skin. I’ll handle the cold, though, since it means I’ll get clean. Carefully, I step in deeper, until I’m in the middle of the stream.

Shivering and huffing, I scrub my skin and drink, the water tasting better than any I’ve ever had. The toad watches me sedately, unbothered by my proximity. I comb through my hair as best I can, taking out twigs and dirt, and dunk my head under the surface. Gods, it feels so glorious to be clean again.

What’s even better is the steady current of power stroking along my bones in a comforting rhythm. It seems food and sleep replenished my magic, and I’m no longer defenseless.

Nor do I have to be hungry.

“Come, fishy-fishy,” I murmur, splaying my fingers wide underwater as I release a small burst of magic. “Come right into my hands.”

They do as I bid them, small fish drawn into my palms by magic. I grab one, and it slips through my fingers, agile and fast. I catch another one, and it flees, too, its wet body refusing to be gripped.

“And my fingers have hooks,” I grunt with anger, my fingertips tingling as I expel more magic. “There.”

The next fish stays in my hand, flopping helplessly as I pull it out of the water. I grin, examining my catch. The fish is barely bigger than my palm, and a puncture in its side oozes blood that slithers down my wrist.

All my fingers are tipped with small, sharp hooks. There is a sort of pulling sensation in my chest, like taut lines leading straight from my heart to my palms. The magic keeps flowing. I realize it’s because having the hooks isn’t a one-and-done sort of spell. I need to actively sustain it.

“All right. Come, fishy-fishy.”

I catch another fish and put them both on a flat stone on the shore. As I wade back into the stream, my chest aching because of the magical strain, the toad that watched me calmly until now croaks and leaps into water with a big splash.

A gust of cold wind pebbles my skin with gooseflesh.

The world grows dim, as if a cloud obscured the sun. The trees go still.

I take one hesitant step back to the shore, releasing the hooks from my fingers. That’s when it happens.

The ferns flatten, as if bent by a big wind, but the air is still. The world grows dark for a moment, black spots bursting across my vision, and a dark, ravenous force washes over the forest, the river, and me.

My body blooms with agony, something being ripped out, beingtaken.I fall to my knees and take a shocked breath of water. Thrashing, I fight the lazy current, my body weak, my limbs refusing to listen. My eyes can’t see, water filling my ears, and I forget where up and down is. I can’t emerge. I can’t breathe.

The pain in my chest is like nothing I’ve ever felt. I’m scared I’m torn open, but what does it matter, since I’m about to drown?

No,I think feebly, my leg brushing against the sandy bottom.There. This is down. Now up.

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