Page 5 of Devil's Doom

But even though I give my legs the command to push away from the bottom, they don’t listen. It’s like a crucial connection between my thoughts and my body is broken.

I blink furiously, the cold water pushing at me from every direction. My fingers twitch, and suddenly, I regain control over my legs. I break the surface and cough, shuddering as I wade toward the shore with great effort.

I don’t know what just happened or if it will happen again. I need to be on dry land, even though every step takes a tremendous amount of will. My lungs burn, and I can’t stop coughing.

After I flop down on the sandy bank, it takes me a long time to recover. Everything hurts, and I feel just like I did yesterday after I unlocked my magic and used it all up to escape Woland.

I am utterly spent.

When I open my eyes, I blink in confusion, certain something affected my sight. The world looks different. No longer lush and magical, it has a sort of muted quality, the colors less saturated, the edges of things less sharp.

I can’t tell whether the forest changed or if my eyes are out of focus.

Thankfully, the fish I caught are still where I left them. Everything is just as it was. Like nothing happened.

I dig my fingers into the slippery fish bellies, opening my prey. I rinse them out in the river and eat, crunching on fishbones that I don’t bother to rip out. If I ever meet Wisla and the other rusalkas again, I’ll have to thank them for teaching me to eat raw fish. It’s certainly better than worms.

After I’m done eating, I drink my fill. I’m still hungry, and I consider trying to catch more fish, but the weary emptiness in my chest is telling. I have no more magic left. Did I spend it all on the fishhooks on my fingers? It seemed like such a minor spell, but then, what do I know?

“All right. You’re all right. See? You ate, you got clean, you made a weapon. You can survive. Now get up.”

I feel so exhausted, it takes me a few minutes to talk myself into rising. I grip my blade and set out down the path, which runs parallel to the river. Now that I’m clean, it bothers me even more that I’m naked. I suppose I could make clothes the same way I made my knife, but it will have to wait until my magic is back.

At least walking down the path is so much easier than pushing through the endless undergrowth. At the same time, it’s a risk. I could meet someone, and without my magic, the knife is my only defense. I’m not good with blades unless I use them for surgery.

Then again, I’ve barely met anyone, only harmless animals. I wonder if it’s normal. Shouldn’t Slawa’s forests teem with beings of all kinds? Or has the war pushed them out?

I huff with irritation, walking steadily along the murmuring river. My body aches all over, which is a good thing. If not for the other aches and strains, I would be forced to focus on the continuous throbbing between my legs, the mark of Woland’s intrusion and thorns.

I know I won. He wanted to get me pregnant so he could claim me as his possession. It was very satisfying when I finally revealed I can’t have children. For once, the source of my painful regret became a cause for triumph.

But even though I avoided his cruel trap, I still feel violated beyond measure.

He called me his love, and when he was inside me, making slow, sensuous love to me, Ibelievedhim. That’s what makes me seethe with rage. I don’t care that he took my body—we used each other, and I took from him, too.

Yet I care deeply that I believed his lies. That for a foolish, utterly idiotic moment, I forgot that shameless deception is at the core of his being.

Or maybe I was just so starved for affection, I chose to believe him against all sense.

I halt when I hear a faint buzzing sound ahead. The world is still grayish, as if the colors drained out of the ferns and trees. I grip my knife and swallow, trying to decide if I should circle around the source of the buzzing.

It might just be bees, but then, even bees can be different in Slawa. For one, the King of Bees is told to rule the forests. Szyszymoras serve him, and he protects his domain with passion. He commands not just bees but all sorts of insects, and I remember tales of him sending scores of ants to devour those who entered the forest with evil in their hearts.

The ants crawled inside their noses and ears when they slept and ate them from within. I had nightmares for a week after Wiosna told me that tale when I was five. I was terrified something would crawl up my nose, too.

In the end, what decides my course of action is sheer exhaustion. I am too weak to push through the undergrowth to avoid something that’s most likely harmless, so I trudge down the path, looking around warily. When I round the bend, I stop, gaping as my heart squeezes with fear.

Yes, the buzzing is made by bees. But these aren’t normal bees. They converge in a tight swarm, creating the shape of a man standing in the middle of the path. His featureless, fuzzy face turns to me, his arms held at his sides. I glimpse the shape of fingers right before they disappear in the swarm.

I stop, watching him. He doesn’t move. Everything is still, the insistent buzzing the only sound. His shape ripples lightly as bees crawl all over one another, and I wonder if there is a man underneath, or if it’s all bees, thousands of them bound into this unnatural shape.

“Hello,” I say after a tense moment of silence. “Thank you for your hospitality. I am honored to meet you.”

I can’t be sure with the way his body shivers and fuzzes, but I think he inclines his head. I swallow down my fear and take a step closer.

“What kind of offering pleases you, my king?” I ask, doing my best not to stare into his swarming face, because the sight of it makes me nauseous.

The buzzing grows louder, and then, a murmuring, dry voice carries on the wind like a dry leaf.

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