Page 64 of Devil's Doom

“You walk like a queen with rags on her back. She’s poor, she’s humiliated, but she knows in her bones she’s destined to rule.”

The voice is melodic and quiet, but devoid of emotion. I look up from my plate of pork sausages and bread, right into the black, bottomless eyes of a pale, dark-haired woman.

She’s so thin, her bones stick out, her arms even more twiglike than mine. Her tattered gray dress presses to her ribs intimately, revealing every contour of her unhealthy frame. She looks young, but her eyes watch me with the weariness of old age.

“Thank you,” I say after a moment of hesitation. “Would you like to sit?”

She gives me an unsettling smile that reveals two large gaps in her upper row of teeth, and takes a place opposite me. When I see her breakfast, I raise my eyebrows. She has two large plates, each heaped high with the most fattening food options. There are sausages, thick cuts of cheese and pork belly, and a ball of butter as big as my fist sitting by a pile of thick bread slices.

“You don’t know who I am, do you, consort?”

I flinch, looking up. While I studied her food, she scrutinized me, her eyes twinkling with a knowing spark.

“I admit I don’t. And call me Jaga, please.”

Anything but consort.

“My name is Lutowa,” she says with a smile, the thin layer of her skin stretching gruesomely over her cheekbones. “I’m a bieda.”

My lips part with a soft sigh of understanding. So that’s why she looks like she’s starving—because she is. A bieda is a demoness of poverty and starvation, one of the most feared types of bies. In the stories, whenever a bieda moves into someone’s home, that person’s family lose all their wealth and die one by one, finished by cold, lack of food, and illness.

Her name, Lutowa, means “of the winter months”. Winter is the worst time to be poor. In summer, people survive without fire for warmth, and they forage in the forest or hunt for food. But winter kills poor people.

“You’re thinking how to politely tell me to go,” Lutowa says with an amused expression that looks eerie on her skeletal features. “I understand.”

She picks up her plate. My hand shoots out before I think, grabbing her shockingly thin wrist. Her skin is dry and cold, her veins so very blue underneath.

“Don’t go,” I say when she gives me a look of mild surprise. “I’m not afraid of you. And I’d love to have company.”

Especially of someone who calls me a queen, and not a traitor whore. I’ll take allies where I find them.

She nods, her gaunt face softening as she regards me with a quizzical look.

“You truly aren’t afraid. Just like the devil. Do you know most biedas are banished from the city upstairs? Everyone thinks we’re just waiting to steal all their eggs and chickens.”

She laughs listlessly, spreading a generous layer of butter on her bread with a wicked looking knife. Its handle is made of black wood with a strangely rusty tinge that brings to mind blood. The blade is wide and serrated, the teeth narrow.

“But Woland took you in,” I guess. “Are the other rebels afraid of you?”

Her eyes flash at the mention of his name. She takes an enormous bite of bread that she swallows without chewing, watching me closely.

“They are. I am used to that, of course. Fear is respect. It’s power, in the right circumstances. But sometimes, a woman hunkers for a conversation with someone who isn’t focused on thinking how to flee.”

I huff with laughter, cutting off a piece of sausage. She swallows the rest of her slice and butters another one.

“So Woland isn’t afraid you’ll turn him into a pauper?” I ask.

She shakes her head, swallowing an unchewed slice of bacon. “I wouldn’t dare try, but even if I did, he’s too powerful to be threatened by my curses. Besides, I am as loyal as can be. When most people throw stones, you learn to cherish the hand that feeds you.”

She swallows another piece of bread, her stomach seemingly bottomless. My lips stretch in a humorless smile.

“I know something about that.”

Maybe that’s why I cling to everyone who shows me kindness. I’m used to hatred and derision, and yes, I’ve had stones thrown my way, too. Few people cared for me, but every time that happened, I did all I could to protect them fiercely.

When I look up from my food, I find the bieda’s black eyes studying me.

“We barely met,” Lutowa says slowly, as if weighing every word on her tongue, “but you showed me unexpected kindness. I have nothing to do since no one wants me anywhere near their belongings or children. I’m offering you my help. You can ask old Lutowa for advice or curse magic secrets, or if you have an enemy you’d like to suffer, I’ll gladly assist you.”

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