Page 67 of Devil's Doom

“When did he request this?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “You spoke to him?”

“Last night,” the strzyga says, her jaw working as if she’s stopping herself from saying something else. “You slept through it, like the lazy consort you are. I expect you in an hour.”

“You’re not lazy,” Draga says, offering me her hand to help me up. “Strzygas don’t sleep, and it makes them feel superior to everyone who does. I know it will probably hurt, but Wera is very good at casting efficient, fast spells that will let you fight for hours. She will teach you well.”

I thank her and crawl to the bath, gritting my teeth to keep back whimpers of pain. Knowing Woland was here and didn’t even try to see me makes my mood even worse, first, because I feel ridiculously rejected and abandoned, and second, because I hate how much his absence affects me.

A shy, quiet voice pipes up in the back of my mind, saying that maybe he did come to see me and that’s why the bed was warm, but I tell it to shut up. If I let myself hope for things I can’t have, it will hurt even more after he tricks me again.

At breakfast, Lutowa takes one look at me and snorts with amusement. When I tell her about my looming training with Wera, she laughs so hard, she chokes on a huge piece of buttered ham. I fold my arms and watch her with spite until she coughs out the food.

“Well, at least you know he cares about you,” she says after she calms down. “You’re the first consort he arranged any sort of lessons for. He wants you to be strong so you can protect yourself.”

I viciously stick my fork into a hard-boiled egg, one of the six Draga told me to eat today. All Woland cares about is that I stay alive so he can use me to win. After all, he won’t even come to see me.

As soon as I catch myself thinking that, I grow even angrier. Ishouldn’tcare.

Before my combat training, I drink half a cup of vodka. When Lutowa remarks drily that it will make my aim atrocious, I grumble that at least some of the pain will fade. And my aim is probably awful, anyway.

“Why don’t you heal yourself?” she asks, snorting with disbelief. “You have enough power and skill.”

“Draga forbid it,” I say through clenched teeth, pouring myself another round. “Apparently, true strength is born through pain.”

She shakes her head with a small smile. “I’ll go with you,” she offers. “And after Wera wipes the floor with your remains, I’ll take you to the hot bath. We can get drunk together.”

“Now you’re talking,” I mutter. “Can I bring my friend if she wants to go? She’ll probably refuse because I lied to her, and her man hates me now, but maybe the bath will tempt her.”

Lutowa nods, and I perk up a bit. The thought of getting to see Rada and mend fences gives me something to look forward to. But when we enter the forge and I see the small crowd of kobolds, strzygas, upirs, and others gathered around a big area cleared in the middle of the room, my heart sinks.

Wera shoots me a triumphant grin from the middle of the rectangle, whose invisible walls shimmer with power. Once I go in, I won’t be able to leave until we both decide the training is over. As I take in her pleased expression and wrinkled cheeks flushed with excitement, I realize this is a trap. She’ll never let me go until I’m completely conquered, likely beaten to a pulp and unconscious.

She’s dressed practically, in a shirt and trousers, her clothes clinging to her lean frame. Her hair is braided tightly around her head. She doesn’t carry weapons, but I can’t let that lull me into a false sense of safety.

Wera fights with magic, and my skills in that area are rudimentary at best.

But I can’t afford to back away. No one would ever respect me after that, and even worse,Iwouldn’t respect myself.

“I’ll sing a beautiful eulogy at your burial,” Lutowa says in a deadpan voice.

I turn to her and grab her hand. She flinches, eyes growing wide, and I realize she’s even less used to touching people than I am. When I make to drop her hand and apologize, she squeezes my fingers, nodding.

“You’ll be fine,” she says quietly, aware of the audience that came to see my defeat. “She wants to get back at you for throwing her. You humiliated her, now she’ll hurt you back, and you’ll be even. Unless you defeat her. That would be interesting, though unlikely.”

I take a deep breath, my hands shaking in the bieda’s grip. The alcohol I drank did nothing to cure my nerves, but it did make me unsteady. My body feels strangely light, movements too fluid, as if there’s a delay between reality and my perception. I wish I didn’t drink the vodka.

“All right. Wish me luck,” I mutter, dropping her hands, my spine rigid, face grim.

“Luck has nothing to do with it. Fight well.”

As I approach the rectangular fighting area, the crowd erupts with whistles and bellows. I hear the now familiar insults, traitor and whore, and I think with grim sarcasm that it’s so unfair to be called that since I didn’t even fuck him after I got here. Whore indeed.

I pinch my face into what I hope is a look of haughty indifference. My heart thunders with fear, guts twisting with nausea. I’ve been hated, I’ve been derided, but never likethis.To be surrounded by three dozen people who so obviously clamor for my defeat is an overwhelming experience.

As I cross the barrier, Wera’s grin widens, turning predatory. Her milky eyes track my movements as she cackles with glee, and I swallow and swallow, desperately trying to control my urge to vomit.

Gods. Make it swift. Please.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” she says, her voice carrying as the crowd hushes to listen. “You tried to run that first day like a poor lamb with fear in her eyes. Yet, here you are. Maybe not so hopeless a coward.”

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