Page 68 of Devil's Doom

You faced a poludnica. You can do this,I tell myself, but the thought fails to ignite even a spark of courage. I tremble with fear, my sweaty hands clasped in front of me. Wera laughs when I say nothing. She circles our invisible cage, her form lean and tall, her apparent old age deceptive. I saw how she fought Draga. She’s limber and fast.

I turn to follow her with my eyes. All my attention is focused on not being sick, which would be an utter humiliation. How I hate Woland for doing this to me. Somehow, it seems even more cruel because he’snothere to watch it.

“I’ll go easy on you today,” Wera says with a laugh that tells me it’s bullshit. “I won’t teach you any spells or techniques yet. Your task is simple: defend yourself as long as you can. If you can get a curse in, do it. Anything goes.”

Around us, people murmur and whisper, and my skin prickles. I catch a few words here and there: “unusual”, “why… non-lethal”, “kill her”.

My vodka-addled brain figures out laboriously that “anything goes” is not the usual rule for these duels. While I don’t think Wera wants to kill me, since that would displease Woland, she’ll probably make it hurt.

Or maybe she will kill me. What do I know?

“Ready, consort?”

From the corner of my eye, I notice a peculiarly moving shadow somewhere behind the spectators. My heart stutters with hope, yet when I look that way, everything seems normal, no yellow eyes watching me with amusement. I clench my fists, realizing I’m in a worse shape than I thought. I see things I wish to see.

This has got to stop.

I call on my magic, gathering it around me like a cloak. It comes willingly, but when I look at Wera, terror roils in my gut again, distracting me. Some of my magic slips away, untethered.

“Ready,” I say through gritted teeth.

As it turns out, I am not ready at all. Wera smiles, showing me her sharp teeth, and makes a quick, cutting motion that I almost miss. My forearm blooms with pain. When I look down in time to see the bleeding gash, a series of cuts slices my other arm. I bleed from at least six shallow wounds, crimson rivulets flowing down my fingers.

Shield,I think too late, too unfocused.Wall in front of me. Impenetrable. Strong.

The air between me and the strzyga shimmers, growing solid but still transparent. Magic pours out of my chest. I know at once I won’t be able to hold this shield for longer than a few minutes, and Wera knows this, too, judging by her laugh.

She folds her arms on her chest, watching me mockingly.

“That might serve you in a brawl, but not on the battlefield,” she says. “Please do not bore us. Where is that terrified girl who attacked everyone in her path because she was so desperate to run away?”

Thatgirl? She’s drunk, miserable, and in pain. All she wants is to cuddle in a soft, dark bed.With Woland.

I huff, dismissing my shield with a thought. This time, when Wera’s fingers twitch, I’m ready. I whirl away from my spot, my movements too slow, too clumsy. Her spell hits me on the back of my arm with a sharp bite. I hiss and try to attack her.

Fly!I order, pointing my outstretched palm at her.

Wera grins, clapping once. The air in front of her shimmers, just like the barriers around us. It grows red when my spell hits it, and the next thing I know, I am thrown into the invisible wall behind my back. The hit is so powerful, I lose my breath, my spine groaning from the impact.

As I blink, desperately trying to clear my head enough to stand up, I realize Wera was waiting for this. I am so obvious in the way I fight, my only trick was used against me. Now I see the stark contrast between Wera and me. She's a trained, experienced fighter while I barely know how to use my magic. The only thing that allowed me to attack her back then was the element of surprise.

“Girl, when you fight against dragons, every second counts. Will you get up or are you waiting for death?”

Around me, people laugh and nudge each other. Someone calls out stakes for betting, and many bet hardboiled eggs on Wera winning. Someone bets I will cry before she’s done with me. Someone else, that I’ll piss myself.

Anger tightens my core, stronger than the fear. I brace myself and rise, focusing as much as I can.

Sharp, I think.Sober. Strong.

I’ve never tried to alter my body like this before, eliminating something I ingested from within myself. My focus remains inward, removing every drop of alcohol. When Wera flings something invisible at me, I raise a shield just in time, the thinnest, least costly one I can manage. It shatters when the spell lands, but it does its job, protecting me until I’m clean.

My liver hurts, my stomach spasming, but my mind is sharp. I did it. I’m sober. And about half of my magic is gone.

“Better,” Wera says, strolling from side to side with deceptive ease, as if she’s done attacking me. “That’s one way to do it, but if I cast something stronger, or if a dragon flings a stream of fire in your face, that strategy won’t work.”

I have a split second to act. A ball of fire sizzles my way. I drop down and roll, my muscles screaming from pain when I get on my knees—just in time to see another ball of fire. The world slows, time coming down to a crawl.

I can’t roll out of the way. I can’t duck. In a moment of almost timeless suspension, a memory opens in my mind, vivid and immediate—the older me walking through a doorway of flames.

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