Page 69 of Devil's Doom

“Open!” I scream, picturing a door, making it lead elsewhere—anywhere but here.

It appears in front of me just as the ball of fire whizzes at my face. It falls through the door, which closes, vanishing. I breathe hard, a chunk of my magic gone. When Wera blinks, surprised, I wish with all my might that ball of fire landed on her head.

The air behind her shimmers. She turns toward me, watching me with an angry, confused frown. A hush falls over the crowd.

A doorway appears just behind the strzyga. The fiery ball falls into her crown of silver braids, setting it on fire. The silence grows bigger, tenser. Wera reaches up to pat her hair, looking puzzled.

I fall to all fours, crying out as my chest empties, my magic torn out in a torrent. I have just enough left to breathe. When Wera shrieks horribly, breaking the silence, my head bursts with pain. I have to blink repeatedly until my eyes refocus.

What I see makes me gasp, half with laughter, half with horror. Wera’s head is on fire. She looks as if she has spiky flames for hair, like a strange elemental spirit beguiling people to get lost in the woods.

She tears her burning hair out in chunks, shrieking from pain, her face a mask of rage. I wonder why she won’t use water. People around us scream, shouting advice and telling us to lower the barriers.

“This fight is over,” I say under my breath, but when I reach out to see if the barrier’s down, my hand meets resistance.

Meanwhile, Wera tears the final clump of hair from her scalp. Her head is bald, her skin raw and red, scorched black in patches. It steams, the air stinking of burned flesh. I swallow convulsively, trying not to retch.

Her hate-filled eyes focus on me. She breathes hard, her mouth wide open to reveal sharp teeth and black gums. Her fingers are rigid, bent into claws. When she lurches toward me, I whimper. My magic is spent. There’s no way out.

“Stop the duel,” Draga calls out, her voice sure and even. “Come out. You can fight again tomorrow.”

But the strzyga doesn’t seem to hear her. She laughs under her breath, her fingers twitching as she takes an unsteady, shuffling step.

Somewhere behind her, a shadow shifts between the pools of light. I sag with relief, certain Woland will save me. He was here all along, watching over me. He won’t let me die.

Yet when a torrent of fire rains down, engulfing my entire body, no one is there to stop it.

Chapter twenty-four

Burns

My skin sizzles and crackles, my clothes and hair catch, and an agony of heat devours me whole. I try to scream, but there is no air to breathe. I suck in flames and heat, smoke and death, pieces of me turning to ash.

It lasts just a second. It lasts an eternity.

As soon as it started, the fire is gone. Strong hands pull me out, and I scream, pieces of my burned skin clinging to the floor where I lay, my clothes gone, the fire so hot, it devoured them instantly. I keep my eyes closed, because they burn, too. Everything burns.

And then, it doesn’t. A glorious coolness envelops me, sucking the heat away, soothing the pain. I hear voices, some shouts, some laughter, and quarrels. Wera’s shrieks come from a distance, growing quieter and quieter until I don’t hear her anymore.

All I know is that I’m safe. Woland pulled me out. Woland saved me.

I try to say his name, but my lips don’t work properly. I can’t seem to close my mouth. Every breath I take burns, and I fancy there is a funny wheezing sound nearby. With my next painful inhale, I realize I’m the one making it. My chest hurts, and not all is well, after all.

“Here,” Draga’s strong voice comes from above me. “She’s badly burned, but Lutowa cooled her down and numbed the pain. She needs healing, though. And magic. Hers is depleted.”

“Which idiot tried to fry the consort?” a grumpy male voice comes from my right, followed by a tingle of magic that feels like the storm blowing in my face. A big palm slides under the back of my head, lifting me up, and a flask is pressed to my lips. “Drink.”

“To be fair, the consort started it,” another male voice speaks, tinged with amusement. “She burned Wera’s hair off, and you know how Wera is. Always giving back more than she got.”

The grumpy voice scoffs in utter derision.

“Does Wera keep the master satisfied? No, she does not, so she should know her place. Leave the consort be, for fuck’s sake. I am the one treating all the wounds and curses he throws around when he’s frustrated, and there’s been too many this year. Let the man be happy. You need to drink more,krasnolica.”

The second male voice guffaws. “Krasnolica?She was barely pretty before Wera was through with her. With scars and her hair gone, she’ll be a scarecrow. You’ve got your work cut out for you, Nienad.”

“Leave,” Draga says, sounding angry for the first time since I met her. “Or I’ll pretend not to see it when Lutowa makes your balls freeze right off.”

“And I won’t treat you, because I’m busy with this one,” Nienad says, taking the bottle away. “All right, consort. Try to pull on that magic. Call it to the surface so it’s close to your skin. I’m going to work with your own body, because it knows best what it needs, but you have to help me. Yes, perfect. That’s a good girl.”

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