Page 72 of Devil's Doom

It takes me by surprise, how accurate that is. It seems even though I lied about some things, I couldn’t hide the essence of me from Rada’s curious eyes. It’s reassuring—that our friendship wasn’t entirely built on lies. The core of it was true.

My meal finished, exhaustion drags me back into bed, and my friends say goodbye. I fall asleep at once, the bed smelling of smoke and burning, and not at all of the devil.

I dream of Woland cradling me to his chest. He says he’s sorry, repeating the words over and over. He says he tried to teach himself a lesson. He grew biased, he says, when it comes to me. For a reason that escapes his comprehension, he can’t stand to see me suffer, and that instinct to always save me from death, pain, and tears is his weakness.

He’s training himself to ignore it. That’s what he tried to do today. It was supposed to make him harder, stronger—to remind him of who he is. He hoped he would be able to watch me suffer and stay indifferent, maybe even get a laugh out of it. He’s the devil, isn’t he? We should both remember that.

But he failed, he says, his words tangled and angry, his breath hot. He failed and now he’ll have to try harder to make himself immune to my wicked charms. Because he has to.

Because one day, he’ll have tomakeme suffer worse than ever, and how, pray, will he do it, if my tears hurt his very soul?

Again and again, he says he’s sorry. Sorry for my pain. Sorry for my hair. He adored it so much. It will grow back, but he’ll miss it in the meantime. It’s so beautiful.

He tells me he couldn’t stand it in the end. He brought down the barrier around the training area. That’s how Draga pulled me out. He shouldn’t have done it. He tells himself off for being weak, for letting himself be led by stupid instincts that mean nothing. He should have let me hurt, because I wouldn’t have died, anyway. He took care of that.

But I was in so much pain, and it broke him down.

He says he will be stronger the next time it happens. He’ll let me suffer the consequences of my stupid choices, because, “Jaga,” he says, “that was stupid. You should have let her beat you up and regain her honor. But instead, you set her hair on fire.

“She looked so fucking funny,” he says after a moment, phantom dream fingers stroking my cheek. “As if her head was a nest of firebirds. Such a sight. The funniest thing I’ve seen in decades, and that includes Strzybog trying to fuck his own asshole.”

He shakes for a while after that, quiet snorts of laughter ruffling the wisps of hair at my temple.

When he stops, it’s with a weary sigh of regret. “You’re too proud,” he says, “and that pride will be your doom.

“And you know what else? It will be my doom, too.

“You will be my doom.”

Chapter twenty-five

Labor

“Do you know of anyone who can control time? Like, for example, walk into the past—or the future?”

My voice is perfectly neutral, my body turned away as I take throwing knives out of a training dummy. I missed all the crucial points, but at least four out of ten knives hit the target this time, so I’m proud of my meager progress. Lutowa trains me outside of my sessions with Draga and Wera.

“Hm, I don’t think I know of anyone with that ability. Those who were born before time can stop it at will, but they can’t travel into the past,” the bieda says, thinking.

I hide a grim smile. So Woland told me the truth in that instance. As always, when I think about him these days, my chest wrenches with a horrible mixture of longing and hatred.

A month has passed since I saw him last.

“How many are there?” I ask, getting back to my throwing spot.

Lutowa comes over, correcting my stance. “Keep your ribs from flaring. This should be as hard as rock,” she says, patting my abdomen. “Remember the wrist motion we practiced.”

I tighten my stomach and shake out my arms, focusing on the dummy in front of me. In a real fight, I won’t throw knives but magic spells. Right now, I rely on magic for accuracy, and it’s inefficient. Lutowa wants me to be able to aim on my own, which will make my resources last longer.

“The oldest gods,” she says when I start throwing. “Perun, Weles, Swarog, Dadzbog, Chors… The master, of course… Mokosz. Time began when the first people were made. They required it to exist.”

I throw all ten knives, but I concentrate on Lutowa’s words instead of aiming, so only two hit the mark. One of them lands perfectly between the dummy’s eyebrows. I aimed for the heart, but I’ll take that win.

“You get sloppy when you’re distracted,” the bieda says, clicking her tongue. “During a battle, you’ll need to be aware of everything that happens around you and still hit the mark. And when you fight Wera, you have to focus despite people laughing and booing. Until you learn this, you won’t have a chance in a real fight.”

I sigh, going to retrieve my knives. Iamdistracted, and I loathe it. Every time I see an uncanny shadow or hear a voice that sounds remotely like his, I can’t help but look around, hoping to see a glint of his golden eyes. I’m furious with myself for reacting this way, and even more with him for abandoning me.

When he caught me and drank my blood, I was convinced he craved me to the point of insanity. Now it’s clear I was wrong. Woland is perfectly happy without me, and I am the only one plagued by ridiculous longing.

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