Page 122 of Devil's Doom

I wonder what he’s hiding under the mask. Why does he hold himself so rigidly?

“How many did we lose?” I ask, trying to provoke him to let go of that control, because he makes me feel uneasy and like he’s lying, only, I don’t know about what.

When my knees buckle, the relief of the battle being over permeating my bones, I stumble toward a bench and sit, not caring how filthy I am. Woland follows me, sitting down on his throne. His shoulders are tight, claws restless as he taps them against his thigh.

“I don’t know yet,” he says, still cool and detached. He seems not to care about his people at all. “You still haven’t answered my question. Are you hurt anywhere?”

I shake my head. “Just tired. Depleted. I… I need to go back and see Draga.”

Woland’s mask cracks for just a moment, something brutal and hot flickering in his eyes. He looks mad, unhinged with fury, and I flinch away. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, wrestling his expression back under control.

“If you cared about your friends at all, you would have let me claim you so we’d win,” he says in a low, bloodcurdling voice. This is Woland the beast, the one who terrified me at Kupala Night and forced me to look at his face until my eyes bled.

I shudder, shocked that he brings this up now.

“W-what? But you said…”

I trail off, because I forgot what it was he said. That he loves me, maybe. That he no longer cares about winning. Those words won’t go through my throat now, because they suddenly feel mocking and impossible.

Woland closes his eyes, his head falling back. His throat is bared, and his hands clench into tight fists.

“Forgive me,” he says, his eyes still closed. “Nienad failed. I’m disappointed, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

When his eyes flash open, there is something in them, something cold and predatory. I suddenly remember my barrier and yank it up, cushioning my gaze against a possible invasion. But Woland remains silent, and I feel no magic burrowing in my mind. He simply looks at me for a long moment, then releases a heavy breath.

“You’re right. We should check on your friend. Come on.”

I stumble and almost fall as I step over the bench. Woland doesn’t help me. His mask is even more rigid, jaw even tighter than before, and I can’t shake the feeling he’s furious with me. Yet—why? Because I didn’t let him claim me? He didn’t demand it this time. I thought I was free to choose.

I don’t understand him.

When his hand falls on my shoulder, it’s gentle, and when he transports us back to the cavern, and I lose my balance, he wraps a steady arm around me. When I look questioningly into his eyes, they are no longer clouded, but warm. His hand lingers on my waist, and he leans in even as we’re back among the wounded, surrounded by sounds of pain and loss.

“Careful, all right?” he says, his voice kind, until it disperses the strange sensations from our chamber. “Let me know if you feel weak, and I’ll take you back.”

As he turns away, walking straight up to Nienad, I stare after him for a moment longer, trying to force my foggy, exhausted mind to understand what’s wrong.

But then, a moan of pain nearby calls my attention back to the real world, where I can make a difference. I force Woland out of my mind, go over to a table laden with charged eggs, and fill myself up with magic to heal.

Chapter forty-one

Men

It takes hours before all the wounded are stabilized. We lose a dozen more people despite all the healers rushing to and fro under Nienad’s harsh commands. I barely stand, my body held together by a few sips of hot milk between patients and dozens of eggs that make my stomach hurt.

My heart is filled with sorrow. Draga won’t get her arm back, because not even Nienad knows of a magic spell that will make a lost limb grow back.

And Lech is in a coma.

He’s still breathing, but barely. He lost a lot of blood, and no matter how much magic and medicine I pour down his throat, he won’t wake. Rada sits by him, sleeping Dar in her arms. She cries without sobbing, big, glistening tears rolling down her perfect face, and I can’t force myself to go to her side and comfort her.

Because I feel like it’s all my fault.

“Get some sleep,” Nienad says gruffly, coming to stand next to me. “You did all you could. Those that are destined to pull through, will, and those that aren’t, well… They’ll come back one day.”

My tired mind serves up a memory of Woland’s speech. I turn to Nienad, trying to wrestle my exhausted thoughts into a semblance of order.

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