Page 1 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter one

Apple

Here I am again, running for my life through the woods. I gasp out little puffs of terror with every breath. There are no sounds of pursuit. Woland’s roars quieted hours ago, and still, I lurch ahead on unsteady feet, pushing through tall, rustling ferns. My arms hurt from holding out in front of me, but I don’t dare lower them.

I’ve already walked into a tree twice. The darkness of Slawa’s woods is thicker, furrier than the one back home, even though its stars shine brighter. Walking under the robust canopies, I’m practically blind.

My bare feet bleed, as do numerous cuts and gashes on my legs and arms. There’s a nasty wound on my thigh, my skin torn by a ragged branch I failed to see. That’s part of the reason why I keep going. With blood trailing in my wake, I must be easy prey, if not for Woland, then for other bloodthirsty predators.

The other reason is that I’m too terrified to stop. I don’t know these woods. Whatever evil lurks here, it’s a thousand times worse than the animals I knew to beware of back in the mortal world. Wolves and bears were dangerous, of course, but at least I recognized them and knew how to flee. There’s no telling what might attack me here, so I plow through the alien foliage in the feeble hope that I might find my way out of the trees.

I don’t hope to find a settlement. There isn’t a friendly face in this world that I can count on to help me. What I long for is a meadow or a clearing. Something with fewer shadows and more starlight, where I can see the danger coming.

A strange, half-choked call comes from afar. I freeze, pressing my filthy, blood-crusted palms to my mouth to hold back a sob. Silence falls, and still I don’t dare breathe, my body shivering from exhaustion and the cold.

Summer is almost over. My naked skin gives me no protection from the chilly bite.

Another sound comes in, a faint rustle in the canopy above me. I press my hands tighter to my face, taking small, shallow breaths as the pit of my stomach hollows with dread.

What could it be? Back home, I’d expect a bird, but here? A licho or another type of bies could very well be in the tree, watching me—a hapless mortal stinking of blood and fear. Maybe it’s a zmij, a serpent with eagle wings and lethal venom dripping from its fangs.

When the sound doesn’t repeat, I stumble ahead, up a gentle hill. The lush-canopied oaks and thick-trunked beeches give way to slimmer, taller pines. Stars shine through between the treetops, lighting my way just enough to avoid the worst obstacles. I lower my arms with a shaky exhale of relief and climb, my jaw clenched.

In the past month, I’ve wandered the woods, but it was leisurely and apathetic. It didn't prepare me for this. My malnourished body screams in protest as I push it past its limits, my shrunken muscles trembling from the effort.

Soon, exhaustion wraps around me like a cloak, and my fear grows nebulous and distant, as if it’s someone else’s emotion. I walk on without a thought, my mind dazed and empty. When a longing howl comes from afar, carrying in the crystal air, I stumble and blink.

Then I resume walking, my mind churning an idle thought like it’s a riddle it wants to solve. There are wolves here. Or maybe werewolves. Did it sound like Przemyslaw?

I don’t know how long I walk in that stupor. The darkness shifts, growing fuzzier and then clearer, making me hope for a quick dawn.

But does the sun shine in Slawa? Does Dadzbog cross this sky just like he does the mortal one? Will Jutrzenka open the doors for him so a new day can rise?

Or is this land so different from home that even the very nature of day and night is foreign?

I am so defenseless, I can’t even count on my knowledge of the world to aid me. All I have is my magic, but I haven’t tested its limits yet. I know almost nothing about my power. I don’t even feel it anymore.

When Woland took my virginity and broke through the seal, I felt the inferno of power buzzing amidst the whirling pain. Now? There’s barely a hum.

Still, I try to call it forth to warm myself, and pangs of pain tear into my chest and gut. I feel empty, starved for food and energy, and that makes me think I overextended myself.

Hopefully, that’s the reason. But a thought keeps nagging at the back of my mind, like a horrible itch. What if the seal isn’t truly broken? Or what if I spent all my magic at once, and there is no more for me?

What if I’m truly mortal—now that I’ve landed myself in the most dangerous of all worlds?

It’s not just that this place wasn’t made for mortals. Slawa is ravaged by a war.

My exhaustion gives way to true fear. Have I lost my magic? No, I can’t have. And I will prove it to myself once and for all.

I stop when I notice a thick, fallen branch. Gritting my teeth, I call on that hum of magic and focus, asking the branch to become a weapon. It’s difficult to gather my thoughts, so I make up a rhyme to better direct my intent.

“Be a blade that makes foes bleed,

Let me cut them down and flee.”

Pain tears through my hands, sweat dripping down my nose, but I hold the vision of a knife and let the power flow from my heart, down my fingers, and into the branch. For a moment, nothing happens, and then, the nature of the wood in my hands changes. It grows cold. Like metal.

Darkness swirls in my head, and next thing I know, I’m down on my knees, my sweat dripping into the dry pine needles. When I catch my breath, biting back a moan, I gently feel the branch.

My heart stops for a moment when I feel rough wood under my fingers. It didn’t work.

But then, I feel further along the branch. My fingers touch metal. It’s a crude weapon, but a weapon still. It seems like the narrow blade grows out directly from the branch, as if it’s organic and not man-made.

It’s a proper blade, though. One edge is sharp enough to cut my finger, and it ends in a pointy tip. The blade is a bit longer than my forearm.

Despite the bone-deep exhaustion and pain, despite my wounds, I laugh silently, my teeth bared in triumph. My power is still here, and it’s incredible.

I am magical.

Truly, my power is greater than I ever suspected. I did the unthinkable: I bound the devil’s blood, shackling it into an amulet that won’t allow him to find me. And then, when he chased me, furious because I foiled his plans, I threw him back.

I laugh harder, and my body shakes with mirth as I remember how he looked, flying helplessly into a cluster of ferns.

I did that. I bested the devil.

There is a loud, eerie creak, and my smile flees, replaced by a frightened gasp. But it’s only the pine towering above me, jutting higher into the sky than any tree back home. The upper half moves gently in the light wind, and that’s the cause of the creaking.

It’s just a pine, I tell myself, trying to calm my frantic heart as I scramble to my feet, clutching my weapon in my sweaty fist.

Even though it sounds like the hinges of a nightmarish doorway. It’s just a pine.

When I reach the top of the hill and glimpse the sharp, downward curve of the path ahead, I stop to catch my breath. The forest floor here is dry and pleasant, fallen pine needles making a soft carpet for my weary feet.

I lean against the nearest tree and try to calm my breathing, but it’s harsh and swift, my heart beating unevenly. I’ve overtaxed myself in many ways, and my dry throat and rumbling stomach let me know I’m in need of food and drink.

“Such a beautiful forest must be fed by a river, hm?” I say under my breath, stroking the pine bark soothingly, as if it’s the tree that needs comforting, not my racing heart. “And what do your animals eat? I’m so hungry, I wouldn’t say no to a fat worm. If you can spare one.”

I wonder if that’s the answer. Maybe I should dig in the ground like a chicken, hoping Slawa’s soil teems with edible life. Eating earthworms gritting with sand doesn’t sound appealing, but what’s even less pleasant is the thought of starving to death.

I might have run from the devil and thrown him with my magic, but I am no fool. This isn’t over, and after what I did, he’s likely furious. I don’t want to think what he might do.

Better not find out.

A hollow thud makes me jolt. I trip and stumble, trying to run, when something cool touches my aching foot. There’s another thud. I freeze, listening. Nothing moves in the greenery, and there are no animal grunts or hisses.

Slowly, my heart bursting with urgency, I bend to grab the cool thing that rolled up to my foot.

For a moment, I turn it in my fingers, uncomprehending. Then I recognize the shape and weight. It’s an apple.

My mouth waters, but I can’t eat yet. I clearly remember there was another thud, so I get down on my hands and knees, searching in the dark, until my fingers close around the second fruit.

When I bring one to my nose, I almost moan with relief, taking a big bite. Gods, it tastes wonderful. Tart and sweet, sweeter than apples back home. Maybe it’s because Slawa’s fruit is magical. Or maybe I’m just that hungry.

I stay on my knees as I eat slowly. The apples burst with juice and flavor on my tongue, and I devour both in record time, leaving nothing behind. While not fully satiating my hunger, they take off the edge and wake me up enough to think.

And the more I think, the more I realize that maybe I shouldn’t have eaten them so fast. Because that wasn’t an accident.

I spoke of hunger and two apples rolled right to my feet. Like magic, but not mine. Was it a gift, a curse, or both?

My fingers tremble when I bring them to my stomach. My skin is sticky with cool sweat, but when I press down, there is no pain apart from the ache of hunger. If I was poisoned, it didn’t act immediately.

“Who is there?” I murmur. “Who gave me the apples? I owe you thanks. Probably.”

In the silence, the trees around me rustle, as if brushed by a sudden wind. I think of Strzybog with the laughing eyes and a mane of golden hair. If that’s him, I should run. He’s Woland’s ally.

The pines creak, trees seeming to move aside for a moment so more starlight falls on the forest floor. I glimpse a hollow right underneath a tree, mostly hidden from view by a large bush. It’s half-filled with pine needles, and something gleams there for a moment before the forest calms and the wind dies down.

My heart thunders in my throat when I crawl forward. The hollow looks comfortable and big enough for me to curl in. And in it lies another apple.

Swallowing thickly, I stop and consider the offering. The wind might be a clue. Is it a gift from Strzybog? I wrinkle my nose, remembering the disdainful smiles of the fun-loving, seductive god. He didn’t strike me as someone who leaves humble gifts in secret, unacknowledged.

Who, then?

The pines creak again, and I look up, the trees black against the wide sky, swaying like gentle giants. My breath catches when I remember what Wiosna always said about the forest gods.

“Some say they are asleep. Others say they are dead. Maybe they just went away to Wyraj, where trees grow strong and no one cuts them down. Who knows? But it’s a pity they are gone. The forest gods help their own, you know. They can always tell whether you’re a friend or an impostor. It’s the smell. Most people smell too civilized, like cows and muck. A szyszymora will only help you if you smell like them: of pines, moss, and stream water. Clean.”

Maybe I’m not clean, but I’ve spent the last few weeks in a forest. I probably fit right in. Maybe enough to be offered protection.

Szyszymoras are the guardians of the woods. They are supposed to resemble large trees, or maybe giant pine cones—Wiosna wasn’t sure. What she was sure about was that they are kind and protective of those they see as allies, and that they serve the King of Bees.

Trusting the folktales is a risk, but I can’t afford not to take it. I am too exhausted to go on.

I take the apple and eat it in big bites, pushing my ravenous hunger just a little bit away so it’s not as urgent. The forest rustles and creaks, calm and serene, and it lulls me into a sense of security.

“Thank you so much,” I whisper, crawling into the hollow. I dig into the nest of pine needles carefully, so that they cover me but don’t prickle my skin. “Please, protect me as I rest. Thank you.”

The trees sing their lullaby, and I fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep. My last thought is that maybe the apples were poisoned, after all.

Maybe it’s not sleep but death.