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

Chapter two

Child

When I wake up, it’s almost noon. I can tell from the sun that shines high in the sky, caressing my cheek as its rays filter through the treetops.

Three more apples sit by my side. My body feels achy but definitely not poisoned. In fact, I feel better rested than I should, given the circumstances.

The apples are big and red, their skin almost perfect, and they smell divine. I could do with something more substantial, but I won’t say it. This gift is a blessing enough, so I bow my head in gratitude.

“Thank you. It seems I do have a friend here, after all.”

Above me, birds flutter from branch to branch. I look up to see if they are small and black—like nawkas—but these are gorgeous, blue birds with red bellies, their colors so jewel-like, I’ve never seen their kind before.

My lips part as I keep looking, more details of the world registering. It’s not just the birds that are beautifully colored. Everything, from the trees, through the sky, to the mossy stones lining the slope, is so intense . The colors are brighter and deeper than back home, the edges sharper.

There is a crystalline quality to the late summer air. It smells different, too. Purer than home. I breathe deeply and watch everything with wonder, taking in the tall spires of the pines that sway with gentle creaks. A narrow, overgrown path cuts into the slope, definitely not an animal tract. It’s delineated with stones.

And further down the slope, something glitters. Water.

I don’t go yet, even though my throat is parched, my body sluggish. Slowly, I eat the apples, looking around for any signs of my benefactor. I know szyszymoras hide well in the woods, impersonating the trees they herd and protect.

If one is nearby, I don’t see them. There is only the forest, calm, swaying, and ancient, and the birds chirping cheerily as they fly among the branches. I don’t move, watching them with sudden bone-deep pleasure. It’s been so long since the last time I could sit and admire the world around me.

One bird flies into a small hollow in a tree nearby. I wonder if it has a home there.

The hollow closes with a loud snap. I gasp when a few brilliant blue feathers burst out, but no bird.

The other birds fly away, tittering, and I stare at where the hollow was, expecting it to open any moment. It never does. The bark looks perfect, blending in with the rest, until I’m not sure where exactly the hollow was.

When the shock wears off, I laugh under my breath, relieved. It's indeed a szyszymora. I know from the tales they can open hollows at will and catch animals that wander in—to eat. Szyszymoras are mostly carnivorous.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” I say as I get up, brushing needles from my skin. “Give my most honorable greetings to the King of Bees. May you be well and healthy, and if we meet again, I hope I can repay your kindness. Goodbye.”

There is no answer, and I’m not sure whether I should expect one. I don’t know if the forest guardians can speak, and even if they do, I might not merit the honor.

With one last wave, I set out down the slope, looking around curiously. The forest that was so terrifying at night is so different in sunlight. I remind myself to stay alert. Yes, I met a friend and was able to rest, but it doesn’t mean I’m safe. I could still starve or freeze, especially when the nights grow colder. I could still be eaten or torn to shreds.

And yet, as I reach the glittering, silver river, narrow enough to cross it in five steps, I can’t help but smile with pleasure. The water is so perfectly clean, I see the sandy bottom and silvery fishes that dart to and fro. A big, dappled toad watches me from the opposite bank. Ferns sway behind it.

I leave my blade in the grass and wade in, hissing when cold water chills my skin. I’ll handle the cold, though, since it means I’ll get clean. Carefully, I step in deeper, until I’m in the middle of the stream.

Shivering and huffing, I scrub my skin and drink, the water tasting better than any I’ve ever had. The toad watches me sedately, unbothered by my proximity. I comb through my hair as best I can, taking out twigs and dirt, and dunk my head under the surface. Gods, it feels so glorious to be clean again.

What’s even better is the steady current of power stroking along my bones in a comforting rhythm. It seems food and sleep replenished my magic, and I’m no longer defenseless.

Nor do I have to be hungry.

“Come, fishy-fishy,” I murmur, splaying my fingers wide underwater as I release a small burst of magic. “Come right into my hands.”

They do as I bid them, small fish drawn into my palms by magic. I grab one, and it slips through my fingers, agile and fast. I catch another one, and it flees, too, its wet body refusing to be gripped.

“And my fingers have hooks,” I grunt with anger, my fingertips tingling as I expel more magic. “There.”

The next fish stays in my hand, flopping helplessly as I pull it out of the water. I grin, examining my catch. The fish is barely bigger than my palm, and a puncture in its side oozes blood that slithers down my wrist.

All my fingers are tipped with small, sharp hooks. There is a sort of pulling sensation in my chest, like taut lines leading straight from my heart to my palms. The magic keeps flowing. I realize it’s because having the hooks isn’t a one-and-done sort of spell. I need to actively sustain it.

“All right. Come, fishy-fishy.”

I catch another fish and put them both on a flat stone on the shore. As I wade back into the stream, my chest aching because of the magical strain, the toad that watched me calmly until now croaks and leaps into water with a big splash.

A gust of cold wind pebbles my skin with gooseflesh.

The world grows dim, as if a cloud obscured the sun. The trees go still.

I take one hesitant step back to the shore, releasing the hooks from my fingers. That’s when it happens.

The ferns flatten, as if bent by a big wind, but the air is still. The world grows dark for a moment, black spots bursting across my vision, and a dark, ravenous force washes over the forest, the river, and me.

My body blooms with agony, something being ripped out, being taken. I fall to my knees and take a shocked breath of water. Thrashing, I fight the lazy current, my body weak, my limbs refusing to listen. My eyes can’t see, water filling my ears, and I forget where up and down is. I can’t emerge. I can’t breathe.

The pain in my chest is like nothing I’ve ever felt. I’m scared I’m torn open, but what does it matter, since I’m about to drown?

No, I think feebly, my leg brushing against the sandy bottom. There. This is down. Now up.

But even though I give my legs the command to push away from the bottom, they don’t listen. It’s like a crucial connection between my thoughts and my body is broken.

I blink furiously, the cold water pushing at me from every direction. My fingers twitch, and suddenly, I regain control over my legs. I break the surface and cough, shuddering as I wade toward the shore with great effort.

I don’t know what just happened or if it will happen again. I need to be on dry land, even though every step takes a tremendous amount of will. My lungs burn, and I can’t stop coughing.

After I flop down on the sandy bank, it takes me a long time to recover. Everything hurts, and I feel just like I did yesterday after I unlocked my magic and used it all up to escape Woland.

I am utterly spent.

When I open my eyes, I blink in confusion, certain something affected my sight. The world looks different. No longer lush and magical, it has a sort of muted quality, the colors less saturated, the edges of things less sharp.

I can’t tell whether the forest changed or if my eyes are out of focus.

Thankfully, the fish I caught are still where I left them. Everything is just as it was. Like nothing happened.

I dig my fingers into the slippery fish bellies, opening my prey. I rinse them out in the river and eat, crunching on fishbones that I don’t bother to rip out. If I ever meet Wisla and the other rusalkas again, I’ll have to thank them for teaching me to eat raw fish. It’s certainly better than worms.

After I’m done eating, I drink my fill. I’m still hungry, and I consider trying to catch more fish, but the weary emptiness in my chest is telling. I have no more magic left. Did I spend it all on the fishhooks on my fingers? It seemed like such a minor spell, but then, what do I know?

“All right. You’re all right. See? You ate, you got clean, you made a weapon. You can survive. Now get up.”

I feel so exhausted, it takes me a few minutes to talk myself into rising. I grip my blade and set out down the path, which runs parallel to the river. Now that I’m clean, it bothers me even more that I’m naked. I suppose I could make clothes the same way I made my knife, but it will have to wait until my magic is back.

At least walking down the path is so much easier than pushing through the endless undergrowth. At the same time, it’s a risk. I could meet someone, and without my magic, the knife is my only defense. I’m not good with blades unless I use them for surgery.

Then again, I’ve barely met anyone, only harmless animals. I wonder if it’s normal. Shouldn’t Slawa’s forests teem with beings of all kinds? Or has the war pushed them out?

I huff with irritation, walking steadily along the murmuring river. My body aches all over, which is a good thing. If not for the other aches and strains, I would be forced to focus on the continuous throbbing between my legs, the mark of Woland’s intrusion and thorns.

I know I won. He wanted to get me pregnant so he could claim me as his possession. It was very satisfying when I finally revealed I can’t have children. For once, the source of my painful regret became a cause for triumph.

But even though I avoided his cruel trap, I still feel violated beyond measure.

He called me his love, and when he was inside me, making slow, sensuous love to me, I believed him. That’s what makes me seethe with rage. I don’t care that he took my body—we used each other, and I took from him, too.

Yet I care deeply that I believed his lies. That for a foolish, utterly idiotic moment, I forgot that shameless deception is at the core of his being.

Or maybe I was just so starved for affection, I chose to believe him against all sense.

I halt when I hear a faint buzzing sound ahead. The world is still grayish, as if the colors drained out of the ferns and trees. I grip my knife and swallow, trying to decide if I should circle around the source of the buzzing.

It might just be bees, but then, even bees can be different in Slawa. For one, the King of Bees is told to rule the forests. Szyszymoras serve him, and he protects his domain with passion. He commands not just bees but all sorts of insects, and I remember tales of him sending scores of ants to devour those who entered the forest with evil in their hearts.

The ants crawled inside their noses and ears when they slept and ate them from within. I had nightmares for a week after Wiosna told me that tale when I was five. I was terrified something would crawl up my nose, too.

In the end, what decides my course of action is sheer exhaustion. I am too weak to push through the undergrowth to avoid something that’s most likely harmless, so I trudge down the path, looking around warily. When I round the bend, I stop, gaping as my heart squeezes with fear.

Yes, the buzzing is made by bees. But these aren’t normal bees. They converge in a tight swarm, creating the shape of a man standing in the middle of the path. His featureless, fuzzy face turns to me, his arms held at his sides. I glimpse the shape of fingers right before they disappear in the swarm.

I stop, watching him. He doesn’t move. Everything is still, the insistent buzzing the only sound. His shape ripples lightly as bees crawl all over one another, and I wonder if there is a man underneath, or if it’s all bees, thousands of them bound into this unnatural shape.

“Hello,” I say after a tense moment of silence. “Thank you for your hospitality. I am honored to meet you.”

I can’t be sure with the way his body shivers and fuzzes, but I think he inclines his head. I swallow down my fear and take a step closer.

“What kind of offering pleases you, my king?” I ask, doing my best not to stare into his swarming face, because the sight of it makes me nauseous.

The buzzing grows louder, and then, a murmuring, dry voice carries on the wind like a dry leaf.

“You have offered enough. Stay with us, witch. Feed our thorns your lifeblood, and we will protect you.”

I take a shaky breath to better control myself. That voice is strange, like the very nature around me whispers in unison. Just like his body is made from wild creatures, it seems like his voice is made up from all the sighs, murmurs, and creaks of the forest.

“Thank you for your kind offer. It’s beyond generous.”

Even as I say it, I realize with sorrow I can’t accept the invitation. I have things to do, devils to defeat, and a twelve-year-old girl to save from the fate of death. As appealing as it sounds to just stay here, protected and wanted, I can’t give in to the ease and comfort.

The king seems to understand my unspoken rejection. He raises an arm and turns, pointing up the path in the direction where I’m going, following the current of the river.

“That way lies pain and destruction. My home is the last enclave of peace.”

I squeeze the handle of my blade convulsively. He speaks about the war. So this forest is free of it, and yet…

“But why is no one here then?” I ask, my curiosity stronger than reverence. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I met almost no one in these parts. If there is peace here, why don’t more people live in your lands?”

He turns back to me, the bees rising with the movement. For a moment, I glimpse two splashes of glittering violet in his face, like a pair of eyes the color of flowers. He seems to consider me until he finally speaks.

“The toll we pay is higher. But you can withstand it. Your blood brims with power.”

“Toll? What do you mean?”

But he doesn’t answer my question. The bees rise in layers, the swarm falling away from the central shape, until the king becomes smaller and smaller, finally falling apart into a multitude of insects that go up into the trees like a dark cloud. I watch the spectacle, more awed than scared now.

When the forest is quiet again, I set out down the path. The king refused to answer my questions, but at least I know I’m walking in the right direction—toward danger.

I might hate Woland for bringing me to Slawa without my consent, but since I’m already here, I will make the best of it.

Soon, I spot a bush laden with wild raspberries that hang heavy, bigger and darker than the same fruit back home. I eat with pleasure, drinking in the gold rays of the late afternoon sun. After stripping the bush of its load, I remember what the king said. I can stay—provided I feed the thorns my blood.

“Thank you for the meal,” I mutter, scratching my thigh with a thorny branch until blood wells. “Did you know a certain devil has similar tastes to you? Bloodthirsty lot, you kings and gods. I hope my offering will be enough for a peaceful night.”

When evening comes, I curl up in the roots of a large birch and cover myself with moss to ward off the night chill. True to his word, the king protects me, and I sleep through the night undisturbed.

I keep walking the next day, stopping around midday to catch fish in the river. This time, nothing odd happens, and I manage to catch five small fishes on my hooky fingers without exhausting myself. Encouraged by that, I gather big fern leaves and transform them into a rudimentary dress for myself. It’s shapeless and short, the rough, gray fabric barely reaching my knees, but at least, I’m no longer naked.

In the afternoon, the river grows bigger, fed by a few smaller streams along the way. The path is wider, too, and more well-trodden. It seems like I’m finally nearing the end of the woods.

The forest grows utterly silent, birdsong cutting off. I halt, looking around, just in time to notice the lush ferns on my right bow as if under the onslaught of wind.

I choke on my next breath. The same force that surprised me yesterday in the river plows through the forest, cutting through me with dozens of seeking, greedy fingers. This time, I’m not drowning, and so I feel exactly what happens. My power, the very magic flowing in my veins, is ripped out, strand by strand, until I’m left gasping, almost completely devoid of it. The smallest spark remains. The rest… is gone. Stolen.

“What in the licho…?” I gasp out, pressing both hands to my throbbing chest. “Why?”

The world is gray again, the colors drained out of the trees, the sun bleached of its golden shine. I blink, looking around with dismay. Before I have time to make sense of everything, the bushes ahead of me rustle, and someone steps out onto the path.

I shake my head in disbelief at the sight. It’s not the King of Bees, nor is it a tree guardian. No, it’s a small boy, his hair curly and golden, his face pink. He looks at me with a sweet, friendly smile.

“Hello! Are you lost? Where is your mother?” I call out, walking closer.

The boy is dressed simply, in a linen shirt and a pair of brown pants. His feet are bare, but he’s clean and looks healthy. My knees wobble with weakness, and yet I make my way toward him, worried for the child.

When I am five steps away, his expression changes. The smile grows wider, revealing more teeth, and there is something sinister to it. The boy’s eyes flash black for the briefest moment.

In the next heartbeat, he launches himself at me with a blood-curdling shriek.