Page 21 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter twenty-one

Draga

Woland’s bath is a separate room, the door opposite the bed. Inside stands an enormous, oblong vessel made from copper that glimmers just like my hair in the light from the fireplace. I imagine it might fit Woland and at least two other people—and it probably has at some point.

When I knock on it three times, it fills at once.

The bath is the most decadent I’ve ever taken in my life. There is so much room to stretch, the water stays hot, and I have a few soaps to choose from, one smelling of roses, another of rosemary, and the last one, as if to mock me—of lovage.

Woland made fun of my lovage soap once. I wonder if he started using it back then, or if it’s a staple in his bath. Just like my wine, the soap is a strange reminder of home and an unexpected piece of me in his life.

As I soak, I consider what to do. He’s gone, and if I want to leave, I should do it now. Yet, I linger, slowly moving my hands and legs under water until my entire body relaxes, the pain and confusion of the day coming off my skin like dirt.

Because where would I go? Slawa is a hopeless prison, and even if I leave the tunnels, I cannot leave the city. The forest is a trap, and the fence is said to kill anyone trying to climb it or crawl underneath. The only way through is to fly above it, and even if I could, what then?

Wyraj is off limits. The gods would never let the likes of me stay among them. And Nawie isn’t just beyond a fence, but a deep, deadly river that devours those who try to pass.

There used to be bridges, according to Lech. Long, long ago, when Perun and Weles didn’t fight every time they met.

It seems I have nowhere to go, but if I stay here, Woland will try to claim me one way or another. I press my fingers to my scar that starts right above my pubic bone. My skin is sensitive there, but the scar is barely visible. I wonder if Woland knows of a way to cure my infertility, but as soon as that thought blooms in my mind, I dig my nails into my thighs and try to chase it away.

It’s pointless to think about it. I must stay infertile to evade his control. Even if the yearning in my chest feels like it might suffocate me.

For now, I am as I was, my body scarred in all the familiar ways. But he tried to fuck me almost as soon as he caught me. I should be careful. If he can heal me, that means I can’t afford to have sex with him.

I play with the rune on my wrist, wondering if it’s enough to stop conception if I am healed. With anyone else, probably. With Woland? He’s too powerful for me to have any illusions that my flimsy rune will hold him back.

Even if my body craves him, I’ll have to resist. It’s too risky. And if we don’t fuck, the only way for him to claim me will be if I choose it, and I don’t think I ever will.

But what other choices do I have? Who might help me?

I know Rod and Chors, but the former seems too distant to beg for help, and the latter has some ties to Woland I know little about. Yet, they are gods. Maybe I could call on Chors. Maybe if I tell him about the prophecy…

I dunk my head under water, letting out a frustrated flurry of bubbles. I cannot tell him. It’s bad enough with one god chasing after me, and if there are more? I won’t survive it.

Maybe I should just give myself to Woland and be done with it.

I emerge with a bitter laugh, knowing that will never happen. He’s a cruel liar and a beast with no regard for others. I can’t let him fool me again.

Also, Woland as the ruler of Slawa? It sounds like a joke. I think about Rada’s baby who will have to live in this world. Did I save his life just for him to bow to Woland and call him master?

What else can I do, then? Go to Perun? I scoff, knowing he’s the last person I want to rule over me.

Nyja, then? She is loyal to Woland, though the temptation of power might sway her. But she had a chance to claim me at Kupala, and she didn’t even try. I think hard, trying to come up with another god who would be a good ruler. Since claiming me is supposed to grant someone victory in this war, maybe it’s my duty to let myself be claimed—and end Perun’s rule of terror.

If only there was someone I could trust.

A thought strikes me. I gaze unseeingly into the fire, my mind slowly spinning.

He is powerful beyond measure, almost as much as his brother. He has experience ruling, and if Wiosna is to be believed, his land is a good, prosperous place. Woland said he is the one who actually created the mortal race and walked among them as shepherd and teacher before Perun chained him to the roots of the Great Oak.

But Weles is neutral in the war. Yet if he knows victory is certain with me by his side, maybe he will fight.

My skin wrinkles as I soak far too long, considering my options. I might decide to let Weles claim me, but I want to get to know him before that. But how? He is locked away in Nawie. I know he doesn’t come out, because as soon as Perun gets a whiff of his brother, he launches an attack.

If Weles could die, Perun would have killed him long ago, according to Lech. But gods are immortal. I received a demonstration when Woland stabbed himself over a dozen times with my knife, the wounds healing instantly.

It’s quite bothersome—he can kill me with a snap of his fingers, yet I have no way to hurt him.

As I dry myself with a warm towel, I wonder if poison might work. Probably not, but I tuck that idea away for later. I could treat him to a nice cup of belladonna after a long, tiring day—like the loving consort I am.

Curling up in the huge bed that smells like Woland, I do my best not to miss him, just as he laughed I would. Instead, I focus on my new goals: to grow stronger and learn everything I can about Weles.

Woland is plotting something, that is certain. I’ll plot right back at him.

I wake up to the sound of a horrible racket, feeling as if I barely closed my eyes. Draga stands nearby, beating a metal ladle against a pot. I sit up, covering myself with a sheet, and look at her with bleary eyes. The room is brightly lit, and Woland isn’t here.

“Dadzbog will come out in two hours,” Draga says cheerfully, putting the pot away. “The first rule you’ll follow in my training is to always rise before your enemies! That way you’ll get a head start.”

I stifle a big yawn, shuddering from the cold. “Is it really two hours before dawn?”

Draga nods, pointing at a bundle of clothes at the foot of the bed. “Get dressed. I need to see what I’m working with.”

I went to bed naked, too tired to bother with making a nightshirt for myself. As I crawl from under the sheets, my body instantly pebbles with gooseflesh. I hiss, hugging myself. At least the stone floor is covered with a thick rug.

“Wait. Raise your arms out. And now turn. All right, get dressed.”

As I put on a tight, warm shirt and a pair of loose trousers held at my waist by a sturdy belt, Draga lists everything that’s wrong with me.

“You’ll need to braid your hair so it’s out of the way, that’s for sure. You don’t want Wera to yank on it when you fight, right? And I’m sorry to say it, but you look like you have no strength at all. Those arms are twigs, so easy to break. If you hung from the edge of a cliff, holding on with your hands, would you pull yourself up? Thought so. Your legs are only a bit better. They need work. Tell me, did you get winded coming down here yesterday?”

I slip on comfortable leather shoes with hard soles. “Yes, a bit. Though I walk a lot every day. It used to be worse.”

Draga nods, unconvinced. “Walk. Right. How about running?”

I give her a grim smile, thinking about the last time I ran properly, with Woland on my heels. “I haven’t run in a bit, but I’m sure I can manage if I’m properly motivated.”

“Splendid!” Draga claps her hands. “I’ll chase you with a stick, then. We’ll have so much fun!”

I stare at her, looking for signs of irony, but the white smile in her dark face seems completely genuine. Her brown eyes sparkle with friendly interest, and the way she moves makes me envious. Her every gesture oozes confidence. She moves like a warrior, someone utterly at home in their body.

My own body feels alien sometimes, ever since Woland brought me back to life. I know I’m myself. I counted all my freckles one day when the anxiety was too much to handle. And yet, I can’t shake the thought he changed something within me. Maybe he took something away—only, I don’t know what.

“Have some water and let’s go,” Draga says. “You need to earn your breakfast.”

I simply stare, feeling weak, grumpy, and out of my depth. I am not a fighter, and I don’t expect any amount of training will make me good at physical combat. But yesterday, I promised myself I’d work hard to grow stronger, and if rising before the chickens is what gets me there, so be it.

Draga laughs when I give her my best attempt at a pale, sleepy smile. “You’ll get used to it. Come on, I’ll go easy on you today. You get to run without a loaded bag.”

I guzzle water and follow her out, rubbing my eyes. As soon as the door closes behind us, Draga reaches for her belt, producing a short, thick stick. She taps it against her palm, and it suddenly grows to the length of her leg. My eyes widen with alarm. She wasn’t joking.

Draga grins, baring all those white teeth with a good-natured laugh. “Run, recruit.”

I launch into an unsteady trot. She taps my ass lightly, and I groan, trying to speed up. For a time, we jog at an easy pace that still makes me winded, especially up the stairs. There are so fucking many, and as my thighs and lungs burn, I curse Woland with every step. He just had to put his rooms so much deeper than everyone else. Rock bottom, indeed.

As soon as we reach the top, Draga swipes at the backs of my thighs, harder this time.

“All right, you’re warmed up. Sprint to the forge!”

I want to give her an outraged look over my shoulder, but as the stick swishes again, I jerk into a faster run. She is right on my heels, breathing evenly.

“You call that a sprint? My grandma runs faster than you, and her tits swing around her knees! Faster, recruit!”

With that helpful image in mind, I force my body to speed up, even though my mouth fills with a bitter taste, my chest too small to contain the air I need. Draga hits my ass hard the next time I slow down, and I yelp, launching into what feels like the fastest run in my life.

By gods, I haven’t run this fast even from the poroniec.

“Good!” my torturer says cheerfully when we run into the almost empty forge. “Take a minute to catch your breath. Water and towels are there.”

I fall to my hands and knees, wheezing. A black-eyed, black-haired willowy woman who hacks with a sword at a dummy looks at me with a sneer. Even her contempt fails to rouse me.

“All right!” Draga comes back much too soon. “Let’s work on your strength.”

I turn toward the table laden with water pitchers, and she smacks my hip with the stick.

“Ow! Come on, I need a drink!”

She laughs. “You had time to drink, and you wasted it. Let’s go. Pushing yourself without water is an important skill, too.”

As I drag my feet after her, my head pounding, throat burning from thirst, I remind myself why I’m here. I’m done being weak and derided, and Woland, for all his lies, is right: I can do this. I will gain his people’s respect and grow in power.

Draga pushes me through a grueling routine of various exercises. She has me climbing a wall with barely any holds for hands and feet, makes me sit on a stool and stand up so many times, my ass and legs grow numb, and shows me outlandish exercises done on the floor, which I’ve never seen before in my life.

As the forge fills with more and more people, I hear whispers and nasty laughs. They help me ignore my pain and push harder than I imagined possible. My body bursts with pain, shaking uncontrollably, yet I keep conquering it.

One more. Just one more. One more.

By the time the tunnels resound with rooster crows, which Draga says announce sunrise, I am a shaking, sweaty mess. Everything hurts, but I’m ridiculously proud of myself. I did everything my trainer told me and didn’t complain even once.

When Wera comes in, calling me a weak disgrace and a traitor, I laugh under my breath, my mood too perfect to get spoiled.

“Try to get a good night’s sleep,” Draga says, patting my back with enthusiasm. “Tomorrow will be worse, but I can tell you have grit. You’ll do just fine.”

My smile grows fixed when I realize I’ll have to do it all over tomorrow, and every day after that. When the thought proves too daunting, I wave it away and focus on my accomplishment.

I did it. I survived—and earned my breakfast.

I wash in a bath adjoining the forge. The water is cold and invigorating, and after I cleanse and dry my sweaty clothes with magic, I feel so good, I hum a song under my breath. It’s a wedding song, traditionally performed by the bride’s friends as they make her a flower crown of rue and other herbs.

“Oh rue, oh rue,

How green you grow.”

When I pass through the forge, singing softly, Wera steps in my path. Her milky eyes are tight with scorn. I sigh, readying myself for another pointless attack. Her tenacity almost makes me regret having thrown her into a wall.

Almost.

“Singing wedding songs, consort ? Pathetic. As if he’d ever marry the likes of you.”

I blink at her in confusion until I realize what she means. I don’t even have to force my reaction—my laughter is completely genuine.

“Marry? Gods, that would be a lark! Can you imagine it? Woland, a husband?”

I burst into another bout of giggles, but not before I notice Wera’s flinch when I call him by name. I wonder if she can say it without bleeding. Or maybe she’s outraged that I don’t address him as master .

“I shall tell him of your disrespect once he returns,” Wera hisses, stepping too close for comfort. She smells acidic and musty, like vinegar and old cellars.

I grin, too unhinged to control myself. “Sure, run to your master. Tell on me, please. He always comes up with the best punishments. I'm hot all over just thinking about it.”

There. Now when people look at my bruises, they will no longer see an abused, cowering girl, but a woman who takes pleasure from pain. The first is pitiful, but the latter has power.

Suddenly, the purple necklace staining my throat is so much more appealing.

Wera gasps in shock, her eyes bulging with indignation. Before she finds her tongue, I turn on my heel and saunter out of the forge, ignoring the trembling of my poor muscles. People turn to look at me, and I nod left and right, keeping a smile on my face.

Woland asked me not to undermine his authority, and I decide to comply, because his authority is what I need right now. He is revered, and I will use it to my advantage.

But I won’t gain his people’s respect by bowing and shaking whenever he passes, the way they do. I’d rather show them I am worthy of the same respect he gets by treating him like my equal.

Instead of trying to make them think less of him, I will use his precious reputation to make them think more of me.

See how you like that, devil boy.