Page 23 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter twenty-three

Want

I jerk up with a gasp, looking around. Is he back? My heart pounds with a shameful amount of trepidation and hope, but when I take in the brightly lit space, I see only my merciless trainer.

The sight of her cheerful face makes me realize how much pain I’m in. It feels like every inch of my body is sore, my arms hurting viciously when I bring them up to rub my eyes. I groan, angry with myself for pining after Woland. I also dread today’s training, which makes me feel like a coward.

I fought a werewolf and a poludnica. I died and was remade in bone-splitting agony. I ran through Slawa’s forests, naked and haunted, and survived. And yet, those experiences seem like nothing compared to spending two hours with Draga.

“Get ready,” she says with a smile that has no right to be so cheerful. “If you’re out in five minutes, you get to run without a sack today. But tarry too long, and I’ll have you carrying stones up those stairs.”

She winks, gives me a friendly wave, and leaves. I roll out of bed with a groan of pain, fumbling for my clothes. I don’t understand how Draga can deliver her cruel instructions with so much cheer unless she enjoys my suffering.

Today’s training is an absolute nightmare. It seems impossible, but I’m even weaker than yesterday, my abused muscles protesting with every move. Draga wields her stick with a smile and is generous with praise every time I complete a task. Unlike yesterday, I finish the session in a foul mood, lying on the floor in a puddle of my own sweat. I don’t even care about all the people who snicker or huff with disgust. I’m spent.

When Wera’s sour face swings into view above me, I almost sob from the sheer unfairness of it all. I can’t fight her today. All I want is to crawl into a hole somewhere and die. I’m sure souls in Nawie never feel this kind of pain.

“There you are,” she says with a sneer. “Get food and be back here in an hour. Master requested that I train you in combat magic. Be late, and he will hear about this.”

Oh gods. I try to sit up, and it takes me three attempts. Wera scoffs, watching me with utter contempt.

“When did he request this?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “You spoke to him?”

“Last night,” the strzyga says, her jaw working as if she’s stopping herself from saying something else. “You slept through it, like the lazy consort you are. I expect you in an hour.”

“You’re not lazy,” Draga says, offering me her hand to help me up. “Strzygas don’t sleep, and it makes them feel superior to everyone who does. I know it will probably hurt, but Wera is very good at casting efficient, fast spells that will let you fight for hours. She will teach you well.”

I thank her and crawl to the bath, gritting my teeth to keep back whimpers of pain. Knowing Woland was here and didn’t even try to see me makes my mood even worse, first, because I feel ridiculously rejected and abandoned, and second, because I hate how much his absence affects me.

A shy, quiet voice pipes up in the back of my mind, saying that maybe he did come to see me and that’s why the bed was warm, but I tell it to shut up. If I let myself hope for things I can’t have, it will hurt even more after he tricks me again.

At breakfast, Lutowa takes one look at me and snorts with amusement. When I tell her about my looming training with Wera, she laughs so hard, she chokes on a huge piece of buttered ham. I fold my arms and watch her with spite until she coughs out the food.

“Well, at least you know he cares about you,” she says after she calms down. “You’re the first consort he arranged any sort of lessons for. He wants you to be strong so you can protect yourself.”

I viciously stick my fork into a hard-boiled egg, one of the six Draga told me to eat today. All Woland cares about is that I stay alive so he can use me to win. After all, he won’t even come to see me.

As soon as I catch myself thinking that, I grow even angrier. I shouldn’t care.

Before my combat training, I drink half a cup of vodka. When Lutowa remarks drily that it will make my aim atrocious, I grumble that at least some of the pain will fade. And my aim is probably awful, anyway.

“Why don’t you heal yourself?” she asks, snorting with disbelief. “You have enough power and skill.”

“Draga forbid it,” I say through clenched teeth, pouring myself another round. “Apparently, true strength is born through pain.”

She shakes her head with a small smile. “I’ll go with you,” she offers. “And after Wera wipes the floor with your remains, I’ll take you to the hot bath. We can get drunk together.”

“Now you’re talking,” I mutter. “Can I bring my friend if she wants to go? She’ll probably refuse because I lied to her, and her man hates me now, but maybe the bath will tempt her.”

Lutowa nods, and I perk up a bit. The thought of getting to see Rada and mend fences gives me something to look forward to. But when we enter the forge and I see the small crowd of kobolds, strzygas, upirs, and others gathered around a big area cleared in the middle of the room, my heart sinks.

Wera shoots me a triumphant grin from the middle of the rectangle, whose invisible walls shimmer with power. Once I go in, I won’t be able to leave until we both decide the training is over. As I take in her pleased expression and wrinkled cheeks flushed with excitement, I realize this is a trap. She’ll never let me go until I’m completely conquered, likely beaten to a pulp and unconscious.

She’s dressed practically, in a shirt and trousers, her clothes clinging to her lean frame. Her hair is braided tightly around her head. She doesn’t carry weapons, but I can’t let that lull me into a false sense of safety.

Wera fights with magic, and my skills in that area are rudimentary at best.

But I can’t afford to back away. No one would ever respect me after that, and even worse, I wouldn’t respect myself.

“I’ll sing a beautiful eulogy at your burial,” Lutowa says in a deadpan voice.

I turn to her and grab her hand. She flinches, eyes growing wide, and I realize she’s even less used to touching people than I am. When I make to drop her hand and apologize, she squeezes my fingers, nodding.

“You’ll be fine,” she says quietly, aware of the audience that came to see my defeat. “She wants to get back at you for throwing her. You humiliated her, now she’ll hurt you back, and you’ll be even. Unless you defeat her. That would be interesting, though unlikely.”

I take a deep breath, my hands shaking in the bieda’s grip. The alcohol I drank did nothing to cure my nerves, but it did make me unsteady. My body feels strangely light, movements too fluid, as if there’s a delay between reality and my perception. I wish I didn’t drink the vodka.

“All right. Wish me luck,” I mutter, dropping her hands, my spine rigid, face grim.

“Luck has nothing to do with it. Fight well.”

As I approach the rectangular fighting area, the crowd erupts with whistles and bellows. I hear the now familiar insults, traitor and whore, and I think with grim sarcasm that it’s so unfair to be called that since I didn’t even fuck him after I got here. Whore indeed.

I pinch my face into what I hope is a look of haughty indifference. My heart thunders with fear, guts twisting with nausea. I’ve been hated, I’ve been derided, but never like this. To be surrounded by three dozen people who so obviously clamor for my defeat is an overwhelming experience.

As I cross the barrier, Wera’s grin widens, turning predatory. Her milky eyes track my movements as she cackles with glee, and I swallow and swallow, desperately trying to control my urge to vomit.

Gods. Make it swift. Please.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” she says, her voice carrying as the crowd hushes to listen. “You tried to run that first day like a poor lamb with fear in her eyes. Yet, here you are. Maybe not so hopeless a coward.”

You faced a poludnica. You can do this, I tell myself, but the thought fails to ignite even a spark of courage. I tremble with fear, my sweaty hands clasped in front of me. Wera laughs when I say nothing. She circles our invisible cage, her form lean and tall, her apparent old age deceptive. I saw how she fought Draga. She’s limber and fast.

I turn to follow her with my eyes. All my attention is focused on not being sick, which would be an utter humiliation. How I hate Woland for doing this to me. Somehow, it seems even more cruel because he’s not here to watch it.

“I’ll go easy on you today,” Wera says with a laugh that tells me it’s bullshit. “I won’t teach you any spells or techniques yet. Your task is simple: defend yourself as long as you can. If you can get a curse in, do it. Anything goes.”

Around us, people murmur and whisper, and my skin prickles. I catch a few words here and there: “unusual”, “why… non-lethal”, “kill her”.

My vodka-addled brain figures out laboriously that “anything goes” is not the usual rule for these duels. While I don’t think Wera wants to kill me, since that would displease Woland, she’ll probably make it hurt.

Or maybe she will kill me. What do I know?

“Ready, consort?”

From the corner of my eye, I notice a peculiarly moving shadow somewhere behind the spectators. My heart stutters with hope, yet when I look that way, everything seems normal, no yellow eyes watching me with amusement. I clench my fists, realizing I’m in a worse shape than I thought. I see things I wish to see.

This has got to stop.

I call on my magic, gathering it around me like a cloak. It comes willingly, but when I look at Wera, terror roils in my gut again, distracting me. Some of my magic slips away, untethered.

“Ready,” I say through gritted teeth.

As it turns out, I am not ready at all. Wera smiles, showing me her sharp teeth, and makes a quick, cutting motion that I almost miss. My forearm blooms with pain. When I look down in time to see the bleeding gash, a series of cuts slices my other arm. I bleed from at least six shallow wounds, crimson rivulets flowing down my fingers.

Shield, I think too late, too unfocused. Wall in front of me. Impenetrable. Strong.

The air between me and the strzyga shimmers, growing solid but still transparent. Magic pours out of my chest. I know at once I won’t be able to hold this shield for longer than a few minutes, and Wera knows this, too, judging by her laugh.

She folds her arms on her chest, watching me mockingly.

“That might serve you in a brawl, but not on the battlefield,” she says. “Please do not bore us. Where is that terrified girl who attacked everyone in her path because she was so desperate to run away?”

That girl ? She’s drunk, miserable, and in pain. All she wants is to cuddle in a soft, dark bed. With Woland.

I huff, dismissing my shield with a thought. This time, when Wera’s fingers twitch, I’m ready. I whirl away from my spot, my movements too slow, too clumsy. Her spell hits me on the back of my arm with a sharp bite. I hiss and try to attack her.

Fly! I order, pointing my outstretched palm at her.

Wera grins, clapping once. The air in front of her shimmers, just like the barriers around us. It grows red when my spell hits it, and the next thing I know, I am thrown into the invisible wall behind my back. The hit is so powerful, I lose my breath, my spine groaning from the impact.

As I blink, desperately trying to clear my head enough to stand up, I realize Wera was waiting for this. I am so obvious in the way I fight, my only trick was used against me. Now I see the stark contrast between Wera and me. She's a trained, experienced fighter while I barely know how to use my magic. The only thing that allowed me to attack her back then was the element of surprise.

“Girl, when you fight against dragons, every second counts. Will you get up or are you waiting for death?”

Around me, people laugh and nudge each other. Someone calls out stakes for betting, and many bet hardboiled eggs on Wera winning. Someone bets I will cry before she’s done with me. Someone else, that I’ll piss myself.

Anger tightens my core, stronger than the fear. I brace myself and rise, focusing as much as I can.

Sharp , I think. Sober. Strong.

I’ve never tried to alter my body like this before, eliminating something I ingested from within myself. My focus remains inward, removing every drop of alcohol. When Wera flings something invisible at me, I raise a shield just in time, the thinnest, least costly one I can manage. It shatters when the spell lands, but it does its job, protecting me until I’m clean.

My liver hurts, my stomach spasming, but my mind is sharp. I did it. I’m sober. And about half of my magic is gone.

“Better,” Wera says, strolling from side to side with deceptive ease, as if she’s done attacking me. “That’s one way to do it, but if I cast something stronger, or if a dragon flings a stream of fire in your face, that strategy won’t work.”

I have a split second to act. A ball of fire sizzles my way. I drop down and roll, my muscles screaming from pain when I get on my knees—just in time to see another ball of fire. The world slows, time coming down to a crawl.

I can’t roll out of the way. I can’t duck. In a moment of almost timeless suspension, a memory opens in my mind, vivid and immediate—the older me walking through a doorway of flames.

“Open!” I scream, picturing a door, making it lead elsewhere—anywhere but here.

It appears in front of me just as the ball of fire whizzes at my face. It falls through the door, which closes, vanishing. I breathe hard, a chunk of my magic gone. When Wera blinks, surprised, I wish with all my might that ball of fire landed on her head.

The air behind her shimmers. She turns toward me, watching me with an angry, confused frown. A hush falls over the crowd.

A doorway appears just behind the strzyga. The fiery ball falls into her crown of silver braids, setting it on fire. The silence grows bigger, tenser. Wera reaches up to pat her hair, looking puzzled.

I fall to all fours, crying out as my chest empties, my magic torn out in a torrent. I have just enough left to breathe. When Wera shrieks horribly, breaking the silence, my head bursts with pain. I have to blink repeatedly until my eyes refocus.

What I see makes me gasp, half with laughter, half with horror. Wera’s head is on fire. She looks as if she has spiky flames for hair, like a strange elemental spirit beguiling people to get lost in the woods.

She tears her burning hair out in chunks, shrieking from pain, her face a mask of rage. I wonder why she won’t use water. People around us scream, shouting advice and telling us to lower the barriers.

“This fight is over,” I say under my breath, but when I reach out to see if the barrier’s down, my hand meets resistance.

Meanwhile, Wera tears the final clump of hair from her scalp. Her head is bald, her skin raw and red, scorched black in patches. It steams, the air stinking of burned flesh. I swallow convulsively, trying not to retch.

Her hate-filled eyes focus on me. She breathes hard, her mouth wide open to reveal sharp teeth and black gums. Her fingers are rigid, bent into claws. When she lurches toward me, I whimper. My magic is spent. There’s no way out.

“Stop the duel,” Draga calls out, her voice sure and even. “Come out. You can fight again tomorrow.”

But the strzyga doesn’t seem to hear her. She laughs under her breath, her fingers twitching as she takes an unsteady, shuffling step.

Somewhere behind her, a shadow shifts between the pools of light. I sag with relief, certain Woland will save me. He was here all along, watching over me. He won’t let me die.

Yet when a torrent of fire rains down, engulfing my entire body, no one is there to stop it.