Page 24 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter twenty-four

Burns

My skin sizzles and crackles, my clothes and hair catch, and an agony of heat devours me whole. I try to scream, but there is no air to breathe. I suck in flames and heat, smoke and death, pieces of me turning to ash.

It lasts just a second. It lasts an eternity.

As soon as it started, the fire is gone. Strong hands pull me out, and I scream, pieces of my burned skin clinging to the floor where I lay, my clothes gone, the fire so hot, it devoured them instantly. I keep my eyes closed, because they burn, too. Everything burns.

And then, it doesn’t. A glorious coolness envelops me, sucking the heat away, soothing the pain. I hear voices, some shouts, some laughter, and quarrels. Wera’s shrieks come from a distance, growing quieter and quieter until I don’t hear her anymore.

All I know is that I’m safe. Woland pulled me out. Woland saved me.

I try to say his name, but my lips don’t work properly. I can’t seem to close my mouth. Every breath I take burns, and I fancy there is a funny wheezing sound nearby. With my next painful inhale, I realize I’m the one making it. My chest hurts, and not all is well, after all.

“Here,” Draga’s strong voice comes from above me. “She’s badly burned, but Lutowa cooled her down and numbed the pain. She needs healing, though. And magic. Hers is depleted.”

“Which idiot tried to fry the consort?” a grumpy male voice comes from my right, followed by a tingle of magic that feels like the storm blowing in my face. A big palm slides under the back of my head, lifting me up, and a flask is pressed to my lips. “Drink.”

“To be fair, the consort started it,” another male voice speaks, tinged with amusement. “She burned Wera’s hair off, and you know how Wera is. Always giving back more than she got.”

The grumpy voice scoffs in utter derision.

“Does Wera keep the master satisfied? No, she does not, so she should know her place. Leave the consort be, for fuck’s sake. I am the one treating all the wounds and curses he throws around when he’s frustrated, and there’s been too many this year. Let the man be happy. You need to drink more, krasnolica. ”

The second male voice guffaws. “ Krasnolica? She was barely pretty before Wera was through with her. With scars and her hair gone, she’ll be a scarecrow. You’ve got your work cut out for you, Nienad.”

“Leave,” Draga says, sounding angry for the first time since I met her. “Or I’ll pretend not to see it when Lutowa makes your balls freeze right off.”

“And I won’t treat you, because I’m busy with this one,” Nienad says, taking the bottle away. “All right, consort. Try to pull on that magic. Call it to the surface so it’s close to your skin. I’m going to work with your own body, because it knows best what it needs, but you have to help me. Yes, perfect. That’s a good girl.”

The water I drank was infused with magic that tasted like the storm, buzzing and clean. I had enough to make me feel safe and full, and now I follow his instructions, letting that magic spread out inside me and flow to the places that were burned the most.

“This will hurt a bit. Try not to shy away, I’m just trying to help.”

The voice is gruff, and I imagine the man must be older, maybe in his sixties, although one should never assume people’s age in Slawa. I trust him. He cares about making me well, even though his assumptions are wrong. I don’t think Woland is any happier since I got here, and he already killed an upir woman because of me.

Though maybe the healer doesn’t care how many people die as long as he has fewer patients.

The skin over my face suddenly tightens, my magic pouring out in a sharp, cleansing current. It feels like being scrubbed clean with a metal brush, and I clench my teeth and fists, inviting the pain in. After a few moments, it stops.

“That was impressive,” Draga says somewhere above me. I imagine she’s standing guard while Nienad heals me.

He hums in thought, his warm, calloused fingers running down my forehead and cheeks, stretching my skin in practiced movements.

“Yes. She really leaned into it, which is rare. Usually, people pull away from the pain, taking their magic deeper. This one knows that for things to heal, they have to hurt. All right, krasnolica. We’ll heal your chest now. Let your magic sit close to the surface, just like before.”

“She’s a healer, too,” Lutowa says quietly while I grit my teeth against the pain, doing my best to breathe through it as the burned skin over my throat and breasts reforms. “How come she’s still conscious? All of her skin is burned to a crisp.”

“Kindly refrain from commenting, will you?” Nienad grumbles, checking the fresh skin over my torso with impersonal quickness. “You’ll be as good as new when we’re done, krasnolica. If you draw on some eyebrows, no one will be able to tell what happened. We’ll do your stomach now. Take a deep breath.”

The process is lengthy and painful. Nienad helps my skin heal in patches, and I cling to consciousness, knowing my participation is crucial. It’s better to suffer now and heal completely than wait for the wounds to fester.

By the time we’re done, my head throbs from how hard I clench my teeth. When Draga helps me sit up, my head lolls, my body too weak. Yet, I make the effort to open my eyes, curious about my healer.

Nienad kneels by my side, returning my gaze. He is a grizzled man, his face tough, long, white hair tied back at his nape. He has silver eyes that shine unnaturally in his wrinkled face, his thin lips pursing in a stern expression. A long, reddened scar cuts from his temple down to his chin, pulling at one corner of his mouth. He looks savage and unsettling, the asymmetry giving him an unhinged air. Despite his brutal appearance, he’s dressed elegantly in a gray vest embroidered with a blue thread on top of a black shirt.

“Thank you,” I say hoarsely.

He waves my gratitude away as if it offends him.

“You can pay me back by keeping the master happy, krasnolica, ” he says without a smile, watching my face critically. “I’m afraid I can’t help with the lashes and eyebrows, but maybe wilas have some crafty spells for that. For now, I’ve done all I can, but come see me tomorrow after you sleep it off. And feel free to get in trouble more often. You’re my favorite type of patient—the kind that keeps their mouth shut and has a high pain tolerance.”

I can relate, so I huff with a laugh that makes my chest and stomach hurt. The healer leaves, grumbling about idiots who fuck with consorts, and Lutowa covers me with a towel before Draga picks me up with barely a huff of effort. I keep back a wince when my freshly healed skin flares with irritation. I feel tender all over.

“I guess we’ll have to put off our visit to the baths,” Lutowa says ruefully, walking by Draga’s side. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I died and was born again,” I say, trying to smile. My face tingles unpleasantly, and I give it up. “I just want to sleep.”

“I’ll excuse you from training tomorrow, but we’ll get back to it the day after,” Draga says, her familiar cheer creeping back into her voice.

I wake up a few hours later in Woland’s bed, feeling thirsty and groggy, my skin itching all over as if with a new growth. Someone shuffles by the bed, and my heart beats faster with irrational hope. I’m weak and vulnerable, utterly defenseless against my own stupid feelings.

“Woland?” I mumble, my throat burning.

“Oh, you’re awake!” comes Rada’s relieved voice. “She’s awake! Do you want to drink? I have water with honey and some sort of brew the healer sent over.”

I open my eyes to the sight of my wila friend’s beautiful face. She sits on the edge of the bed, peering at me with worry. I do my best to smile, and she smiles back, tremulous and uncertain.

“Water, then the brew,” I say, immediately coughing. My throat was burned on the inside from trying to breathe in the flames, and it still hurts even though Nienad healed that, too.

“You mentioned you wanted to see your friend,” Lutowa’s melodic voice comes from a stool nearby, where she sits, knitting something. “I brought her.”

I gulp down a full cup and nod with gratitude at Rada. “Thank you so much, both of you.”

They chat while I take stock of myself in the mirror that remained from the time I conjured clothes in front of Woland.

My eyebrows and eyelashes are gone, and it makes my face look alien and expressionless, the lack of eyebrows affecting my appearance more than I expected. But that’s not the worst. My hair, while not all gone, is short now. A few burned ends barely reach my shoulders, and I think they’ll have to be cut away. That nameless man who made fun of me was right.

I look like a scarecrow.

My skin is tender, looking younger and very fragile. When I run my fingers down my cheeks, they leave pink streaks behind. I suppose it will take time for my skin to harden.

When I turn away from the mirror, swallowing a ridiculous urge to cry, Rada is there, her arms around me.

“Hush,” she says. “It’s just temporary. You won’t even notice before it grows back, I promise. And you don’t have any scars. The healer is really talented.”

“He’s a planetnik,” Lutowa explains from her stool, her knitting needles clicking rapidly. “They have as much magic as biedas. He’s powerful and a useful man to have on your side.”

That explains the taste of storm in his magic. Planetniks are men cursed to fight the storm and dragons. They come out whenever Perun rages. Planetniks are strong enough to devour lightning and wrestle with dragons, and they can fly, carried by the air currents.

“How did he become a healer?” Rada asks, gently combing through my butchered hair with her fingers.

“He’s old, like me,” Lutowa says with a shrug. When she glances at us, her hands keep working, clicking away at a gray, shapeless garment. “Weles made him at a time when he still taught healing, and Nienad wanted to learn. I suspect he is the best healer in all of Slawa. He can teach you, you know. He already respects you, because you don’t squeal like a slaughtered pig when it hurts.”

I perk up in interest, my woes briefly forgotten. If Nienad learned from Weles, that means he must know a lot about the god of death. Maybe Lutowa is right. If I get him to teach me healing magic, I might be able to get information out of him.

“I’m starving,” the bieda says, throwing her knitting into a basket. “I’ll get something from the kitchen. What do you want to eat?”

I explain she doesn’t have to go anywhere, just knock on the table. Her eyebrows hike up, and she nods once. “I finally understand the appeal of being his consort. Food at any time of day, without going anywhere, sounds like bliss. Let me knock, then.”

“Biedas are always hungry,” Rada explains in a hushed voice, casting a careful look after Lutowa. When she’s sure the bieda is busy on the other side of the room, she turns to me with an urgent expression. “Jaga, are you all right? Has he hurt you more? Do you want to run? I’ll get Dar and run with you, even if Lech wants to stay.”

Another urge to cry tightens my throat, and I breathe out with force, willing myself to stop being so freaking teary. I survived, I’ll be fine, and who cares if Woland isn’t back? I shouldn’t want him.

And yet, Rada’s wide-eyed trust and generous offer hit me where it hurts. I don’t think I deserve a friend like her, ready to sacrifice her comfort for my sake.

“I’m fine,” I say, swallowing the thickness in my voice. “He doesn’t really hurt me. At least… It’s complicated. But now he’s gone, anyway, and good riddance. I’m staying, so please, don’t try to leave Lech on my account. He cares about you very much.”

Rada’s face hardens in a way I haven’t seen before.

“Maybe he does, but when it counted the most, he didn’t do anything to save me. You did.”

I should have protected you all along , I think but don’t say it. It’s hard enough making friends at all, and doing so in times of war feels like a battle in its own right. For ordinary girls back home, friendship boiled down to braiding each other’s hair and chatting about boys. Here, it’s about saving your friends from rape.

And yet, this is my home. I never want to go back to the mortal world. The freedom to use magic trumps all.

“Come and eat!” Lutowa calls out, dishes and cups clinking as she distributes them around the table.

“Thank you for not hating me—after I lied about who I am,” I tell Rada, squeezing her hand.

She shakes her head, smiling sadly. “I’ll never hate you. Come on.”

As we eat, Rada stares at Lutowa with innocent curiosity, until the bieda swallows her last piece of meat and puts her fork away with a clang.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice impatient though not unfriendly.

“Oh, I was wondering what kind of bird you would be if you died,” Rada says, her eyes hazing over with her usual dreamy gloss. “You’re not stately like a stork, and you’re not as flighty as a swallow, but you don’t strike me as a crow. What do you think you’d be?”

Lutowa glances at me, seeming nonplussed. I laugh under my breath.

“She isn’t wishing you death or anything like that,” I explain. “Her mind just wanders.”

“I’d be a stork,” Lutowa says finally, her lips quirking. “And that’s because they are the biggest, and my sole purpose after death would be to shit on everyone who derided and hated me. And stork shits would be the biggest.”

I sigh and roll my eyes while Rada laughs, her face crinkling into the most delightful sight. Lutowa stares at her, as mesmerized as I am.

“What would Jaga be?” she asks when Rada stops laughing.

“A swallow,” Rada says at once. “Swallows are light and fly with ease, swerving and changing direction as they please. Jaga loves to be free.”

It takes me by surprise, how accurate that is. It seems even though I lied about some things, I couldn’t hide the essence of me from Rada’s curious eyes. It’s reassuring—that our friendship wasn’t entirely built on lies. The core of it was true.

My meal finished, exhaustion drags me back into bed, and my friends say goodbye. I fall asleep at once, the bed smelling of smoke and burning, and not at all of the devil.

I dream of Woland cradling me to his chest. He says he’s sorry, repeating the words over and over. He says he tried to teach himself a lesson. He grew biased, he says, when it comes to me. For a reason that escapes his comprehension, he can’t stand to see me suffer, and that instinct to always save me from death, pain, and tears is his weakness.

He’s training himself to ignore it. That’s what he tried to do today. It was supposed to make him harder, stronger—to remind him of who he is. He hoped he would be able to watch me suffer and stay indifferent, maybe even get a laugh out of it. He’s the devil, isn’t he? We should both remember that.

But he failed, he says, his words tangled and angry, his breath hot. He failed and now he’ll have to try harder to make himself immune to my wicked charms. Because he has to.

Because one day, he’ll have to make me suffer worse than ever, and how, pray, will he do it, if my tears hurt his very soul?

Again and again, he says he’s sorry. Sorry for my pain. Sorry for my hair. He adored it so much. It will grow back, but he’ll miss it in the meantime. It’s so beautiful.

He tells me he couldn’t stand it in the end. He brought down the barrier around the training area. That’s how Draga pulled me out. He shouldn’t have done it. He tells himself off for being weak, for letting himself be led by stupid instincts that mean nothing. He should have let me hurt, because I wouldn’t have died, anyway. He took care of that.

But I was in so much pain, and it broke him down.

He says he will be stronger the next time it happens. He’ll let me suffer the consequences of my stupid choices, because, “Jaga,” he says, “that was stupid. You should have let her beat you up and regain her honor. But instead, you set her hair on fire.

“She looked so fucking funny,” he says after a moment, phantom dream fingers stroking my cheek. “As if her head was a nest of firebirds. Such a sight. The funniest thing I’ve seen in decades, and that includes Strzybog trying to fuck his own asshole.”

He shakes for a while after that, quiet snorts of laughter ruffling the wisps of hair at my temple.

When he stops, it’s with a weary sigh of regret. “You’re too proud,” he says, “and that pride will be your doom.

“And you know what else? It will be my doom, too.

“ You will be my doom.”