Page 26 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter twenty-six

Silver

I prick my ears, sending both vipers to flank my belladonna that stands on a thick plinth of bone and crystal. I made it one evening when I had magic to spare.

“I’m listening.”

Lutowa pulls a goblet of mead closer and straddles the bench to face me when I sit next to her.

“There is one very old, forgotten, even forbidden, tale about a god going back in time. I had to rummage in my mind for a while to uncover it. I don’t think anyone but the oldest of us remembers it anymore.”

I nod sharply, doing my best to keep my expression neutral. It’s difficult. All I can think is, finally. Finally, I’ll have a solid clue about how to rescue my younger self. Finally, it will all pay off.

“Do you know the real story about how the first mortals were made?” Lutowa asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Not the one Perun wants us to believe.”

I nod. “It’s Weles, not Perun, who gave mortals the breath of life. Perun spoiled his brother’s creation.”

The bieda nods, her black eyes serious.

“Yes. There is that story, very old, probably not true. It says Weles was so distraught by his brother’s cruel tampering, he did everything in his might to repair the harm. Weles loved mortals like a father. He wanted them to thrive, and what Perun did hurt him to the depths of his soul. But nothing Weles did to save them worked—so one day, he decided to devise a way to go back to that very moment time was born and stop Perun from blowing into the mortals’ mouths.”

I am so still, all my muscles are rigid with tension. When Lutowa reaches for her goblet to drink, I’d like nothing more than to shake her, but I hold myself back. She’ll tell me in a moment. What’s one moment compared to all the time I’ve spent seeking this answer?

“Legend has it, he succeeded,” the bieda continues, wiping her mouth. “He went back to that day by the lake when Perun grabbed the newly made mortals and forced their mouths open to receive his violating breath. Weles tried to stop his brother. They fought, and Weles lost. He crawled back to his natural time and mourned. That’s the tale, anyway. I don’t know how much truth there is to it.”

Slowly, as if in a dream, I reach for a goblet. My hands shake just a little, but I manage to be inconspicuous about it as I drink deeply to cover my excitement. It’s not that I don’t trust Lutowa—I do—but this is my most important secret that I can’t share with anyone. It’s already bad enough Woland knows about my need to travel in time.

Lutowa has no idea how significant her story was. All my vague hopes suddenly coalesce into solid, realistic plans. I know what to do, and there is no more space left for doubts.

At night, I barely sleep, tossing and turning in the clean sheets that smell only of me. My vipers, fed mice by a friendly kobold I asked for this favor, hiss and slither, and I stare at the dark ceiling and think. I devise a plan upon plan, each more complex than the last, until the entire construction falls in my mind, and I go back to the simplest idea.

The next morning, I get up before Draga. When she comes in to wake me, my bag is already packed, a supply of charged eggs, food, drink, and a change of clothes ready for the road. I strap my ungainly knife, the one I made with my magic, to my belt.

“Not today,” I tell my surprised trainer. “I have an errand to run.”

For a moment, I think she’ll stop me. A shadow passes across her face, and I brace myself for a fight, but Draga only smiles, bidding me to come back for our session next morning.

I promise her I will, even though it’s a lie.

As I make my way through the tunnels, I expect to be stopped time and again, because I never fully trusted Woland's promise that I was free. The few people who mill around at this hour glance at my bag and comfortable travel clothes, but nobody says a word.

I reach the door out, the one in the big cavern where I threw Wera against the wall. A guard mans it at all times, and when I approach, he opens the door for me with a small bow. It’s an enormous relief, because it means Woland meant what he said—I am free, and he won’t punish my friends when I leave.

Though I couldn’t care less about Lech right now. It’s Rada and Dar I am worried about.

The climb up hundreds of stairs winds me, but barely. I’ve grown stronger during this month of grueling training and eating well every day. When I emerge out of the boarded up house by the river, dawn colors the sky gold. It’s a cold autumn day, but Dadzbog shines bright.

As I walk down the slope, I marvel at how the world has changed. Trees have shed their leaves, and their remains litter the cobbles, covered with a crunchy layer of frost. The city is still asleep, people biding their time until the toll hits.

I stop at a small roadside shop offering steaming chicory brew and kolaches, the breakfast costing me one soft-boiled egg. It’s not what Draga would have had me eat, but I enjoy my bit of freedom, stuffing myself full with the warm, sweet dough. It’s filled with hot plums.

The milk bar is quiet and serene as I pass it, the doors closed, and I feel relieved that it still stands. Draga knows Zlotomira, and she would have told me if anything happened to the place, but it’s reassuring to see it. During my month downstairs, Perun sent two storms to ravage the city.

And that’s without any provocation from the rebels, apparently. Lutowa joked he probably found Mokosz fucking some hapless bies in their marital bed and lost it.

Her infidelity is a standing joke. She is the most powerful goddess, though, and thus, the only consort Perun will deign to have. He cares about absolute domination, so he would scorn a weaker wife.

When the cobbles end, the walk becomes far less pleasant. The frost melts long before noon, turning the roads wet and soft. I navigate down muddy pathways, jumping over puddles. My boots sink in mud. Heaps of trash flank the road, stinking and shaking with movement. Rats and other vermin are shameless, rummaging in the waste in broad daylight.

Here, more people are out, working their gardens if they have them, or hanging tattered, graying laundry out on ropes stretched between houses. I stop when I see a begging woman, her face covered with sores, the sweet aroma of decomposition sitting around her like a cloud.

She gives me a look of utter despair when I take a step closer. She sits on the ground, her legs covered by her dirty skirts, but I just see some puss escaping down the side. It seems like she’s sitting in a puddle of it. She has the rot, then.

“An egg, miss, I beg you,” she says, her voice sounding wet and slurping, as if her voice organs are turning liquid. “Just a small egg to help me through another day.”

I already know it’s hopeless. There is still no cure for the rot, and when I asked Nienad if he had plans to work on it, he told me tersely to mind my own business. This woman will die, rotten from the inside, completely alone, because others will avoid her for fear of catching it. It’s a horrible death.

“Here,” I say, fishing out three hardboiled eggs, half of my supply. “And take this, too.”

I infuse a small wineskin with a spell of general wellbeing and pain relief. It won’t cure her, but it will ease her discomfort, at least.

The woman cries from gratitude when she receives my gifts, pus oozing out of her tear ducts. As I watch her half-eaten face and the wisps of thin hair clinging to her greasy temples, I realize she is probably a wila. I’ve never seen an ugly one, so it’s a shock.

But then, the rot doesn’t just eat a person’s body. It mainly feeds on their magic, and magic is the source of wilas’ beauty.

Followed by the woman’s teary blessings, I keep walking, my jaw clenched. Now that I’ve seen what the rot does to people, knowing how widespread and incurable it is gives me a chill. Perun, of course, did nothing to help his ailing subjects. Some ruler.

And yet, Woland isn’t interested in curing the disease, either. If he did, he would have ordered Nienad to work on a solution.

It’s another thing I’ll have to ask Weles about, then. If I manage to get an audience.

It’s late afternoon by the time I leave the last hastily built cottages behind me. The day has grown windy, the wind tugging the edges of my cloak until they tangle between my legs. I keep following the river, the bank far more even down here.

When twilight comes, coloring the sky purple and gold, I sit down on a large stone among still blooming devil’s bit flowers. I eat my supper, watching out for the moon’s appearance.

The night comes early. Winter will be here soon, even though Slawa’s weather is a bit warmer than back home. But winter solstice is less than a month away, and the cold is inevitable.

Despite the toll that hit a few hours ago, I brim with magic. I barely spent any for my breakfast, and thanks to my training, my capacity for power has grown even more. I still can’t equal Woland and I never will, but Lutowa respects me the way she does only those who have the most magic.

When the thin crescent of the waning moon appears in the east, I whisper his name under my breath.

“Chors.”

The river murmurs on, the cold wind playing in the grasses. Far in the distance, the wall of the forest stands black against the darkening purple sky. I wait, shaking from the cold.

When the moon rises high enough for its light to touch the river, I call him again.

“Chors. Please, talk to me.”

He doesn’t come. Night has fallen, the cold so cutting, I get up and run in place to get warmer. When that fails, I give up and murmur a spell that creates a small pocket of hot air around me. It’s not very costly, but I can use it only for a few hours.

“Chors! I need to see you!”

The reflection of the moon floats on the river, thin and sharp-tipped. I wonder if he’s ashamed since he’s probably starving right now. Should I wait for the full moon? No, it’s too long.

I remember what Lutowa said about Chors’ interest in the wila he questioned. He was curious about her female body. I am no seductress, but I am so impatient to meet Weles, I’ll try anything. Keeping the hot spell snug around me, I strip and walk into the river. The spell tugs harder at my resources, more magic needed to heat up the water.

I stop when my hips are covered, my small breasts visible, and look directly at the moon.

“Chors, please. Let me speak with you.”

“I was here all along.” His melancholy voice drifts over from the stone where I left my things. “I waited for you to say something interesting.”

I turn to look at him. He sits, his limbs elegantly arranged. One leg sprawls easily in front of him, one knee hugging his chest. His eyes glow silver when he looks at me, his cheekbones sharper than I remember. He doesn’t look skeletal the way Lutowa does, but his face is gaunt.

“And in the end, it wasn’t my words that made you speak,” I quip, noticing the way he examines me, his brow gently furrowed.

“No,” he admits. “I’m curious what your appeal is. Did you know the devil hasn’t touched any other woman ever since he got you banished from your village? It’s never happened before. In all the centuries, I’ve seen him bed thousands of women, and he never went a week without, yet now, he seems to have lost interest. I’d like to know why.”

I shiver, even though my heat spell holds well. Chors sounds puzzled, his voice melodic. What he says is unbelievable, but I don’t think he’s lying—not because I think he’s a good person, but because lying requires solid knowledge of social interactions, which he seems to lack.

“And what do you think?” I ask, spreading my arms wide. “What do I have that others don’t? Because I don’t know. I’m curious myself.”

He hums under his breath, his long, dark hair gleaming silver for a moment, touched by the loving caress of Slawa’s bright starlight. When he stands, I realize he is indeed more slender than before, though he was lean back then, too.

His black clothes fit well, the silver embroidery catching the light. When he takes off his jacket and shakes it once, folding it meticulously next to my things on the stone, I clench my fists under water.

I don’t know what he means to do. There is nothing seductive in the way he undresses, treating each piece of clothing with deliberate attention. Soon, his clothes form an even stack next to my haphazardly thrown cloak, his pale body glinting silver under moonlight.

He is very lean. I can count his ribs, and yet, his stomach is tight, waist and hips narrower than his shoulders. He looks too young to be older than time. When he turns to me, I do everything in my might not to stare at his flaccid member nestled among dark hair.

Seemingly unbothered by the cold, he wades into the river. I stand still. Chors stops just a step away from me, looking down from his slight height advantage.

“I don’t know yet,” he says softly, watching my face with intense curiosity. “You aren’t beautiful like Mokosz, but your face is charming. The eyes draw one in. They are magical.”

I let out a slow, controlled breath. The pit of my stomach tightens, and when the god of moon traces my cheek with his cold knuckle, I swallow convulsively, my throat clicking. I don’t know why his perusal of me is so overwhelming. There is nothing sexual about it, and yet, a thrilling current caresses my spine from the inside, strangely close to arousal.

“Thank you,” I say when my voice is under control. “But there are many creatures with strange eyes. Yours are beautiful. Dark at one moment, silver the next. Do the colors mean anything?”

He shrugs, his fingertips trailing gently to my temple, where they stroke my hair.

“I don’t think so. What would they mean, anyway? Silver for happiness, black for thrill? I don’t think I’m happy often, or thrilled. Could you turn around, please?”

The water splashes gently around my hips when I do. I know the top curve of my ass protrudes just above the surface, and I feel wary and elated as Chors hums, gentle fingers trailing down my spine, as if he’s counting my vertebrae. When they reach my tailbone, he pauses, and then backs up toward the dimples in my lower back. He nestles his thumbs in them, as if trying to find the best fit for himself in the hollows of my body.

“You are very symmetrical,” he says.

It’s so unexpected a verdict, I snort with laughter, turning to see his face. He gasps softly, and we’re suddenly too close, my lips a breath away from his, skin brushing skin underwater.

I take a step back, but an unexpected current slips between my ankles, making me trip. I fall into him. Chors catches me with a sound of bemusement, his hold hesitant. I try to pull away when I right myself, but the wet sand under my feet slips away until I stumble.

“The river keeps pushing me toward you,” I murmur, remembering his strong affinity for water.

“Oh.” He seems puzzled as he looks down at me, his beautifully shaped eyebrows furrowed. “It seems like I want to keep you close. Maybe it’s because you’re so warm. Would you like to see me, too?”

His palms cup my elbows, and as another current pushes at the backs of my thighs, I wobble, my thigh brushing his underwater.

“I do see you,” I say. “You are very symmetrical, as well.”

A ghost of a smile curves his lips. “Thank you, but I meant something different. See what happens if you make my skin wet.”

I reach for the cold water, trapping some in my palm. I let it trickle down his forearm, and as his hairless skin grows wet, it glimmers silver. Intrigued, I run my palm up his arm, his muscles tensing under my touch. Chors swallows audibly but says nothing as I moisten his entire arm until a beautiful artwork of silver whorls and spirals is revealed.

It’s like a tattoo and jewelry in one. I’ve never seen anything like it before.

“Are you like this all over?” I ask, touching the side of his ribcage with wet fingers. His skin there remains unchanged.

“Here and there,” he says. When I look up, the silver highlights dusting his cheeks are brighter, his breath faster.

I think it’s time to tell him why I called him. But as I open my mouth to speak, the entire area around us floods with magical, silver light. I gasp, looking around with wonder. The river glitters like precious stones, the grasses at the shore discolored and gleaming like polished metal. Chors’ face is all silver, his eyes closed, sensuous lips pursed.

“You… You stopped time,” I whisper when I realize the movement of water around me stills. Nothing moves but us.

“Just to give me a moment to say goodbye,” he says, smiling ruefully as his eyes flash open. “Look at the bank. He’s doing everything in his might to dismantle my spell. I thought it would be rude if I left you to face him alone without a warning.”

I look over his shoulder, the pit of my stomach filling with dread when I see what he means. A dark silhouette stands in the grass, antlers black against the starry sky, burning yellow eyes turned on us.

He is surrounded by a cloud of smoke, but it cannot hide the fury in his gaze.