Page 46 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter forty-six

Night

His magic slithers in through my eyes. My barriers are weak and scattered, and before I have time to react, memories begin to dissolve. I scramble to tighten the wall blocking access to my mind. Hastily, I build it up, brick by brick, until my memories are shielded. The shield stops the onslaught, but not before things vanish.

I remember running after Wera, her holding something, but I don’t know what. And I remember Lutowa eating bread, a foul feeling in my chest, but I forget why. Did she do something wrong? I don’t know.

Yet the rest of it stays. Mokosz kissing Woland, him kissing her back. The rebels attacking mamunas. And Woland’s words of truth, each and every hateful one, still lodge in my mind like poisonous plants.

I blink, my heart beating faster and faster. How am I supposed to pretend I forgot it when all my fury, hurt, and shame swirl right under my skin, so raw and exposed?

He looks at me closely, his eyes filled with concern and love. Gone is his hatred, his pity, his triumph, but his face isn’t etched into the neutral mask I used to take as a sign of him hiding things. His expression is so shockingly genuine, I finally understand how he managed to lie so convincingly about his love.

And if he can lie, I will, too. With all my soul.

I smile at him, burying everything deep. He is my lover, my groom, my god. That’s all he is. I love him.

Loathing tries to rise in my chest, and I suppress it mercilessly. Hatred rears its head, and I push it down, focusing on all the love I have to give and beaming it at Woland.

He smiles back, handsome and pleased. “I’m back, my love,” he says, caressing my cheek with his knuckle. “Did you have a good nap?”

I funnel all my remaining strength into not recoiling from his touch. Instead, I capture his hand and place a kiss over his knuckles, chanting it in my mind like a spell. I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love.

“I don’t know,” I say, allowing myself a grimace. “I slept, but I don’t feel too well rested.”

His smile grows, something smug glittering in his eyes. My heart thunders faster and faster, and I hope it means I fooled him.

“Sleep more, then,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

I let him, standing still, bidding my body to be soft and relaxed, my shoulders down, my breath easy and slow despite how fast my heart beats. I’ll be dizzy in a moment. I already feel weak and disoriented.

“Thank you,” I say, glad to hear how relaxed my voice is. “I swear, I’ll feel better soon.”

He chuckles under his breath, pulling me closer. My eyes stay relaxed, my face warm and pliant, as he leans in and captures my mouth in a languorous, sweet kiss.

I shove all memories of those lips covering those of Mokosz from my mind and kiss him back, as sweetly as I can. Gods. My gut crawls with disgust, and I push it down into the deepest caverns of me. It’s just a minute of pretending, and I am utterly exhausted. I don’t understand how he does it all the time.

The kiss is slow and lazy, not even sexual. After an eternity, Woland pulls back, his eyes mesmerizingly gold and hooded, his lips wet with my saliva.

“I love you,” he says, the lie rolling off his tongue with horrifying smoothness.

My face grows numb, and still, I smile, hoping against hope it’s the right expression, the right words, the right voice.

“I love you, too,” I whisper, the slightest catch in my voice.

He leans in again, placing a sweet kiss on my lips, and finally, finally , pulls back.

“Sleep, my love. I’ll be back later.”

I turn toward the bed, noticing belatedly that I’m no longer wearing my outdoor clothes but a short nightshirt. My body feels warm, and I’m clean, all the blood gone. The ring is back on my finger, and I suppress a flinch at the thought that I’ll have to take it off again.

Woland’s skills of deception are truly superb. If I didn’t know what he did, I would have never suspected a thing.

I walk to bed slowly and climb in. When I turn to my side, looking across the room, he’s still there, watching. His fists open and close once, but when he catches my eye, he smiles reassuringly.

So he’s not as calm as he appears.

“Sleep well, sweetheart.”

I smile in response, and he finally turns around and leaves, his shadows wrapping around him. I close my eyes and count my breaths, each painfully slow, until my lungs feel like bursting. And still, I don’t move, only listen. Fire crackles, and it’s quiet. I don’t open my eyes and I don’t allow my eyelids to flutter.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Slow and easy. Relaxed. Unsuspicious.

I’ve taken three hundred breaths, and still, I pretend to be asleep. My heart isn’t as frantic, but every nerve in my body is tense and alert. Is Woland here, watching me from the shadows? I don’t know, and I can’t risk making him suspicious. Lutowa said if he suspects I resisted the spell, he’ll dismantle my defenses and make me forget for good, and I can’t allow this to happen.

My breaths are so slow and easy. Four hundred now, each measured and perfect. A log falls in the fireplace, and I don’t react as sparks sizzle. There are no other sounds. No breath. No rustle of clothes, but that means nothing.

When I reach six hundred breaths, I estimate enough time passed to make my nap believable. I pretend to wake up, stretch my arms above my head, yawn. My amble to the bathroom is slow and relaxed, and I don’t look around the chamber, even furtively. I make my eyes bleary and unfocused until it really feels like I slept. Until I am the lie.

Maybe that’s how Woland does it. He embodies the lie until it’s indistinguishable from the truth. But how does he remember what’s true then?

I take my time washing and dressing, then call for a meal. Everything in me screams to go, now, before I have to face Woland again. I don’t think I’ll be able to lie for an extended period of time. I unravel with each too relaxed, pretending breath.

But I must eat, and then, there’s one more thing I have to do before I go.

I devour a meal of bread and turnips and leave, my body buzzing with tension. I force my face to stay relaxed, my breaths even, but my heart hammers with sick dread. Will I meet Woland in the corridor? Will I bump into Rada? Did Woland make my friends forget that I was with them today? What about Wera? Why did I fight her?

I meet only a handful of rebels on my way to Nienad’s sick chamber, and none of my friends are here. Nienad is in, and I plaster a tight smile on my face.

“Woland told me about your plot,” I say without preamble, pretending to be agitated but not angry. “I want to help.”

The old planetnik turns away from the shelf of potions he was looking through, his brow furrowed.

“He told you?” he asks, his gray eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And you… have nothing against it?”

I smile grimly. “Nienad, I understand making sacrifices. I made many myself, believe me. It’s a devious plan, and the rot is a horrible sickness, but it’s worth it. Few suffering for the benefit of all is a small price.”

He relaxes, but his eyes are still wary. “Few is the right word. We haven’t managed to spread the illness as far as I hoped. Has Woland told you what strategies we’re considering?”

He folds his arms on his chest, and I realize with a sinking feeling he’s about to interrogate me to find out how much I truly know. I smile cooly, hoping the brief conversation I overheard and the conclusions I drew from it will be enough.

“He did. I think giving out charged eggs is your best bet, but it will have to be clever. I thought about it, and mixing good eggs with contaminated ones feels like the best way to avoid suspicions for as long as possible. You can also give the eggs to those already suffering from the rot. Maybe even focus on them, and when they pay for things, they will distribute your sickness for you without knowing.”

I hold back my breath of relief when Nienad nods, his wariness melting away. I hate giving him ideas, but once I give my soul to Weles, he will crush Woland’s movement and heal the rot. At least, I hope he will.

Weles is my only option now.

“That‘s a good idea, though it will take a long time,” Nienad says with a sigh. “I really hoped it would stick this time, you know. The formula I developed to poison the fence seemed flawless. Unfortunately, it still won’t work unless the magic going out with the tolls is contaminated, too, and for now, too few people are sick for it to work.”

I swallow, keeping my face carefully blank, even though inside, understanding rushes through me like a gale.

So that’s why they make people sick. The rot poisons a person’s magic, and Perun’s tolls harvest that magic. Nienad hopes, then, that if enough people in the city fall sick, that contamination will reach Perun.

The planetnik watches me, waiting for my reply, and I nod sharply. “You still did an incredible job,” I say, the words tasting foul on my tongue. “I know my help isn’t much, but I’m eager to do whatever it takes. I’m done watching my friends suffer and lose their limbs. Let’s win this war.”

He nods with a rare smile. “You know, I’m glad he told you. You’re more reasonable than I thought, krasnolica, and a valuable disciple. Come back tomorrow. I’ll show you the strides we made. I have three rot patients in there now, testing out a new variant of the illness. This one kills much slower but does a better job poisoning their magic. It’s the best one yet.”

I don’t move, focusing on making my exhale as slow and calm as possible, even though my mind clamors with the implications of what he said.

He infected people with the rot to test it. It’s obvious now that he said it, but somehow, I didn’t anticipate it.

They are right here, in the secret portion of the sick chamber. They’ve been here all along. Just beyond a wall.

Before the silence grows suspicious, I nod, not smiling this time. I’m all brisk seriousness, even as my heart beats faster and faster, pushing me out the door, out the rebel base, out of this city.

All of it is rotten.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, then. You have my thanks, Nienad. Your work is so important.”

He preens, puffing out his chest until his silver hair peeks out through his open collar. I smile, and he nods back, all of his suspicion gone.

Remarkable how much a woman can achieve with a sprinkling of information and a dollop of praise for a man.

I go out calmly, even though everything inside begs me to bolt. Run, and run fast. Instead, I walk at a brisk, purposeful pace, heading for a tunnel that leads to one of the exits lower down the slope of the mountain, as I remember vaguely from Lech’s tour.

The way leads through rebel quarters. It’s not very busy, and the people I meet look at me either with indifference or warmth. I don’t know if Woland wiped everyone’s memory about my involvement in anything that happened today. Maybe he did. If anything, that makes my mission easier.

When I see an open door and a heap of clothes on the floor, I use just a little of magic to make my form illusive and barely noticeable. Inside, someone sits on a bed with their back to the door, folding clothes. I snatch a cloak and keep moving. I don’t want to risk going back to Woland’s chamber.

A few twists and turns later, I find the door out. It’s unguarded, and I slip out, walking down a low, winding corridor. Finally, I’m alone. I let my breath go out of my control, faster and faster as it fuels my struggling heart.

Frantically, I think about what to do. My first choice is calling Chors and making him hide me somewhere Woland won’t look while I beg him to take me to Weles. But what if he doesn’t appear?

I don’t know how to cross the lethal river guarding the way to Nawie. Wyraj is beyond the uncrossable fence. My only escape is the forest. I curse myself for never making the time to learn how to cross back to the mortal world. I could hide there, and much better than in Slawa. I know many bieses go there, just like the rusalkas I met who fed on human life force.

But it’s a moot point. My best bet is Chors.

I come out of the tunnels through a dilapidated building in a poor part of the city. It’s night, and few lights are on in the houses I pass. Between the buildings, I see the glittering river. I head there.

The sky is overcast, starless and moonless. There’s just enough light, gray and scattered through the bulky snow clouds, to let me see my way. I am breathless, running now, but it’s clumsy and slow. I finger Woland’s ring, bracing for the pain.

Finally, when I leave the houses behind, I stop. It’s now or never.

The agony of shearing my finger with the wicked thorns is blinding. I trap a whimper behind my teeth and yank, pieces of my skin coming off with the ring. A whispered spell heals me, and I grip the cursed band in my fist, walking fast to the riverbank.

I fling it in the water, swallowing back tears. Like everything, the ring was a lie, one I was too eager to believe.

As I take a shaky breath, doing my best to calm myself before calling on the god of the moon, a soft voice behind me speaks.

“It’s beautiful. Why did you throw it away?”