Page 53 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter fifty-three

Weles

I come awake with a start, trying to take a breath. For a few moments, I don’t understand what’s happening. I suffocate, my entire body splitting with pain. My tired heart gives a heavy thud, and I have a distinct feeling that it hasn’t beaten for a while.

Pain fills my mind and body, and I want to cry, but with no breath, I can’t. Drowning in suffering, I drift away in my grave, wrapped up in plants that are so full of life.

The next time I wake, it’s worse. The moment my heart beats, my entire body explodes with pain. There is still no air, but I push myself to stay awake longer. Maybe there is a way out. There always was until now.

Wasn’t there?

The third time I wake, I wish for death. I hate Woland more than ever before. How could he take mortality away from me? The cruel, evil beast.

It goes on like this forever. I drift off to sleep and startle awake, time and again. The pain stays sharp, filling every part of my body with needles and crushing heaviness. It tears me apart. I wish for just a sip of air. Just one tear to ease my suffering.

Strangely, when it happens a dozen times or so, I seem to get used to it. It’s not easier, exactly. I just accept it. Being buried alive with no air and escape is my fate now. There is no time in here, or at least, it feels like there isn’t. Maybe Mokosz trapped me in a place without time. Or maybe I cannot perceive it, with no regular heartbeat to measure out the seconds.

As I get used to the torture, I start thinking. Here and there, after I startle awake and go through the worst of it, I can handle a few thoughts. They take effort. A mind devoid of air is a clunky, slow animal. Words are hard to grasp. I can’t build sentences. Complexity eludes me.

And yet, after an eternity of laborious awakenings, I have a thought.

And the thought is, What’s that weight next to my heart?

I grew used to it. It was there for long weeks, and even though it felt alien at first, I accepted it with time as an integral part of me. It just was. A bit heavy. A bit uncomfortable from time to time. But mine.

Except, it’s not.

And so, I begin the torturous process of undoing what I did then, in a rush of panic, terrified he would take it away.

At first, my bones won’t move. It takes a few awakenings to get the hang of speaking to them in a way they understand. My bones are not mine anymore, just like my body isn’t. Without a heart and breath to keep me whole, I am but a collection of parts, and those parts refuse my authority.

So I coax. I beg. Until finally, upon one awakening, the collarbones move to the sides. Just a little. The pain makes me black out, and when I wake up next, it’s to agony worse than ever before.

Time passes. It could be minutes or days, I don’t know, but finally, I manage to slide the collarbones far apart. Then the sternum. The bones dealt with, I rest, the pain grounding me now. I have a purpose. There is a thing I must do, and even though I forgot why, or what the thing means, I hang on to what I know.

Whatever it is, there, by my heart, must come out.

I hit a hurdle then. The thing must come out, and the bones have slid away, but how do I push it through the flesh? It’s not my flesh anymore, not mine to command. It’s merely connected to me, feeding me pain.

So I don’t know. I speak to my skin, urging it to split, but it talks back.

We already have so many wounds, it says. Flowers and insects took root in the bloody gashes in our back. Worms live there, feeding on our flesh, and plants bury their roots deep, and we cannot, should not, open any further.

Even though our ears are already homes to entire colonies of springtails. We are one with nature.

So I coax. I beg. I promise impossible things.

We’ll be rescued if we do it, I promise. We’ll be saved. We’ll be healed. We will be whole again.

But who will rescue us?

Who?

I don’t know.

Then why suffer more? Isn’t this enough? Let us sleep.

And for a while, that’s that.

Until I wake with a horrible, tearing pain that’s not in my body. It’s in my soul, a longing so deep, I cannot quash it. It pours out like magic, and I fancy I see a glow through my closed, bound eyelids. A red glow. I yearn, I crave, and there’s a name just out of reach, a name I would call if I had any air.

The body wakes with twinges of protest. The heart gives a thud, awakening my pain, and I cry for the first time, real tears squeezing out to wet the roots wrapped tightly around the face.

None of it is mine anymore, yet I feel the pain all the same.

The longer I cry, the clearer I get. Until finally I remember the thing I miss, the thing I want the most, that I’ll never get to see again.

Woland.

Please, I beg the heaving body. Please. Just do this one thing for me. Just let it come out.

The skin of the chest splits open with mercy, or maybe pity. Inside the body, things come into motion after a long period of being immobile. Muscles contract. Blood flows, thick and painful with no air. The bones grind and heave, and finally, it is out. Finally, it goes.

And something presses into the fresh wound, a predatory plant feeding on blood. It sinks its roots into the flesh, and they are like hooks. The skin tries to close. It cannot. The heart stutters, terrified.

Because that plant will wrap around it and squash it like a ripe strawberry, and there is nothing we can do. I feel for the heart. It deserves better.

Can I make it better?

I reach deep inside me, deeper than I dared before. There is no magic there. The plants suck it out, greedy little beasts. But that’s fine. Since I cannot die, I can take risks. I can go deeper.

With the last of my will, I tether my awareness to my very soul, a faint, wretched thing that’s still here, even though it should soar with the swallows.

I pull on it. Souls are magic. Souls are power. I pull it closer, tugging sharply.

Come , I order. Do a spell.

And so I do it. I channel the very essence of my soul, not caring what I lose, which part of my nature will be gone, siphoned away to power this spell. I’m lacking, anyway. I’m but a tool. It’s all right.

There’s enough for just one spell.

Shatter , I tell the crystal vial.

And so it does. Blood seeps into the soil around the body, and the roots buried in its wounds burrow deeper, the insects crawl slower, and I sleep.

I wake to light. It burns the eyes, the eyes that aren’t mine. There is movement, too. Plowing. The plants scream. The insects chitter, outraged. Someone’s taking their home.

Someone’s here.

I sleep.

Then pain. Deep, thudding, overwhelmingly magical. The lips are wet, lips that aren’t mine, and a voice speaks, but we don’t know this language anymore, do we? All we know is the secret rustles of the roots. The lullabies springtails tap out in the ears.

I sleep.

And pain, again. Fingers on the throat, not gentle. Frustrated. Someone growls. Wetness slips out of the mouth and trickles down the cheek.

I sleep.

Sometime later, still sleeping, dreaming of secret, underground things, it happens. The throat moves. The tongue twitches. We swallow.

And the world grows red.

This pain is fresh and all-consuming, and it fuses us into one. It’s no longer we, but me , no longer the bones, but my bones, my wretched agony. I don’t scream, because I can’t breathe, because I forgot how.

A voice speaks, calmer now. Soothing. There are touches, horrible and invasive. No longer cool and predatory like plants. These are warm touches, coming from a thing with a heart and a breath, and I want to beg the thing to tell me the secret of breathing.

Magic pours in, and roots tear out, taking chunks of me with them. Warm wetness on my lips, and I swallow and swallow, not yet breathing.

My ears hurt and ring. My chest is open, my heart beating in a frenzy. My bones are not right, not aligned, my collarbones too far apart. More wetness. Swallowing, swallowing. Magic.

My bones slide into place and I want to sleep.

But there’s no stopping it now. Things come awake, things that slept, resigned to be buried forever. I want to scream from the pain, and still, and still, there is no air.

Until things are ripped out from my nose and lungs, things that lived there and fed on me, now dead and screaming, now gone. I swallow. The warm body cradling mine is soothing, and yet not. Too warm. I was so cold for so long, the warmth now disgusts me. I crave the temperature of my grave in the strange place in-between, the summer domain of Mokosz in the heart of winter.

But the warmth persists. The blood is also warm, blood trickling down my tongue, until I turn away and refuse, because it hurts, it hurts so much. Warm fingers turn me back, so indecently gentle, and I swallow some more.

My lungs stop hurting. My throat is sore, then not. My nostrils heal.

“That’s it, my sweetest. Just a bit more.”

I startle, the words making sense for the first time. My eyes stay closed. Someone blows into my face, the way I’d blow at a baby who cried so hard, it forgot to breathe.

I rush back into life with the first pull of air.

And it’s not painful. It should be, just like the first thud of my heart after a long rest, but it’s not. The air feels ecstatic. It flows down my throat, to my lungs, to my heart, and fills my blood with quiet susurration. Everything in me is aglow. The air rushes in, awakening me, and I have an orgasm, my back arching, spine snapping taut with pleasure.

“Beautiful,” says the voice. “Another one, sweet thing. It feels good to breathe. It’s ecstatic to be alive. One more. You know how.”

I don’t, or maybe I do. Sweet air tickles my lips, warm and tasting of smoke, and I breathe in again. Another bout of euphoria fills me to the toes, and I don’t make sounds yet, I can’t, but within me, pleasure sings.

The next breath, I take without help. And then it’s like I never stopped. I breathe, one after another, and it feels like too many after the absence of air, but then, it’s just enough.

I shake with another orgasm, a glittering world of gold bursting behind my closed eyelids. Everywhere there was pain, euphoria lives, and I’m grateful he made me immortal, after all.

The pain was worth it. Because life is so precious.

“Open your eyes, love,” the voice murmurs, and I make a sound, my first.

It’s scratchy and probably doesn’t mean much. What I want to say is, Who are you?

I don’t know that voice. It’s vaguely familiar, as if I heard a distorted echo of it in the past. A beastlier, darker echo, with edges and claws. This voice is smooth. Masculine, deep. But polished. Like a stone at the bottom of the river, instead of a jagged rock.

“Come on, sweetheart. You are well now. I just need to check your eyes.”

I scrunch up my nose, the echoes of my last orgasm still humming through my vertebrae, pleasant and soft. Why would he speak to me this way, like he knows me? He’s a stranger. I don’t know his voice.

And so my eyes stay closed, refusing to see a strange face after everything. I deserve someone familiar. Woland. It’s him I called, shattering my only protection, revealing where I was. Why isn’t it him? The blood tasted like his, but the voice, the voice!

I whimper, pitiful and broken. He never loved me. He only used me, wrapped me up in his lies, and in the end, when I ripped my bones and heart to call him, he didn’t come. He sent a stranger.

“What is it, sweetest?” the voice asks, a lilt at the end that I don’t recognize, too musical, a bit like Chors, yet not. “Where does it hurt? I will fix it all. Just show me where.”

My arms feel heavy when I raise them. I am cradled in his lap, his arms holding me securely, but they are wrong arms. Strong, yes, but smaller. Woland is so big. The stranger isn’t.

He hums, a bit troubled, a bit pitying, as I press my hands to my heart. There. This is where it hurts. This is what’s broken.

A palm lays on top of mine, a warm, big palm that has no claws. A sound rips out of my throat, sad and yearning.

“Shh. I’ll fix it. Let me see.”

Currents of magic swirl around our hands and gently descend into me. He hums under his breath in thought, a clawless thumb gently smoothing the top of my palm.

“Nothing there, sweetheart,” he says after a moment, voice gentle. “It’s your heart. It’s perfectly well.”

I shake my head with a whine. Am I an animal? Did I forget how to speak? I press my lips together, moving my tongue in my mouth. Clumsy and unwieldy. But how will he know what’s wrong?

“Wol—Wol…” I can’t say more, but he grunts in response, and I think he understands what I’m trying to say.

“I’m here, love. I’m here. I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head, frustrated. A lie, a lie! This is a stranger. His blood might taste right, but his body is all wrong, and his voice is low and gentle. Woland would have cursed. He would have raged.

“No,” I manage, my tongue heavy and resistant. “Wol—and. Where… Woland.”

He makes another sound, softer. I think he understands me.

“I see.”

Magic pours out, tickling my skin, but it doesn’t touch me. It’s dark, made of shadows, and it smells like the earth after rain and smoke. I breathe it in, keening, because it’s so familiar. I want to breathe it all the time. This is my air now.

“Better, love?”

I open my eyes with a gasp. Here he is, the familiar dark face bowed over me, glittering gold eyes vigilant and soft. I cry for good this time. I cry all the sobs I wasn’t able to release when I was buried, and he holds me, a rough, sorrowful sound tearing from his throat. He pulls me up, pressing me to his chest.

“It’s all right, my sweetest. I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’m here.”

For a time, it’s enough. I let him hold me. I breathe. My body gets used to air and warmth, and I begin to shiver, as if in response to everything that happened. My teeth chatter, and he wraps me in a blanket, then another, and finally picks me up and sits with me by the hearth where hot fire roars.

The chattering abates somewhat, but I still shiver from time to time. He makes a sound of impatience, so very like him, and magic plays around us. When he turns away from the fireplace, a large bathtub stands in the middle of the room—a room I don’t recognize.

It’s all right. I don’t care where we are. Just that he’s here.

“We’ll bathe. I’ll make you warm. Nothing to worry about, sweet thing.”

I’m not worried. I cling to him as he lowers himself into the bathtub, with me still in his arms. As the water envelops me, I moan from how warm it is. Finally, I’m not freezing.

“There,” he murmurs, holding me close. “I’ll take care of you. Rest, my beloved. It will be all right. You can sleep.”

When I wake, we’re still in the tub, the water just as hot as it was. I can tell I spent a long time here, and he stayed with me. As I stir, he hums in greeting.

“How are you feeling? Are you hungry yet?”

I move around until he figures out what I want and helps me straddle his thighs so I can see his face. My body feels… well. I am rested. I hum with magic, his. There are no insects crawling inside me.

I am well. And my heart is only half-broken. I should shield it, but I don’t know how. If you cannot tell the truth from lies, how can you love? How can you not?

“Who was that?” I ask, hoarse but perfectly clear.

So I can speak, after all. I’m mended.

Woland understands me instantly. “That was me, love. I have—ah, another form. I was about to tell you six months ago. Before Mokosz took you.”

I am briefly distracted by that. “Six months? Was it really?”

He nods solemnly. “I searched for you everywhere,” he says, his voice catching in a rare moment of vulnerability that could be just a part of the performance. “I even came to that clearing. Jaga, I stood right above you, and I never knew you were there.”

He looks haunted. His hands shake, and he clutches my arms, gently. He trembles. Closes his eyes.

When a tear rolls down his cheek, and he blinks with a frown, as if angry with himself, I can’t take it any longer.

“Are you lying?” I ask. There is no accusation. Just simple curiosity.

He shakes his head once.

“Six months, Jaga. I knew you were hurting, I knew you couldn’t die, and I couldn’t get to you.”

I nod. “Couldn’t die. Yes. Am I a bies?”

I watch him calmly as he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. He looks genuinely distressed, his hands clutching at me still shaking. I observe it with gentle interest. He’s so good at this. All the right emotions are here, for me to peruse.

Maybe he really made a scheme with Mokosz. Maybe I was wrong, and he had nothing against me being whipped and buried. How will I know?

“Yes and no,” Woland says, his voice straining. “You aren’t mortal in that you cannot die, but you are not a bies like everyone else who lives in Slawa. You are—exactly yourself. Only immortal. Like a goddess.”

I snort softly. There’s nothing godlike about what I went through.

“When you died that day,” Woland says roughly, wiping another tear from his cheek, “I lost my mind. I couldn’t let you go. Couldn’t. Not just because I needed you. I never thought of that, Jaga, not for a moment. All I thought was that I’d never speak with you again like this. That I’d never touch you like this. You’d be in Nawie, a shadow of yourself, and I couldn’t stand it. So I brought you back, and I made sure you’d never die again.”

I hum, not knowing whether to believe him or not. Woland must see the cool ambivalence in my face, because he looks away, his throat working.

“It took so many tries, because I wanted to remake you exactly, just without mortality. The pieces didn’t fit, over and over, until I found a way. And Jaga, I didn’t want to change even a single thing apart from that, because you were perfect. You are.”

“That’s a nice compliment,” I say with detachment, not letting it in.

Woland sighs, brushing his hand over his face. There’s a moment of hesitation until he nods with a grimace, like he’s about to do something unpleasant.

“I left a back door for myself. A sort of—loophole. I can kill you. I am the only one who can. I’m telling you because I promised myself you’d get only the truth from me now.”

“Hm.” I shrug. He said he didn’t think about my role in his war, but he definitely did, if he felt the need to leave himself this back door. I don’t care much, and I have no idea whether it’s true. Guess I’ll find out if he ever kills me.

“And who was that?” I ask softly, studying his face. “Before, there was a man. He held me.”

Woland releases a long, tortured breath. He seems to be in actual pain. I observe curiously. Such a neat skill, to lie so well.

“That was me.”

I smile, knowing this for the lie it is. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and I drink in the air he breathes out, shamelessly tasting it. I’ll take all the pleasure I can get. I won’t deny myself anything.

I just won’t believe him.

“This is the secret I wanted to tell you,” he says again. “I will tell you now. Jaga, no one knows about this. Just a handful of people. Chors, of course. Nyja. And Dola. And now, you, as well. This is my payment to you. My offering.”

“All right.”

I sound neither convinced nor doubtful. Woland makes a pained sound, rubbing his eyes furiously.

“Let me show you. Don’t… Don’t be scared.”

“I won’t,” I say simply. “Whatever it is.”

He nods once, smoke and shadows wrapping around him in a mantle of magic that smells and tastes like him. I let my tongue out and lick the edge of it with a pleased murmur.

He is perfect. If only he kept his mouth shut.

When the smoke swirls under water, too, around his legs I still straddle, I make a small sound of surprise. The thighs underneath me change shape, growing a bit smaller, still robust and manly, but no longer devil-shaped. In front of me, the smoke drifts away, melting into the shadows at the edges of the room.

It’s a man. A man I don’t know.

His eyes are very dark, but when they move slightly, studying my face, a hint of silver glints in the irises. His eyebrows are the same, just like Woland’s—like Chors’. Dark and thick, perfectly shaped. He has a regal nose, more polished than Woland’s. His lips are full, slightly narrower, and his skin is like mine, maybe paler.

He reminds me of Chors. His hair is just like the moon god’s, black and long. On his sharp chin, he sports a short beard. That, finally, makes me understand.

I saw his sign countless times, drawn in blood on buildings in the city. A triangle with horns. He doesn’t have Woland’s antlers or any other appendage, but his face is shaped like a rough triangle. Handsome, I suppose. Young and old at once. Proportional.

He is naked, just like Woland was, and his body is masculine and strong. Hair covers his chest and trails down his taut stomach. I look away, not in shame but disinterest.

“Who are you?”

My inflection is wrong. It’s not a question, because I already know. A moment later, he confirms it.

“I am Woland. And I am Weles.”

THE END OF BOOK 2