She takes a sip of wine, her eyes almost cool over the rim of her cup. She can’t quite hide their blazing, though. My spine tingles pleasantly, because this reminds me of so many moments in the past when I got to teach Jaga. I told her secrets hidden from mortals and gods, and she never knew how precious, how rare that knowledge was.
Woland doesn’t teach, but Weles does. I suppose she brings out the best in my uglier half.
“We were supposed to die young but we lived.”
I smile, stealing her crystal cup. I can tell where she pressed her lips, and I lick the rim, looking into her eyes. She holds my gaze as her cheeks turn a shade darker.
“Are you flustered?” I ask with a grin. “Admit it or I won’t tell you the rest.”
But this Jaga won’t be cowed. She takes out her knife and rams the blade into the tabletop until it stands, vibrating.
“Stop playing games or I’ll nail your tail to your bedframe when you sleep.”
Oh, I can’t help it. Mischief is in my nature.
“Haven’t you learned? I come hard when you play with my tail. Or is that what you want? Filthy little witch.”
Her jaw works, her face quite red now. Oh, she’s adorable. When I chuckle under my breath, Jaga freezes. Her face tightens into the familiar mask of effort, and I shoot up, alarmed. She’ll do it again, burn through her magic, her soul, and I can’t let her.
Before I make a step, Jaga buries her face in her arms on the table, groaning with helpless rage. Good. She knows the risk.
“You did that to stop caring, didn’t you?” I ask softly. “It terrifies you that you might love me yet. Well, let’s make it easy. Ask so you’ll know, once and for all. Ask if I love you.”
She lifts her head with effort, looking at me with deep, profound resignation. I jerk away, my playful mood evaporating.
“I would rather not know, Woland. Because if you love me and still did all those things… Who evenwantsto be loved like that? Finish the tale and let me sleep.”
My heart slams hard, the memory of her violating touch skittering along my ribs. I don’t think Icanlove her any other way. But… Maybe I am not as bad as she makes me out to be. Did I love her before or after I got her banished from her village?
After, I think. That’s comforting.
Before or after I manipulated her to fall for me? Ah. But that can be excused. I wanted her to feel the same way I did. And the other things? Trying to wipe her memory, revealing her significance to the world, chaining her to the floor?
I have an excellent excuse: the rage of a betrayed lover. It’s reasonable to be furious after finding out my betrothed fucked my son.
Or maybe she’s right. Maybe my love is poisonous. But Jaga is a poisonous flower herself, just like the poppy after which I call her. It’s a drug that induces visions, makes people drowsy and careless.
She had my heart in her hand, for fuck’s sake. She is as bad as me.
“Perun never confirmed it,” I say, abandoning my fruitless train of thought. “Hence, it’s just a rumor, one that Dola hinted to me is true. See, from time to time, powerful people are born in the mortal world or in Slawa. Like Dar—he received an exceptional soul from the Great Tree. As you know, souls are magic. That is why he will be able to fly despite his weak parentage.”
Jaga nods, ever the gracious student. “Will he remember the previous lives of that soul? I know he doesn’t now, but maybe someday?”
I shake my head. “A soul is not a mind. Those reused ones do not have memories. It’s—a person’s essence, a certain quality, a capacity for magic. Things that are nebulous and difficult to grasp.”
“So what does it mean?”
“I’m getting there. Let’s look at you now, hm? A powerful witch with great magic. You were destined to die at twelve, weren’t you?”
She hums in confirmation but doesn’t elaborate. I tried asking her in the past, mainly to find out who hurt her and use my devilish powers to find and kill them in a painful, prolonged manner.
“Perun hates disruptions. To him, mortals and bieses are like cattle. In Slawa, he has only one use for people—to harvest theirmagic. Mortals are important for their beliefs and the power they give him. But if there was a hero or a heroine, say, or a powerful witch who conversed with gods and bieses, well, that might put a snag in his plan. Powerful people sway crowds. Heroes are worshipped.”
“So he makes sure there are no heroes,” Jaga whispers, her eyes widening in indignation. “But—how?”
“The rodzanicas. They decide the fate of every newborn, do they not? If they sense a great destination awaiting a soul, they are ordered to change that fate to early death. At least, according to rumor. Perun won’t let them speak of it.”
Jaga’s lip curls with loathing. She shakes her head, her fingers so tight around her wine cup, her knuckles are white.
