“Must you forgive me if I did exactly as you asked?”
I can’t help smiling as I turn to look at his beautiful face. He’s at his loveliest when he’s bathed in moonlight.
“Yes, sweetheart. I must forgive you, because you caused me much heartbreak and suffering. I meant to see Weles to be rid of Woland forever, and you brought me right to him. You said he wouldn’t hurt me. Remember?”
His face falls, his eyes creasing with guilt. “He does his best, but sometimes his best is not good enough. We hurt him very much, Jaga. A wounded beast will lash out, will it not?”
“Wounded.” I scoff under my breath, shaking my head. “Well, you’re forgiven whether you think you need it or not. Now, Ihave a favor to ask. You’re his son. You must know a lot about his creation and magic. About death, life—andsouls.Help me.”
Chors’ lips twist in reluctance, but I don’t wait for him to refuse me. I drop my shields and barriers, each and every last one, and let the fractured mess of my soul unfurl.
He gasps, and I close my eyes, knowing how ugly it must look. My soul, which used to be a sweet, tiny thing nestled in the deepest part of my heart, is like a tattered cloak. It’s enormous, its tendrils and jagged edges uncontained. It spreads outside my body, pulsing red, fluttering and throbbing with the ebb and flow of my being.
I saw it in the mirror when I was alone. It’s a red light, sometimes as bright as poppies, other times—as dark and thick as congealed blood. It looks organic, like raw tissue, but at the same time, it’s not. It can’t be grasped, yet it feels everything. It’s raw, so very vulnerable when parts of it protrude outside the protection of my body.
It’s like having my heart out, subject to the whipping of rain and wind, easily wounded by a hostile look or an unfriendly word.
Woland thought it was a travesty—what I did to his heart. But this is so much worse.
“You… But… It’s so…large.”
“It’s disgusting,” I say with a bitter smile, keeping my eyes closed. I can’t bear to see the look of repulsion on his gorgeous face. Chors will never desire me again after seeing this. No one will.
“I… I mean…”
“You can say it. I don’t mind. I know what it looks like.”
Chors releases a shaky breath. I hiss, flinching back, when something cold slithers along a particularly long tendril of my soul.
“Sorry.” The offending touch retreats, and I breathe in relief. “I don’t know why I did that. I think… I wanted to see how it feels.”
I suppress a bitter cackle that tickles the back of my throat, wanting to burst out.
“And? Was it slimy? Cold and vile? Like a reptile?”
“No.” His voice is very tender and so low, I have to step closer to hear. “It felt like you. Warm. Familiar. Powerful. How did it become so mutilated, Jaga?”
The sound of his voice lends me courage to open my eyes. Chors has a soft, inquiring look on his face, not at all horrified like I expected. Maybe I don’t disgust him, then. Or maybe I gave him enough time to school his expression. It doesn’t matter, because I’ll take every shred of kindness I’m given.
“When Mokosz buried me, I had no magic,” I begin haltingly, the memory of plants living inside me, of insects crawling in my ears and wounds rushing through me like a full-body tremor. “And when it replenished, her plants sucked it out at once. I couldn’t move. I had no way of getting out. At one point, after months, I think, I realized there was something in my chest. The pendant with Woland’s blood.”
Chors nods, evidently knowing all about it. How very fatherly of Woland to share everything with his son. I bite back my scoff of annoyance.
“I knew it had to come out. I didn’t know why at that point. My mind was very slow, as if I was a plant myself. Through excruciating effort and much pain, I managed to push it out. Only—that didn’t help. The magic binding his blood still worked, even outside my body. I realized I had to make the pendant break so the plants would suck out that magic and break my spell. So he would find me.”
“But you had no magic,” Chors whispers.
A powerful wave crashes into the cliff, and I pick up my coat, shivering. I don it fast, then warm myself with a hasty spell. My soul is tucked back in, my ignominy hidden away.
“My well was empty. It was magical starvation—and do you know how starving people can smell food from far away? Hunger sharpens the senses. My magical depletion made me aware of this tiny, hidden, heavily protected deposit of magic inside me. I used it. And Woland found me.”
“So that’s what caused this?” Chors asks, his brows drawing into a thoughtful frown.
I grin, baring my teeth in madness rather than in mirth.
“Oh, no. That’s when I cracked it open. I suppose it would have healed with time. But I discovered that by spending that magic in my soul, I could make myself indifferent. When the pain got too much, I simply burned through my soul, and it stopped hurting. Somehow, the more I did it, the bigger my soul grew, and more powerful.”
For a moment, I am back in Nawie’s Well of Souls, fury and resentment riding me. It wasbeautiful.Utterly striking—to see him up there, the god of life and death welcoming his creation back home—like a loving father embracing his children. I was so angry to be denied that.
