Time to improvise.
“Catch me.”
Chapter twenty-two
Honey
I flap my wings once, shooting up and toward the mountain’s peak. Her laughter chases me, tinkling and pretty, and I remember with a shiver how Jaga pretended to be her—with her hands on me, her eyes piercing, a cackle in her throat.
“I can’t fight her or it won’t work,”I explain myself to my girl, hating the fact that I have to.
Ah, what is this feeling, squirming in my gut so unpleasantly, sticky like tar and slugs? Jaga is silent, and I fume, flying fast to my destination and hoping Mokosz follows instead of calling for Perun.
If he comes, it will be over. I finally remember why I stopped publicly making mischief. It’s because my pride cannot handle running from him when I remember the timeshecowered in front ofme.
How low I have fallen.
“I will find a way to play her just right. Without touching her. Maybe. She’s very touchy-feely.”
Still, Jaga is quiet. I fly over the luxuriously high wall of Perun’s grove and land right in the middle, by the biggest oak. Shudders of revulsion squirm through me, growing more potent when I smell the trees.
I fucking hate oaks.
“Please, say something. Anything. Tell me you hate me.”
Jaga shifts in my mind, something like reluctance, anger, maybe humiliation coming through our bond before she finally speaks.
“Do what you have to. I don’t care.”
I almost huff with frustration before I remember how she looked after she saw me kiss Mokosz. I sent my shadows to follow her and witnessed it all, her hurt and fury, bitter jealousy, and pain. She flung off the ring with barely a grimace, even though it razed through her finger.
She cares. And now I know what it is, squirming in my gut like slugs.
Guilt.
I could have played Mokosz a thousand different ways that day, but I chose a kiss, because I hated Jaga for making me lose. I wanted her to hurt.
I’ve learned my lesson, too, when she went and fucked my son for that kiss. She’ll always hurt me more in the end.
So this time, I make a promise—to her and myself.
“I won’t kiss her, I won’t seduce her, I won’t even touch her. You have my word.”
“Whatever.”
“What are you doing, big boy?” Mokosz asks, coming out from behind a tree, her hand sensuously trailing its bark. “Have you lost all your senses? Ah, if Perun were here, he’d turn you into a pile of dung to fertilize his grove.”
She grins and skips over, light and careless like a girl. I put up an invisible barrier between us, a spell so subtle, it’s from another time. Mokosz hesitates, frowning, and takes a step back.
The spell makes her reluctant to be near me. It’s magic at its most basic, far less flamboyant than what most gods prefer, this art almost forgotten in Slawa. It’s the kind of spell a mortal whisperer might cast with a rhymed murmur, or even by simply wanting more space. It’s magic that’s barely magic, but—will and intent.
Hopefully, Mokosz won’t realize what I’ve done.
“He likes to dish out punishments, yes,” I drawl, cocking my head. “Tell me, my lovely goddess. How did he punishyouwhen he found out the girl you buried was gone from her grave?”
She gives me a sullen look, huffing with displeasure. “And how do you know she’s gone?”
“I have my sources. I know Weles has her. It seems we share an enemy, my most stunning queen.”
