“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
