17. Seventeen

IT MAY BE A BAD IDEA.

Ryurikov kept his focus on the forest just ahead, the shadows within ever growing. Awimak referred to braving the mountains, of course, and if history taught Ryurikov anything, it was that his demon had a good sense of when something was a shitty idea.

“I should probably listen to you.” Fiery eyes were on him, but he didn’t meet them, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “So, I suppose we’re headed for Od Peming Rise.”

Awimak’s chuff was one of amusement.

“You’re not obligated to come along.” Ryurikov ghosted over bushes and ferns, while Awimak simply ploughed through it all, causing a racket, large hooves crashing into logs and tearing past shrubbery. “I realise trees must grow and all that, but they’re also flammable.” He cast a deliberate look at the tree in question.

Mirth flickered in those sun-like eyes.

YOU SEEM CONCERNED FOR MY WELL BEING.

Ryurikov scoffed. “I’m not.”

NO?

“You’re a demon, most likely somewhat older than I am. I’m confident you can take care of yourself. That reminds me,” he continued, cloak flying behind him as he spun to face Awimak. “Why didn’t you move between worlds like you did in Enlumine’s Wish?”

Awimak halted in his tracks, skull turned downwards. In the advancing darkness, his eyes were a reprieve. I CANNOT WITHOUT THE LIFE OF A FOREST.

Ryurikov’s brows furrowed. “In that case, you shouldn’t come if there’s nowhere for you to hide.”

YOU ARE CONCERNED.Said with smugness.

His lips flapped with a dismissive noise and he waved up at the broom in Awimak’s horns. “Just because the hag said she won’t try to kill me doesn’t mean I believe her.”

Awimak’s footsteps followed as Ryurikov carried on through the dense forest, weaving between the trees until the familiar thick trunks leading up to the hut came into view.

YOU ARE WRONG.

“About what? That you’re flammable?”

NO, WE ARE ALL IGNITABLE. I AM MORE THAN SOMEWHAT OLDER.

Ryurikov absent-mindedly glanced up. His stomach growled low with hunger. “How old?”

OLDER THAN YOU.

Tree crowns parted to give way, and old steps creaked under his boots. “You’re hilarious.” And evasive.

Before disappearing inside, he faced Awimak and… Struggled. With what exactly, Ryurikov didn’t know, but there was a sense of unease taking root in the pits of his stomach, and it had nothing to do with the gnawing hunger.

He hesitated, fidgeted with the sleeves of the pilfered tunic. His gaze lifted to Awimak’s, he opened his mouth. Then, he swiftly turned back ’round and opened the door. It slammed shut behind him with a backward kick. He leaned against it, scanning the room for Jezibaba while listening to heavy footfalls circling the hut. She was nowhere in sight.

With a curious hum, Ryurikov climbed the stairs. He peered into the mirror room, and after praying to gods he didn’t believe in, checked inside the bathing room. Empty save for the tub, once more filled with fresh steaming water. That left the bedroom and whatever lurked upstairs.

The staircase up was longer than it had any right to be, winding to a landing that led to a door and yet more stairs. Ryurikov shouldered open the door. Bewilderment stilled him in his tracks.

A child’s bedroom. Or rather, the bedroom for a dozen children, going by the number of beds crammed into the space. Crudely fashioned wooden toys lined shelves, splotchy ink drawings by young hands hung from the walls. The beds were small, some stacked atop in threes.

Floorboards creaked as he walked further inside and ducked around chimes. These were made of snail shells, twigs, pinecones. Decidedly less grim than those downstairs. The window overlooked thickets and wild berry bushes. Treetops passed in lurches, suggesting they were again on the move.

Ryurikov tapped the window’s rippled glass, his mind working around what facts he’d garnered. The rumour that Jezibaba stole and ate children was well known, but would she go so far as to make them a home?

The air clinging to the space did not feel like a prison, nor did it look like anyone had been held captive here. No signs of distress, of scratches in the wood made from desperate attempts to escape, and no blood.

The click of his tongue fell dully into the dusty room. Ryurikov pushed away from the window and went back down, where he invited himself into Jezibaba’s bedroom without knocking. He started at the sight of her in a rocking chair by the large window, eyes peeled wide open and staring at him, lifelessly.

“Oh fuck, did you finally kick it?” Ryurikov drew near, ignoring the lusty croak from the toad atop the wardrobe.

Jezibaba didn’t so much as twitch when he poked the tip of her big nose, although there was a subtle rise and fall to her chest and fat belly. Asleep, then. With her eyes open. Just when he thought she couldn’t get any worse.

A moment’s deliberation, then he kicked the chair hard enough to send it rolling back.

The hag flailed with a squawk, but Ryurikov had no opportunity to gloat. A citrine powder exploded in his face, flared up into his nostrils and down the back of his throat.

He sneezed, violently. It sent him stumbling. His back connected with the wardrobe, hood falling off his head as he furiously scrubbed his itching face with both hands. Another sneeze, this one nearly causing him to piss himself. His lungs squeezed tight, and he struggled to breathe when yet another sneeze fulminated from him, sending him crashing to his ass.

“You absolute—”

Ryurikov couldn’t hear whatever insult the hag hurled at him, once again overpowered by a billowing sneeze. The back of his head knocked into the wardrobe so hard it rattled. Something fell into his lap, he thought he heard a low-pitched croak. Eyes and face burning, Ryurikov crawled out of the bedroom, padding around the floor to find his way, seizing up with every brutal sneeze. By the time he reached the tub, he feared he might shit himself with the next onslaught.

He dunked his head right into the water. Mint and heat soothed his face, the severe itching in his nostrils. He swung back out with a loud gasp. A fan of water pelted the floor behind him. Peeling off the leather gloves, he splashed his face, dug yellow gunk from his nose, and spat out the rest.

“What the fuck!” he rasped, turning to glare at the hag entering the room. It wasn’t the hag, but the toad, round belly swaying side to side as it waddled on its back legs toward him. “What the fuck?”

“Mauvella!” Jezibaba hobbled in and snatched the fat toad up. It released an indignant croak, now trapped by sinewy arms.

Ryurikov settled down near the tub, panting, the need to sneeze still burning the back of his nose. “Mauvella? As in Princess Mauvella?”

Jezibaba glared. “What of it?”

He wanted to snort, but a pathetic groan left him instead at the ache in his throat. Unable to think clearly, Ryurikov waved the subject away.

“Now what, pray tell, was so important that you had to wake me?”

“Hngh—I’m hungry.” His voice was muddy with snot.

Jezibaba’s lips thinned into an angry line. “And? I told you, I’m not taking care of you. If you’re hungry you can cook something.”

“I don’t know how to cook.” He wiped tracks of moisture away from his face, rising to his feet. “And I’m tired of living off berries and raw carrots.”

Jezibaba’s lizard eyes looked him up and down with scalding contempt. “You’re pathetic. All these years and you haven’t once bothered to learn how to fend for yourself. Only ever took advantage of others.”

The words stung more fiercely than Ryurikov would have preferred. “Fuck off, you gristly slab of mutton.”

“I don’t know what Awimak sees in you.”

The crone left Ryurikov to stand there, a riposte stuck in his mouth, ready to burst with an intense rage he didn’t know what to do with because she had already gone. He snapped his gaze around the room, looking for anything to kick. There was nothing.

Ryurikov thundered down the stairs, through the kitchenette and out into the garden before he could think about it. Awimak had resumed his task of tidying the vegetable patch, stilling once catching sight of his angry approach. With a swift tug, Ryurikov undid the clasp of his cloak and let it drift to the grass. He parted his surcoat with equal deftness.

His demon caught on quick, claws clutching his ass to support him the moment he jumped up and wrapped his legs around the sturdy waist. Awimak brought them over to a tree, ripening apples and branches knocking against Ryurikov’s head, but he didn’t care when that pointed tongue slithered into his mouth for him to suck on. He grunted as his back slammed into bark, his boots and breeches yanked off with relative ease, leaving him in his surcoat and tunic and a slicked finger delving mercilessly into his hole.

There was nothing tentative about the way Awimak took him. Ryurikov fisted his own erection, the other hand grasping at the silky mane as that thick, long cock thrust into him with reckless abandon. Raspy grunts accompanied Ryurikov’s moans, raw with an aching need that had replaced his anger. He buried his face into the crook of Awimak’s neck, burning throat soothed by the coolness clinging to grey, earthy skin.

Each unforgiving buck of Awimak’s powerful hips drew him closer to his climax. Each nudge against his prostate sent fire from his feet up into his legs, to his belly, drew his balls up tight. Ryurikov eased his bite around flawless skin to gasp for air, to lean back, to watch himself spill his release over Awimak’s broad chest.

He glanced back up through half-lidded eyes, and fulgent ones locked with his. A final, brutal thrust into him wrenched free a yelp, and Awimak spilled deep inside, his demon’s moan an eerie melody that would surely haunt Ryurikov’s dreams.

They settled down by that same tree. He allowed himself a moment of lax resistance as Awimak tucked him into an embrace in his lap, muscular arms encasing him. Like his cloak. Safe, hidden away.

He pressed the side of his face against that heaving chest. It glistened with a fine layer of sweat, like dew caught in a spider’s web turned golden by the fluttering moth-lights that had sparked to life around them.

Awimak’s heart roared like a distant river, a powerful strum against his ear. Ryurikov took comfort in it, although Jezibaba’s words came clangouring back inside his skull, and he grunted with irritation.

WHAT IS YOUR DEAL?

Ryurikov stiffened in the hold. “Don’t know what you mean.”

YOU ARE ANGRY.

With a fingertip he chased a droplet down Awimak’s chest, catching it before it could slide past the curve of the lower pectoral muscle that featured no nipples. He didn’t especially feel like talking, content to sit here with his ass throbbing while he stewed in his anger. Unfortunately, his stomach complained with an audible growl.

PERHAPS YOU SHOULD EAT. YOU WILL FEEL BETTER.

“I’m not in the mood for more berries, or carrots, and I’m fairly certain cabbage isn’t any good raw.” Ryurikov shifted, fidgeting with his surcoat to better block out his demon’s earthy chill. “And before you say it, I told you I can’t cook. That’s… That’s what I’m pissed about.”

YOUR INADEQUACIES ANGER YOU.

Ryurikov glared up in affront. He opened his mouth to retort, but a sturdy finger pressed against his lips. The very gall of Awimak shushing him—

THERE IS NO SHAME IN HAVING LIMITATIONS, RYURIKOV. ONLY IN ACKNOWLEDGING YOUR LIMITATIONS CAN YOU GROW.

“I’m not a fucking tree.”

TREES, HUMANS. THERE IS LITTLE DIFFERENCE. YOU COME FROM THE EARTH. YOU BLEED. YOU DO WHAT YOUR NATURE TELLS YOU TO. Awimak cupped Ryurikov’s face and gently stroked his cheek with a thumb. A REFUSAL TO GROW IS ALL THAT WARRANTS SHAME.

Ryurikov met those enchanting eyes with scrutiny. “What are you saying?”

I AM SAYING YOU SHOULD CONSIDER BURYING YOUR EGO LONG ENOUGH TO ASK IF SHE WOULD BE WILLING TO TEACH YOU SOMETHING. PERHAPS TO COOK?

The very thought made Ryurikov want to shrivel up.

OR YOU CAN STARVE.

“When you put it that way…” Ryurikov sighed, exhausted. “I suppose I should.”

YES.Awimak’s smugness made a comeback. PERHAPS YOU CAN ALSO ASK HER HOW TO REMOVE THE YELLOW FROM YOUR FACE.

Ryurikov staggered upright and vigorously wiped his forehead, bringing his palms back stained. Swearing, he rushed to dress without looking at Awimak, hoping that the yellow would at least cover his burning embarrassment.

He reentered the hut in a storm, mouth full of insults to be spewed at the witch now stoking a fire in the hearth. Then he stopped, and hesitated, and as Awimak’s words swirled around him, Ryurikov deflated.

“What do you want?” the hag snapped without looking.

“Teach me how to cook.”

Jezibaba scowled.

“I mean,” Ryurikov continued before she could refuse him, “I would—” Ugh, his insides squirmed so hard it hurt. “I would appreciate it—” Fuck. He didn’t want to do this, but neither did he want to return to Awimak and confess he’d not even tried. Ryurikov grit his teeth against the sheer agony, each spoken word a tortured hiss, “If you could teach me how to cook, I would be grateful.”

The witch’s look turned suspicious. “Why?”

Ryurikov wanted nothing more than to ram his blade down her throat. Instead, he uttered a most strained, “Please.”

Silver brows rose, but Jezibaba didn’t say anything. It seemed to have done the trick, since she jerked her head at a cauldron perched on the log table. Ryurikov carefully draped his cloak over a stool, then grabbed hold of the cauldron. He brought it over and awaited further instructions.

Jezibaba tossed a log into the fire, now burning hot, and groaned as she got off her knees. She caught sight of him and sighed in exasperation. “Don’t just stand there, you weed, fill it with water!”

Ryurikov gnashed his teeth against the insult. “Where?”

“You’ve been out in that garden how often now?”

By some miracle he left through the back door without hag blood on his hands. Awimak was where he’d left him under the tree, one knee raised and looking quite pleased with himself.

“I hope you’re happy,” Ryurikov grumbled. “I’m fetching water.”

A TASK YOU WILL COMPLETE WITH RESOUNDING SUCCESS.

“Oh, fuck you.”

YOU ARE READY TO TAKE MORE?

Ryurikov smiled before he could help it, then resolutely bit down hard on his lower lip. “Where is the water?”

Awimak pointed past the vegetable patch to the side of the hut. When he rounded the corner, Ryurikov crooned in surprise at the sight of a chicken coop. Beside it stood a decapitated tree that, upon closer inspection, was hollow but for the gurgling water running up its centre, like a fountain. He held the cauldron under a branch more akin to a spout, and watched in amazement as water poured from it. Once full, Ryurikov took a moment to better wash his face, the water crisp against his skin.

His demon’s eyes burned him as he walked back into the hut, feeling pleased with himself. Resounding success indeed, and he only spilt some of it by plonking the container down by the hearth.

Jezibaba sighed with the weariness of someone too old to be teaching, much like his governor who would regularly take a stick to his hands for not paying attention.

“Are you planning on just consuming water? That’s too much,” said Jezibaba. “Tip some of it out into the ewer there, then.”

Ryurikov tilted his head back, already bored. He did as told with a disgruntled mutter, regardless.

If he’d hoped learning how to cook would somehow become more interesting, he was regrettably mistaken. He sliced carrots and cabbage, diced potatoes, and chopped onions, a task he hated, along with several other things. Then, he noticed an unfortunate lack of meat and voiced his concerns while watching the hag toss everything he’d cut into the cauldron, now hanging over the fire.

“I don’t eat meat,” she said.

“I’m…sorry?”

“You should be.”

Ryurikov shook his head, the better alternative to slapping Jezibaba’s. “What do you mean, you don’t eat meat? I can hunt. Stop the hut, I’ll go down there right now and—”

“Not for a lack of, you idiot. I choose not to.”

He stared at her, utterly baffled. “You’re mad. Absolutely and unequivocally unhinged.”

“You enjoyed the stew before, didn’t you?”

His lips flattened in a line. “That killed me.”

“This one won’t.” Jezibaba gathered jars of dried things to add to the cauldron, but Ryurikov snatched her by the wrist before she could. She glared. “It’s seasoning. I told you, I won’t kill you again.”

All the same, he tracked her every move and kept a watchful eye on the stew itself. Easily done, when she made him stir it on occasion as it simmered, while she rocked back and forth in the chair, knitting. The thing that had resembled a pile of moss before now looked like a peculiar coat, too small to fit any of them.

“I’ve been upstairs,” Ryurikov said, peering into the cauldron for the hundredth time. When was this going to be ready? He courted malnourishment at this point. “How many children did you take over the years?”

Tales of the child-devouring witch were several times older than Ryurikov, who had hit his mid thirties a few months ago. There must have been hundreds of them, if indeed rumours were to be believed. Rumours, he knew, often sprang from a seed of truth. Always embellished, needing a discerning edge to cut down to the roots of verity, but deep down that seed could always be found.

Jezibaba did not answer him, but the rhythmic click of bone needles halted. Ryurikov stopped scalding his face over the fire long enough to peer at her, and was met with a scowl.

“Make no mistake, beldam,” he said, straightening up, “there are lines I draw, and I draw them at murdering children. The only reason you’re currently sitting here, inhabiting that wrinkly body of yours, is because I happened to care about Awimak more than burning your hut down.”

“You should keep your nose out of things you know nothing of,” Jezibaba hissed through her yellowed teeth. “Now get your stew, and leave me be.”

He kept his eyes on her, long enough for the sprigs of silence to twist into thorny stems. The hag’s expression was guarded, mouth a wrathful line. She wouldn’t entertain him for much longer, even Ryurikov recognised that.

With the rich scent of vegetable stew wafting up his nose, he eagerly filled a wooden bowl to the brim and, cloak slung over his shoulder, sauntered outside while ignoring the stinging pain in his hand when some of his dinner spilled. Awimak had moved to the other tree, and Ryurikov joined him in the grass, holding out the bowl for him to see.

YOU COOKED.

“I did.” He blew across it thrice. “It has no meat, but it’ll have to do, I suppose.”

Awimak appeared amused. I AM CERTAIN IT IS MORE THAN ADEQUATE.

Ryurikov ate in companionable silence, sitting so close their thighs touched. The stew warmed him enough for Awimak’s chill not to bother. He soon banished the empty bowl into the bushes and wrapped himself snug in his cloak.

“Right then,” he said, noting with some delight how eagerly Awimak opened his arms to invite him into an embrace, “I’m falling asleep on you this time.” It had to be better than huddled up alone in bedewed grass.

Once settled comfortably against that mighty torso, Ryurikov closed his eyes with a quiet sigh. In a mutter, he added, “Hope you’re less starved this time.”

IT WON’T BE BAD, Awimak said in something akin to a murmur. The statement was followed by a tender stroke down his bruised cheek.