Witches Burn at Dawn ✔

11. Yaroslava

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As we wait for Nilam and his Morox potion, we head back to Mir's apartment. Ady leaves straight away, and Mir locks himself in his study without an explanation. Lav is the only one eager to chat, but the smell of whatever she's trying to cook this time soon drives me out of the kitchen.

I throw the window of my room open to get rid of the aroma of overbaked dough, and as I whirl away from the curtains, my eyes catch the gleam of the brass-framed mirror in the corner.

My stomach dips.

I didn't mean to see Polina's reflection, didn't want to know the face of the girl who I intend to condemn to wrongful death to stay alive myself. At least not until I destroy my bones and have no choice but live in this body. But I see my new face now, and my chest tightens, deflated.

Magic is cruel. Yet so beguiling...

Polina's pretty--more than that, beautiful. Not astounding, yet a girl who put a lot of effort into looking pleasing to the eye, who likes morning workouts, expensive cosmetics, and gets enough rest. Her hair's darker than mine, shorter, a shade between red wine and raw umber. Perhaps one can say that her eyes are a little wide-set, but I say she looks special, not a classical type of beauty, but a mystical one.

My eyes. I reach out to press my palm against the mirror as I've approached it without noticing, and stare into those brown eyes peering back at me. A shy wave of warmth snakes down my spine. Maybe it's just an illusion, but the irises are of the same hue as mine were. The color of spring woods, Vlad said once. Incrusted with speckles of sunlight.

"What are you gawking at?" Laverna emerges from the hallway, arching her curious brows at me. A burned cookie in her hand resembles a lump of charcoal with buttercream frosting.

"Nothing."

"You look fine." She offers me the cookie and, when I refuse, bites it herself. "Let's go, Nilam says he's ready to meet."

✧ ✧ ✧

It's already dark when our taxi stops in the middle of an unlit, empty street, but it bothers neither Lav nor Mir as they stroll down a sidewalk and veer toward an unremarkable old door leading to a building's basement.

The air feels peculiar here, as if hypnotically lighter, sweeter, yet I can't place the sensation. The steps behind the door do not look welcoming though, but what can happen to a dead girl, right? You can't die twice, they say.

"Don't fret, it's not a witch trap," Mir says as though perceiving my unease. And when he pushes the second door at the bottom of the stairs open, music hits our ears.

Even though it's improbable to accidentally wander in here, the place is crowded—no, packed with people. Lights flashing, guests partying, laughter bubbling from every corner. It's not a fancy nightclub where people come to have fun, it's a place where people come seeking oblivion. Forget who they are and live like it's their last day on Earth.

Magic. That's the weird sensation, I realize. A huge white rune is painted on the ceiling, the sigil of silence. Not a sound leaks outside, nobody hears anything from the streets, yet here the noise is overwhelming.

Lav drifts away, joining the dancing throng like she's always been a part of it. Mir, however, stays beside me, his expression sulky. For a second, I consider taking off and into the crowd as well, just out of spite, just to see what Mir would do. Dash after me? Yell to stop the music? Wait?

But I can't stand drunk people, they're so unpredictable. And so I stay still, too. My eyes rove around the club, inquiring. Neon letters glow over the bar. Ninth Circle, they read, their two 'i's shaped like melting ice shards. In Dante's Hell, the ninth circle was a frozen one.