Witches Burn at Dawn ✔

27. Mir

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Three years and five months ago

I used to wonder what defined a bad person.

Was one evil thought enough, or was it about some dark desires, or perhaps real actions? Where exactly was the line you were not allowed to let yourself cross? After the pain you caused? After a mistake you did not regret?

What would you call a mistake then? What would you call regret?

My grandfather once said nobody meant to hurt one another; to teach a lesson, to scare, to take revenge--yes, but not to hurt for the sake of hurting.

Untrue.

Since the day I had magic in my veins I knew what my father felt when he was furious with me or someone else. He believed that pain was an essential part of life. He'd seen enough, experienced enough, brought enough pain upon others to get to the top and be the best. For him, it was how the world around him worked, he knew no other way.

Only fighters survive, he said. If you aren't the best, you're replaceable. And if they can replace you, they will. Perhaps he thought if he broke me first, then nobody would be able to hurt me anymore. I'd be indestructible. Perfect.

No matter how hard I tried in years to come, I could never get rid of his presence in my mind. My body constantly reminded me of his philosophy, TV news constantly showed his proud face that helped put another criminal in jail. And no matter where I was or what I was doing, I endlessly asked myself if what I'd accomplished was enough to stay atop. And each time I tried to follow my heart, not logic, I felt guilty.

It was a weekend during my first winter in law school, the only days I could come home and pretend the world outside didn't exist. Hundreds of young, socially awkward, and horny hearts of students could be exhausting, and I couldn't just stop feeling all they'd felt--my magic wouldn't let me. Father used to spend his weekends at work, as well as my stepmother who was, too, a great lawyer specializing in Environmental Law, so only my brother Ruslan could be home. His emotions didn't bother me, they were always neat and orderly, like the books on his shelves.

I knew something was off the moment I cracked the front door open and stepped into our penthouse that day.

"Aamon?" I called, but the dog didn't show up.

Alarm kindled inside me, making my vision sharper, my powers alert. Nobody but the statues and paintings and mirror decorating the walls in the hall welcomed me. Aamon had always come out to welcome me, his tail wagging and his tongue licking my hands as I kneeled to pet him. His loyal eyes and his soft fur and his steady heart were the only reason I came home.

That day, Aamon and his loyal eyes were nowhere to be seen.

"Where's my dog?" I asked Ruslan who stopped in the doorway of his room as he heard me in the hall. We'd never looked like brothers. He was neither stocky nor lean, yet something in between what they called the golden mean, pleasing to any eye, while I was all about edges and angles. His dark hair gently framed his round face, and his expression was soft and tranquil, probably even a bit naive.

Ruslan looked over me, then at the muddy snow my boots had left across the floor, and a disturbed line appeared between his eyebrows. His heartbeat stuttered for a pace. Still, he stayed silent.

"Tell me your mother's walking my dog," I said, my alarm increasing. "Tell me you were walking my dog, and Aamon ran off. Please!"

Not a muscle twitched in Ruslan's face, but his gaze grew unfocused and distant. "I'm sorry, Mir." His fingers brushed the air as though touching a memory. "Father was talking on the phone, and he got angry, and...He threw that paperweight into the wall and...Aamon was just playing nearby, you know? And--"