✧ ✧ ✧

Now

The apartment is frozen in time.

I follow Mir down the hall, and despite the sunrise oozing its shy pale pink through the floor-length windows, despite the soft carpets beneath my feet, everything seems frozen like photos hanging along the walls. Most of them are shots of people, some smiling and laughing, some caught unaware. I recognize Adélard and Kadri and Mir in those pictures, but I don't know anyone else. These new photos are the only thing that doesn't fit, their frames shiny, their colors vivid.

I glance around, searching for any hint of what kind of magic is performed here. But I see no candles, no spell books, not even a gemstone or those stupid tarot cards that are always too fickle to read right.

So far no advantages on my side.

At the end of the hall, Mir pushes a door open and walks in. When I peer inside, I realize it's a bedroom: there's a giant mirror in a brass frame that I consciously avoid, a wooden closet, a bed, not a double one but big enough to sink in pillows and blankets and forget everything, and-a carved armchair, standing apart from the escritoire desk, facing the window as if it's a throne, as if someone was observing the dawn just a moment ago, but left, spooked by our presence.

For a moment Mir simply stands by the window, somber. A lean, shady figure against the light. Then he straightens his shoulders and turns to look at me, his expression neutral.

"Waiting for an invitation?" he asks as I haven't yet crossed the threshold.

"Maybe." But the truth is, I'm stunned. This is exactly the place Tatya dreamed to live in. There's a door to a balcony, concealed behind the curtains, not a rooftop but still a place for a little party. I saw a bottle of champagne in the fridge, and who's here to stop me from pouring myself a glass?

The only difference is Tatya's gone, and I'm a slave, a spirit summoned to do the bidding, to be sent away once the work's done.

No, I won't play by anyone's rules this time. I'll take everything I want. And if I am summoned, I can as well pretend to be a queen. After all, someone gave me this ridiculous title while I was buried. "What is it you need my help for?" I ask on my way to the armchair-throne.

Mir watches me carelessly nestle in the armchair, his eyes tense around the edges. He doesn't feel safe in my company, even without powers, I still look like a threat. And when he hands me the envelope Adélard's brought, he makes certain his fingers don't touch mine. "This."

It's just an envelope, but I have an inkling I won't like what's inside. It feels...dead. Magic feels that way sometimes. It has many faces, it can feel and smell and sound whatever you need it to in order to be tricked--like a morning rain, a mother's embrace, a sense of freedom. But if you have a fear, its face is your fear.

Isn't that what you wanted?

No.

Taking a breath, I open the envelope.

"Seen this before?" Mir asks, perching on the desk, a safe distance from me.

There are more photos. As I draw them out, my first impression is that it's some sort of art: a girl's body painted silver. But the longer I survey the pictures, the more unsettled my thoughts become. No artist can be that meticulous. The shots are taken from different angles so I can see everything -- the folds of her clothes, her palms, her eyelids, her lips, every single lock of her hair -- is unnatural, all polished silver. Like a statue lying in the grass, fallen asleep. A living statue.

"It's the third one," Mir continues. "Any suggestions?"

"I know how it's done," I admit. "And why. To preserve a body-"

"From decomposing. Which means she's dead, yes."

"You killed her?"

The silence stretches a heartbeat too long. I raise my eyes and find Mir staring.

"No." Seeing my dubious look, he shakes his head. "No. Maybe in your world people run around eliminating each other, but not in mine. Yet someone did this. This is the third victim, the first one had his chest torn open, his heart ripped out, the second girl was found in three pieces. And now this. I can't imagine what sorts of horror this silver veil conceals."

"And you found nobody else alive on the entire planet to consult? And decided to resurrect me?"

"These killings weren't done by hand, they were performed with magic, an ancient one. You learned it."

Someone killed a magic user, I was a magic user. Is this the revenge Mir was talking about in the graveyard?

I'm suddenly cold again. The cup of tea consumed minutes ago doesn't warm me anymore. I sense the darkness I can neither catch nor escape still hovering over me, ready to snatch my soul back. The intensity of my terror startles me. There's not enough air in the room, not enough light. My instincts demand me to run, to get out, to throw the balcony door open and take the deepest breaths of fresh air until I'm drunk on it.

I thought the damned couldn't walk the holy grounds.

This is no holy ground. But this is my shelter now, the safest place in the world--life.

And if I find this killer, if I collide with them and something goes wrong? If dark magic is called upon with me not far away, the darkness will most certainly capture me, will suck my spirit back into the abyss. What can be worse than being dead but aware of every second of your eternal death?

"I refuse."

Mir looks surprised. "Why?"

Because every time I think of it, I feel like dying all over again?

But I can't say it. I need leverage, Mir and his friends' trust, a reason for them to keep me alive until I figure out my own plan.

So I strangle my emotions, gnaw the inside of my cheek so I can forget that my legs are shaking. And muster cold nonchalance once more.

"This is not about justice for this girl, right?" I begin, searching Mir's face for a crack if my words strike right. "Whoever kills magic users will come after you, too. So this is about saving your own ass."

Surprise evaporates from Mir's eyes.

"What's in it for me?" I add. I might be a slave, but I'm also the vedma here. I'm the only one who knows how this killer does what they do. I'm untouchable until proven useless.

Silent, he stands. I wait for him to negotiate, but he seems to be only annoyed by my nonchalance. He thinks I don't take it serious enough. Well, I'd better be heedless in his eyes than scared.

"What's in it for you?" Mir repeats. He looks at the window, then at me again. He slowly walks around the room, and I think he's about to exit, but then suddenly, his voice is above my ear.

"Listen to me, Fire Girl," he says, and I feel him bending over my shoulder from behind. "And listen carefully. You catch a lunatic murdering people, and you get a year to spend as you please in this body." I want to counter, but he leans even closer. His breath is hot, angry. "No, I don't need to look into your eyes to know you're desperate to live. Help us, and a year is yours. Refuse, and you're back to the abyss."

A year. Just a year. A whole year. But a year can change many things. I can figure out a way to break free from my binding, or convince them to let me keep the body, or--they can actually like me, and want me to stay. No, not that good. Breaking free, free, free.

"You'll have a chance to amend your crimes, maybe even go Heaven after, reunite with your family," he drawls, as if speaking to a foolish child. "Think about it. Till midday."

I don't turn to look at him, but I hear him walk out of the room. Heaven? Family? Crimes. I hate him for those words. Before I gather the strength to stand up, to choose whether to swing the door shut or go after him and shout curses, he's back. This time, I stay rooted to the armchair. Because Mir's brought a skull. The skull. My skull.

"To help you make the right decision," he says instead of goodnight, placing my skull on the desk. And now he closes the door behind him.

✧ ✧ ✧

Sleep doesn't grace me with its numbness. The room is too spacious, the world too quiet, the time too slow. And my skull, sitting at the dim corner of the desk, is staring at me, its eyeless holes, its magically whitened surface mocking.

I know I can't refuse Mir, and hysterical laughter circles through my thoughts. I've spent almost a year in this city, looking for other people who knew of magic and found not a single one. I've had nothing--a cheap shared room and a job that barely paid for it.

But I had my life.

Now magic is all Mir's little secret society talks about? And they need me. Yet, I'm a prisoner. I don't have a life of my own, I don't have a body of my own. Did I really need to die to become important? Isn't it too much of a cost? Isn't it unfair?

Pushing the thought and the pillows aside, I get out of the bed and walk to the desk. Crouch before it, rest my chin on the tabletop, and trace my fingers along the bone's surface. To my touch, it's just as glassy as it looks but not as burning as my memory is. Of the house, of the fire. And it's weird because the skull doesn't feel like a connection to my past, to my soul, to my powers. It's surreal, like art. Is magic an art? Too dark, too risky, too deep to understand and-

"Too deep." The word stirs something awake in my mind. Deep. Maybe I still do have some magic at my disposal? An advantage.

Instantly inspired by the idea, I put the skull on the floor, and cover it with a pillow. What feels like glass, must break like glass. My pulse quickens, but it only gives me resolve. Destroying the bones--every last one, till no ashes left--that's what can ruin me, but breaking the bones can't.

I raise my right foot. "Not sorry," and crash the skull with all the strength this body has. It doesn't even make a sound under the pillow, but I feel it shatter into several pieces.

With a few sweeping gestures, I stash the pieces under the bed, slide one of the smaller shards into my pocket, and tiptoe into the hall.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do now, how I'm going to pass Mir unnoticed, because he's definitely guarding my peace. But I can't find him in the living as I expected, or in the kitchen, nor do I hear water running in the bathroom nor any other sound marking his existence. Every room I peek in is empty, and I don't risk drawing attention by opening the closed doors.

My way along the hall, to the final turn leading to the front door, is easy, suspiciously easy. Perhaps Mir's waiting for me to try and escape, waiting to prove I'm an uncontrollable beast, and to put me down like one?

Because if not, why give me the skull? Knowing I can take it with me? One piece lost, and he can't send me back to the abyss. Maybe he's just too confident of himself, of his creepy little pep talk about granting me a year. For sure, when Adélard asked about handling me, Mir acted as if his plan-whatever it was-was a perfection. As if he foresees who is willing to serve him and how. This sharp self-assurance of his reminds me of someone. And I hate it. Always with a purpose, always with a question, and always with an answer.

Your heart's beating too fast. Am I scaring you?

I successfully retrieve the dirty boots I left in the bathroom, and even wrap myself in someone's scarlet coat I find neglected on a tuffet in one of the rooms. It smells of alcohol and cigarettes, of a party. Predictably, the bag with my bones has vanished from the hall, but that's okay. Right now, I have my share. I'm safe.

It's less than ten steps to my freedom when I realize the door, the closest to the exit, previously shut, is now wide open. The light bathing its threshold isn't sunlight at all, the sky's already fogged with morning mist.

A lamplight.

I catch my breath, staggering. Under the lamplight, Mir sits on a velvet couch, a laptop on his lap, a notepad and a pen next to him. He's squinting at the screen, a thoughtful crease between his eyebrows. All he needs now is to lift his head, and he'll see me, plain and clear, a rabbit stricken by the sight of a fox.

He doesn't lift his head though. He rubs his lower lip, and the crease between his brows hardens, then he starts writing something, almost franticly. I thought he might be studying, but no one studies with such sick passion, such desperate urgency in every move. Absorbed by an idea until the world around ceases to exist.

Only a person running out of time, or option, of hope.

I've never thought I'd see these feelings in anyone's eyes but my own. The sight of it disturbs and comforts me at the same time. But a knot in my stomach, pinning me to the spot, unties. I surge for the front door, and I push it open and shut without a sound.

Free.

A short corridor and a descending stairway are dark and dusty, the steps need repairing as their stones reveal thousands of shoes having tramped up and down throughout their history. No neighbors seem to be awake. I hurry down and into the lobby, toward the entrance of stained-glass doors.

The morning air bites as I walk out into the street. I wish I had a scarf. But once I inhale the crisp freedom, I instantly love it. The abyss had no air, no mornings, no taste, apart from what I had treasured in my memory-but even those fragments blurred like a rainbow dissolving within minutes, leaving but a bleak skyline. It was like the dark swallowed them the moment I tried to remember.

But here nobody steals my memories. I remember the street. The fog of an early hour hides everything further than a couple of blocks away, and the line of old stone buildings and streetlights on each side of the road softly fades away. I'm eager to amble every cobbled sidewalk and alley, just as I used to--roaming aimlessly, restlessly, looking for something I couldn't find. Someone.

I have no time. No matter how free I may feel, I have to return before Mir notices my absence. So I straighten the collar of my coat, and set off, taking the shortest way that pops up in my mind. The Boyar Alley.

Through the mist and clouds, the sun doesn't reach the ground, lonely passersby and busy drivers don't care for a girl running for her life. They don't look, they don't listen.

Panting, in a few minutes, I rush into a square in the center of the crossroads. The cathedral's golden domes glint against the colorless sky. They're big, giant, and statues of angels stand around their holy walls of white stone, their wings spread.

Do you know the story of its architect? His spirit was banished, never to enter.

I wonder if I were to enter now...could I enter?

I don't want to know.

The grass stains my pants, and wet soil cakes my hand as I kneel beside the cathedral's wall, and dig. Deeper, deeper, deeper. Why did I think talismans wanted to be buried deeper? My heart's sinking like an enemy's ship, when my arms are elbow deep in the hole in the ground and I still see nothing. No, no. Where is it? It should be here, it has to be here! Nobody knew when I stashed my last chance. Not even--

Here. My fingers graze against something, another brush, and I see a small metal box. Inside, I find a crumpled business card and a leather cord with a pendant shaped like a small wooden crescent I left here. The black wood is untouched by time flown by. A smile tugs on my lips, the crescent contains little magic, but it's still magic. It's enough to protect me from magic, to protect this body, so at least I won't be poisoned or cursed.

Hanging the pendant around my neck, I hide it beneath my shirt. Now the hardest part. I pull the skull's shard out. And stare at it. I was going to leave it here, so the earth would keep it for me, but now the thought is nauseating. Underground, as if in a grave. A piece of me, waiting. Sleepless in oblivion. Damned.

Your choice, your lie, your death.

I can't bear it.

I leave my little grave empty. I don't look back as I retrace my steps back to the apartment.

✧ ✧ ✧

I sneak back into the paneled hall, and I feel jubilant. I have an advantage, I have my crescent. It's a small victory, but still a victory. Only losing is fast, winning is always slow and tedious. Now I know it, I had a good teacher, merciless.

The lamplight is still on, the morning young, the apartment quiet. I've been away not more than twenty minutes. Making sure there will be no traces of my unplanned trip, I take my dirty boots off right at the door, and intend to carry them back to the bathroom, but once I straighten up, I hear a snap.

Snap, snap.

Snap.

Not as if one is snapping their fingers, but a duller sound, muted.

A figure emerges from the shadows of the long hall, there's a lighter in Mir's hands. He clicks the starter, and a flicker of flame appears. He lets it die out, and then his thumb clicks again. And again he lets the flame die, and again he clicks. And again, and again. Death--light, death--light.

The sight of the dancing flame is both hypnotizing and horrifying.

"Where have you been?" Mir asks.

An impulse to tell him the truth aches in my chest, then dies like the flame. His eyes drag over my grass-stained pajamas, over the boots in my hands and the dirt beneath my nails. There's no need to hide now, so I toss the boots to the floor.

And I shrug. "When I can't sleep, I go out looking for dreams." I meet his eyes as they focus on my face. "And you?"

At the back of my mind, I timidly hope he'll tell me what he was doing, what his laptop research was about. Of course, he doesn't tell me.

He keeps peering at me, keeps snapping. "You do understand that if I have your bones, I can locate you in a matter of minutes, right?" he's back to drawling. "And find you, wherever you are."

Yet, you haven't gone after me right away. Why?

"Sure, I know," I say flippantly, trying to turn the situation into something insignificant, into a joke. "That's why I've returned, see?" That's how you'll start actually trusting me. I'm about to leave for my room, I walk past him, walk so that I'm far enough, so he doesn't need to pretend and recoil from my touch. "But if you want me tamed, you'll have to handcuff me to a radiator," I keep teasing. "Like a tyrant."

My last word sounded funnier when was still in my head. And I know it's a mistake the moment it's spoken. The measured snapping of the lighter stops.

"Was it Vlad who killed you?"

Something inside me gives way.

At the name called out aloud, my legs become cold and my cheeks hot. I'm back to the hospital yard, an awkward boy with crutches laughs at a story where heroes win. I'm back to the evening street, a book is heavy in my hands. I'm back to the riverbank, and I hear Vlad's heart in my ears as my scar tingles.

I look at Mir over my shoulder, praying he doesn't see me falter. "You know Vlad?"

Mir doesn't blink. "So was it him? Who killed you? The second time, I mean."

"Technically, fire killed me."

"But he started the fire?"

"A dropped candle started the fire."