✧ ✧ ✧

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.

"You want to dance?" Mir asks, his voice barely audible behind the noise.

I look at him, and his eyes flick away, pretending to observe the dancefloor. I was always good at reading people's emotions, even before I gained my powers, I could tell if someone is open to friendship. Worse, people's emotions used to affect me. I used to absorb them like loam absorbs raindrops, like a cage capturing every sentiment inside. If one laughed, I wanted to laugh; if one cried, it made me want to cry.

You let everyone too close to your heart, my sister told me once. You need to stop being so empathetic, or you'll get that silly thing of yours broken.

But when it comes to Mir, I can't figure him out. He clearly doesn't consider becoming my friend, he won't look into my eyes or touch my hand, yet it's not the first time he attempts to start a conversation. And my heart might be silly, but I can see if that conversation is a genuine one.

"No, I don't dance," I say carefully, waiting for a ruse.

Mir dampens his lips, hesitating, aware of my gaze fixed on him. "A drink?"

"No."

"Anything?"

"Yes, a bag of bones, please, and a ticket to a place where you aren't around." I expected his features to darken, I expected a retort.

Instead, he rewards me with a scythe-like smile. "No."

"Would you let me dance or drink if I wanted?"

"No."

"So I'm your prisoner."

"My prisoner?" His eyes almost shoot sideways at me, but he reins his temper well, making it look like he surveys a staircase winding to the balconies and VIP tables at the other end of the club. "Where's your cell then?"

I can't help but scoff. "You blackmailed me into helping you."

"There's a difference between blackmail and a deal. And yours is a pretty good one--the freedom from whatever pit of Purgatory you've been in, in exchange for simple help."

"I'm pretty sure there's also a difference between the freedom and a year vacation."

Mir doesn't answer.

At the top of the stairs, a boy appears. A strand of bright blue hair peeks from under his beanie hat and tattoos cover the light brown skin of his arms and neck where the t-shirt doesn't hide them, but all the colors and ink don't make him look any less bored. He scans the club, sees Lav, and starts toward her, then his eyes land on Mir, then--on me. And his mouth forms an obvious Fuck.

So here comes Nilam.

As he pushes his way toward us, several people try to talk to him, asking for something. Nilam shakes his head, and disappointed beggars quickly lose interest in him.

"I told you, Mir, I don't want her near me," Nilam grumbles, approaching. Even with the music raging, I notice that he speaks a beat slower than everyone usually does, as if he's uncertain of what he's saying or--too certain of each word and each meaning behind the word.

"Was I supposed to leave her alone in the apartment? I can't ask Kadri, Ady's busy, and Lav..." Mir's chin jerks up, pointing at the bar where Laverna tosses back a shot of vodka. "...is Lav."

Nilam only chuckles at that, and then his attention shifts back to me. His glare is like those ice shards scratching at the back of my head, full of contempt. Those greenish-blue eyes of his sweep over me, inspecting practically every inch of my body, searching for cracks in my facade, for a hint that would give away my dead nature.

"And I told you to keep this place quiet tonight, Nilam," Mir continues.

"It is quiet." Nilam finally turns away from me to look at his friend, but an instant before that, I see something twinkle in his pupils, a troublesome idea. Didn't find what he was looking for? He rolls his shoulders in frustration. "Comparing."

"I meant no magic."

"How do you imagine that if people come here for magic and it's literally in the air? It's not a library to keep it low."

In the air? I catch myself sniffing reflexively. The club smells of cigarettes, spilled alcohol, and sweat. I've never heard of magic being in the very air. But if so... can I use it?

Mir is silent for a long moment. "It is a library."

The strangest thing happens next. They both begin laughing. I almost stagger, taken aback. With Adélard in the park, Mir laughed at some joke--once forgotten, the joy is gone, but now he's grinning like he's free. A door popped open for me to see the real Mir for the first time. They laugh as best friends do. Over their private joke which I don't deserve to know.

Loneliness sinks its claws into me again, stinging and bitter. I've never been a part of a company owning a private joke. I've always been the joke. Besides, my best friend is gone forever, and even before Bogdan died, I'd ruined my friendship with him myself.

These two now look so blithe, it's infuriating.

I clear my throat. "Generally, people talking about someone who stands next to them in the third person strive for the control they do not have over their own lives," I say, my voice dry.

Nilam's cackling ceases. "Oh really?" his voice's still laced with amusement though. "And who are you, Slavich, a zombie-psychiatrist? Are there courses in Hell? Then sign me up in advance."

My nostrils flare.

"Okay. Enough," Mir pats Nilam's back, his expression gradually growing serious. "Let's just go and do the work. I want yet to sleep tonight."

As Nilam guides us past the crowd and up the stairs, I hiss after him, "I wasn't in Hell."

"Well," he makes a vague motion, gesturing at the party. "You're here now."

✧ ✧ ✧

We walk past the VIP tables and into a corridor plunged in shadows upstairs, its wooden floor creaking underfoot. At the very end is a door, its frame dusty. Nilam turns his key once and gestures, inviting us in.

And as I enter, I barely refrain from gasping. The room looks inhabited, but save for a blanket on the sofa, an unfinished mug of coffee, and some clothes scattered here and there, everything else is a marvel.

My prying eyes count the crooked vessels of bottled smoke, dried herbs coated with pearlescent powder, and flower petals preserved in amber...Everything sparkles and shimmers and whispers of secrets. Except for Vlad's house, I haven't seen a place brimming with arcane things. Perhaps Nilam was right fussing about my visit. I can steal that amethyst from the shelf, for one, to recharge my pendant and that bag of poppy seeds. And Mir will be sound asleep all night while I'm ransacking his apartment for my bones.

"Touch anything, and I'll break your fingers," Nilam slams the door closed. The music dulls to a faint echo. "And heal them, and break them again."

My hand halts halfway to a book lying open on a chair. I tilt my head at him, he stares back at me, challenging. He won't like the challenge.

"Try it." Ostentatious, I shove the book off the chair and seat myself. "And I'll break your nose. It won't heal right." And again that untraceable idea flickers in Nilam's eyes instead of response. Blink, and it's gone. Like a coin dropped in a bottomless well. He's not afraid of me, yet he sees something that troubles him.

"I've found Morox," he changes the subject, striding past me to the bookshelf. "But it's the last potion."

"The last one?" Mir's voice comes out concerned. Interesting. To make a potion that strong, apart from the main ingredients, magic is required--a drop of blood of one who has supernatural powers. Otherwise it's just a useless smelling brew. But the only person with blood bound with magic I can think of is Vlad.

So Vlad's helped you make Morox, and now you're hunting him? I squint at Mir, suspicious. He leans against the only window, occupying himself with a steel-veined gemstone rolling between his fingers.

I wish I could roll his thought over in my own head just so, learn what he's thinking. Maybe then I'd know what happened between him and Vlad--because they're nothing alike so far. Vlad hated crowds, Mir is confident among people; Vlad came and went like a ghost, Mir's presence you can sense from a mile, he takes up all space once in the room. Like thunder, like a midnight snowstorm.

Something bounces off my boot as I shift in my chair. I look down and see a small green topaz. Not an amethyst, pity.

"Are you sure Jasna's alive?" Nilam asks, picking up a tiny vial of onyx-black liquid from the shelf and pouring several drops into his coffee mug. "Because if she isn't, I'm as good as dead after trying to see a dead girl's memories."

His words wring the curiosity from my mind. "Wait. You are going to drink this? I thought you wanted me to--"

"Do you even know how it works, Slavich?"

I swallow. "Of course." In theory.

Nilam raises his thick eyebrows, holding his mug in one hand and Jasna's glove Lav found earlier in the other.

"You drink that thing and--and fall asleep," I begin slowly, struggling to recall what I've read. "The trick is, you have to be concentrated, constantly aware that the memory is not real, not yours. Because a slightest slip, and it'll entangle with your own subconsciousness. You can lose the sense of reality then, go mad." My eyes roam between him and Mir as they both listen but say nothing. "It's also a memory for a memory. If you take one, you have to give one of yours in return. Forget a day from your past."

With an approving nod, Nilam whistles. "She's done a lot of reading, Mir, huh? I see now why you preferred this asset alive. We can use that book of hers she calls her brains."

"I'm not an encyclopedia."

"Of course not, hon. Too shiny for an old paper. And have you ever used Morox before?"

I consider the possibility of lying. I wonder if I could use that potion to relive my own last day, to see the face of the person who was by my side that night. But you can't recall what you don't remember. Besides, I don't want to live through that night again.

"No," I shake my head, "I haven't."

"Well then, yes, I am going to drink it." Nilam plops down on the sofa, throwing the blanket aside. "Scram now. Don't be creepers watching me sleep." He takes a sip at his drink, his nose wrinkling. "I'll call you when I'm done."

"Not like the last time, I hope." With a click of his tongue, Mir tosses the steel-veined gem up in the air, catches it, and starts toward the door.

But I hesitate. "Is there a memory you're willing to forget forever, Nilam?"

"Plenty."

"About?"

"Childhood."

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