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Now

Please, don't leave me.

You don't even know who I am.

Vlad, I love you!

Liar.

The words ring in my head, brittle like shattering glass. Never again will I promise to change to suit someone's tastes. Never again will I entrust my dreams to anyone but myself. And never again will I be the first to say those wretched three words.

What a foolish girl you are, Yara. Demons have no feelings, they only mimic what they see in you, the books in that forsaken house warned me so. Demons don't love. I was nothing but a toy for him--a toy who dared to ask for more and was thrown away for that.

Blinking the anguish away, I open my eyes. No, I didn't sleep. My thoughts sluggish, I feel like I awoke from a fever. Like I dived into my own memories too deep and got lost there. But not asleep. Still alive.

Only where am I now?

Tilting my stiff neck, I glance around, trying to recognize the surroundings. No art, no people dead or alive. I'm lying in a bed, in a room crammed with cheap furniture, garish clothes spilling out of the wardrobe, a pile of masquerade masks on the dresser, several wigs hanging from hooks by the mirror. And the room's window faces a birch park.

The Northern Birch Park. Where Jasna's body was found. Am I in the apartment she and Laverna rent?

Warmth tickles my ankle, and cock my head to see what it is. Surprise shoots through me. On the bed, among the folds of my chiffon skirts, Mir is napping, sprawled at my feet. His hand is on my ankle as if he'd been guarding me and then dozed off.

The memory of last night's events crashes upon me like a tidal wave. The photo, the kiss, the shadowy bones creeping in...Vlad.

He's finally found me, hasn't he? But I have to do something then. I have to catch him before he catches me, to stop him, to--

I fall back on the pillows as I try to sit upright. Something metal digs into the skin of my hand, restraining me. Confused, I look up and see a band on my wrist. "What the--" I'm cuffed to the bed. "Praejis!"

Startled by my voice and instantly awake, Mir jumps to his feet. His eyes dart around the room, searching for danger. He encounters no danger though, only my exasperated glare and my hand balled in a fist, helplessly struggling to tear free.

His muscles loosening, he twists his lips with sarcasm. "So I'm Praejis again? Entertaining."

Alarm makes my face hot. It wasn't Vlad, it was Mir who came to save me from the darkness last night. Mir was talking to me, listening to my hysterical nonsense, asking me to breathe...What else did I blurt out to deserve my blushing cheeks now?

Mir's white shirt is wrinkled, which means he's been by my side all night. But what happened? My thoughts spin in circles, scouting for an explanation. The magic keeping me alive went awry, trying to drag my spirit back to the world of the dead. And only a different kind of magic that somehow entered my body could neutralize mine, some reversal spell or elixir.

Yet, to affect me, it had to be in contact with my blood or saliva. I wasn't injured, so nothing could be in my blood, but...Mir kissed me, sort of.

"You're suppressing your powers, aren't you, Mir?" And the elixir he took to switch off his powers also partly switched off the power holding me among the living.

My question wrings a smile from Mir's face, dismay sobering his features. He didn't want me to know. That's why he had a seizure at the university, that's why he's always so pale and his magic doesn't work. That's why he has never compelled me to feel things--he can't. And that's why he stalled to actually kiss me last night.

But he wanted to, didn't he?

And that drop of his reversal elixir on my lips was enough to drive me insane. So insane Mir thought I could harm him or myself, and tied me up. His concern for my safety doesn't make me feel less humiliated though.

"Let me go," I demand, refusing to show my embarrassment, imitating annoyance and shaking my hand, the cuffs clanking against the bed frame. "Where did you even get these?"

Hiding his dismay behind a frown, too, Mir shrugs. "Jasna and Laverna have plenty of props as you can see."

"And you happen to know where they keep their handcuffs?"

"Yes, I know. Because they're my friends, Fire Girl. Friends know things about each other. No kinky stuff you're imagining now in your head." He whirls around to leave the room. "Find something to change, and we'll go. Nilam called a few hours ago. Apparently, you asked his help with some mad ritual to trap our serial killer." A pause, a bitter one. "And you didn't tell me."

As if you tell me everything. "And the key? Or am I a prisoner again?"

"Next to you. Innocent till proven guilty, right? Free till sentenced to death." Nervously rolling his shoulders, Mir walks out. Cups and dishes start clinking in the kitchen a few moments later.

Glancing sideways, I see a tiny key along with my purse on the chair beside the bed. He even remembers about my purse I lost at the basilica. Damn Praejis, why do you suddenly care about me so much?

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Discarding the cuffs and grabbing the first clean t-shirt I lay my hands on, I tiptoe to the bathroom at the other end of the hall. Truth be told, I'm glad Mir doesn't want to talk to me right now. He thinks I murdered his father, and yet somehow we almost kissed last night. How can he like me and despise me at the same time? How messy it must be in his head?

Gather your wits, Yara.

The sooner we find the demon, the sooner I can leave this place behind and have a whole year without supernatural lunacy. I can live a quiet, ordinary, unremarkable year; I can be who I was meant to be from my birth. Sweet nobody. No magic.

Gather your wits, you're not here to think about kisses.

Only when I cast my dress off and pull on the t-shirt, do I realize I haven't thought about the pants. I peek into the hall, but all I can see through the ajar door of the bathroom is the kitchen. The empty kitchen. Once I left, Mir returned to the room to change, too.

My stomach gurgles with hunger at the sight of the fridge. So what if I have no pants on? The t-shirt is long and baggy enough. And Praejis doesn't care about Polina's legs, no. Reassuring myself with that, I go to rummage through the kitchen cabinets for food. Nothing but some butter and bread Mir has already found and left on the table.

I should tell him about my and Nilam's plan, don't I? I think, reaching for a butter knife. He left me a slice of bread, and he practically saved me last night. The least I can do is help him catch Vlad. And the fact that I can be helpful actually makes me feel better myself.

Yes, holding on to that thought, I quickly spread butter on a slice of bread with a knife, and stroll back into the room.

"Look, Mir, about the incantation Nilam and I discussed, I--" I forget my line when I see his bare torso before my very eyes. Among Jasna's costumes, Mir's found some clothes fitting him. Or perhaps it's his clothes. Or Jasna really likes men's suits.

No, it's not his navy blue shirt because it's slightly tight for his broad shoulders. His fingers stop buttoning the shirt up as I catch him off guard, his chest left exposed.

There's suddenly not enough air in the room. Or in my lungs. Maybe I simply haven't expected to see him half-naked? Or I was dead for too long and failed to remember what a human body looked like. Otherwise why the sight of him is so agitating?

I loathe the brief, aching second my hand longs to reach out and press against Mir's body. That's not a body of a lazy lawyer who's supposed to be sitting in courts all day. Has he been swimming? Or boxing? A fighter's body, tight with muscles. Beautiful.

Shit.

Mir's brows shoot up with an unspoken question as I keep gawking. The moment becomes even more awkward when I realize he might not care about Polina's uncovered legs, but--he does care about mine. His eyes skim down my thighs and knees and calves, frustration and admiration carved on his face.

Time seems to slow down. Silence feels palpable. We both just stand, lost. Both hardly dressed. And look at each other as if there's nothing else to see in the world.

I want to flee back to the kitchen. And I'm about to, but then my eyes slide over his white suit crumpled now on the chair. Red has stained the linen. Blood.

"Mir, take your clothes off."

"Excuse me?"

Blood. It's blood, his sigil scar is bleeding. Idiot! My temper flares, making everything inside me even hotter. Of course, he can't just pretend no magic exists in his veins. Magic can't disappear, it simply accumulates in his body, unused. And if Mir keeps suppressing his powers so the demon won't find him, then his magic will eat him alive instead. Is it better, really? It will rot him from inside until there's too much to hold in one's body, until his heart fails. Until he dies and his soul is dragged to the dark world I saw last night. Where restless spirits and demons are condemned to stay forever.

He'll die. Forever. No Heaven, no second chances.

He doesn't yet understand I understand that though. "Do you wish or order me to strip naked?" he asks. His gaze is mocking when it shifts to the butter knife in my hand. "Are you going to make me?"

Idiot! He's dying. I can't let him die.

"You're bleeding, Praejis." I toss the knife to the bed, irked at his flippancy. "Where's your scar? Show it to me, we need to fix it. Your magic can be the end of you, you know?"

He takes a step back as I take a step forward, mirroring me, keeping the distance between us. "I know." Irritation crinkles the edges of his eyes. "So mind your own business. "You wanted to be a shrink, not a nurse. Quit nursing around."

"I'm trying to help. Isn't that why you resurrected me?"

"So that's what your twisted attempt to seduce me yesterday was about? Help?"

I freeze, rooted to my spot. "What?" His gaze yet again flicks to my legs, resentful this time. So that's what he thinks it was? My pride--or what I still have left--prickles. "It was you, you kissed me! My part only included lying barely conscious here with you all night."

"And I didn't touch you!" His ever passionless voice cracks, rising, and this is the first time I see him close to losing his temper. I see the real him, his real feelings. His hurt.

"That's not what I meant, Mir, I didn't even think you would--"

"I didn't touch you"--he levels an accusing finger at me--"though I had every right to rip that dress off you, and burn it before your eyes."

I look at his finger, baffled. He doesn't fake politeness in front of me anymore. So I didn't imagine his disgust with my dress when he saw me wearing it, did I? "But why?"

"Why? You wore my mother's dress!"

The echoing of his words soar up to the ceiling, and stillness enfolds the room. Birds chirp in the park outside, and the sunlight filters through the window, shining in the mirror and over all the bric-a-brac surrounding us, but the air in my chest still feels leaden. I don't even know what to say.

The temper in Mir's expression gradually gives way to confusion when I don't retort. "Nobody mentioned to you that the apartment belonged to my mother's family?"

I shake my head, mute.

Mir curses, rubbing his neck, glancing around, but the room is too small for him to leave without brushing past me. No way to escape without an answer. "This dress is one of few things I have left of her. I just...I didn't think I'd ever see anyone in Mom's dress, it's--" His shoulders drop. "I don't know, okay? I'm out of logical reasons."

It's because I looked like a ghost in this dress, I finish for him. Like your mother's ghost. It's his mother's apartment, his mother's room he let me live in, her bed I found him asleep in the other night. And he thought I was laughing at him, he thought I wanted to trick him into trusting me by wearing the clothes of the person dearest to him. Was his mother's. And who's gone.

I look up at him and see his eyes glazed with sadness. "Can we now talk about your scar, please? I genuinely want to help, that's the real me."

"I have many scars, Yaroslava."

"Show me them all."

He hesitates, then nods. He turns his back to me and shrugs his shirt off. I will never be able to describe my shock because I will never find anything painful enough to compare it with.

Mir's back looks like a warzone with trails of battles. Three long scars maim his skin, crossing and overlapping each other, like arrows burned into the flesh. He is pale, but his scars are paler. Ashen. Dead white. Thin reddish traces are the only color that outlines the marks, a fraction brighter every time Mir inhales.

Swallowing, I come closer, but my uncertain hand hovers an inch away from his scars.

"You can touch," he says, looking over his shoulder at me. "It doesn't hurt. Not anymore."

"What was it? A knife? A whip? Did magic do this to you?"

"It was a belt, no magic. Father's favorite belt for Father's favorite son." He stiffens as my fingertips finally land on his skin. "This is the real me, Yara. And you can't help it."

Father's. His father did this to him. What kind of a monster does that to their son? To a person? To a child? Even if Mir thinks I killed his father, can he really hate me for that?

"I don't know if you'll believe me," I begin quietly, suddenly afraid of speaking aloud, "but I have to say it. I didn't murder your father, Mir."

"I know. I did."

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