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to me, a wicked man who is also eloquent seems the most guilty of them all. he'll cut your throat as bold as brass, because he can dress up murder in handsome words. —euripedes, medea
Caught in the rain, drenched from head to toe with skin-piercing ice water that cuts and hardens her skin like molded marble clay fixing itself into shape, Nadya shapes herself into the image of a goddess. Her skin is numbed; untouchable, like a myth in their true form, where any mortal who looks upon them is blasted into dust and ash. If she were to cut her arm now, she would feel barely a sting — maybe an aching wince that feels like violet bruising, black blood. She wouldn't even bleed, her insides entirely hollowed out and replaced with golden ichor, or just brittle sand, breaking apart every time someone touches it like a dried, rotting fruit.
The floor of the alley is awash with rainwater, filled with black sludge that reeks of dirt. The mud is thick enough to stick onto the hem of her velvet robes, weighing it down like rocks on a sinking ship, edging the Titanic closer and closer toward the seabed. Even her shoes are caked with mud; she can feel the sandy gravel, the dusty soil slowly making its way into her boots and rubbing around her heel. Behind her, there's the familiar buzz of people finishing their days work — the hardest workers, the most exhausted. It's rather silent, as most are too excited to speak, but occasionally one will start a conversation. The odd shout of someone already drunk, though the worst time for them has not yet come.
When Nadya sees the sign marking her destination, she can't stop the hint of a smile. Thieves and murderers run rampant around here like wild horses in a field untouched by humans. Nobody cares enough about the people they kill to start arresting them. It's so easy to run and hide and slink back into the shadowy safety of the surrounding alleyways, Apparate away, only leaving dust and a corpse behind in their wake. If she were found here, a ribbon of red around her throat, who would care? Perhaps her distant cousins who would inherit her fortune, but she's never even met them. Her body might not be found for days, stripped of all her precious jewelry and gold.
(She weighed the risks and rewards of dressing up for this occasion, and found that the rewards far outweighed the risks, even though it greatly increased the chances of her death. But death is just another of her lovers that she likes to tempt sometimes; she's never crossed the line with him yet.)
Pulling the cigarette from her lips, to blow out a soft stream of smoke, the familiar taste of fire is welcome in this unfamiliar city. At least something is the same — English cigarettes taste no different, besides perhaps being more overpriced. There's a slight burn in her chest, electricity buzzing as she touches her tongue to the roof of her mouth, sparks flicking down her throat and settling in her stomach. She remembers the first time she smoked; it was an ugly try, in the back of some alley while shopping for schoolbooks, edged on by Ivan. This is what they do in England, he would tell her, taunting. No girls can do it.
