Witches Burn at Dawn ✔

29. Yaroslava

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"Nilam, it's an awful idea."

I've been telling myself this all day. I thought it was good, but...trapping someone is one thing and destroying their soul? Forever, no redemption? I'm not sure I can do it. Even after everything the demon has done to me.

The cool early evening conquering the city and long peaceful shadows veiling the streets don't comfort me, either.

"It's your idea," Nilam whispers back. "I only improve and implement it."

I study him from the corner of my eye. His shoulders twitch with impatience as he glances around to make sure nobody sees us lurking along the alley, a febrile glint in his eyes. He's different since I told him we could catch our supernatural murderer. Nilam's become edgy, rushing into the future like there's a tornado at his heels. Like he has something to prove. But what can he possibly want to prove?

I don't believe what Mir said about one of us--them--working with Vlad. I don't want to believe that. But why Mir hasn't told anyone but me about the demon? Lav didn't know Vlad's name when I asked her, and nobody knew that the killer could be more than just another magic user until Mir prompted it out loud. Why is he hiding the truth from everyone?

No, Mir can't be the traitor. The mere possibility of it makes my chest tighten with dread. Why would he even suggest it if he could expose himself? He wants me alive, not dead.

But nobody promised to burn me alive either, people are full of surprises.

It's an eye for an eye then, right? My very first planned murder.

"And I only mastermind it." I sigh, sneaking between the buildings after Nilam, to the back door behind the old stone facade.

The restaurant is closed, but the hall isn't empty. I've been here once when I just moved to the city. The story goes this was the mansion of the very first Vedma before she fell in love with a Vedmak. And here their wedding was held, and here the lightning struck depriving the newlyweds of their powers. These days it's merely a fancy restaurant, where the tables are booked for months ahead by gourmands and ghost story lovers.

On weekends, however, the place is officially closed, and tonight is the weekend.

"What's the occasion?" I peek in through the mullioned window. Countless paintings and tapestries adorn the hall, and all the tables arranged in a single row are brimming with dainties. I see a white woman in a modest velvet dress, the fashion of the Church of Angelic Order, talking to a Black man whose regal bearing resembles Ady's far too much. At least a dozen more people in lavish outfits exchange pleasantries, and as many waiters bustle around. "Nilam, you said we could find the ingredients for the ritual here, but you never said we had to skulk past the mayor dining with friends."

"It's no dinner." Nilam's expression sours when he stops next to me to survey the crowded hall. "The most pompous asses of St. Daktalion come here every weekend to do business, gossip, and show off."

"Won't it be better for us to come on Monday then?"

"We came for snake skulls, Yara, not for lobsters and caviar. My aunt has her pantry spelled, it can be entered only when she's nearby."

Following his gaze, I see an old lady seated at the head of the table row. Brown curls tumble down her back, gold shines on her bony fingers and in her ears. She smiles, but squeamish crow's feet gather around her eyes. As if she looks for a flaw, for a reason to satirize her guests. "You never told me about your aunt. The restaurant is hers?"

"The restaurant, the building, the shitty earrings, yes."

"Then why do you live in a filthy library's basement?"