I let the noise fade into the background, as I’m focused on her. Between bites of food, I study Millicent. I cannot quite place her.
It’s instinct to categorize people, to define them by what they were and where they came from.
Yet, she doesn’t fit, not yet. It feels like I’ve known her for years. This is the same way I once knew Nora—the same way I knew the dungeons beneath her beloved coven.
I can still smell them: the damp earth and copper tang of blood saturating the air the deeper I went. It was an odd scent, a fusion of decay and ritual, of history and horror, thick enough that it clung to your skin long after leaving. I swear I still inhale it sometimes when I wake from memories that chased me like desperate souls clawing their way from judgment at the gates of hell.
Now there’s her: devoid of emotion one moment and running her mouth the next. And then silent.
Fitting.
A Le Strange witch would only know how to feel hatred and anger.
Iris kicks Kalix’s shin under the table.
His knee jerks instinctively, slamming into the underside of the table. Dishes rattle, silverware clinks loudly against porcelain, and Felix and Millicent jolt.
Felix lets out a sharp yelp as his bottle of wine wobbles dangerously, nearly tipping.
His entire body lunges, hands outstretched. He manages to catch it.
After a deep sigh of relief, he cradles the bottle to his chest, clutching it like a mother nursing a child. The moment is so absurd that under different circumstances, I might have smirked.
Instead, I take advantage of the small window the chaos has created.
She’s off guard. I know it’s wrong, but the need to get inside her mind is too strong.I need to figure her out. I need to learn who she really is. Who is she beneath this emotionless mask?
Or is this who she is now?
I don’t like surprises, and it aggravates me that this is the first time in my long life I have been unable to read someone. She isn’t the girl I knew. The smiling, laughing, expressive Millicent from years ago is gone.
Dead.
I had mourned her. I had believed her lost forever: the Millicent I knew and loved, my very first friend. This thing sitting at the table, carrying her face, her voice, her form…
She is not her.
I focus, reaching for her mind. I imagine peeling back the layers, pushing past the barriers, sifting through the void.
And I strike a fortress of ice, sharp and jagged. I’ve seen mental defenses before, but the emptiness shocks me.
Somewhere in my focus, I realize I’m staring at her.
And she knows. The black widow herself has caught me in her web. Across the table, her cavernous ocean eyes lock on to mine, flickering with realization. She isn’t just blocking me. She’s watching. Waiting.
And then…a squeeze. It’s subtle. It’s not an attack or a violent expulsion from her mind. It’s uncomfortable.
A warning.
There’s something in it, something that lures me instead of repelling me. A sensation just on the edge of pain, like the pull of a hook lodged beneath my skin, drawing me into the depths of her gaze.
I understand now. I understand why moths fly into fire and perish: because it is beautiful. Even knowing the danger, the warmth still calls.
A breath.
On the inhale, my spine bends backward, too far.
On the exhale, I’m bent even further, my body arching unnaturally over the chair, my muscles shaking violently.
