SHE BURNS THE DEAD

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Mira the Bloodweaver—that was the name her sisters in the craft knew her by. In the mortal world, of course, she had a perfectly ordinary name. Who in their right mind would reveal their true name?

She was sweltering in her shop. The air was thick with the spicy scent of herbs, an annoying fly buzzed relentlessly, and a sunbeam slid across the shelves of potions and remedies. The disguise, frankly, was mediocre. But to the common folk, a hedge-witch and a witch were the same thing—a single, blurred concept that lumped everything together without distinction. Well, ignorance worked in her favor. People came for herbs and ointments for aches and illnesses, and only a dozen individuals knew what she was truly powerful at. That was what brought her a steady income.

By the standards of this world, she was actually wealthy. She could have just tinkered in her herb garden and lived comfortably. But... it was a witch’s nature—she simply could not pass up future ingredients, especially when they walked right into her hands. And as 428 years of experience had shown, anything could come in handy—from defense to offense.

Mira ran her gaze over the shelves, pondering the latest order. “Love potion.” The witch snorted. Everyone wanted love, even if they had to force it in. Still—coins meant she would have to go out hunting.

The bell above the door tinkled delicately.

“Ma’am, my dad threw out his back, can I get some ointment?”

A boy of about twelve. “Oh, what clear eyes!” the witch marveled. Recipes for potions using such exquisite eyes flashed through her mind at lightning speed. But no. Not today.

Mira forced herself to stop, smiled softly, and handed him the jar: “Rub it on his back and cover it with a warm scarf—the ointment will work better. When it warms up, it will burn. But don’t be afraid—that’s how it’s supposed to work. Tomorrow his back will be fine.”

The boy happily grabbed the clay vessel and placed coins on the counter. The bell tinkled sadly. The witch just as sadly watched the owner of those exquisite eyes leave.

“I hope we meet again.”

In the evening, changing her disguise from shopkeeper to the face of a promiscuous but not yet completely fallen girl, she smiled at herself in the mirror. There, an ancient creature with sharp teeth looked back at her—which was exactly what she was. The twenty-eight-year-old girl had disappeared when she was killed for the first time. Back then, she had summoned the Absolute Darkness for help. She survived and became stronger. She adjusted her chest and hair, winked at her reflection, and stepped out into the darkness.

She approached the tavern, sniffing the air without leaving the shadows. The “Predator’s Gaze” potion she had drunk—brewed from the eyes and nose of a raven killed in crow fat—gave her not only the ability to see the weak points of any creature: where the bone was thinner, where the nerve was closer, where the soul held on by the thinnest thread—but also to smell them. Another’s pain, fear, aura—all of it had a scent.

“But it doesn’t stink of the Light. Good to go.”

With a walk that attracted every male gaze, she entered the tavern. She leaned against the bar, advantageously displaying all her appetizing curves, and surveyed the room. The tavern was packed. Heat from the hearth mixed with the smell of sweat and roasted meat. At a table in the corner, some guy was shouting, waving his mug, claiming he had personally seen a dragon. No one believed him, but no one argued either—the guy was the size of a bear. Shouts and arguments, laughter and flirting. Her attention was drawn to a table where a group of men sat—traders, by the look of them. Taking a plate of roasted meat, she settled nearby. The company, heated by drink, told tall tales, showing off to each other with their incredible feats, unseen profits, and other odes to their own glory.

“Hey, girl, want to take a walk to a room? I won’t hurt you.”

She raised her eyes to him—frightened, with a hint of hope, just as a girl looking for a protector should.

Before her, swaying slightly, stood a man. The witch inhaled his scent—blood, pain. Mira looked closer, examining his aura and reading the man.

“No way I got this lucky.”

The aura was familiar. Thick, red with purple flashes, saturated with hundreds of alien deaths. The city executioner—they hid their faces, but you couldn’t hide an aura from her. A gift from the Darkness, no doubt—the one that lived in the Beyond and whose name Mira only whispered, even when she was alone.

“And you’re not too fierce, are you?” she purred. “The last one beat me...”

The man smirked smugly: “I don’t beat my own. I spoil them.”

“You lie, bastard,” Mira thought, reading his aura. But aloud—languidly: “Then let’s go, sir... Only I have a gorgeous private room, and I invite the gentleman to follow me.”

Leaving coins on the table and swaying her hips, she headed for the exit, glancing at the group of traders. “Must make it in time,” she thought, estimating the number of unopened bottles. Soon they would start going out to piss. She needed to get back in time.

Mira walked into the darkness, the executioner following her.

“Hey, where are you going? Is it far? Let’s do it here!”

“Well, here is fine.” She invitingly opened her arms in the dark alley. “Come to me, my handsome.”

He stepped forward—and didn’t complete the step. Mira ran her palm across his cheek, lightly, almost tenderly, and in the same instant, a silver thread hidden in her bracelet wrapped around his throat. It didn’t strangle—just held. The executioner jerked, choked, his eyes bulging. He was a professional—and immediately understood he had met his match.

“Quiet, quiet, my dear,” she whispered in his ear, and her voice was no longer girlish, but old, rustling like parchment. “You know what will happen to you. All the better. Fear is the best seasoning.”

She carefully laid his body in a niche under the stairs, immobilized him with silver threads deeper—so he wouldn’t twitch—and quickly shoved in a gag, silently returning to the tavern. The company was still sitting. There were fewer bottles, but not critically so. “There’s time.”

Less than a quarter of an hour passed before one of the traders rose from the table and, swaying, headed for the exit—to piss. Mira slipped after him.

“Sir,” she called to him from the darkness, “I have a house nearby, let me pleasure you.”

The trader chuckled wetly: “Well, lead the way.”

He followed her willingly, grinning drunkenly. And that was the last thing he saw in his life. In a dark corner, Mira pressed him to the wall—a silver thread, a second grip, and he was already choking, but still alive. “Liar. Pure. Perfect.”

Before midnight, two bodies lay on the basement floor. Bound, but still alive. Mira surveyed her prey with a hungry gaze and began preparing for the sorcery. The night promised to be long.

Two days later, the stock was replenished. From the liar-trader—everything that could be taken. Mira carefully drained the cerebrospinal fluid into a silver vial—the base for a night-vision elixir. He lost his teeth first: she knocked them out one by one while he was conscious, whispering why she needed his enamel. “Traitors and liars are the best poison. You lied to your wife, lied to your partners, lied to yourself. Now only truth will remain of you—in the form of powder.” Rendered fat and ash from burned eyelids went into an invisibility ointment. Dried vocal cords and laryngeal cartilage—for an ointment that allows speaking with the voices of the dead and breaking the psyche with a scream. The left ventricle of the heart would go into a love potion—ironic, but the client paid well. She removed the heart last.

The executioner was a gift from the Darkness—and the most valuable. For him, she saved the “Living Tuning Fork.” She exposed his nervous system by the evening of the first day, connected silver threads leading into the portal. When she whispered the incantation, his nerves began to vibrate, emitting an inhuman sound. This “frequency of pain” opened the gates to the Beyond. The executioner did not die immediately—his brain melted for almost a day. During this time, Mira managed to extract the pituitary gland and the pineal gland. “Base for clairvoyance.” They needed to be boiled in the tears of someone who had gone blind from horror. The executioner today—had to both cry and go blind. She collected his tears in a crystal vial. Enough.

At dawn on the third day, Mira rose from the basement, washed her face with cold water, and looked in the mirror. Her eyes were red, but her gaze was clear. The stock was replenished. She could live on.