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She glittered—like gold, like sunshine—and it was blinding. In a room of grandeur and inexplicable wealth, he found that his eyes could not help but drift back to her, away from the golden frames, the marble busts, the spiral staircases and domed ceilings. He leaned back against the bar, and used the lift of the champagne flute to his lips as an excuse to sneak another look at her. He couldn’t help it—there was something magnetic; how the navy of her dress clung to her, how something in his chest seemed to expand when she tilted her head back and laughed. He could almost imagine the sound, twinkling and light as air. He watched her inky black hair fall in waves past her shoulder, licked his lips as her hand tucked a strand behind her ear.
Static crackled in his ear, startling him out of his thoughts.
“Mal.” The flat voice of the bastard came through the earpiece, and he sighed. He had a job to do.
Setting the glass down on the bar, he surveyed the room until his eyes landed on Matthias, looking generally broody and impatient in his sharp-cut suit. He jerked his head ever so slightly to the door before disappearing behind it. This was the signal, and he willed his palms to not start sweating until they were back at the safehouse, until Mal’s cut was loaded safely into his suitcase and stuffed under his bed.
He pushed past an elderly gentleman, swiping his watch as he helped steady him, only to then slip it back in the man’s pocket. He found that often he could be quite altruistic, and thinking about it again, maybe he should just take that watch back—
“Leaving so soon?”
Mal stopped, affronted by the delicate hand placed on his chest. He looked down at it, then at her. Even prettier up close, he thought lamely, as all functions in his mind had ceased the minute she touched him. But Mal talked to pretty girls all the time, so he carefully plucked her hand off his chest, keeping her fingers loose in his as he brought it to their side.
“Not yet.” He watched her eyebrow quirk up ever so slightly in time with the corner of her mouth, and he allowed a smile for himself, the cocky kind of smirk he reserved for moments like these.
“I have one last thing I plan to do.” His hand tugged hers a step forward, until it rested on his shoulder. He heard her breath hitch—or was it his?—when his hand dropped down to spread across her lower back, the silky fabric underneath his palm seemingly burning off from the heat. He held his free hand out in question. She responded with her hand in his, closing the chasm that remained between them, and he could see the flecks of glitter at the corner of her eye.
“I always try to dance with the prettiest girl in the room at least once,” he said casually. Her fingers moved along the back of his neck, finding sanctuary in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. She tugged gently.
“Does that line work with all the girls?”
“It’s the first time I’ve used it, so you tell me.”
They drifted to the echo of the strings in the stage to the far left of the room, and the party swung on around them, but he didn’t seem to notice. She chuckled, and he saw stars.
“Somehow I doubt that. I’ve seen you around.”
“So you’ve noticed me before.”
A slow blush dusted across her cheeks. “That’s not what I said.”
“But that’s what I heard.”
“I’ve just seen you.” She broke eye contact with him to glance past his shoulder, before returning her gaze to him. “I’ve seen your work.”
“I hadn’t realised you were an appreciator of fine art as well.”
She fluttered her eyelashes. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
He racked his brain for her identity, but instead, all his mind provided him with was the tantalizing image of her dress on his bedroom floor.
“Are you here tonight for business or pleasure?”
She studied him, perhaps endearingly unimpressed. He studied her back, reaching the conclusion that neither would be able to know until someone cracked.
“Well,” she tilted her head to the side, the end of her teardrop diamond earring brushing dangerously close to her bare shoulder. He licked his lips at the sight. So she would crack first. “I’m inclined to say pleasure.”
Mal smiled, pleased. He squeezed her lower back, pulling her in even tighter against him, and the dangerous look in her eye made him weak in the knees.
“I’m Mal.” He leaned in, letting his lips brush against her ear. It was a true delight to feel her shiver as the low timber of his voice and the heat of his breath washed over her. “The pleasure is all mine.”
The door slammed shut behind him, the unfortunate punching bag for the boiling inside his chest. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging viciously the same way she once had, and when that image flashed through his mind, unwelcome, he dropped his hands from his hair just as fast, and examined the room for his next victim.
He was three strides away from the velvet green cushion on the couch in the corner of the room when the door clicked open, and clicked closed just as softly. He did not have to turn to know who it was, but he refrained from ripping the cushion in half, and dug his nails into his palm instead.
“Why?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“You know why.” Nikolai sighed against the door, and Mal turned to look at him. The look his friend gave him was unimpressed, but Mal hadn’t expected much of anything else. Nobody quite knew why he was in here at this present moment, but Nikolai could probably guess. This business was just a series of guesses anyways—sometimes they were far from the truth, but sometimes they were a bit too on the nose.
After all, he’d taken a guess with his heart once. He just shouldn’t have been surprised when he’d guessed wrong.
Nikolai would indulge him though. “The intel she has on him is invaluable. Nobody knows that place like she does. And,” he paused. “She’s the only one who can destroy it.”
Mal could begrudgingly admit to this, that she was good at her job—otherwise, wouldn’t she be dead by now? And he supposed it was noble, for her to turn her back on her employer and begin operating as a mole to take him down—it was noble, and brave, and reckless, and stupid, because how was he supposed to protect her then—
He shook his head. That wasn’t his job anymore. It never had been. That much was made clear, long ago, and while that wound had healed over, leaving behind an albeit nasty, wrangled-looking scab on the bloodied maroon parts of his beating heart; when she’d walked through the doorway of the safehouse, the hardened parts of that scab had been ripped off, and he could practically feel the blood red beating out of his veins, the pain fresh and new and disastrous. She’d looked at him once, last, after looking at everyone else, and that was when he’d come into the library to scream, because he couldn’t bear to know that in the hierarchy of who she passed her gaze over, he was last, and he couldn’t bear so much more—so many unspeakable things that lived under his bones, hollow spaces she’d viciously carved out of, the receipt of her pain pumping rhythmically through his veins with every breath he took.
He didn’t hear Nikolai behind him, not realising until he placed a hand on his shoulder, making him jump.
“What is going on with you?” Nikolai hissed. He would be pissed if he suddenly refused to do the job, and this was a relationship Mal wasn’t keen on breaking for his own personal interest. And so Mal turned, hardening his eyes, his heart, the way they needed to be. He knew Nikolai did the same every day, even more so now, in preparation for this job.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” They both knew it was a lie, but they could bank the job on this lie.
Nikolai’s hand squeezed his shoulders, his gaze intense and piercing. Maybe they would not share the truth, but years of cons together etched a certain amount of trust into the other. They would get through it.
“I know.”
They walked toward the door, the green cushion spared from its fate at Mal’s hands. Before he opened the library door, he turned to Nikolai.
“It will be difficult.”
“I know.” Nikolai crossed the threshold of the door, disappearing behind it and leaving a small crack for Mal to hear, “but we need her.”
And that was the issue, wasn’t it? Because Mal needed her too.
In this business, love was just currency.
It was a few select words strung together, said at the right time, with the right tone, with a brush of a cheek. It was traded back and forth for secrets, coin, information. It meant everything, and it meant nothing.
Mal knew this. But as he held onto her hand, love felt less like a lonesome burden, and more like a reason to live.
“You bring all the girls here?” She dropped her palm from his to wipe her hand on her jeans.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” He snatched back her hand, tugging her along loosely behind him until they reached the outer edge of the meadow, hazy sunset washing over the scene like a sepia filter. In a few hours, the stars would be out, glittering streaks across the night sky, and they would lie side by side, pointing out the constellations.
“You’re the first,” he confirmed. A slow smile spread across her face, a look that made his heart beat at an erratic pace, and he wondered dangerously if he would do anything for her.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Looking at you like what?” He tugged her close and their fronts bounced lightly against each other, her hands threading around his neck. The look on her face was the softest he’d ever seen, and his overwhelming desire to be in love with her was channeled into a tender cup of her face.
She leaned into his hand, and they stood there in silence. What Mal would give to stay here forever, a place where they could escape, and just be. No more worries about the next job, what would happen if they were to be caught. No more terror across the streets, no more death and pain and destruction. Just love, and peace, in a meadow, with a girl.
“Dance with me,” he whispered. The night sky took its place, and they swayed, backlit by the moon’s reflection against the pond.
“Just like the night we met.”
“You’re not going to steal my watch again are you? Because that wasn’t even mine.”
“I’m not going to steal your watch again.” She leaned her head against his chest, and his heart beat heavier, like it knew it needed to be enough for her to know. “Do you ever think about leaving it all behind?”
His feet stopped swaying, and his fingers combed through her hair, ran up and down her spine. “I didn’t. But I do now.”
“Why?”
He hummed. “You know why.”
She lifted her head off his chest, searching deep in his eyes for truth. He did the same. This was the problem with what they did, wasn’t it? It was hard to know a truth. She had the same crimes he did, if not more, but he saw past them, and she saw past his. And so he unmasked himself for her, showed every dirty real part of himself in the cracks and crevices of his face, hoping she would understand, wouldn’t turn away. She showed him the same vulnerability, and for a moment he let himself revel in the fact that this was real. That between all the wrinkles of lies and tricks and thieves, he’d found something real.
Her mouth on his was warm, and sweeter than honey, pure as truth, sinful as desire.
“I love you.” He whispered it against her lips, felt the contours of her smile against his own.
“I love you too,” she murmured against him. The words could be currency, but this secret they shared was real, alive, and beating in every corner of their hearts.
It was sacred, and it was the truth.
Mal wished he could say he didn’t find it difficult to sleep the night before a job. He was a seasoned professional, after all. He’d taken endless jobs for years, and nerves seemed almost comically below him.
But as he swung his legs out of bed, slipping on a sweatshirt into the dark halls, he knew that this job was different. For starters, the crew was larger, and the stakes were higher. The crimes of the Darkling had been whispered in rumours for years: kidnapped children, radicalised grisha, bribery, torture, and extortion for control of the puppet strings amongst politicians. And Mal knew it was all true, because he’d been watching the Darkling for months now, tracking his movement, his money, and his mansion. The plan to rob him of his power had come late one night, in between mugs of kvas with Nikolai, who had watched his own family fall prey to his powers. They didn’t speak of his own soul.
He deserves to suffer, said Nikolai. It’s not right. And it’s not fair.
We’re thieves, argued Mal. We’re not in a position to judge.
His friend still shivered—not from the night air, not from the burn of alcohol—but from when the darkness had passed through him. He knew it was happening more and more, the strange beasts of the Darkling’s powers passing through people in the city, making them do unspeakable things that they had no memory of. It was a most cruel thing to fear, to not know oneself, to lose control of the one thing you thought you had, Mal thought.
We need to take his power, Mal muttered into his kvas. Or limit it. Somehow.
Expose him to the city council?
No use.
We could kill him, said with whispered urgency.
We could.
And then they were silent, left with a death note hanging in the air until Nikolai spoke again.
We should steal his amplifier. And then destroy it.
Mal knew little of the grisha amplifiers, but he knew Nina wore hers around her ankle, and it was the reason why she’d been able to last three weeks in a cave-in when a job had gone wrong in the north. And he knew that it was what made the beasts stronger.
It had taken almost a year to plan—made longer by a minor setback on Mal’s part—but the job was going to get done, he knew that. He expected a strange sense of déjà vu as he pushed into the kitchen, dimly lit by the stovetop light. A few months ago he’d been exactly here, about to do the exact same job, knowing more, and knowing so much less. He had been a fool.
Concentrating hard on the water boiler, his guard was dropped low enough to not hear the footsteps coming up to the kitchen until they were right at the entrance. By the way his body tightened like a bowstring, so desperate to bend to her will, longing to turn and pull her into his arms, he knew who it was.
Mal did not turn around. Instead, he poured himself a cup of tea with steady hands. He could control nothing except the shake of his hands and the shake of his breath.
“Pour me a mug?”
He cursed his hands for having a mind of their own, as they opened the cabinet, pulled out a tall ceramic mug, and selected a tea. He cursed his heart for knowing that she wanted black tea, with a tablespoon of sugar, stirred three times, with the spoon left in, because this was what calmed her down before jobs, and what made her think of home, and lazy mornings that belonged to her and only her.
At least, that was what she’d told him.
“Thank you,” she whispered softly. Standing next to him, he could feel the chasm of space between them, a deep and dark valley that was uncrossable. He pushed the mug over to her, bringing his fingers back like they burned before she could brush her hand over his.
Burning chamomile hit the back of his throat, as he heard her take a small sip, watching her carefully out of the corner of his eye. He hated himself for wondering what she was thinking about.
“You can’t do the entire job not looking at me.”
He snorted, and glanced briefly at her. She couldn’t even look at him.
“I’m looking at you right now.”
The pieces didn’t add up, when she turned towards him and looked up with sad eyes, filled with their own shade of mourning.
“Mal...” she took a small breath, played with the handle of her mug. He almost leaned forward to hear her speak. “Please, you have to know—”
He brought his mug down with a hard thud. This was enough. “Alina, it doesn’t matter.” The hard exterior slipped on, comfortable as a second skin. “Thank you for doing this job. Your help is invaluable.”
He let himself look at her—just one last glance, in the dim light of the room, and he was hit with the memory of their first dance, the way she glittered to him, and did so until she didn’t. So much of him longed to be near her, to brush away the tear sliding down her cheek, to cup her face, to kiss her senseless, murmur his prayers and his truth into her skin over and over.
If love was a lonesome burden, then longing was its pained forefather. It would be so easy to reach out, to slip them back into place, where they had been.
The memory of a compass, crushed under his food. A gun butting into the back of his neck, and the bullet wounds in his shoulder were the reminders that cut his longing in half, burying it deep into the ground where it could be totally inaccessible to him.
He did not look at her as he walked out of the kitchen, leaving her standing in the near darkness. Every step away from her was a cut—every step towards her, another, until the thousand cuts made up every inch of him.
“Don’t stay up too late,” he called out before crossing the doorway. “We have a big day tomorrow.”
Don’t get caught.
Those were the words Nikolai had slapped on his back earlier in the afternoon, and they were the words Alina had whispered against him before she’d slipped out of his bed that morning. Before she could slip on her pants, he caught her wrist, feeling the all-too-familiar spark when his hands circled her bare skin.
I won’t, he’d said, and her smile was worth it.
His room was barren, degrees colder once she was gone. He was packed up—not that he had much anyways, some lifelong trinkets here and here—but it felt right, because he was ready to go. The job had been in the works for months, but what would come after had always haunted him until recently.
Until Alina had nudged him in the side as they lay in the meadow one evening, asking him to run away with her. His answer was yes. It always would be, because he would follow her anywhere.
I just have to finish this job, he whispered to her, and she nodded, understanding.
As he padded silently along the dark edges of the library, he remembered his favourite pieces of her: the black silk of her hair in between his fingers, the fierce power in her eyes, the sweet butter of her voice, and the strength of her heart.
The foreboding bookshelves towered above him like dark trees in a haunted forest, but they’d gone over this enough where he paid them no mind. There was only the prize, the Darkling’s amplifier, some strange and twisted thing he kept hidden deep in his archives, the location extracted carefully by the deft and nimble fingers of Mal’s mind, and the hidden maps he and Nikolai had drawn up in the office that led straight to it. Once Mal had it tucked safely away, they would destroy it together, and pray the darkness of the monsters would stop, as the whispers of grisha said it would. Mal was inclined to trust them on this matter.
And once it was destroyed, he would leave. There was a burner in his pack with Nikolai’s number tucked safely away, in case of emergencies. It was the closest the two had gotten to a tearful goodbye, but it was enough to touch his heart. And with it, he would flee—not far, but far enough. With Alina’s hand in his, they would roam the corners of the world, tuck themselves into the quiet pockets of peace they could find. She longed for it desperately; he saw it. The look in her eye when she spoke of running away, breaking free of her employer, building a home with him. Then he would kiss the inside of her wrist, run his lips along her arm, palms heating up her sides like armour, her protector, her soldier, her companion, a bandit like her.
He would follow her anywhere, and they would be together again, sneaking away in the night, slipping away like shadows hidden in dark velvet.
As soon as this job was done. He rounded another corner of shelves, spotting the ornate stand up ahead, lit anciently by torches, because if there was anything Mal knew it was that the Darkling had a taste for 15th century style drama. The box sat atop the stand, dark brown and carved elaborately, ancient markings of the darkness and the shadows that made the people lose their minds. He approached it slowly, cautiously aware of the power emanating from the box, the warped force the Darkling had corrupted long ago. One more step, the silence of the library suffocating as he got closer and closer until—
A cold barrel of a gun pressed against his neck, and time froze. It felt impossible, and his heart dropped, and fear that he too, would be subject to losing control of himself, would succumb to the demons that threatened them all, everyone living under the suffocating cling film of fear and desperation.
“I expected more.”
Frozen metal jabbed into him, forcing him to turn around as his mind raced a mile a minute, figuring out a way to get himself out of this situation.
“Come with me.” His captor gave a flick of his wrist, and Mal felt his heart seize, and the air squeezed out of his lungs until he dutifully followed him out of the library.
The man wore a maroon coloured duster, black etchings peaking out on the back of his neck and into his short-cut hair. Mal mentally clocked the hallways they turned into, the map of the mansion laid out clearly in his mind, preparing for his escape. There was a backup—and there was a backup to the backup—and Mal could never get lost, so as they descended a short staircase into an anciently dressed office space, he did not worry, only counted down the minutes that Nikolai needed to take his place in the archives, or get the signal from Mal that the drop was happening elsewhere.
The office space felt less like an office, and more like a war room. He felt as though he’d stepped into an older time, the wooden table no less than a relic, maps and attacks spread across its surface. His stomach churned, then churned again as a shadow stepped into the torchlight, borrowing the shape of a man. A face so young, yet so old, black eyes endless and hungry for more, more, more. He felt a draw of power that poked its spindly fingers into his soul and grabbed ahold, like the Darkling was sucking it from him like a leech, with the never-ending thirst of a parasite.
He felt weaker the longer he stood, his hands tied by magic, his heart struggling by the same. But he would be brave—a flash of coffee-brown eyes came forward, and the soft smile she gave him in afternoon sunlight, and he stood up a little taller, looking the Darkling defiantly in the eye.
An endlessness stared back.
“So you’ve tried to steal from me.”
Mal remained silent. There was a tall window in the corner of the room—he calculated the probability of surviving a crash out of it.
“It’s rather impolite to not speak when you are spoken to.” He gave a clench of his fingers, and shadowy tendrils danced in the corner of Mal’s eyes.
“Yes,” he gasped, the words forced out of him.
“Accomplices?” The Darkling almost looked bored, if not for the slight indication of pleasure he received from total control.
“One.”
The Darkling watched him, and Mal’s insides pounded for his friend’s safety. What would become of him, if the shadows entered him again? Would his soul vanish entirely?
And so for the first time, Mal began to panic.
The Darkling wrinkled his nose. “Give up your weapons.”
His body had no choice but to comply, his mind screaming as his arms moved, grabbing onto the guns hidden along the waistband of his pants, the knives strapped to his ankles. Another compulsion swept over him, and he emptied out the grenade in his pocket onto the table. A small compass followed, tumbling out of his slippery fingers so that he could see where North pointed him. The Darkling’s beady eyes focused in on this object.
“Interesting,” he said under his breath, before looking back up at him. “I know what you came for, Malyen.”
His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. He said nothing.
The Darkling’s voice was low. “And I don’t believe she’ll be leaving with you.” He flicked his hand, and Mal felt her before he turned.
The first time he’d seen her, he thought she glittered. He thought some invisible magnetism had drawn him towards her, had drawn them together, a streak of hope and possibility in a morose reality. Flashes of memory assaulted him: their first kiss on a cobblestone street at midnight, her body pressed against his in the morning, legs tangled in sheets, fingers in hair, in mouths, in bodies, everywhere, lips saying a prayer, and saying I love you, saying let’s run away together, it’s you and me and this sunlight. The night he’d patched up her hip, careful with the stitches after a hit, a night she spent in his flat, leaving behind a box of tea for next time, his arms wrapped around her as they lay in the meadow, their sacred place, where love could be. The tug he always felt, drawing him towards her, a moon in orbit.
And it had all been a lie.
“Alina,” he whispered, voice cracked from despair. She stepped into the room, standing next to his maroon duster-wearing captor, wearing the same sweater he’d seen her in this morning. “I don’t understand.”
“My things cannot be taken from me, Malyen,” came from the voice behind him. He could not turn, could only look at her. A girl he wanted to give up everything for, staring back at him with a hard look in her eyes, cold and unblinking. The traces of her soft love for him gone, disappeared into another universe, and Mal thought he could hear the loud crack! as the peaks and valleys of his heart uprooted, splitting into two, leaving him staring down at the edge of the cliff into a darkness where he’d once been whole.
“I don’t understand,” he repeated. Maybe it was desperation of some sort, a scramble to bring back the girl he knew, who he thought he’d known, who had made him stronger, less afraid of the dark. But no matter how hard Mal looked, he couldn’t find her, only saw a frigid stranger in front of him who had stolen her face, her body, her eyes.
She was wearing the necklace he’d given her the night they’d made plans to leave. A small compass, old metallic gold that nestled in between her collarbones. He’d hooked the chain on her, then kissed her bare shoulder, whispering about how he cherished her.
Maybe she forgot. Maybe he had not told her enough times. Or maybe every memory was tinted black with a lie, when he’d whispered into her ear what they were planning on doing, and then they could run, and never once, not ever, had she revealed the name of her employer. He knew she hated him—thought he knew—despised him for his power and his control over her, built into the fabric of her life from a young age, unable to chart her own path. Or at least that was what she’d told him.
She did not tell him that she would be here tonight. Did not tell him that she would watch his lungs fight against magic for a gasp of air while she stared on cooly, did not tell him that her employer would kick his gun to her and she would walk towards it while he stood frozen in time as the world ticked on past him, in slow motion, as he watched her pick up the gun, heard the safety click off, and stared at the end of the barrel, sentenced to a cruel death by his lover’s hand, his lover and his liar, tears in his eyes, too many to see the pain in hers as he swiped the compass necklace from her neck with his final strength, crushing it beneath his foot before the sound of shots fired and chaos descended into air.
Mal laid in bed for several days after that. Mostly because he was subject to the healing powers that Tolya and Tamar had to offer, the two tirelessly working through the gunshots in his shoulder. Even when the bullets were extracted and the wound was healed over into an ugly pink thing, Mal still felt the phantom gush of his beating blood, a never-ending rawness that had nothing to do with his body, and everything to do with his heart.
It was a miracle he’d escaped, remembering the small grenade hidden in the necklace, a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency. The information must have slipped her mind, or else he would have been shot in the heart, dying, dying, dead.
He looked over at her now—dressed in all black, as they all were, surveying the mansion past the hedges from their spot in the car. Their crew wouldn’t risk him re-entering the house, not after last time, and Mal had built up enough skills over the years to track them from here, handling the radio, tech, and getaway car. Inej, Nina, and Nikolai had already disappeared into the alleyways, Matthias on the roof with Jesper and Wylan, Kaz having long ago infiltrated the interior. It left Mal in the car with Alina while she breathed steadily, no noise except the quiet hum of the engine and the shuffle of her feet.
She’d been smart, coming onto this job. Avoiding him completely, going through Nikolai and the crows, armoured with inner circle information on the Darkling and his fortress, his amplifier, promising the bounty of a lost sun summoner to the gang if she backed out on her promises, or failed in her treachery against him. Mal’s protests were just those of one man, lost in the murmured agreement that the amplifier needed to be taken, his powers dampened. The attacks had gotten worse in the past months, grisha children were being stolen and returning as soldiers, powerful grisha women disappearing entirely behind the dark walls.
It was no use. All he could do was hope he did not draw his gaze towards her, an automatic instinct, and hope he didn’t slam too many doors in frustration. Planning the heist was easy when he stood around a table with eight other people, sometimes ten, when Tolya and Tamar floated in and out. The number meant he didn’t have to look at her, didn’t have to think too hard when Kaz smacked his cane on the table, pushing Mal’s pin towards Alina’s, stating in his steady voice that she would be the last to enter, would wait with Mal until she received the signal, at which point they would work like a well-oiled machine to extract the amplifier, get out, and destroy it.
“It’s almost time,” she whispered next to him. He spotted the small flare shooting into the dark morning sky, the only disturbance in the stillness before the sun rose.
What did she expect him to say to her? It’d been months of being near her, and weeks of her living in their safehouse, and he still didn’t know.
He opted for a grunt instead, remembering when he ached to protect her. The compass still lived in the bottom of his pants pocket, and he did not have to look to know where it pointed. A traitorous machine that seemed to feed on his suffering.
Another flare soared through the sky, and he peered out the window.
“Time,” he reported. Mal knew she looked back at him, felt her eyes on him before she exited the car, but he couldn’t bring himself to look.
“Back soon.” She clicked the car door shut, and he watched her shadow disappear into darkness.
They drove to the meadow in silence, bloodied and bruised, but alive, the soft melancholy gold of a sunrise washing over them.
Mal pressed harder on the gas, finally letting up when he saw the field in the distance. As they piled out, he tried not to think of when he’d been here last.
I would go anywhere with you, she’d told him.
What about home? he’d asked.
This isn’t home. She kissed his palm. Home isn’t a place, Mal. It’s the feeling, when I’m with you.
He stepped into the meadow now, and felt at home, a heavy weight that clung on him. It was an accident when he turned to lock eyes with Alina, who was already looking at him, and he wondered what she was thinking about.
“You should all step back.”
Nobody seemed to be able to breath in this final moment—he looked around at their crew, the quiet tension in Kaz’s gloved hands as he gripped his cane, murmuring into Inej’s ear, the closeness of Nina and Matthias, Wylan and Jesper, clinging onto their love should this be their final moment. Nikolai a step away from Mal, hardly breathing, waiting for it to be worth it, justice for the thing that had taken so much from him. He gave Mal a small nod of acknowledgement, his knuckles white.
Alina stepped further into the grass, the box in her hands before laying it gently down on the ground. He watched her hands shake, then stop as her eyes closed, palms drawn together over the box until a shimmering ball of light exploded from her very being, the blinding light of her power the last thing he saw before the world went dark.
1
Something was going wrong. He just didn’t know what yet.
But the world tipped at a strange axis as he rose and glanced at the calendar. It was strange because he’d crossed off the date when they’d returned, prior to his head hitting the pillow, aches in his chest, relief from another job completed.
But the date wasn’t crossed off. It looked at him, a blank slate, and Mal squinted, trying to remember...
His door slammed open, Nikolai barging in with frantic energy.
“What are you doing? We have to go—it’s almost 2 am.”
Mal stared, taking in his friend’s all black get up, the same clothes he’d seen him in yesterday. But that was impossible, because yesterday they’d done the job, and Alina had destroyed the amplifier in the field, and they’d driven home in a victorious silence, eating a quiet breakfast, anticipating the worst, hoping for the best.
Nikolai threw his pants at him. “Mal—come on, get dressed.”
Kicking off his blankets, Mal began to go through the motions, the motions he’d gone through yesterday, the most intense feelings of deja vu he’d ever had as they piled into the car, Mal in the driver’s seat, Alina next to him—he was too dazed and confused to keep being hurt, and when they pulled up to the mansion and the other members slipped out to take their places, Mal traced their dots on his computer, just as he’d done yesterday, and waited for a flare.
“It’s almost time,” she whispered next to him. He spotted the small flare shooting into the dark morning sky, the only disturbance in the stillness before the sun rose.
“What?” Mal snapped his head towards her.
The slight quiver in her voice did not go unnoticed by him. “It’s almost time,” repeated Alina.
He’d lived this day, just yesterday.
“This isn’t right,” he whispered to himself, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
Alarmed, Alina leaned over to look at his screen. All was in order. “What are you talking about?”
“Haven’t we...haven’t we done this before?”
She looked at him, eyes darting back and forth between his, unreadable, until an invisible dam broke on her face and he saw every line of confusion etched into her skin, a clear reflection of his own face.
“We were here yesterday,” she confirmed, and ran a nervous finger through her hair.
“What is this?” He tracked the dots of their group on his screen, hoping to find an answer in the pixels. When he received none, he looked back up at her. “So the amplifier’s not destroyed?”
“I—Mal, I don’t know—”
“Did you do this to us?” he snapped.
Alina glared at him. “You think this is my fault somehow?”
“Sorry if I’m not too keen on trusting you at this moment, seeing as you’re the only grisha in this car, and the person who said they destroyed the amplifier—”
“I did destroy the amplifier, you were there, and I don’t know what’s happening as much as you don’t!” She huffed in his face, breathing heavily from frustration. “You can’t take everything out on me and you know it.”
“I’m not taking it out on you,” Mal grumbled under his breath. Alina let out a sarcastic laugh.
“You don’t even talk to me. You won’t even look at me. You won’t even—” she stopped short. Mal lifted up his head from the screen to look at her.
“I won’t even what?”
He knew she let her hair fall to block her face, hiding behind the curtain of black so he wouldn’t read her like he’d done before. She gulped, and tucked her hair behind her ear before glancing at him.
“You won’t even listen to me.”
There was a burn in the back of his throat, connecting down to his heart.
“You don’t have anything to say to me.”
“That’s not true,” whispered Alina. He had to turn away, afraid of the tremble in her voice. “Please, Mal, you have to know... there’s so much I can’t even begin to explain, and I never meant to hurt you...”
“You shot me.”
She paused. “I know.”
“You aimed to kill me.”
Alina shook her head violently. “No, it was only to hurt you. And the necklace—I wore the necklace because I knew it was the only thing that would help you get away when he caught you.”
He grabbed hold of her wrist, which had come up to grab hold of his arm. It was easy now, to ignore the soft hum in the back of his ears as he held onto her like this.
“You knew he would catch us.”
Alina blinked back tears. Mal did the same. “I didn’t—not completely, until you were there, but by then it was almost too late. You needed—” Her voice cracked, “it was better this way. He would have killed you if he knew what you were really there for.”
So much of him ached to believe her—a good portion of him really did. But the healed-over wounds on his shoulder and his heart would not be so keen to forgive.
“You lied to me.”
Slowly, she extracted her wrist from his grip. He let it go limp, let himself sit in stillness as her fingers ghosted over the cut of his jaw, feather light in touch as if she was afraid to truly touch him again.
“Would you believe me if I said I was afraid?” Her fingers drifted over his chin, barely grazed his bottom lip with a tender brush. “And it wasn’t all a lie.”
Alina looked him in the eye, at long last pressing her index finger down into his skin, no doubt leaving behind a burning imprint of where she touched him.
“You have to know it was real for me, too.”
Mal didn’t know. Mal did know. His head swam, every ghost of her touch grabbing at his skin to sink back into place, to bring her back to him. He would. He hated himself for it but he would, over and over and over and over—
His last thoughts were of love, staring into Alina’s eyes as the mansion ahead exploded in the violent heat of a scarlet fire, the boom carrying out to the car before the flames swallowed them whole.
2
His head pounded ferociously. Unfortunately, it was not enough to block out the blank slate of the day. He rubbed his eyes furiously.
His door slammed open, Nikolai barging in with frantic energy.
“What are you doing? We have to go—it’s almost 2 am.”
“Oh, Saints, not again,” Mal mumbled, grabbing his pants off the floor before Nikolai got a chance to throw them at him.
For the third time, Mal navigated his way around the safehouse, grabbing his pack and laptop, deep breaths to calm the pesky nerves that refused to leave him whenever he did a job. In the dark foyer, Alina grabbed hold of his arm, pulling him to the side of the hallway.
“Again?” she asked.
“Again.” They let out simultaneous huffs of frustration. Mal did not understand how many times he had to live this day, why they couldn’t just move on into the better and safer world where the Darkling’s powers could hurt no one, why they had to keep fighting him against this, in what was starting to look like a never-ending uphill battle.
“Do you think it’s something he’s doing?” Mal asked.
Alina gave a jerky shrug, her fingers nervously playing with the zip of her jacket. “I don’t know, he never even talked to me about his power.”
“Never?”
Her gaze was steady, maybe even truthful. “Why would he? He said I was his equal, but that was never really true. I’m just a thing to him. Another thing to control.”
Mal swallowed, and it felt like there was a lump of rock stuck in his throat. It was a useless lie, to say that it didn’t hurt him to see her like this.
His voice was dry as sandpaper as it rasped out, “I’m sorry.”
Alina gave him a small smile, tragic and comforting all at once.
“Come on, we have to go,” Nikolai said. The crows followed him out the door, each one turning to give him and Alina curious glances.
“You have to make sure you go in,” he said to her quietly as he drove.
“Or else we’ll all explode?”
Mal snorted. “Exactly.”
5
“I don’t understand why we even have to keep trying,” he grumbled, staring at the dots on his screen.
Alina sighed, cleaning the tip of the dagger she kept strapped to her ankle.
“I would rather destroy the amplifier every time than risk moving forward without destroying it.”
“How do you even know we would go forward?”
“We don’t.” And that shut them both up for a minute.
She spoke again into the silence, her voice quiet. “It’s connected to it somehow, I know it.”
“The amplifier?”
A nod. “I’m trying to think, to remember anything he said in passing...”
“Do you have an amplifier?” The thought came to Mal suddenly.
“No – well, yes – sort of.”
“Helpful.”
“It doesn’t belong to me.”
“It belongs to him?”
She nodded sadly, hunching as if to make herself smaller, and Mal realised that was how she had protected what remained of herself against the shadows.
“You never told me,” he said, his own voice sad. He wished they could go back in time, let her know he would give up every part of himself to protect her from them.
“My power was mine, until he took it and it wasn’t. With us...it was ours. It belonged to us. I wouldn’t let him touch it.”
Her head hit the car seat with a small thud. Mal took in her profile, studying the tinge of her cheeks, the curve of her cheek, the pink of her lips.
“But I went and destroyed it all by myself anyway,” she breathed.
Mal chuckled, palms sweating. “Maybe you had some help with that.”
Her neck turned towards him, lips quirked up as she brought a hand up to cup his face. Five times they’d lived this day, and she was getting closer and closer to touching him until he became addicted to her again. One more time and he would never leave her side.
The second flare shot up into the night sky, its bright orange trails reflected in the dark brown pools of Alina’s eyes. She lingered on him for another breath, as if to say something else, but all she managed was a quiet whisper.
“I have to go now.”
Mal watched her leave, their eyes locking a final time as she shut the door.
“Don’t get caught,” he whispered. But she was already gone.
11
He’d lived the day 12 times so far. They’d died four times, survived six, technically seven, but Mal did not consider getting stabbed in the shoulder to be a huge win for himself.
But of all versions of this day, he’d never come to consciousness with Alina shaking him awake, the clock on his nightstand reading 1:38 in unforgiving red pixels.
“‘Lina?” The use of her old nickname slipped out of him, too tired to care. He didn’t miss the small startled look that flicked through her features, smoothed over so quickly he almost missed it.
“I’ve been up reading,” she said, and flicked on the lamp next to his bed before dropping a dusty tome onto his sheets.
“Have you just been awake this whole time?” He sat up to rub his eyes, the chill of the air biting at his skin as the blankets fell from his shoulders.
“I couldn’t sleep before, and the day just reset anyway, so...”
Mal stopped rubbing his eyes when she trailed off, alarmed, until he realised she was staring at his bare chest.
In particular, the gunshot on his bare chest.
Her gulp was audible. “Is that from me?”
Mal nodded, silent. Twelve times they’d lived this day, and he was beginning to think it was much too tiring to be afraid of all the ways she could hurt him, when she already had. They talked in low voices in the getaway car, in the hidden cellars of the mansion, in the corners of their safehouse. It was easy then, to forgive her, to remember who she was, and who she made him, a fearless fighter that ached to protect, to feel peace. That all-too-familiar tug tethered him to her, a red string of fate that had turned bloody with their pasts, but the string stayed red, their souls still tied, intertwined like their hands and legs in hot summer air long ago.
In the dead of nights, Alina said I’m sorry. And Mal replied it’s alright, and that was that. He didn’t say more, didn’t say he still loved her, he still wanted her, needed her, he still wanted to run away with her, he always would, no matter how many times she hurt him. But as she spoke he realised that he could not live with himself to put the burden of his feelings on her, not when she’d been given so little choice in her life already. And so he did not ask for more from her, not when her gaze lingered on him, her fingers brushed against his skin, when she whispered good luck in his ear.
He did not ask for more when she brought a hand up to his chest, tracing the dull pink flesh of his wound, a physical mark too small to capture the mark she’d left on him. There was not a part of him that she hadn’t touched, hadn’t taken up.
“I’m sorry–”
He grabbed her wrist, tugging lightly to the hum in the background. “Don’t say sorry. Please. It’s alright.” The minutes ticked by. “We do what we have to do to survive.”
She nodded mutely before bringing her hand across his chest, ghosting over his skin as if mapping out the planes of his upper body, the tough compressed areas of muscle, the harsh edges and curves of old scars.
He held his breath, and she touched him like a memory, fragile and delicate in her hands, afraid to bump against the edges, lest it slip away.
“Mal.” His name slipped from her lips soft as a prayer, strong as faith. “Would you...do it again? For old time’s sake?”
His hands clenched around the blankets. “What are you saying?”
Alina’s hand stopped at the base of his neck, no doubt soaking up his body heat for her cold hands. Her fingers trailed up to his cheek, and he leaned in, uninhibited.
It felt nice to have her fingers on his face again, cupping his face. It was the familiar easy heat that he knew and loved about her, and maybe that was what made him lean in ever so slightly.
“Just...one more time. To get it out of our…system or something...” she whispered, gravity pulling her front towards him, and a warm fire began to rage in his veins.
Some part of him screamed that this was a bad idea, to be sucked back in, almost knowing for certain that what would happen next would end in heartbreak. But a much larger part of him begged him to let go, to fall back into place with Alina, to be slotted together with her where he belonged. He imagined the stem of a daisy, peeking out from the sidewalk crack, always reaching, wishing and hoping it could get another inch closer to the sun. And why would he turn away from the sun, if that was what he needed?
Maybe that was why he brought his palm up to cup her face, bringing their heads close until their foreheads touched, and they watched the world stand still as they breathed out, the never ending stillness in the silence before he leaned a little to the left and pressed his lips to hers.
At first they were still, his hand on her face, her hand on his. Then every bit of muscle memory flooded back to them simultaneously. Every memory of his lips on hers crashed into him like a wave, the press of her mouth on his the only true and still thing in the linear circle of time they lived in, flashes of their past, present, and future jumbling together until they were nothing but mouths moving against each other, hands on cheeks and hands in hair. She leaned forward more, pushing him back onto his pillows, her body following on top of him quickly. It was a familiar weight, everything known and touched, but never touched enough, and Mal forgot time and space existed as they worked against each other, pushing and pulling their way to the edge, trying desperately for it to be enough, enough, enough, but knowing they would always desire more.
18
“We could stay in this day forever,” she begged.
“Alina, I can’t ask you to do that.”
“And I can’t ask you to do this!” She pushed against his chest as tears rolled down her face, and Mal let her, and pulled her in close.
His voice muffled against her hair, small shakes racking her body. The thought of her kept him strong so many times, that he would be strong about this for her.
Maybe in some sick and twisted cosmic way, this did make sense. The time she spent in his bed was stolen time, because this day was stolen minute after stolen minute. Maybe that thievery was allowed, to make up for the minutes he’d lost with her before, but now fate was knocking furiously at his door, demanding its merciless payment.
Because as it turned out, Alina did have another amplifier.
And it would be enough to destroy the Darkling’s, to really destroy it, to break free of the endless loop they lived in. It was a trap, to live the same day again and again. It was knowing that nothing could ever be done, their efforts of thievery useless as time ran parallel, the Darkling continuing to commit his crimes against humanity.
Mal had decided long ago that he would do anything for her. And that included a life outside of a cruel loop.
The world was large. Time itself was even larger, and longer. Alina deserved it—she deserved her freedom, her power, her choice. To explore the world the way they always wanted, the way she always wanted, traveling in the wrinkles of chaos to find peace. Long ago they thought they could find it together. But Mal knew now that was a pipe dream, a well-worn fantasy that would lay peaceful atop his weary soul when his body hit the ground, and he knew he would die happy thinking about it.
“Please, Alina.” He would beg if he had to. In the dimly lit corner of the corridor, chaos exploded around them. Wylan had detonated more than one stink bomb, and a knife from Inej’s hand flew past his ear. Some part of him registered that Nina was wrestling with her magic against the guards, gunshots providing her coverage as they dropped to the ground like flies.
But Mal would not pay them any mind. It was silent to him, except the thud of his heart and the steady beat of Alina.
Her hands shook as he took them in his own, positioning them slowly over the knife. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he heard the hum, a high pitched ringing he knew belonged to her. It was their song and dance, and the thought made him smile.
Maybe they would find freedom with each other in the next life. Perhaps their peace awaited them in another universe, another time entirely. Somewhere, he was sure of it, they grew old together, living an ordinary life, pressing their love against the pages every day.
His breath hitched as the tip of the knife reached his chest, the metal cold. It would not be this life. But he would give her all he could with what he had, and so with a small forceful tug he looked at Alina one last time, soaking in the sunlight of her face, the love etched into their red string, and sunk the knife deep into his chest.
Mal laid in bed, the sheets cream-colored and crumpled. He turned to the right, distantly registering the dull ache in his chest, and looked at the calendar.
The day had moved on.
He let out a low groan as he hoisted himself up, taking score of the aches and pains in his body as he took in the familiar comfort of his room, afternoon sunlight streaming in.
“Mal — what are you doing, lay back down for Saint’s sake.” Alina popped up next to him, pushing him lightly back onto his back. She wasn’t under the covers with him, but he realised now that the warm heat pressed against the side of his body was hers, her legs tangled up with his and the blanket.
He let himself look at her. And when she looked back, the worried furrow of her brows melted into softness, and he pulled her over him, kissing her senseless, lost in the expansiveness of the cosmos, time and space, ignoring her protests and worries that she was hurting his bandaged chest. Because he was alive, her lips burning like a visceral fire against his a piercing reminder of this face. And when he whispered I love you into the corner of her neck, breathing her in, she whispered I love you back, and he knew it was the truth.