Malice

kettle to a boil. The rain pounds against the walls of my Lair, rivulets of icy water sneaking in through loose stones and dripping down the chimney. The fire hisses and smokes.
“I doubt this will work,” I repeat, inspecting the curve of one of the lines. The design is not quite as well drawn as it is in the book. It’s clumsier and smeared in places where the chalk refused to stick to the wet stone. But passable. I hope.
“It’s worth a try.”
“That’s what the mortal armies used to say about invading Etheria.”
She ignores me. The steam from the boiling pot glistens on Aurora’s cheeks and tangles in her hair, curling the tiny wisps at her forehead. Even doing the work of a scullery maid, she’s beautiful.
I roundly scold myself for staring at her and add in the other ingredients. All that’s left is the deathknot. My chalk-covered fingers slip on the lid of the jar, and it almost crashes to the ground. But Aurora catches it.
“Last chance to turn back,” I say.
Instead of an answer, she grins. And then she slides the deathknot into the pot.
A sound like nails screeching against glass pummels into my skull and reverberates in the sockets of my teeth and the joints of my jaw. We both scream, clapping the heels of our palms over our ears. Terror spikes through me, and I’m sure that a servant will hear the commotion and come to investigate. But after what feels an eternity, the damn thing quiets.
Ears ringing, I settle Callow, who is flapping her wings and shrieking, and fetch the knife from the worktable.
Aurora offers her arm, pulling up her sleeve. “You do it.”
“It shouldn’t require much. Just a nick.” I take her hand, marveling at the softness of her skin. For a moment, I let myself trace the lines of her palm, following a long arc to the hummingbird pulse at her wrist.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, breaking me out of my trance.
My thumb freezes. Cursing myself to the bottom of the sea and back, I shake my head and position the blade so that it’s poised at the place I think will hurt the least. Then hold my breath and push down.
Red blooms instantly. A color so different from the green of my own and the gold of the Graces. It looks like liquid rubies. Aurora winces. Quickly, I tilt the tiny wound over the pot and let a weak stream of crimson fall into the brew.
The room is still.
There’s the sound of the rain above. The distant echo of thunder rolling down the chimney. The creaking of the house in the wind. The flames beneath the kettle and the boiling of the water. But other than that—silence.
I check the diagram. Consult the book.
“Are you supposed to say something?” Aurora presses close, reading over my shoulder.
“I don’t know. I think the ritual is supposed to be enough.”
She pokes the contents of the pot. “Wait. We added my blood because it carries the curse. But what about yours?”
I look up from the page. “Mine?”
“It carries the Vila magic.” She lifts a shoulder. “Maybe the ritual needs an extra push.”
My blood is the last thing I want to add to this concoction. For all I know, it will burn Lavender House to the ground. Curse Aurora double, if such a thing is possible. But she is already fetching another knife. Herding me closer to the kettle.
“This isn’t wise.”
“I don’t know why you’re so afraid of your own power.” She holds my hand over the kettle and for some foolish reason, I don’t fight her.
“You don’t want to know.”
“You said yourself, it probably won’t even work. What’s the harm?” But she waits until I nod before slicing open my skin. Gently, like she’s cutting a pat of warm butter.
Emerald blood wells and drips into the brew.
And then the entire room burns to life.
White, blinding light erupts from the chalk lines of the diagram on the floor. I stagger backward, throwing my arms over my face. A gust of wind whips around us, throwing glass bottles from the shelves. Book pages fly back and forth like storm-tossed birds. Aurora is pressed against the far wall. The fire goes green, flames leaping all the way up into the chimney.
Callow screams from her perch, jerking hard enough to break her tether. She half flaps, half careens to the ground as glass smashes around her. I grapple for the nearest thing I can find, an empty bucket, and upend it over the kestrel before she’s injured.
A low moan begins to swell, raw and guttural and entirely inhuman. Using the edge of the table to steady myself, I haul myself through the currents of wind and lock my arms around Aurora. Hers clamp around my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
“What’s happening?” she shouts into my ear.
I wish I knew.
The fire pushes higher, creating a wall of green flame. Within it, I think I can see the outline of a face. My breath halts. It’s the same face I saw in the mirror I cursed. Wild eyes and a wicked, smirking mouth. Dagger-tipped teeth flash as the flames dance, and a strange, ethereal voice wends around us.
“Find me, my pet.”
I dig my fingers into Aurora’s back as a scream wrenches free from my lungs. And then, just as suddenly as it all began, everything stills. The flames vanish in a cloud of smoke. The chalk on the floor chars to ash. And there is no voice but mine and Aurora’s, both of us still braced together, panting and breathless.
Aurora lets go first, gaping at the destruction of the room. Yellowed, ripped-out pages flutter to the floor. Shards of glass glitter in pools of sticky syrup. Fingers of thick, black smoke slink from the rim of the pot, filling the Lair with a putrid stench. My stomach sinks, mentally tallying up the coin it will take to replace what’s been ruined.
“What was that?”
I stiffen at the question, my knees still trembling.
“I don’t know.”
The