Chapter 5
FIVE
Instead of walking away, I find myself walking toward the ruins.
In the distance, a succession of flashes lights up the sky, followed by more buzzing sounds. It appears the enemy plane has been shot down. Hopefully, that means help is on the way.
As I near the fallen building, I barely hide a gasp at seeing a lone arm among the rubble. A distance away, there is a foot—a detached foot.
I may gut demons for a living, but this isn’t what I signed up for.
This type of war is not what I signed up for.
And to think that what I’ve witnessed so far is barely a hundredth of what people are experiencing on the continent, where the war rages on their own land.
A shudder goes down my back.
I do my best to avoid looking at all the severed body parts, especially since not even an hour ago, I had seen the same people laughing, dancing, and enjoying life.
Now… They’re gone.
Just like that.
I reach soldier boy and realize why he’s trying so hard to move that piece of concrete. There’s a faint sound coming from underneath it. It’s almost like a wheezing sound, followed by a barely audible moan of pain.
He doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
Grabbing onto the sides of the slab, he pulls it up at the same time as he’s pulling it toward him. There are rusty metal bars protruding from the concrete that dig into his flesh, but he doesn’t stop.
He gives it his all.
It’s almost…admirable.
“Grab that side,” he says with a labored breath, pointing to the end of the slab that is still not budging.
I’m frozen to my spot, unable to move—either to run away or to help him.
More smoke comes out from the burning wood, making it increasingly harder to breathe. If I, an immortal, find this uncomfortable, I cannot imagine how it must be for a human.
The entire landscape is one of horror, reminding me of the hellish dimension where evil souls go. I’ve never personally visited it, but I’ve seen illustrations of it. And it’s just like this.
Pain. Death. More pain.
The severed body parts and the pooling blood gathering onto the asphalt are the centerpiece of this horror.
So much death…
“I’m talking to you, darling,” soldier boy calls out, his voice harsher than before. “Grab that side.”
I blink and meet his eyes.
They’re a dark green, but the darkness comes from within, from the things he’s witnessed and the things he has yet to witness.
There is no more amusement in his features now. No smile to be found. And for some reason, I envy the me from moments ago, who was only regaled with that side of him—annoying as it might be.
“I…can’t,” I whisper.
His features contort in anger, followed by what seems like disappointment.
But why? He doesn’t know me. He has no reason to be disappointed by my actions.
“You can’t?” he asks harshly, his upper lip twitching.
His hands are full of scrapes and scratches, some so deep, blood keeps oozing out. His nails are broken, a couple of them hanging on by a loose thread and on the verge of falling off.
His uniform is destroyed. Blood, smoke, and dirt. It’s also ripped in places from being snagged by the metal bars.
“I…”
I should go. Teleport out of here and disappear. He might find that strange, but perhaps after some time, he’d think I was an illusion.
I truly should go.
But why am I not moving?
“Don’t tell me you’re too delicate to lift some rubble.”
“No, of course not.”
“Time’s of the essence. If you’re not gonna help, at least run along and fetch the authorities.”
He gives me one last stern look before he turns back to his slab of concrete and resumes his efforts.
I could swear I saw a shadow of disgust in his features as he looked at me. But why?
Thinking that maybe calling the authorities might not constitute as meddling in human affairs, I turn to leave.
But I don’t take a step before I stop. A small sound reaches my ears. It’s the breathy, pain-filled voice of a child.
“Ma… Ma.”
I freeze.
“It’s all right, little one, I’ll get you out of there,” the soldier coos to the child before he resumes his efforts to lift the slab of concrete.
He’ll never succeed. It’s far too heavy for him to do it alone.
“I want my mamma,” the child whispers, her voice carried by the wind until it reaches my ears. I doubt humans can hear that. But I do. And what’s more concerning is the way I react to that hopeless sound.
I should be able to turn my back on this and leave. Human tragedy is everywhere. This is war, after all. I cannot help everyone.
But you could help that little child , my inner voice tells me.
Can I?
It’s against the rules. I will surely be punished for it if I do.
Mortals die every day. Children die every day. It’s nothing new.
I take a step forward.
A loud bang erupts in the air and I swivel.
The soldier lost his grip on the slab of concrete and it slammed against the rest of the rubble, emitting a loud thud.
He’s breathing hard. The growing fire nearby illuminates his face, and I can see the wildness in his eyes as he tries to save what may not be salvageable.
It’s…honorable. But also useless.
Why do humans exert so much energy to avoid something that’s unavoidable? Why do they try time and time again when it is all in vain?
In my time here, I’ve heard about the Blitz and I’ve seen the destruction firsthand. This type of attack is not new, nor is the loss of life.
Thousands, if not more, lost their lives in that bombardment. Tens of buildings were destroyed.
It is all part of war.
If humans are so concerned about preserving life, then why wage war in the first place?
It is paradoxical.
The soldier slowly turns to me.
His green eyes are full of anguish and something else, an ineffable emotion that tugs at my heartstrings.
And that’s when I realize my own shortcoming. I might pride myself on being a good warrior, a good Aperite, but at the end of the day, even I am moved by the same basic emotions.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I know I will regret this.
With a loud sigh, I swivel and in a few steps, I’m next to the soldier. I give him a nod and position my hands on the end of the slab of concrete. Understanding enters his gaze, and he grabs on the other end.
“One, two, three,” he says, at which point we both lift.
The slab moves, and we slide it to the side, revealing a hole between the big pieces of concrete. The child is at the bottom, barely visible. She’s buried under rubble and unable to move.
Soldier boy is the first to dive into the hole next to the child. He starts unloading the pieces of rubble to the side before grabbing the little girl and giving her to me.
Her clothes are dirty and torn. Her face and hair are covered in dust. There are small cuts all over her body, but otherwise, she will survive.
I grab her in my arms and take her to an empty area to the side.
“My mamma…” she whispers. “Where is my mamma?”
“We’ll find her, all right?”
What am I saying? Why am I promising such a thing when I don’t even know if her mother is alive? Yet the words are out of my mouth before I can think about the situation logically.
The girl gives me a tentative nod, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Yet there’s something else in her gaze. She’s putting her trust in me. Those words that I so carelessly threw around mean everything to her.
I force a smile as I slowly back away and head back to where the soldier is.
He’s digging through the rubble, and when I get near him, I note a hand sticking out of the sea of concrete.
Getting to my knees next to him, I touch the hand to feel for the pulse.
Nothing.
I meet his gaze and shake my head.
It takes him a moment to stop his efforts. He releases a harsh breath, followed by a loud groan of frustration. But he’s not done. He switches his focus to another area, all the while calling out for survivors.
It seems unlikely that there would be many, or that anyone would answer him.
But I am once more surprised when a succession of voices calls out for help. They’re faint. Barely audible.
Soldier boy doesn’t hear them. But I do.
I do and…
Another pivotal decision.
Do I point to him where the voices are coming from and help him save them, or do I ignore them and let fate play out as it should?
But as I see him rush around in an attempt to find any other survivors, my decision is made.
“Here,” I say and point out to where the sound is coming from.
He gives me a tight nod and gets to work.
His hands are beyond damaged now. The entire surface of his palms is covered in blood from the deep lacerations he suffered from the rusty metal bars. The backs of his hands are not faring much better, covered in scratches and scrapes as they are.
It must be painful.
But he’s not complaining.
Swallowing my discomfort at the situation, I set to help him as best as I can.
We lift tens if not hundreds of stones of all sizes until we find the people buried under the rubble.
Some are still alive. Others are dead.
Seeing that I have a knack for finding the areas with survivors, he asks me to look around more while he drags the corpses of the unlucky people to the side.
I divide my attention in half, listening for breathing sounds or existing heartbeats but also surreptitiously studying him.
The people might be dead, but he treats them with the same respect as if they were alive. He covers the females up to preserve their modesty and closes the eyes of the males who’d died with a terrified expression on their faces. But it’s the children he’s most gentle with. He carries the dead children to the side with such care, it makes me guilty to think that just moments ago I wanted to leave this area and ignore the cries for help.
More than guilt, though, I feel…shame.
For every ten dead bodies we pull out of the rubble, we maybe find one alive but gravely injured. Even with my intervention, I doubt some of them will make it through the night.
Still, the soldier gives his all.
“When will help come?” I ask as we carry a female to the side. She’s missing an arm, cut badly at the elbow. Blood is pouring out at an alarming rate and I fear she will bleed out before she gets any medical attention.
His lips flatten.
“They should come…eventually. But by the time they do, it might be too late for a lot of these people,” he says, echoing my own thoughts.
Taking off his military jacket, now dirty and torn, he places it atop the female to warm her up. He’s left wearing a white shirt—though it’s not that white anymore—and a thin undershirt that peeks through the unbuttoned bit of the shirt.
He pulls on the bottom of his shirt, tearing a huge chunk of material, and ties it around her elbow where her arm had been severed.
We’re about to head back to search the debris when flashing lights appear from the end of the street. A procession of cars pulls up at the site of the accident. The first to get out of the vehicles are police officers, followed by nurses and medical staff. The last to arrive are the firefighters.
One of the police officers approaches us.
“The people on this side are still alive,” the soldier tells him. “The ones on that side are deceased.”
The officer nods, his eyes narrowing at us.
“A yank,” he comments drily.
“Major Lucien de Vitry, sir.”
“Well, Major, you did your duty. Now it is our turn. I would like you to step away from the site so you do not impede the efforts of the actual professionals.”
I blink.
His tone is downright offensive.
Aren’t those yanks supposed to be their allies in the war?
I expect soldier boy to have a fitting comeback, but instead, he bites his tongue and turns to leave.
What?
The officer turns his gaze to me, probably about to make a similar remark. But I don’t give him the opportunity as I dash after Lucien.
“You’re going to let him speak like that to you?” I ask as I reach his side. He’s walking fast. “After you saved all those people?”
“They wouldn’t want it known that a yank saved those people.”
I frown.
“Why?”
He stops and turns to me. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“So what if I’m not?” I challenge.
His lips pull into a smile.
“Perhaps it’s better if you’re not,” he finally says.
Then he turns and walks again.
I increase my pace to keep up.
“You need to tend to your injuries,” I tell him.
Why am I still here? I’ve done my duty—though it wasn’t really my duty, was it? I should be gone. Back to my cozy little place on the outskirts of London, where there aren’t any buildings on fire and people to save.
He blinks, then looks down at his bloody hands as if it just dawns on him that he was injured.
He’s quiet for a few moments before he nods.
“I suppose I should.”
“Good. Then have a good night.”
There, I did my second duty of the night. Maybe too many duties. Alas, now I can return home and sleep. I am quite sleepy. I should probably wash, too, though the water in this world doesn’t suit my skin very well. But I have some leftover cookies from yesterday. And I’m quite hungry.
Yes, that sounds like a perfect plan. I can eat my sorrows away since I clearly did not meet my demon quota for the night, and I also did something I wasn’t supposed to.
Now I can only hope that my involvement did not mess with those people’s fates too much. Perhaps I can get away with it.
Deep in my thoughts—mostly about the cookies, to be honest—I barely realize when soldier boy grabs my arm and pulls me after him.
He’s getting his blood all over me! Never mind that he’s also touching me. Unacceptable.
I open my mouth to tell him exactly that but find myself stunned into silence when I realize he’s pulling me toward the riverbank.
I’ll blame my non-reaction on curiosity. Yes, I should have left already, but it’s not as if this human male can harm me.
I am stronger, faster, and entirely superior to him and his kind.
Perhaps I can wait a little longer to see what he has in mind.
I must admit that after seeing how hard he worked to save those people, I have a renewed respect for him. He might be just a human, but he’s an honorable one.
We walk down some stairs toward the river.
The moon is high up in the sky, and its reflection in the water affords some type of lighting.
Everything looks so peaceful now. One could almost forget that people are dying everywhere, that people just died a small distance away.
The water is so tranquil, innocently flowing from one side to the other, entirely ignorant of all the bloodshed around—bloodshed that sometimes makes its way into its depths.
The soldier finds a spot near the banks and plops himself on the floor.
I raise a brow at him, unsure of what he wants me to do.
The navy blue skirt and blazer set I’m wearing are new. I just bought them the other day. It’s not seemly to sit down on the damp ground and get them dirty. So what if they’re already stained with soot and dust? That’s not too hard to clean—I’ve experienced it before. The wet, slimy earth, however, might stain the material for good.
I might have an allowance, as every warrior does when we are stranded fighting in another world, but it is not a big sum. It is just enough to pay for my accommodation, buy food, clothes, some trinkets here and there, and go three times a week to the moving pictures. I’ve already exhausted my clothes budget for this month and the one thing I will not do is dig into my movie theater budget. Or my sweets budget.
Unacceptable.
The soldier surprises me, however, when he takes off what’s left of his shirt and places it on the ground next to him and motions for me to sit on it. He’s left only in his undershirt, which exposes his muscular form. His arms are bare, strong, and well-defined. The light fabric molds to his chest, emphasizing his pectoral muscles too.
I look away.
This is not proper.
Taking a seat on his shirt, I make sure to keep my gaze forward so I don’t see more than I need to.
I clear my throat.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask.
He rummages through the pockets of his pants and removes a silver flask. After pulling the cap off, he takes a big swig before offering it to me.
My lashes flutter in confusion.
“What is this?” I wrinkle my nose as I take the flask and smell the contents. It’s strong and pungent.
“Whiskey,” he answers tersely.
I’ve heard of whiskey. It’s a type of alcohol humans love to drink, although I’ve heard that this, too, is rationed.
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“To take the edge off,” he answers.
I frown again. “What edge?”
He tilts his head to the side, not understanding my question.
“Just take a swig.”
I stare at the flask. I’m not one to turn down a challenge, and I might be a little curious about this so-called whiskey and why everyone is so enamored by it.
The moment the liquid goes down my throat, I feel a sudden burn and choke.
“No, thank you. I will pass,” I say in disgust and hand him back the flask.
He shrugs and takes another swig.
“You should use that on your hands,” I point out. Alcohol is good for injuries in this world.
“And waste good whiskey?” He chuckles, then takes another drink.
I stare at him in shock. Is the whiskey more important than an infection?
Without a word, I snatch the flask for him. Shaking it, I gauge that it’s only half full.
I can tell he’s about to protest, but when he reaches for the flask, I forcibly grab his hand, turn it palm up, and pour some of the alcohol on his wounds.
He hisses in pain.
“Give me your other hand,” I order him, and he surprisingly complies.
I empty the rest of the flask on his left hand.
Then I still.
What now?
He’s holding his palms up, the blood from the injuries diluted from the alcohol. I need something to clean the residual blood with—and the dirt that’s probably snuck into the open flesh.
There’s nothing around that I can use. His shirt is already dirty from the soil. And I’m not about to use my precious suit.
I eye him up and down.
I suppose there’s only one thing that will work.
Grabbing the hem of his undershirt, I tear a wide strip of cloth from it.
His eyes widen, but he doesn’t move. He lets me continue.
I don’t look at his torso, instead focusing solely on his palm as I use one side of the cloth to clean his wound before turning it to the other side and wrapping it around his hand. I repeat the process for his other hand, and by the time I’m done, his undershirt is half torn, now barely reaching his belly button.
That means I can see his stomach.
His very, very hard stomach.
Uhm.
I gulp down and look away.
I shouldn’t be noticing that.
“Done. You can be on your way now,” I suddenly say.
“Why would I leave when you’re treating me so well, tiny darling?” he murmurs in a low voice.
I release a scandalized gasp.
“Stop calling me that!”
“Why?”
“It’s… Well, it’s not proper.” I straighten my back and look straight ahead. The last thing I need is to notice the green hue of his eyes or the way they sparkle in the moonlight.
Good grief.
I’ve made my fair share of mistakes, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never made so many in a single day as I did today. Not only did I help save mortals, but now I am engaging in conversation with one! A half-clothed one, too!
He chuckles at my serious expression.
“Then I suppose I should have your name. Miss…”
His eyes twinkle with amusement. He watches me closely, waiting for my reply.
“M-Minerva,” I grumble.
What am I doing? Why am I giving this stranger my name?
By the Source, Minerva, you must have gone mad!
“Minerva,” he repeats. But no amount of mentally berating myself can make me ignore the way he says my name. His voice is rough, and I detect a slight lilt in the way he accentuates each letter.
“I am Lucien. Pleased to meet you, Minerva.”
“Well, I am not,” I shoot back, folding my arms over my chest with a huff.
He raises his brows.
“You’re not…?”
“Pleased to meet you. In fact, I am the opposite of pleased. First, you killed a man for me when I did not ask you to, which I will have you know, messed with my quota. Then you practically forced me to help you with that building. And then you drag me to this place and you made me dress up your wounds as if I were your personal nurse. You, sir, are far too presumptuous and I am not pleased about meeting you.”
I finally catch my breath when I’m done speaking, but I nod to myself, pleased about the eloquent flow of my words.
The corners of his lips are curled up and he’s watching me as if he’s barely holding back laughter.
I frown. What is his problem?
“So let me get this straight. I killed a man without your permission.”
I nod. Finally, he’s showing some trace of intellect.
“Then I forced you to help those people.”
Damn right. I nod again.
“And then I made you tend to my wounds.”
Another nod.
“All against your will.”
“Precisely,” I say with a huff.
He stares at me for a moment before he bursts into laughter.
“Yet you’re still here.” He points to where I’m sitting. “I am not holding you hostage, yet I don’t see any sign of you leaving.”
“That’s only because your sight is faulty in the darkness. I am actually in the process of getting up and leaving,” I quickly counter.
“It’s taking you quite some time to do so,” he drawls.
“Well, I am tired. You did force me to move all those stones. It’s quite natural to be slower after such an exertion,” I say, though he is right. I still make no effort to get up and leave.
But I will.
In a moment.
I did not lie to him. I find myself rather tired after all that physical effort. It’s the only reason why I’m still sitting here. It has absolutely nothing to do with him.
“You’re an odd duck, Minerva,” he murmurs, amused.
I glare at him. How dare he call me a duck?
First tiny darling, now odd duck? Who does he take me for?
“You puny human! How dare you call me a duck?” I thunder at him.
“Now, Minerva, darling, you’re misunderstanding?—”
“Don’t you darling, or duck me, mister,” I threaten.
“Duck you?” he repeats.
“Yes, don’t you duck me!” I take a deep breath to calm myself. “Humans. Nasty creatures.”
Lucien is still sporting an amused expression.
“But what if I would like to duck you?”
“You, sir, are offensive.”
“Yes, that was rather offensive, wasn’t it? I should apologize.”
“You should.” I nod, pushing my chin in the air. “It is very rude to call someone an animal, or a bird, or whatnot. I don’t know what type of company you keep, but this is unacceptable.”
“You…” he trails off.
I give him another glare.
“I hope the next words that come out of your mouth are an apology.”
He nods solemnly. “I do apologize for ducking you.”
“Good,” I huff aloud.
“As long as you allow me the possibility of doing that in the future,” he continues. “Duck you, I mean.” He smiles.
I frown. “I do not understand you.”
He releases a deep sigh. “Never mind. It was a joke.”
“I do not like these jokes of yours. I do not call you names, now do I?”
“I thought I heard you say nasty creature .”
“That was a generalization. I did not say you , Lucien, are a nasty creature. Whereas you said that I, Minerva, am an odd duck. See the difference?”
He takes a moment to consider my words.
“Odd duck is an idiom, Minerva. It means you are an odd person. I did not call you a duck of the fowl variety.”
“Oh,” I mutter. “Couldn’t you have said so from the beginning?”
“I could have.” He nods.
I frown again. I do not think we’re speaking the same language.
“Then you are an odd duck, too, Lucien.”
“Now you’re ducking me?”
“Why not? You did it first,” I state in a haughty voice.
“So we’re ducking each other now?”
“Precisely. Do not think for a moment that just because I am female, I cannot best you.”
“Ah, Minerva.” He lets out a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re a gem, aren’t you?”
“Good on you to notice. Perhaps you do have good sight, after all,” I mutter.
He smiles and shrugs.
Leaning back onto his forearms, he tips his head back. He grabs something from his pocket and slips a white stick between his lips—a cigarette. I cannot understand why humans find this practice so appealing. The smell alone is obnoxious and foul.
He lights up his cigarette and puffs it a couple of times.
The smoke immediately reaches me, and I barely suppress a cough.
Damn it all, but that is too much for my sensitive nose. It’s already making me tear up. The smell aside, the smoke itself is abrasive as it travels down my throat.
It happened before, at the party where everyone was smoking. But now, with the source of the smoke so close, it’s almost worse.
Reaching forward, I snatch the cigarette from his lips and put it out on the grass.
The smell still clings to the air, almost as if it doesn’t want to leave.
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. This is what I get for hanging out with humans and their disgusting pastimes.
“Good night, sir,” I mumble before I turn to leave.
He calls out my name repeatedly, but I give it no mind. And when I’m far enough that I’m out of sight, I teleport back to my lodgings.
Humans. Nasty bunch.
Good thing I’m never going to see that Lucien again or hear about his ducking ways.