4
I feel as if I’m disintegrating into atoms in an instant, then coming back together again. My feet touch the ground, and as my hands reassemble – taking form from the black shadows – I push the stranger away.
I breathe quickly and heavily as panic floods over me. Where am I?
White shelves line the tiny room and the smell of cleaning products on them stings my nose. In the corner, next to worn-out brooms and dirty rags, a washing machine hums. We barely fit in here – me and the one who saved me, or perhaps kidnapped me again. I can’t tell anymore. So now…
Silver hair, gray eyes, a wicked smile, and such an intense, inquiring gaze that I take a step back, bumping into the shelves. The cleaning supplies tremble, and one container falls to the floor, but I don’t care. I saw him in the cemetery.
I can’t take my eyes off the stranger, whom I thought had just been a hallucination. But if he is merely a figment of my imagination, then why does everything feel so real?
“Who…” I start, but my throat is dry. I cough to continue.
“Who are you? How…?” I close my eyes, and instead of the sound of cymbals, it feels like two stones are grinding against each other, right by my ear.
I press my palm to my forehead, and the room tilts.
In an instant, the man steps closer, smoothing my palm away from my eyes.
Tiny sparks erupt on my skin from his touch.
With his long fingers, he holds my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes.
He’s too close. I try to step back, but he holds firmly.
“Look at me,” he says. “Your mind isn’t used to speaking Filizi yet.” He smiles. “But you’ll get used to it.”
Stones continue grinding in my ears. So, apparently I spoke yet another new language. I felt I was speaking French still.
“But…”
“Not here,” he orders, slowly turning his head to the side like a snake. I hear the tiny crack of his neck. His arm starts to move towards me, and the muscles in my back tense up. I forget to breathe. But he only brushes against my arm and puts his hand on the doorknob.
I gulp, and his lips curl up.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, his face so close that his gray eyes cloud my vision.
The scent of campfire and limestone emanates from him.
He looms over me, and my heart starts to beat irregularly.
His gaze wanders from my eyes to my chest, and only now do I realize that I’m standing before him in a torn shirt.
Heat floods my face – I must look like a wreck.
The silver shadow slowly takes off his leather vest with deliberate movements, extending it towards me, all the while looking into my eyes.
He patiently waits as I take the coat from him with shaky hands and mumble an uncertain thank you under my breath.
His mouth trembles, and maybe I’m just imagining it, but his pupils dilate.
“What the hell happened to me?” I whisper to him as I put on the leather vest.
He presses the doorknob and looks deeply into my eyes. His gaze is intense. No one has ever looked at me like this before.
“Hell? That hasn’t happened to you yet.”
As the door opens, the sweet scent of cotton candy and pastries hit me. I pause, unsure if they’ve been caused by the events of the day, withdrawal symptoms, or exhaustion, and I burst out laughing.
La Maison de Sucre et Joy – House of Sweetness and Joy – is one of my favorite cafés, and I’m suffocating from the sugary humidity that spreads like an invisible mist within its glass walls. Saliva floods my mouth as nausea is replaced by craving.
The white-haired demonic figure who emerged from the black fog has brought me to a place filled with pink balloons and sea-blue muffins.
Okay, new plan. Let's see how he wants to explain what's happening to me. Then I'm going home as if nothing happened, because nothing was supposed to happen.
The silver shadow, now unmistakably the man I bumped into at the cemetery, seats me on a bench adorned with ochre-yellow cushions and asks in a murmuring voice what I’d like.
Without taking his eyes off me, he orders from the waiter, then dismisses him with a casual gesture.
His mouth smiles, but I notice his eyes are serious, contemplating.
An awkward silence descends upon us as he leans on the table, resting his chin on his clasped hands.
I feel awkward, while he seems perfectly calm.
I try to dispel my discomfort by opening my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head.
“First, eat.” As if he’d uttered a magic word, the waiter slides a warm croissant and a chocolate-swirled muffin in front of me.
I obediently start to eat. At least I don’t have to meet the man’s penetrating gaze for now.
The pastry restores my courage, and my face no longer burns.
Pushing my plate aside, I look into his eyes.
“What happened?”
“You were kidnapped by those who call themselves angels – those hypocritical, light-blooded herebias. ”
“What?” I stare at him, eyebrows knitted in confusion. What is he talking about?
“Is that all?” He raises his eyebrows at my silence. “Is that all you wanted to know?”
“I just… I didn’t expect such a straightforward answer,” I confess. “I thought you would say it’s some kind of joke, for a prank video or something, and you hope I didn’t buy it…”
“Is that what you want to hear from me, Lotte?”
I fall silent. He knows my name. I slowly slide my hand to the fork. Better than nothing if I need to defend myself. The man’s eyes casually drift to my hand.
“Don’t you think I would’ve killed you if I wanted to?”
I find this statement anything but reassuring. “Does that mean you know this is my favorite place? Do you also know where I live? What I like, what I do?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Next question?”
“What is a herebia ?”
The man bites his lip, and a momentary anger ripples in his cloud-gray eyes. “People call them angels. They live in Herebu, in the Second World. You met two of them. Lavian is one of their leaders.”
“Ah…” Second World , what is that? “And where exactly is this country?”
“It’s on Earth. And yet, not here.”
I’m hoping me staring silently is enough to have him continue.
“How well do you know the Bible?”
“Not very well,” I confess sheepishly, prompting him to flash his bright teeth.
“That face,” he says. The spine-chilling calmness returns to his eyes. “It will be a joy when you leave that behind.”
I’m not sure how to react.
“And do you believe in it?” the man asks.
“Well… sort of. Actually, yes. What should I know about the Bible? Which story?”
“The basics are enough. Creation, Garden of Eden, Hell.”
“So, you want—” I begin, then pick up my plate again, poking at the remaining muffin with my fork. “You want to say… what, exactly?”
“Although you call it the Garden of Eden, we in the Second World call it Herebu.”
“And you wouldn’t be human.”
“Not even close.”
“I see.”
“Didn’t the syneffo convince you? The black smoke that brought you here.”
It’s interesting how I knew the meaning of the word before he explained it to me.
“You could have knocked me out or poisoned me, considering how easily I can hallucinate today…”
Suddenly, I fall silent. I don’t want to tell him about my visions. The figure leans closer, scrutinizing me.
“Why would you be more prone to hallucinations today?” he asks, his gaze piercing, making me gulp.
Why does this crazy person have to look so good? Because he is crazy, talking about angels and other worlds. There’s no question about it. But still, here I am, sitting next to him, instead of getting up a long time ago. Although I’m not sure I’d get far with monsters on my trail.
“I’m just very tired,” I say, dismissing the question as if it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it.
“Is that why you’re trembling?”
I stare at him in bewilderment, but as I look down, I see my left arm shaking. My eyes widen and my lips part. I didn’t notice this. I still don’t feel it. Yet my whole limb trembles. I try to hold it with my right hand and divert my attention.
“Who are you?”
The man looks at me for a long time, leaning forward. I feel like he’s devouring me with his gaze. “My name is Darya.”
That’s all he says, and I feel a nerve snap.
“Okay, Darya. Either you tell me now everything that happened to me, or I’m going to get myself a phone from someone, call the police, then leave you in this miserable café…”
As if he had been holding it in until now, laughter bursts out of him. His hand slams on the table. “I just love the way you threaten! It’s so entertaining!”
He looks at me with a knowing smile. For some reason, Darya’s presence both confuses and calms me.
I’ve never seen such a beautiful man, whose white skin resembles mine so much.
A man who, from the first moment, I felt like I knew.
Yet I thought I was just imagining him, but now… Now I’m not sure at all.
“But my patience is running out,” he says in a deep voice. “Now it’s my turn with the questions.”
I drop the fork onto the plate. He ’s getting impatient? I’m about to speak, but his gaze silences me.
“How old are you?”
I scoff and angrily stab my fork into the muffin. I’ve been kidnapped, he’s talking about herebias, angels, and some non-existent but somehow existing country, and the thing he’s asking me is my age?
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two. How are you even alive?”
“Why did the angels want to kill me?” I blurt out, desperately looking into those attractively misty gray eyes. “Who were those monsters? What the hell is going on here?”
“The herebias kill anyone whose blood is demonic.”
I bite my lip, open my mouth, then bite it again. The figure, who is no longer a mere shadow, follows the movement, and as exciting as it is to see him do it so openly, I won’t let him distract me.
I sigh. “So, I’m supposed to be special?”
“As we see it. Many are born with demon blood.”
“Oh my God…”