27
Birdsong, breeze, and the distant hum of a highway caress my ears.
Yellow sunlight blankets the snowy expanse.
There are no hills, we are on a plain. The sight of bare trees clutch at my heart.
It’s winter. I’ve spent three months in hell already.
I shiver until Darya slips his coat onto me.
I’d rather refuse, but I’m shivering from the icy air.
“You could have mentioned it’s winter,” I stammer. “Really.”
He shrugs.
“Sometimes I forget how weak you are.”
He turns his head to the side, tiredly looking at me. It’s only now that I notice the purple circles under his eyes. I smile.
“Perhaps you’ve lost too much blood, Kraldem?”
I regret it immediately. As soon as his fingers wrap around my neck, I regret it more. His smile is mocking.
“Don’t worry, Kindra. There’s plenty more.”
With that, he leaves me, and I sigh as I try to keep up with him.
The landscape is deserted; we are far from any city. Darya isn’t stupid. In a populated area, I could easily escape. I catch sight of a red-bricked house, smoke curling from its thick chimney.
The building extends into further covered sections, brown wooden fences guiding cows towards sporadically green pastures. I huddle into the coat as the wind howls. I’d forgotten how it feels to be cold. In Filizi, the temperature is always what my body desires.
A middle-aged man opens the black wooden door. He raises an eyebrow sharply, and my steps crunch uncertainly on the snowy ground.
“What are you doing here?” he asks sharply, but a single glance at Darya and his eyes swim in such euphoria it’s as if sirens have enchanted him. But a snake would be a better description.
I look at the Kraldem, whose eyes spark with a thin, silver streak. The middle-aged man smiles.
“Come in,” he says, gesturing with his hand, the distrust evaporating from his voice. He looks back towards the warm living room. “Olivia, we have guests!”
Another middle-aged woman emerges from the small kitchen, her bewildered expression first turning towards me. Her eyebrows shoot up as her gaze scans my scanty attire. Then she looks questioningly at Darya. A moment later, a dazed smile appears on her face, too.
“Welcome,” she says, her voice laced with warmth.
Darya enters, and I follow. The door closes, and the Demon King turns to the people.
“Where’s your child? We’re spending the day with him.”
The two parents nod as if we’re old acquaintances.
The father waves his hand, a smile frozen on his face.
The fire crackles in the background like drums. We follow the man, who leads us into a small room.
Its floor is like in the rest of the house; dark brown beams reaching up to the ceiling, as if they support the brick structure, but I know it’s just for decoration.
In the corner, there’s a small bed. My heart constricts as I see its owner, who is now sitting at the small white table in the center of the room, drawing.
The boy can’t be older than five. He inherited his father’s protruding ears, his mother’s pale green eyes, and both parents’ chestnut hair.
He looks at us in confusion, and when he regards Darya, I wait for the reverence to appear on his face, but his empty gaze eventually settles on his father.
“Mathys,” his father says, addressing him, “we have guests.”
The man looks uncertainly at Darya, as if seeking the answer in the Kraldem’s gaze. He breaks into a wide smile.
“You’ll be with them today. Then I won’t bother you anymore!”
With that, he closes the door. But I saw it. I saw the momentary concern in his eyes.
I look at Mathys, who shrugs and continues drawing. Darya gently nudges me forward.
“Go on, he’s yours for today,” he announces, and walks towards the bed, but before he can reach it, the boy speaks up.
“You can’t sit there!”
Darya raises an eyebrow. I smile. It’s funny to see a five-year-old commanding a thousand-year-old demon.
“Why not?” Darya asks.
“Just because. It’s mine,” the boy states firmly.
“Mathys,” I say, and he turns his apple-green eyes towards me. “Would you please tell the old man where he can sit? Yesterday he thought… he could handle more than he actually can.”
Darya raises an eyebrow, but he’s continuing to pay attention to the boy.
“Are you sick?” Mathys asks impatiently.
Before Darya can answer, I speak up:
“Unfortunately, yes.” I nod, then tap my head with my index finger. “Sadly, he’s been mental for a long time. It’s not his fault. Let’s say he caught a cold.”
Mathys looks at Darya.
“Dad said you have to dress warmly in winter. Don’t you know that?”
“Unfortunately, the old man doesn’t listen to his dad,” I say, spreading my arms.
The boy thinks for a moment, then shrugs.
“Okay. You can sit on my bed.”
Darya turns his head to the side and slowly sinks onto the blanket.
“Darya, I think even Mathys knows what to say in these situations.” Then, in a childish tone, I add: “ Thank you .”
The demon’s eyes shoot daggers, but I ignore him.
I sit next to my new best friend, who shakes his head, indicating his agreement with me.
He doesn’t look up from his work. This is how I used to paint dolls when I was a child.
They couldn’t knock me out of this balance.
Over the years, makeup turned into an art form for me, where I could hide when I needed it.
“Can I see them?” I point to the drawings covering the table.
The boy shrugs, and I know that’s enough permission.
The drawings mostly depict the farm – the landscape where he lives.
An uncomfortable feeling grips me, as if a lump is forming in my throat and synneffo is tickling my skin.
On the fifth drawing, I realize what it is.
There’s always blood on the paper. A dead bird, a gutted fox, a dead cow. Human limbs…
I gulp and look at Darya, who has made himself comfortable, crossing his legs and leaning against the wall. His face is content.
“What happened to this bunny, Mathys?” I ask, but the boy still doesn’t look up.
I point to a sheet where a big-eared animal’s head is far away from its body. The boy looks at his creation, then his face twists into a chilling smile. He meets my gaze with glittering eyes.
“He’s not hurt anymore. But it did hurt a lot,” he says, then returns to his work.
I press down on the paper, causing its edge to crease. Is this why Darya brought me here? To show me that the children abducted to Filizi are psychopaths?
We haven’t even been here ten minutes, and I’ve already given up trying to save him, but then he speaks up.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Lotte.”
“I don’t know that name.”
“I’m not Belgian. I’m from Sweden.”
The boy’s eyes widen. An honest smile spreads across his face, which makes my heart skip a beat.
“It’s always cold there! Dad said there’s a lot of snow! He said he’ll teach me to slide there!”
I smile.
“You like the cold?”
“Yeah. Do you like it too?”
I glance at Darya from the corner of my eye.
“I like both. Warmth and cold alike.”
The boy sets down his pencil and turns his whole body towards me. He’s so enthusiastic, almost bursting with energy. A psychopath couldn’t do that.
“Are you Dad’s friend?”
“Something like that,” I say uncertainly.
“Will you take me to the mountains?”
Words get stuck in my throat, but the child’s sparkling eyes melt the lies off my lips.
“Yes,” I breathe.
Mathys nods, smiling. He hands me a sheet of paper.
“You can draw too,” he says, diving back into his work.
Actually… when was the last time I drew? It was before Bengt’s death, but I did so constantly. Afterwards, only sporadically. Grief drowned out all the colors I could fill an empty page with.
I pick up a pencil and start drawing. It’s only after a few minutes that I realize it’s Pandora.
The colors don’t come at first, but I force them.
I grab a blue, but the little boy squeezes a paler green color into my hand.
I stroke Pandora’s beautifully curved eyelids with it.
Then I draw stars on it, with an ocean blue background.
For her eyes, I choose a color that resembles dates.
I focus on the garden that surrounds the drawn girl.
I paint flower petals, hibiscus spreading across my page.
Time flies by, with Mathys by my side, neither of us looking at each other, but both of us comforted by the other’s presence.
Finally, we’re not alone, but we’re not bothered either.
I don’t know how long we can draw like this, but we put down our pencils at the same time.
My words falter as I look at his creation.
Snowy peaks cover the paper, and green pines punctuate the blue painted sky, their tops sometimes disappearing into lamb clouds. In the center, a blonde, blue-eyed girl skis with a green-eyed boy dressed in a loose black outfit. There’s no blood in the drawing.
I smile.
“You know, if you really want to go to Sweden, you’ll have to wear a bonnet too.”
“My mom always says that,” he murmurs, looking interestedly at my drawing. His eyes widen. “Wow! This is really nice,” he says, taking the paper in his hands. “Is this your mom?”
I chuckle softly. Pandora barely looks a year or two older than me.
“No,” I say, “she’s a… a friend of mine.”
The boy scrutinizes the paper carefully.
“Why does she look sad?” he asks, and I gaze at the drawing.
“Maybe because… she was used,” I say. “Forced to do something without seeing the consequences. But perhaps she’s truly sad because she knows that, even if they had told her, she would’ve done it, anyway. She couldn’t resist the temptation.”
I could tell from looking at the boy that I over-philosophized the answer, so I quickly add:
“Pandora is lonely. She’s alone. It’s hard to fight alone.”
Mathys doesn’t look at me.
“I know what it’s like to be alone,” he whispers.
“So do I,” I reply softly.
We stare at the paper for a while, then he picks up his own drawing and hands it to me.
“Here. You won’t be alone anymore.”