I wished I could wake up, but I was frozen on the spot, as if I was meant to witness the drama. Demyan Greco held the dying man’s hand as he whispered his last words. He kissed the king’s forehead and closed his eyes gently. The solemnity of the act brought my raw emotions to the surface.
Oh God. The emotional blow was unbearable. It was Mother Clarisse’s death all over again. However, the sorrow and the loss weren’t mine this time. Why did I feel this agony that wasn’t mine? But it was as deep as mine. The king had meant to Demyan Greco as much as Mother Clarisse meant to me.
Demyan, in all his beauty, turned his face my direction, even when his eyes were glistening. But to my great relief, he was looking at the same woman with a crown I’d followed just moments before. She stood behind me, horror-stricken and heaving at the scene on the floor.
I stepped back. Why was I dreaming again with him? What did that mean? He came to St. Mary’s for me… he found me. This had to be him.
“Get-Out! YOU MURDERER,” the queen shouted hysterically at Demyan Greco.
Personally, that made me jump out of my pajamas. Ugh, I was wearing boy’s pajamas. Why couldn’t my dreams come with beautiful gowns? Then I recalled Ash’s type of dreams. Crap.
My blathering ended the moment I saw Demyan’s face. His expression was painful and reflected pure despise for this woman—the queen—as he stood in a composed, dignified manner and walked a couple steps from the king without leaving the foyer. The crowd was growing larger around the scene. A general chorus of disapproving whispers and gasps circulated. I never met any of these people before—I think.
She dropped onto her knees and cried for her loss as she struggled to hold the man’s body over the blood puddle. His clothes had the same fabric and style as hers. His crown had rolled nearby over the marble steps. Her despairing cry filled the air.
As Demyan stood dignified inside the entrance threshold, someone whose unmade tie, shirt, and gold-embroidered waistcoat met him. He held two giggling beautiful women, and like the rest of the party attendants, he wore a mask. His artful and very ornate porcelain-and-real-fur mask portrayed a lion, but it was crooked over his face, as one of the Victoria secret quality bombshells in his arm kept playing with the mask’s mane of hair.
Even under the lion’s mask, his eyes were an alloy of silver and storming ocean that quickly assessed the blood on Demyan’s hands, the blood dripping from the king’s mask, and the sight of the woman crying over the king’s body. The lion man and Demyan exchanged deadly stares.
“Father.” The lion’s voice broke with dread. In his haste, he pushed away the confused bombshells, and ran to his father’s side. He fell on his knees and grabbed the king’s limp head, while the woman wept in dramatic denial over his shoulder.
“No-oh!” The lion/prince’s outcry made Demyan turn around and watch the impossible scene again. The kingdom had lost its king.
Demyan waited by the front steps composing himself, unthinkingly wiping the blood on his hands over his tunic. It didn’t look good for him. The prince’s accusing glare was full of steely hatred for Demyan. Demyan raised his chin and seemed to inhale deep without breaking from the prince’s glare. The prince’s jaw tensed, fisting his now bloody hands. He stood. Someone held the prince back, before he would run and kill Demyan with his bare hands.
“Stop. He didn’t do it. We were all together at the garden party with Monsieur Greco when the service lass found the king,” a man in a dark green coat and waistcoat said, directing his gaze at the crying girl in the corner. That man was none other than Francis. Was this dream getting stranger by the minute?
The dead king’s son wiped the tears of rage and turned to help the queen off the floor. She fought hysterically to hold onto the king, but she was taken away, dragged against her will and smearing the king’s blood all over the floor with her soaked skirts. A man wearing a white and red harlequin jacket stood quietly with an odd smirk amongst the crowd. He had taken his mask off, like most Strzyga at the party, displaying a large scar on his face. I recognized the arms that held the woman in the queen’s costume by the gardens. He had been the queen’s lover and the traitor Demyan hadn’t killed in my dream, when the king had assured him he trusted this man.
Demyan’s dark gaze locked onto the man in white and red. They held a glaring match for a long moment until the scarred man’s smirk turned into a mocking grin. Demyan’s glare turned into a threatening promise. My attention changed direction.
Leaving me stunned, I caught sight of a man I could recognize anywhere, dressed in his ominous gold mask and dark red cloak. That man was no one else but Ash, a.k.a. Asmodeus. I gasped. He patted Demyan’s shoulder with fatherly familiarity, speaking to him without me being able to hear his words. Demyan walked away and left the party after that.
Why there? Why me? It felt like a warning. Perhaps it had to do with something about the man with the scar. What was the name the King had called him? Rotting or Rubbish-something? Rurikovich…
Too fast, my mind diffused the palace like inky smoke and moved into a different scene.
The fog loomed like a fine mantle over the streets at night. Gas lamps projected light shadows in every hidden corner. I’d never been in this place before. I stood in the middle of the street like a spectral ghost, waiting. Waiting for what?
The sound of a carriage pulled by horses like in the movies drew my attention. I watched it drive by and stop a few yards away. The driver in a dark wool coat set up the step and opened the carriage door. I had moved back in time a couple centuries.
A tall man in polished, shining leather boots and elegant nineteenth-century Victorian apparel stepped outside the carriage—Demyan Greco, looking formidable with his tall hat. I was inside another memory of his. Was it possible he was the one sending these dreams to me? Who else…
There was one way of finding out. He glanced at each side of the street as if expecting someone.
“Stop,” I yelled at him. For a split second, we exchanged a gaze then he acted as if he hadn’t seen me.
That angered me. He was not going to get away so easily. He had to answer some questions. I ran after him. He was disappearing in the heavy fog. He was going to lose me. Crap.
I decided to find him with my mind instead. This was, after all, part of my mind, whether it was a dream, a memory, or something else. If he could easily access mine, I could try doing the same. So I willed my mind to connect with his. I thought of him—of his kiss.
Suddenly, a white-light tunnel opened around me and sucked me into it. I couldn’t fight it, the whirl of light that pulled me with vertiginous speed into its vortex. I had read of wormholes—non-trivial structures that linked separate points in spacetime much like a tunnel with two ends. I didn’t want to think what was at the other side. In a blink, I was at the other end, standing in front of Demyan. He wore nothing but his loose black pants, the same type Francis liked to wear for fighting monsters in the forest.
His eyes were softly closed, unaware of my existence inside his mind. He sat in Lotus Position on a thick and soft Persian rug inside a teakwood gazebo. It commanded a fine view of a koi pond that was surrounded by manicured gardens. I somewhat felt a pinch of betrayal. He had tortured me with nightmares while he sat in his happy place.
I yelled at him again. “Why are you doing this to me?”
His eyes opened, startled to see me. But he drew a gorgeous grin, the one with a cute dimple on his right cheek. Why was he smiling? I was shouting at him. I was angry at him.
“To give you the truth,” he said, without even flinching at my bad temper. How could he not have any emotions? I had to resist staring at his strong, naked torso. His skin glowed golden from being outside. I wondered if this was only in his mind. God, he was so beautiful. I bit my lips.
“So you decided to scare the living daylights out me since I was just a little girl?” I asked.
He sighed with frustration. Any emotion was better than nothing, better than his glacial
, immovable, and unemotional eyes.
“Forgive me for trespassing into your dreams, Miss Pearson. For scaring you… please believe me that that was never my intention. I only wanted to find you and teach you what you were but it backfired—badly.” His eyes were pleading and apologetic. Seriously, his “instruction” had kept me in terror every year.
“Well-duh,” I reprehended him, realizing I sounded somewhat childish. I sighed, needing to explain more to him. “I thought I was evil.” My voice almost broke.
“I am truly sorry. I knew you existed, and I needed to see your face to locate you,” he explained. He needed to see my face to locate me. Crap. He did, after my brilliant idea—right—of standing up to those blue creatures in that dream I had during Francis’s class. That was how he found me. Yikes.
“So all these years, on my birthday, those blue Draugr creatures I saw during my sleep were only chasing me for a photo and autograph opportunity? You know how insane that sounds?” I made a small quick snort. He was— “Crazy, that’s what you are,” I shrieked.
He grimaced. “I needed to find you.” His eyes showed me for the first time a higher degree of emotions—for me.
I imitated him, sitting crossed-legged on the floor, Lotus style, facing him. I placed my hands over my knees and sighed. One way or another, he was going to answer some of my questions. “Why send me your memories—why?” He didn’t need to show me his memories to show me where I came from. No. there was something else.
“To warn you,” he said. Of course.
“Right.” This was so sapheaded. Warning me about this Ruttishly-Strzyga, who probably had enough time to betray and kill the king, and use the queen as an alibi—but hey, maybe I was just ahead of the game, speculating on that one. But nothing of that man had anything to do with me. Obviously, he was very dangerous, but so were Demyan and Francis. I shook my head. “Just for the record, I am not planning to meet any Strzyga anytime soon.”
Demyan closed his eyes for a couple seconds. “I don’t think I need to know what possessed Tarbelli to bring you to Paris. No. What I am most intrigued about is why has he turned you into…” He didn’t need to finish the phrase, looking at my offending short hair and two-piece pajamas. He had smartly changed subject into something different, like picking on me. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
“You can be intrigued as much as you want,” my not-so-smart mouth said. Yeah, I felt that annoyed. Unfortunately, I also felt self-conscious. He arched his eyebrow. Ugh. I hated when I knew I had been sort of rude too. I felt my cheeks burn right that moment. “Well, it is obvious we don’t want the Royals to spot me as one of the last Strzyga females.” I combed my short hair with my hand as if that could make my hair grow faster. He made me feel so vulnerable and so connected to his emotions at the same time. I wasn’t sure if that was wise.
“Then I must assume you have twisted or even broken Tarbelli’s arm, because I cannot see the reason or the logic in risking everything to be in Paris, unless…” He looked at me in speculation. Then his eyes opened wide, realizing something important.
“Unless what?”
“Unless he has taken you as his protégé. He used to take me into the bloodiest battles to train. He brought you into the lion’s lair to train you—didn’t he?” He paused, as lost in his thoughts as I was.
True. It had been Francis’s idea. Although, I had facilitated his idea with Mother Clarisse’s letter, I realized. Francis was right, next time I should burn my evidence—from him.
Demyan narrowed his eyes. “Did Tarbelli train you to locate me?”
“What? No.” I didn’t even know such thing even existed. Demyan was using Francis’s last name again. Was he declaring himself an enemy of Francis? I wasn’t sure if I should speak about it with him, even when he was part of the brotherhood.
He shook his head somewhat amused. “You know how good you are, Miss Pearson?” He winked at me. I was secretly and pleasantly surprised.
“As in good and evil, that kind of good?” I moved my elbows over my knees and rested my chin over my fisted hands.
“No, more as in very talented. No one has ever located me. No one has done that before. Not even Tarbelli, who taught me the art.”
I flinched. I couldn’t take his compliments well after he used Francis’s last name, reserved for his enemies, a third time. I valued friendship above everything else, and if Demyan or Francis couldn’t be trusted, then I was better off without their meddling.
“I supposed you have mastered the third eye on your own. It took me a couple decades to do that. Very impress—”
“What? Francis isn’t your friend anymore?” I asked him. I felt somewhat protective of Francis—even when I had trust issues.
His gaze became flinty as he fidgeted in his Lotus sitting position. The indifferent, reserved, and impersonal cold mask was back. It seemed like he was used to wearing it all the time, disguised as an inscrutable and distant forbidding appearance. “No one is my friend. Just in case you haven’t been briefed, I am supposed to be the antichrist.”
I snorted and broke into loud and open laughter.
“Forgive me, Miss Pearson, if I don’t see the joke.” Demyan Greco looked stunned at my reaction. He was evidently annoyed and confused. That was at least better than the stone-and-ice expression he carried before, but I couldn’t stop the laughter attack already out of control.
“Oh, it is actually very funny.” I hiccupped with another laughing attack. I inhaled deeply and sobered a little at the sight of his frown. I felt compelled to erase and soften his face, but I didn’t. He needed to smile more often. I fanned my hand to calm down. “It all started with those incomprehensible memories I thought to be evil nightmares, which I innocently described to the Sisters, who in turn made me pray day and night to shun the devils away. But all it was, was you, trying to tell me that I was Strzyga.” I poked at his chest gently.
He looked at my offending finger and slowly raised his gaze to me. I gasped, realizing my inappropriate boundary trespass a tad late. His lopsided grin told me I had amused him.
I diverted my gaze from his and continued clearing his not-so-stolid confusion. “They were going to exorcise me had I not left that day I met you. The entire academy thinks I am the antichrist, possessed by the devil, because I scared them. Me—the girl that prayed day and night. Get it?” I snorted and slapped my knee.
After, a short, serious, silent moment, he broke into laughter. I didn’t know if it was because my laughter was contagious or because he saw the joke in itself. However, his laughter must have had some hypnotic powers, because I was mesmerized by his cute dimple.
“So are you the antichrist?” I asked him after I cleaned my tears of laughter. I almost felt bad because I made him stop his laughter.
“Of course not. I am not a saint either.” His eyes had a mischievous twinkle when he smiled.
“I guess we have that in common then,” I told him, and he grinned widely at me. But there was a certain pleasure in my heart to make him smile.
“Your spontaneity is certainly refreshing, as it is unexpected, Miss Pearson.”
“Is that bad?” I was being silly, teasing him.
“No, not at all.” Amused, he tilted his head. A quiet moment passed as we both locked onto each other’s gazes.
The memory of those lips over mine was too much to bear when his eyes stopped on my lips. A distant sound interrupted the moment. It sounded like an electronic chime of some sort, like the fancy rings of a smartphone. He then politely held my hand.
“May I visit you another time?” He kissed the back of my hand. Oh-em-gee. Just like in the movies. Sigh.
Chapter 23
For a split second, I couldn’t recognize the room or the dream, if I was in one or I wasn’t. I pinched myself just in case.
Ouch. It was real.
I was in Paris. That was a dream in itself.
The morning sunlight sifted softly through the windows. Gavril was gone. I assumed he had g
one outside. I got up and straightened my bed, and then I opened the damask-silk drapes to see my view. The Seine River sparkled under the early sunrays sifting through the light morning fog that covered Paris. Gavril was right; things looked better under the sunshine. Although chilly, it was crispy with a promise of adventure. How could it not be? I had invisible Draugr, werewolves, Fallen Angels, a moody legal guardian, and kingdoms to discover. I guessed dreaming with Demyan made me a tad delusional.
I woke up with so many questions—questions I had forgotten to address with Demyan Greco, like why was Ash his friend? I had been too busy laughing with him. He had shown me important parts of his life, but most importantly, they were history I wasn’t going to find in books. A thought bothered me… The queen had accused him of killing the king, except he hadn’t. Unless Francis had protected him… Francis wouldn’t do that, would he? But the traitorous voice in my head said different. Perhaps the brotherhood would. Did he kill my father then? A cloud of mistrust and sadness threatened my day. God, this was a mess.
However, my heart—technically my hearts, two of them—said to trust my instincts. Demyan hadn’t killed the king. He loved the man—like a father. It was evident in his memories. However, I made a mental note to ask Demyan Greco next time. Then I realized, next time was in just a few hours more. I grinned.
However, simultaneously, a strong humming in my chest fluttered excitedly; something was calling for me. I felt extremely compelled to follow this pull, until Francis knocked at my door—six in the morning, according to the priceless wall clock—and shook me out of the weird spell.
“Good morning,” I said, grinning positively, still wearing my nice pajamas and wondering why he was at my door this early. I gave him a once-over. His short hair was moist. He had already showered and dressed in his ninja black wide pants and tunic. Crap. Last time I had seen him wearing those, we had been fighting. I got goose bumps on my arms just thinking of those hideous creatures. I let him in. “Any Monsters I should know about?”
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