“Whatever’s going on, please don’t blame Ernest. He can’t be responsible,” Zig says in a low voice. “I owe him my life.” He drops his body on the computer seat. His face is covered half in light from the street lamp out my window, half in shadow.
“I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. I just feel like I need to. And I’ve never shared this with anyone. My father bet my soul for a miserable hundred coins in a gambling den. He lost. Good thing it was Ernest on the other side of the table.”
Tonight’s events evaporate from my mind. I don’t know what to say, and my throat feels suddenly swollen.
Zig takes a deep breath. Now that my eyes are accustomed to the dark, I see his eyebrows pulled down. His hands gripping the chair’s armrests look taut and pale.
“I’m half Berserker. My mother died when I was five after our village was attacked by a group of exiled Vikings. After losing his love, my father went on a Berserker rampage and destroyed our village, swinging his weapon on anything that stood in his way. Luckily every one of the villagers who knew a Berserker’s fury went into hiding until it was over. Then he began to gamble.
“Closer to my tenth birthday, my father’s gambling worsened, and so did the stakes.” He shudders. I’m scared to think what the stakes involved. “When he’d no coin to pay, my body acted as payment. And believe me there were traders interested in my body. I could see it in their eyes, assessing me whenever they visited our shack to evaluate their ‘goods’. Later father became so desperate he tried anything he could get his greedy hands on to increase his luck, even dark magic. My soul joined the stakes. Good news about souls up for grabs spread fast. Later on, Ernest told me he had been observing my father long before that. My father was once very good at gambling but was losing touch with everything.” He pauses again. His shoulders slump forwards, and his chin hits his chest.
Bile shoots up my throat. What kind of parent would do that to a child? Eventually, his eyes lift to meet mine. So much pain in them, so much suffering. Behind his cocky attitude lies a soul that has suffered, seen, and experienced things a child shouldn’t be allowed to. “How did Ernest know?”
“Ernest had heard about my father. He bet, and he won.”
Now I understand the look on Grim’s face every time his eyes set on Zig. The image of how Zig’s eyes clung on Lucy on our way to her ballet class flashes in my mind. The look on his face at Sunday brunch. I try to put myself in his shoes, no family, no siblings. My own father tries to sell me off. I fail miserably.
“How long have you been living with Ernest?”
“Hundred and twenty years.” This time when he says those words his voice is soft, his lips curl slightly. “He’s like a father to me. Sounds strange, doesn’t it?”
I scoot forwards on the bed and squeeze his hand. “No, it sounds exactly like Grim.”
“You could hug me, you know. I promise not to kiss you.” His teeth flash white in the dark. Looking at that face, one wouldn’t suspect the carefully veiled vulnerability.
I slide from the bed at the same time he unfolds his body from the seat. Stepping forwards, I wrap my arms around his waist. He sighs as his arms circle my shoulders. After a few moments, I say, “If you ever kiss me again, it won’t be your foot I aim for.”
He laughs quietly. “You’re scary and adorable when you’re angry.” He pulls back. His eyes widen, as he brushes a thumb under my eyes. “Gods, I upset you. You had a shitty evening. Now I managed to make it worse.”
Crap. I thought I’d clipped the tears at the bud.
I sniffle and shake my head. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“You have beautiful eyes, lovely Ana.”
“Okay, time for you to leave.” I drop my arms to my sides. There’s a soft click of the door opening. I jerk my head to look as it swings inward. Lucy’s curly head pokes in. I glance back to find Zig gone and almost cry in relief.
“Hey, Lu.” I hurry to the door, hoist Lucy up, and hug her close. “Couldn’t sleep?”
She snuggles deeper in my arms, shaking her head.
“Would you like to cuddle with me on my bed?” Her head bobs up and down. Her hair smells of rosemary oil, which Mom insists on.
The last time Lucy slept in my bed was before the accident. I’m thankful she’s here. I need to feel my arms around someone after Zig’s story. I settle her on the bed and pull the covers to her chin, before peeking at the clock. Two thirty a.m.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Her tiny voice fills the quiet room. I’d completely forgotten about my skirt. I clear my throat. “I was too tired to change last night.”
She nods, satisfied. Her eyes flutter closed. It’s embarrassing how good I’m becoming in this lying game. The noose of guilt around my neck tightens.
After changing into my moon and stars flannel pyjamas, I burrow under the covers. The last image in my head is one of a nine-year-old with sad blue eyes as his father squanders money and sells his soul.
LAST NIGHT I DREAMT I was being chased by a pack of howling, featureless bodies. Every time I managed to slip from their knobbly, twisted fingers, they somehow managed to catch up with me. They clawed at my clothes, my face, my hands. Somehow they knew where to tear. Especially my wrists and hands. Then my tattoos were gone, revealing bleeding scars. This seemed to plunge the creatures into a frenzy. Just when I thought I had survived their attack, the ground beneath my feet gave away, and I was free falling into darkness. I jolted awake with sweat pouring down my face and my heart pounding in my ears.
The knot of panic that has been tangling itself in my stomach every time my mind goes to yesterday’s dinner ties itself tight again, and I can’t breathe. Was the dream a product of Schulz’s warning or a reality to come?
I squeeze my eyes shut. Mom, Dad, Anton, and Lucy’s faces flash in my mind. The similarities in our features beckon like a white flag. How could I not be related to them? To prove Schulz wrong, I wake up earlier than everyone else and thumb through the multitude of photo albums. Hospital photos, birthday photos. A photo of Mom holding me right after my birth, looking all wrinkly and angry, wrapped in blankets.
I pull my hair back until my scalp tingles. If I don’t stop this, I’ll drive myself insane. Think about something else. Like math finals tomorrow.
After my Tuesday music tutoring class, I find Rolf waiting for me as he promised he would. For an hour, we work on math at his house. Every so often, my gaze drifts to his face, searching for something. I’m not sure what. Maybe something to indicate he is different. It’d be a comfort to know I’m not the only one. All I see is an eighteen-year-old… human, chewing on his lip in concentration.
I twist the pen in my hand, gazing out the window at the row of houses, each façade as colourful as the next. Yellow, sky blue, lemon, green, and orange all the way down the winding road. This section of the nineteenth district is populated with Heuriger—wine taverns, with most of them dating as far back as the twelfth century. Rolf’s dad inherited it from his parents. Pure classic.
Rolf disappears for twenty minutes, leaving me to work on a math solution. I tilt my head, letting my eyes roam the impeccable living room, trying to place the dull humming sound from somewhere within the house. I drop the pen on the table and follow the sound to the steps leading down to the basement—I call it Rolf’s playground. When he locks himself down here, it’s impossible to get him out. Here, the sound is louder. It stops abruptly, followed by a determined thud, thud of a hammer. With my hand braced on the railing, I climb down. And stop. My mouth falls open. Whatever tendril of air stored in my lungs whooshes out at the sight in front of me.
At the centre of the room, illuminated by a spotlight on the high ceiling, is a black robot-like thing looming above Rolf. It has glass for eyes, a hooked, cruel-looking nose, and a slash of jagged metal for a mouth. The shoulder width is about two feet, with huge arms bent on its sides. It’s cold, gleaming, and so inhuman. When did he have time to work on this monstrosity? It wasn’t h
ere last week. Given its size, this is something that needs months to accomplish.
As if sensing me, Rolf stops swinging his hammer and looks over his shoulder. One side of his mouth kicks up. Even that smile is foreign. He shifts the hammer in his hands, then hooks it on the tool belt hugging his waist. His hair sticks out in all directions. Twenty minutes ago it was styled in his usual immaculate style.
I grip the rail tighter. “Hey,” I say, my eyes trained on the… thing. “Um… I see you’ve been busy.”
“Isn’t he amazing?” His voice is filled with reverence, and his eyes flash with maniacal light.
I swallow to push my heart back to my chest. “Who is he, Ro?”
“Haven’t found a name for him yet. But…” He fishes around the front pockets of the toolkit for something. When his hand reappears, it’s trembling. In it is a remote control. “Just look at this.”
He presses some buttons. Immediately the eyes blink open, red as blood. The sound of metal grinding against metal fills the room as its mouth yawns open. Metal wings uncoil from behind the robot’s back, rising and spreading, and shrouding the room in darkness.
A creature from hell.
I stumble halfway up the stairs, falling back when my feet can’t hold me up any longer.
Rolf moves to stand next to it, arms spread wide at his sides, and proclaims with a voice I have never heard leave his lips—deep and authoritative and cold—“Let the wars begin.” He focuses his eyes on me. “What do you think?”
I think I’ve never seen anything as hideous and scary in my life. And what is with his voice? I nod. “Um… interesting. I—I’ll wait for you upstairs.”
***
My hand clenches my shoulder bag’s strap, debating my choices: to flee or not to flee. My chest aches where my heart pounds relentlessly. The image of that robot is branded in my mind. The Rolf in the basement definitely isn’t the one I know. What did he mean when he said, Let the wars begin? If Schulz’s reaction to my question is anything to go by, Rolf is something. But what is he? My stomach clenches at the next thought. How many people around me are not who they say they are? Could it be a coincidence he happened to be my boyfriend? I rub my forehead.
Zig said I was brave and stupid to trade my soul. Now I’m not sure which of those qualities gives me strength. Am I brave enough to confront whatever version of Rolf that steps through the basement door, or stupid enough to stay? Mom says allowing your heart to guide you isn’t a bad thing. Right now it screams inside my chest, drowning my mind’s voice. I relax my hands from the strap, drop them to my sides, and walk to the window. I jiggle my foot, starting to count backwards from one hundred.
The doorbell rings. Startled by the abrupt sound, I spin around. My hands fly from my sides, knocking the framed photos off the piano’s smooth surface next to the window.
Oh God, no. Not the photos.
I twist around in time to see Rolf, changed into a navy blue T-shirt, jeans, and barefoot. His hair is scrubbed back, normal. He heads for the door.
Quickly, I squat to the floor. My hands are useless. I pick up one of the frames, but it slips from my trembling hands.
Seconds later, I hear the front door click shut. Rolf enters the living room with a plastic bag in his hands, a huge smile on his face, and the smell of schnitzel preceding him. The crazed look from the basement is gone. He pads over to me and stops. His eyes slide from my face to the shards of glass at my feet.
Hell’s crap. I wipe my sweaty hands on my skirt, then avert my eyes to the floor and busy myself placing the photo of him, his dad, and mom back into the frame. I wince as tiny fragments of glass pierce my fingers, but I don’t look up. I can’t handle seeing the pain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “The doorbell rang, and I got startled.”
“It’s fine.” At this, I look up. His eyes are trained on the photo. Finally, he focuses on me. “Are you all right?” He hasn’t moved from the spot.
I nod. “I’ll get the broom.” Climbing to my feet, I head to the kitchen. When I return with a broom and scoop, I find him sitting on his heels. One hand clutches the photo, while the other is curled into a fist on his knee. The plastic bag of food has been abandoned on the white leather couch. His shoulders are hunched forwards. I reach for him, but stop and pull back.
I wish I could take the pain away. Right now, I feel as if I killed his mother all over again right before his eyes. He never talks much about her.
Rolf lifts his head. I gasp at the anger burning in his eyes. He uncurls his fist and gestures for the broom. “I’ll do it.”
I shake my head. “It will take a few moments.”
“I said I’ll do it!” The voice that rips out of his lips is harsh, loud, and angry.
I stagger back, staring at his bowed head and the rise and fall of his shoulders.
What the hell? “I said I’m sorry, Ro. What else do you want me to do? To say?” I snap, my voice rising. God, I’m tired of this. I’m tired of everything. Him yelling at me is the last proverbial nail in the coffin.
The silence stretches, the only sound that fills the room is our heavy breathing. Rolf doesn’t look at me. When he doesn’t say anything, I toss the broom and scoop on the floor. He flinches as they clutter, the sound bouncing off the walls.
“Fine. I’m leaving.” I stomp to the dining room table. Why didn’t I leave before? I’d have spared myself this drama. Separating our books on the table, I shove mine inside my rucksack and zip it. The zip clips the skin from my index finger, and I want to throw something at a wall. Moisture gathers behind my eyes. I angle my body away from Rolf and bite my cheek. I won’t cry, I won’t cry, I won’t cry.
This is hopeless. And here I thought we’d at least end our studying session with a cuddle and kiss. This is just… ugh!
I round the table and charge for the front door, pausing long enough to shrug the house shoes from my feet and slip on my heels. I grab the brass doorknob, ready to yank it open.
“Stay.”
I whirl and glare at Rolf squatting on the floor. Now he is looking at me. “Why? Why should I stay? So you can snap at me again? Bite my ear off for an accident. Sorry, Ro.” I turn to leave.
He chuckles. I stop and turn to face him, ready to blast him to hell and back, but I freeze. The eyes staring at me are void of humour. “Oh, you don’t know how much I’d like to…” He tilts his head. “…bite you.”
I squelch the shiver slapping around my knees, and every other part of my body, and narrow my eyes at him. “Now you’re making jokes at my expense?”
He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut until all I can see are blue veins glaring from his temple. From the rise and fall of his chest, I know he’s trying to control his breathing. Why is he so angry?
“Something’s wrong with me,” he says in a hushed voice draped in fear. His eyes slowly open.
“You said the same thing last week.” My anger writhes in my belly. I take a lungful of air to leash it. “Why do you think something’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes pop wider, unblinking.
I sigh, biting the inside of my cheek. “We’ve been together a year now. Don’t you think it’s time you let me in? I need to understand what’s going on with you.” I sidle closer and crouch next to him.
His eyes grow impossibly wider. “How can I make you understand when I can’t understand it myself? How can I tell you that for some crazy reason my anger is directed at you, that… that something urges me to—” He swings his head away with too much force, avoiding my gaze.
My stomach clenches. “To do what, Ro?”
He begins to shake his head as if to deny the words from spilling from his lips. “I’m a danger to you.”
“To do what, Ro?” I repeat in a whisper.
His head drops forwards, his chin hitting his chest. “To harm you,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t be here, Ana.” He called me by my name. He rarely does that.
Instinctively, I
take a step back, feeling as if a bucket of ice has been dumped down my back. “Um… wow. Let’s back up a little. Harm me? Why?”
The lost look he gives me tells me he has no idea. Right now, he looks so harmless, broken.
My mind is still processing the fact that he has dark thoughts of harming me when he says, “I’ve been having blackouts.”
My eyes widen. I definitely wasn’t expecting that. Stress yes, bipolar—oh yes. Blackouts… that’s like pee-in-my-pants scary.
I clear my throat. “Blackouts?” Even in my ears, repeating what he just said sounds stupid.
He nods, eyes still focused on the floor. “It’s as if… I’m completely disconnected from myself.”
“When did you start having these um… blackouts?”
“November last year.”
Just around the time I began to notice subtle changes. “Have you spoken to your father about it?”
He shakes his head, finally raising wide, grey tormented eyes to meet mine. “I don’t want to scare him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He blows a breath and digs a hand into his hair, tousling it further. “I need to sort this out on my own.”
A thousand questions flit in my mind, but he looks like the world chewed him up and spit him out. Does he know what he is? Has Schulz spoken to him? What is that thing downstairs? What is it for?
“I’m sorry I asked you to leave.” His voice drops to a whisper as if afraid someone will hear him, tortured as if his very heart is being shredded to pieces. “Please, don’t leave me.” The photo is still gripped in his hand, his knuckles white. I lift my hand to touch his but end up clenching it into a fist. I try again, and this time I’m successful. I cover his. He slowly unfolds his fingers around the photo and breathes out. When he lifts his head up, my pulse trips on itself. His grey eyes look brighter. He digs a trembling hand through his hair repeatedly.
“I’m not leaving, Ro.” I’m not sure what to think. He said I shouldn’t be here. Now he’s asking me not to leave him? His eyes dart around the room, before returning to me. He licks his lower lip. I press my hands on my legs to stop them from brushing the hair off his forehead.
Reaper's Novice (Soul Collector #1) Page 18
