Page 9 of Demonic Cage
Human hands,I realize, and for a moment, I think they might belong to one of the angels. I manage to turn my head, but all I see is silver-white hair. A strong, fiery scent, reminiscent of earth at night, hits me. It’s so familiar…
The black monster hesitates. It looks at us in confusion, then howls – clearly fear has paralyzed it. The figure holding me expels onto the ground a sticky, black tar from their hand. It crawls towards the monster like a snake, then climbs its leg and envelops it. The liquid evaporates, and along with it, the monster vanishes.
I barely dare to breathe. Has this unknown person saved me?
Who is he?
Suddenly, he lifts me off the ground and pulls me towards him. I can just make out a few familiar features before he embraces me tightly, then we fade into nothingness.
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 fromhis 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 theevents 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, becausenothing 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.Ifeel awkward, whileheseems 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-bloodedherebias.”
“What?” I stare at him, eyebrows knitted in confusion. What is he talking about?
