Page 92 of Demonic Cage
“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.
