Page 12 of Heathens
“How about you buy me a coffee and we’ll call it even.”
“It’ll have to be a very large coffee and a very large chocolate croissant, then,” I tease, pulling out two hundred Euros. “And this is for your time.”
Something dark enters her pupils then, and I feel... angry. Not at her, but at the lost fight I see in her dull eyes—eyes that used to be alive. Eyes that used to smile, according to the Facebook profile I spent way too much time on.
“I don’t want your money. Take it and... donate it to the church or something. An anonymous donation.”
I slide the money back into my wallet. “Why are you so reluctant to take my money?”
“It feels wrong.” Her honest words don’t surprise me. She seems like someone who never holds back. Someone who’s created an iron-clad shield around the most vulnerable parts of herself. The shield is, of course, a result of the abduction.
Nodding, I take the package from her. “Well, I appreciate the charity.” Giving her a warm smile, I walk over and set it down next to my briefcase. Turning to face her, my eyes scan the apartment for the second time. It’s edgy, eccentric, peculiar. For one, she has an entire bookshelf full of taxidermies—rats, birds, even a cat. I can’t imagine Jekyll is fond ofthat. Her black leather couch is ripped in places, patched up with bright green fabric. Her coffee table is an old, black steamer trunk. A black and white striped chair sits in the corner with a purple throw pillow, and a zebra-striped rug oddly pulls everything together.
Jekyll remains under the bed in the bedroom, watching my every move. I stifle a chuckle.
“I don’t think I’ve seen so many dead things in one place before,” I joke, gesturing to the frame containing butterflies, spiders, and moths.
She crosses her arms. “I like dead things. I respect them, you know?” I cock my head and she continues, smirking as if it should be obvious. “Creatures big and small—you and I and even Jekyll—” she points to where he sits glaring at me — “are all afraid of death. It’s the thing that connects everything. The thing that connects all of us. It’s an honor to be able to see the bodies their souls occupied before moving on.”
I try not to smile. “You mean reincarnation?”
“Sure. Whatever you want to call it.” A piece of her brown hair falls out of her bun, and she brushes it behind her ear. “It’s weird, I know.”
I let out a low laugh. “It’s not weird. Not to me.” She gives me a small smile, and I gesture to the photograph. “How do you make any money if you give your art away for free?” I say it without thinking.
She shrugs. “My parents are filthy rich.” I laugh, and so does she. “They helped me in the beginning, and I gladly took their money. But I make enough on Etsy now to support myself.”
Taking a step closer, I see her throat bob as she swallows. Her eyes widen as she watches me.
“Do you want to grab that coffee now?” I ask, trying to keep my voice nonchalant. No matter that it’s almost nine at night. It’s Paris—people drink coffee at all hours of the day. And—it’s just coffee.
“I have a date,” she says quickly, giving me an apologetic smile.
“Ah. With Benedict?” Something flares in her eyes, but it disappears instantly. She nods. I quell the disappointment forming in my gut like a stone. “Well, I’ll see myself out then.” I turn and reach down for my things.
“Salem?” When I turn around, her hands are behind her back and she’s giving me a sheepish smile. “I’ll see you in church next week. Maybe we can grab a coffee after that?”
Nodding, I give her a quick smile before turning and leaving.
Rosemary is seated on a plastic chair, watching me with narrowed eyes. I stop walking.
“Hello,” I say, suddenly nervous.
“I worked for Winston Churchill himself, young man,” she starts, flicking her eyes up and down my body shamelessly. “I cannot confirm or deny that I was a spy, but if you hurt her,” she continues, gesturing to Lilith’s door with her cigarette, “I will have my people hunt you down and kill you.”
I choke out a laugh, clearing my throat. “Don’t worry. I’m studying to become a priest. Celibacy and all of that.” I give her a small smile and saunter toward the stairs.
“What a waste,” she murmurs, tsking and shaking her head.
“Excuse me?”
“Have a good day,” she says, giving me a toothless smile. I wave before walking down the stairs.
As I walk down the three flights, I can’t help but think of the legends of Lilith, Adam’s first wife. She is only mentioned once, in Isaiah 34. Not even in the actual story of Adam and Eve.
Wildcats shall meet hyenas, / Goat-demons shall greet each other; / There too the Lilith shall repose / And find herself a resting place (Isaiah 34:14).
I open the front gate, mulling over my knowledge of the legend. The Lilith demon was apparently so well known to Isaiah’s audience that no explanation of her identity was ever necessary.
