Fantasy Thriller Urban Fantasy

Where the heart is…

He looked for her soul. In the morning, first thing in the morning he felt whether she was there – the soul, in the afternoon he fed her and took care of her – the soul, in the evening he had her – for the soul, and at night she became himself…

Andreas had always desired her, free, confident, principled. Let her remain here as his idea, his puppet. The realization did not come immediately, why?

Why did he want her like this?

It is an Ego with a scattering of little carnal ones. It's sweet to feed him. An ordinary one would hardly agree to play by his rules, she couldn't see any deeper. Behind mercy is selfishness, behind well-being is a strong net.

Is there a great or a small profit in sight?

Is trust the key to love?

 Doubtful, given his true desire, that she should trust me. He didn't trust her. Not even the smallness of being, where you can rely on a delicious dinner or a warm hand on his chest. Strangely, he checks the food, moves farther away from her at night, the more shared, the greater the fear. Will she suffocate him?

The idea of possession had grown from a constant pursuit of her to a maze of responsibility, somewhere in it now stood a cage, it materialized on its own from the creak of the key in the well, from the words, the scents of sweet, Arabic and buttery. Choking, and letting go was like death. The sheets lost their frosty freshness, the glass ceased to show reality.

He had a choice to let go or…

- The stakes were made…

He summed up his actions in one phrase, not realizing he had signed.

A month later…

The big street is full of gray umbrellas, they gather in a huge pack, wolves, wolves are coming!

No, they are already flowing a river at her feet.

Andreas was trying to get everything, everything he could out of the little holes in his skull when he was trepanated – the memory leaked out along with the black blood. That was a long time ago. There seems to have been no clean inside since then, something had overgrown his mind, burrowed beneath his skin in a layer without feeling. I remembered…!

Here it is:

- In nomine Domini Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. There was something else, a word, a word, the last word.

Too late.

An inhuman howl followed like a faithful dog after her word:

- With my sword I call all beings, intelligent and moon-guided, this day, in the first hour, keeping myself chaste three days before, with my hair free, dressed in white, with the voice of the Werewolf, in the place of execution, beyond human gaze, under heaven, on level ground, with names given me from my first birth!!!

A wave of suffocation, gray dog heads, iron teeth, the smell of sweetness and oblivion. The end…

A month earlier…

He called her My angel, very accurately hitting the notes of the vibration with sounds, and even more aptly into her being.

She did not resist. Who needs it – to break out of the commonality of his precisely limited world, to pull his strings before… . Let him act. Action strikes the process, the flow, the sound, the resonance, the beginning.

Patry was annoyed by the names with which he imbued her with his essence, and as soon as she heard the proper names, her interest faded. Proper names have no history, their history has already been written by others, played out, only epithets await them. He would know her name afterwards, in time, and steel it in his flesh.

She loved fear. As firmly as cigarettes. The thin haze of excitement, the power, the race, the nightly exhaust of passions, and fear rules it all.

It's nice to know his fears. He called her an angel—protected from anything that might frighten him, and she was a child of his thought. Vice and flame framed that angel.

What it spawned, it belongs, here, now, at night…

The memory did not leave her, she fell asleep briefly to the sound of snow feathers that resembled her first wings. Here was the last to fly…

A month after…

At her knees lay a body. An ordinary body, of the millions of ordinary bodies today. But it was not the body that interested her…

Amen! She finished the phrase she had begun. One of the men of her name, who had served her for centuries, held up a bowl to Patry.

- Here is his mark, his symbol, his seal, his history. Patrie was somewhat distracted today. She didn't feel like making a decision:

-Put it in the waters of Eternity.

Never assign something to others if you can do it yourself.

A new century, a new life.

A beautiful stranger had taken up residence at eighty, Rue de Pinot, and she was like a heavenly angel. She had a cat in her service, a big, bright, half-dark cat. He nestled in her lap and never left again…

Where the heart is…

She searched for his soul. In the morning, first thing she felt whether he was a cat with a soul, in the daytime she fed him and took care of him – the cat, in the evening she had him as a pillow or a plaid – for her soul, and at night she became herself…and the cat ran away from home, not being able not to return….

The cat had no name. Although, he often made sounds similar to Andreas, but he's a cat, what else would you expect from a cat…?

A few centuries earlier.


I was wondering where my hair is?


I remember… She stroked her bald head and dipped her hands into the water.

There they are in the pool of the sewer pipe, all three million thin strings. Torn…? Gone.

Water came out of the faucet, a drop at a time, squeezing the air out, she moaned.

Red, dirty.

It's hot. It's hot to breathe. Take it off! My futile attempts to peel the skin off at once might have succeeded.

Instant transformation.

Is this necessary?

I had always suspected – they are fair and heartless. There, in the fragrance of the olive surf soothed, while unsuspecting spirits entered the grotto of «Acceptance,» their guides began their nocturnal summons.

Male and female, thin and strong, confident hands wove a net a little farther, a little deeper, in the darkness, on the other side, where the stormy waters wash over the rocks.

A language pleasing to me, familiar, scratched out of my memory, their voices sounded like an order to go. It seemed to be Farsi, sometimes there were Serbian words. Everyone was walking, and I was walking.

In an instant, the grotto began to widen, the stones sounded too, the echoes groaned and brought me down with memories. The first of them was rebirth. The very first.

Here in this tub, with the charred walls, the decrepit smell of the millions before me, and the only piece of furniture, a huge, carved mirror.

He walked in on me perfectly savvy. His arsenal included the world's adverbs, knowledge, power, and even my gold-plated history, in a heavy folio, played against me.

Loudly it sank to the tiles.


- Madness suits you, I wish I could pass it on to others. But they will become foolish and ignorant not knowing what to do with it?

- You cannot know whether I am mad or alive. Only from the fact that you would be bored if you were me. Shall we celebrate the birth of faith? Here, in the tub?

Total acceptance, and that's My choice of place and feeling. I am as crazy as you are blind.

I went under the water with my head.

Alisher looked at me through the thickness of the water with surprise, raised both hands up, which meant – I surrender.

In half an hour I was standing in front of the mirror in my pristine form. Yes, black skin suits me better, glowing, wings growing at such a rate that I could hear the crunch of bones.

She's marching! – the sound came from all sides, and I was shoved into the center of the cave. Small creatures sprang from the walls and ran, eager to see me in the flesh. One stepped on my tail and immediately, thanks to it, became a stain on the stone. The vile descendants of dragons, worthless, powerless, who signed the verdict of degeneration with their consent.

Always watch what you sign, My irony preserves me.

My incarnation, my history, my future, all decided here and now, though the higher ones had their own plans for me.

It's nice to have a trump card up my sleeve.

Oooh, that sweet feeling of Freedom for want of a better one. Every action of their doomsayers is preordained.

Only the Creator has the right to ask me questions and get answers. Only he always decides!

Never enter the same river twice.

And I will go in, once, twice, a hundred times more, and come out clean! Of course the river is an idiotic name for a bath, which makes it even nicer.

When choosing a dress for a new incarnation, I try not to go overboard with sexuality and depravity.

Would a total sadist buy such a bitch?

This one is angelically incomparable, immaculate, all so soft, white, almost said in creepy rosettes, blond, innocent-tender, Mine!

I chose the first one, too. Let's start alphabetically this time. His name, his body, his soul cries out for power.

From here you can see the cufflinks, the tie-pin, the gold-ring, the lash in his gaze. Isn't that an exhibit for the abyss?

Patrie smoked a cigarette in a thin mouthpiece that materialized out of nowhere.

Now up, into the arms, calling for a fight with the light!!!

Ah, how amazing people are, they see only darkness in darkness, in Angel only an angel….

I know he will call me so – my angel.

Delightful transformation, I rejoice like a child.

I love it – Take it!

Divide and Conquer!

I'll divide his life into Before and After, into Love and Fear, someone has to do the dirty work.

It's good to have your own in the ranks of the enemy.

There, at the train station, there he stands leaning against a pole, looking, waiting…

Waiting for me…

January 29, 2022 12:51

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