The Chess

Her skin was whiter than snow, untouched by the sun and the insidious smallpox, the traces of which disfigured the face not only of her husband, but also of the king himself. Light and pure, she seemed to radiate a subtle whitish glow. Her lips were red as blood. Sensual and vicious that wanted to kiss. For the sake of her modest and gentle smile, men were ready to kill each other, arrange duels and start wars just so that she smiled at them alone. Her raven-black hair was still unspoiled by gray even when she was forty years old. And her slim waist had not been distorted by a late pregnancy. This woman remained fresh and beautiful, as if time itself refused to tarnish her inhuman beauty. Even now, when the sharp sword of her husband’s loyal servant, one of the barons of Spain, had desecrated her body. When her head had been severed from her body, and her long, thick braids of black hair had been cut off in one stroke along with her neck, she remained beautiful. The blood-stained baroness still smiled, and a thin trickle of black blood flowed from the corner of her mouth, hissing like acid as it fell onto the rich Persian carpet and burned its way through to the stone floor. The curls of her cropped black hair formed rings at temples, resembling small horns. — Dirty demoness, — spat the servant, trying in vain to wipe the black blood of the woman from the sword’s blade. — The baroness from hell who called herself the first beauty of Spain. The woman’s blood seemed to have seeped into the metal in an instant, leaving black streaks on it. No matter how hard the servant tried to wipe away the dirt with the hem of the victim’s velvet dress, he was unsuccessful. In frustration, he cut off a piece of her skirt, stained with drops of black blood, and began cleaning the metal with even greater vigor. — Leave it, — ordered the baron, who had been standing by the window, watching the lights of the port city beyond the castle walls and the rapidly fading sunset over the sea. He looked at the ships, whose sails were not being ruffled by the sharp eastern wind. — This sword is useless. Like everything that has been touched by this woman’s blood, now it can only slowly decay. The man’s face was covered with ugly scars from a smallpox infection that had nearly killed him. His head was completely hairless, and a long, ugly scar ran from the back of his head to his left eye, crossing his ear. The man opened the folds of his gold-embroidered robe and untied a velvet pouch hanging from his belt, revealing a crystal sphere that was hollow on the inside. — There’s just a little left, — he said with a greedy gleam in his gray eyes, leaning over the decapitated body of the deceased. — You were too willful and rebellious, my love. But now I will correct that. The servant watched in awe as his master drew a bizarre dagger from its sheath, its blade glowing with a purplish light in the dimness of the baroness’s bedroom. The baron knelt before his dead wife’s body and, with a single motion, opened the demonic woman’s chest. Streams of black blood poured onto the floor, burning through the hem of the master’s robe, but he paid no attention to such a minor detail, transfixed by the sight of the baroness’s chest bone sinking into her body, along with the cut-open bodice of her richly embroidered gown. Red rays of light shine through the thick blood and lung fragments in the demoness’s chest. He immersed the crystal sphere in the deep wound halfway, admiring how the cavity inside the crystal was filled with swirls of crimson smoke. The black blood began to dry and crumble rapidly, losing all its otherworldly power. Light black flakes, resembling ashes, began to rise into the air from the scorched carpet and the baroness’s body. The crystal absorbed what had once been the blood witch’s soul like a sponge, but her face remained beautiful, as if her body was incorruptible. The servant felt a chill run down his back. The crimson ribbon in the witch’s black hair looked like a venomous snake for a moment. — Finally, — the man sighed in awe, carefully lifting the sphere of scarlet mist and gently wiping away the black ashes that had been the baroness’s blood. The sphere emitted a pulsating light, as if in sync with the beating of a human heart. The blood-red glow illuminated the man’s face, which was pockmarked with smallpox scars, making him even more terrifying than he already was. The servant shuddered as he sheathed the sword stained with demonic blood. The baroness’s severed head stared at him with dead, crimson-tinted eyes, smiling as if it were not she who had died today, but rather he and his master who had fallen into her cunning trap, which would slowly kill them both over the years. Perhaps it would even prevent them from finding peace. — There’s just one thing left to do, and I’ll be at ease, — the master carefully placed the orb in a velvet pouch on his belt. — Soon, the power of the supreme bloody demon will be entirely mine. The purple glow of the man’s dagger incinerated all traces of the woman’s inky-black blood. The sharp blade shook off the corrupt filth like a dove shaking off sand. For a moment, the servant even believed that it was as alive as the legendary Excalibur. A gift from the higher powers, given into the hands of his master, to defeat the hellish evil that appeared as if from nowhere and marched over people’s heads to such dizzying heights that ordinary people and dirty mestizos could never dream of. The master and his servant walked confidently into the nursery. There, under a thick canopy embroidered with golden threads, lay the offspring of the bloodthirsty baroness. A bastard conceived by the devil himself. A child who, instead of eating from it’s mother, sucked the blood of its wet nurses like a leech. One of these unfortunate women slept soundly by the crib. There were black shadows under her eyes, her hair was gray, her cheekbones were sharp, and her skin was wrinkled. If didn’t know, they would never guess that this unfortunate woman had just turned seventeen. Pulling back the cribs curtain, the man plunged a glowing dagger into what lay beneath the duvet, covered from head to toe. But instead of the expected wet squelch and the venomous hiss of black blood, there was only the crackle of dry wood. Frustrated, the man tore open the blanket with his dagger, scattering white feathers and fine wood dust into the air. Inside the crib, carefully wrapped, lay a crude wooden doll, resembling a sleeping child beneath the blanket. Enraged, the man overturned the crib. Small feathers, covers, and sheets fell onto the soft carpet, and the racket woke up the half-dead nurse, who gave the angry master a blank look. — Where is he?! — The baron’s hoarse voice sounded like a menacing wolf’s growl. — Where is that little bastard?! The maid’s bloodless and dry lips stretched into a smile. There wasn’t even any blood flowing from the crack in her thin skin, as there was so little of it in her body. This living corpse was no longer afraid of the baron’s rage or the sharp blade of the dirty sword that the man’s loyal servant held against her throat. — My Lady said to wait for you, — the girl’s voice was weak. She could barely move her tongue. — My Lady said you would take me to her when everyone had left. — Where will they go? — The baron stared unblinking at the devil’s nurse. — Speak, you apostate! The servant looked out of the open window of the nursery. Beyond it was the courtyard of the castle, the high walls with their turrets, beyond which were the lights of the bustling port town. One of the ships on the dock was departing, lowering its sails and heading out to sea, into the unknown. To the very edge of the world, where their Mistress had probably ordered them to go.

***

Pauline admired the new earrings with tiny black diamonds that flirted with her as they dangled from a long gold chain. When she visited one of her father’s jewelry stores in the evening to accompany him to a dinner party in honor of her grandmother’s birthday, she didn’t expect to receive a small gift. The jewelry wasn’t one of the most expensive, but it certainly caught her attention. — They’re lovely, — the girl exclaimed happily, throwing her arms around her father. — Thank you, Daddy! — You’ve been working with black fabrics more recently, and my mother and I thought you needed a new accessory to match the dress you’re working on, — the girl’s father said. He was a large man with a full, old-fashioned mustache and broad eyebrows. In the reflection of the glass window behind her father, the girl noticed the short-haired head of a teenager in red and quickly stepped away to avoid embarrassing the owner of the jewelry store in front of potential customers. However, upon turning around, she realized that the store was empty except for herself and a few remaining sales associates preparing for closing. The man seemed oblivious to his daughter’s change in behavior and the disappearance of the strange visitor. Pauline continued to smile, feeling the stones of the earrings on the long chain slowly heating up. Every time she accidentally touched her neck, they became hotter and hotter. Her father had gone to talk to the store manager, and the salespeople were closing the cash register and putting the most valuable jewelry back in the safe. But the girl was confident in her own eyes. She was certain that there was at least one other person in the store. She touched the new earrings and quickly pulled her hand away. The stones were indeed warm, so much so that a small red mark quickly appeared on her fingertips, shaped like the stone she had touched. Her grandmother had told her that black gemstones could act as a bridge between the living and the dead. They could help ordinary people communicate with the other side. My father called my grandmother’s quirks amusing superstitions, but he never hesitated to use them to tweak the advertising for his other, cheaper retail outlets. People with low and medium incomes were more likely to buy superstitions and emotions than assurances about the quality of the product. — Is something wrong, Miss Sanchez? — The young man behind the counter noticed her confusion as he turned off the machines for the night. — Have you lost something? ― No, ― Pauline hesitated a little, ― I just thought I saw a girl in red come into the store. ― It must have been just a random passerby reflected in the window. The man smiled back at first, but then his smile quickly turned white and slowly faded from his face. He was looking somewhere behind her, at one of the closed storefronts, and Pauline followed his gaze. Behind the thick glass, the jewelry, laid out on velvet pads that accentuated the brilliance of the stones, rose into the air and disappeared as they passed through the glass. Pauline blinked a couple of times and gently rubbed her eyes, trying not to smudge her mascara or eyeliner. What she was seeing was beyond her rational understanding. At least, that’s what her rational part was telling her. The loud, frightened scream of the second saleswoman, a young girl with short hair, brought the girl out of her stupor and caught the attention of her father and the store manager, while the jewelry continued to slowly disappear from under the bulletproof glass, as if someone were shamelessly taking it, ignoring the barrier. ― What the hell! ― the father stared in a daze at the scene unfolding before his eyes, obviously unable to believe what he was seeing, while the store manager called the police. Pauline reached out to the place where she thought the invisible something was, so brazenly stealing expensive jewelry right in front of so many witnesses. Another chain with a large pendant in the form of a golden apple with red rubies flew into the air, beginning to pass through the thick glass. At that moment, the girl grabbed the air above glass and her fingers clutched something surprisingly dense and cold. In her hand appeared a pale wrist, with a rope wrapped around it, digging into the skin so hard that it left deep wounds. Sanchez looked up and was horrified to see the dead man’s eyes, which were completely black and shaped like plum blossoms. In the center of the creature’s forehead, there was a wound that looked like it had been made by a needle or pin. The creature was cold and had a foul odor of decay and candle smoke. There were yellowish drops of candle wax on the red dress, and the fabric was burned all the way to the flesh. The creature pulled its hand out of Pauline’s fingers and disappeared, vanishing into thin air. Some of the jewelry it had been holding fell to the floor with a resounding clatter. The apple pendant, which it had not had time to remove, remained stuck in the thick glass of the display case, frozen in place.

***

A bright scarlet light filled the entire visible space. It poured into his skull like water into a bowl, until everything inside spilled over. Along with this uneven glow, he heard a voice, soft, gentle, and affectionate. The voice of a queen who could not be denied. “Do it. Do it. Make your master happy. Be a good dog.” The Queen’s voice matched the movement of the man’s lips in the dark makeup. The white powder crumbled and clung to the folds of skin around his lips and his large, fleshy nose. The red lipstick extended beyond the natural outline of his lips, creating a wide, grim smile on his face. The black shadows smeared under his dark eyes resembled streams of black tears, dripping almost to his chin and turning into gray mud as they mixed with the white makeup. “Call them. Call them to the new nest.” For a moment, his mind became clearer, dispelling the blood-red haze before his eyes. The weight of the cooling body became more tangible in his arms. As he looked down, he saw the corpse of a small bee, just like himself, through the haze. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. She was emaciated, thin, with sunken cheeks and sharp cheekbones. Her gray skin was so tightly stretched over her collarbones that it was astonishing how she could still be alive. Between the bloodless, gray lips, his fangs were still white and incredibly sharp and long. “Call them! You know how much our nest needs new bees!” His jaw ached from disobedience. A painful spasm touched his throat, forcing a sound from his vocal cords. It was like being an instrument that someone was trying to play for the first time in their life. They didn’t know the notes, the rules of the game, or even how to produce sounds. A red haze filled his vision, forced into a space where it couldn’t fit. “No” was the only thought he had left, and it was being carefully eradicated by a dense, crimson mist. “You were born to serve and obey! Do as you’re told!” The Queen’s voice was menacing, but it lagged slightly behind the movement of the man’s grimy lips. He felt something dripping from the corner of his own mouth. It had a salty-bitter taste. He was almost certain that the viscous substance was black. The pain of his tongue being pierced by sharp fangs slightly dispelled the red haze. — Stupid animal! — The man’s real voice was hoarse and slightly raspy. He swung his cane with a crystal tip and struck him on the temple, finally clearing the remaining red fog from his mind. The man was angry, but it was better than inviting someone else to this place. ― You’ve disappointed me too often lately, leech. He was used to not responding to the swearing of this self-named host. It didn’t make sense anyway. Or rather, not like that. You can’t answer it, because then it will only get worse, not only for him, but for the rest of the troupe. — Well, it doesn’t matter. We know how to beat the willfulness out of stupid animals, — the lipsticked lips broke into a wide smile, revealing yellow teeth smeared with makeup that didn’t have any predatory qualities. However, the absence of fangs was more frightening than the snarling of a wild animal. “Don’t come here! Don’t come here! Don’t come here!”

***

“Don’t come here!” Wes jumped up from the bed, finally having full control of his body. The blow to the head was still a dull, but quickly fading, ache in his temple. The taste of his own blood was still vivid in his mouth, and his tongue was numb. He put his fingers in his mouth, gently feeling his tongue and fangs, but found no damage. There were no real injuries. At least not on him. His breathing was heavy, as if he had been running fast, and it took him a moment to recover and calm down after what he had seen and felt. Strangely, it was not a call in the usual sense, but rather a cry that one would make by accident, hitting something or getting hurt. But the clarity of the message was confusing. “Don’t come here!” ― echoed over and over in his head. Wes tried to figure out if it was an overly realistic nightmare or if it was something real. Did his parents hear it? Had anyone ever heard anything like this before? The sound of a message coming in made the guy flinch slightly. The screen of the smartphone lying on the wireless charging port on the bedside table lit up. On it, one after another, messages from the Birds appeared in the general chat. Sophie: “Are you guys okay?” Catherine: “Did that wake you up too, Sophie?! I thought I was imagining things” Alice: “I didn’t hear anything, I woke up because of a stupid dream. It’s quiet out here in the country. Is something wrong in the city?” Weston silently read the girls' messages. The light came on in the hallway. He could hear his parents' quiet footsteps and voices. It seemed like something had really happened… Or was it just a coincidence? His logic and emotions were at odds with each other. It was difficult to know what to do in a situation he had never encountered before. No one he knew had ever heard a true “call” like this. Especially one that explicitly asked him NOT to help.

***

— Good morning, sunshine! — An overly cheerful and energetic voice drawled the words, pulling Sam out of her charming, dark dream. The girl turned over on her other side, hastily pulling the thin blanket over her head just as her mother, judging by the rustling of fabric, began to open the thick, dark curtains, letting the bright sunlight into the room. It was probably very early in the morning, and given that it was summer vacation, waking up at such a time seemed like a real mockery. But her mother was an early riser, and she had no qualms about imposing her own rhythm of life, if not on everyone around her, then at least on her daughter. ― Wake up, sleepyhead! ― the blanket was unceremoniously pulled off her head, making her involuntarily squeeze her eyes shut from the too bright light. ― The sun is already up and ready to share its light and vitamin “D” with your pale skin. Sam barely opened her sleepy eyes, trying to get used to the bright light. Her eyelashes were wet, and she tried to wipe them with her fingers and blink. The bright light reflected off the mirror on the dresser, hitting her in the face like a light from an interrogation room. The only way to stop the torture was to move out of the path of the light. She sat up in bed, rubbing her watery eyes, and didn’t notice her mother sitting next to her. — Come on, dear, we have so much to do today, — her mother’s voice was overly sweet. — It’s about time we spent some quality time together. As mother and daughter. Let’s go shopping and update your gloomy wardrobe. — Is that what you need right now? — Sam felt a rising irritation in her chest, like a painful spasm. — You remember what I said at dinner last night about my plans, right? What I’ve been talking about for whole the past week, at least? — Oh, dear, your silly circus can wait, — the woman said. — The show starts in the evening, and we’ve plenty of time until then, — Pamela said, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and resting her cheek against her temple. The close contact and the strong smell of the woman’s perfume made her nose itch. She sneezed, pulling away and getting off the bed, repeating a single mantra in her head: “Don’t make a scene from the very beginning. Don’t make a scene don’t make a scene don’t make a scene don’t make a scene…” She decided that she needed to learn how to handle this woman calmly. To react to her in the same way as others did. To nod in agreement and then do as she saw fit. — Mom, I told you there’s going to be an opening ceremony and a fair in the morning, — Sam said as she pulled a dress, boots, and a long lace shawl out of her closet. — I told you I want to go. I told you yesterday, and the day before, and every day up until now. — I didn’t say that, dear. I would have remembered, — Pamela said, smiling innocently and sweetly. As always, she was polite and didn’t remember what she didn’t want to remember. — If you’ve forgotten, just say so, — the irritation turned from a spasm into a coal stuck in the center of her chest, burning her organs. It was difficult to breathe, but Sam tried to control herself and take a few deep breaths to avoid losing her temper as she gathered her makeup from the vanity. — You’re making those nasty insinuations again, Samantha. You’ve been upsetting your mother all morning, — the woman’s blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, filled with moisture. Sam often had to remind herself that her mother had been a theater actress before she met her father, and she shouldn’t automatically trust this tears. Especially when they came so suddenly. — I’m not hinting at anything. I’m just reminding you, — the girl’s voice trembled slightly, and she tried to hide the weakness behind a cough. — Oh, Sam, is a fair more important to you than spending time with your own mother? — The woman seemed genuinely upset. Anyone watching would probably side with her. A loving mother who wants to spend time with her child, and an ungrateful daughter who heartlessly ruins her plans and tramples on her hopes. Sam hated being made to feel guilty. Looking back, she often thought that this was one of the reasons she had gone so far with the meat-free menu at school, ignoring the red flags that had started to appear. She silently left the room and headed to the bathroom, her mother’s high heels clicking loudly behind her. She needed to respond, but what could she say? There was no way to prove that she had actually warned her, as she didn’t keep a transcript of every conversation they had. Any other option will only lead to a scandal. The scandal is that she will drag her father into their conversation. This will mean that she will not be allowed to attend the performance, and she will be placed under house arrest for being rude to her elders. This was probably Pamela’s ultimate goal. However, it is unclear why she wanted this. — Do you really not want me to go there? — Sam asked directly. — Do you really dislike my interests? Her fingers trembled as she gripped the handle of the bathroom door. Was Sam falling into her mother’s pattern, manipulating guilt just like she did, or was she simply playing on her mother’s turf? Was it even meaningful to appeal to a feeling that was foreign to her mother? At least in this situation. — What are you talking about? — Pamela’s voice was as offended as it could be. Sam could almost hear a tremor in it, as if she was on the verge of tears. — What kind of monster are you making me out to be? Sam just sighed and, without looking back at her mother, went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She had tried. She had honestly tried to ask her questions directly. She had been waiting for the moment when she would get a direct and unambiguous answer, but it seemed that she had been waiting in vain. Recently, she had stopped understanding what was going on between her and her family. Was her mother really worried about the fact that her hobbies could be dangerous for her, or was Pam just trying to control her extracurricular activities? Was she genuinely upset when Sam didn’t want to spend time with her, or was she just trying to make her feel guilty so that she would do what she was supposed to do in her mother’s opinion? Did she really want to spend time with her, or was she more interested in creating an ideal image to hide the unpleasant, uncomfortable, and unconventional aspects of their relationship? It seems that in her family, sincerity has long been replaced by a facade of sincerity, and emotions have been replaced by cold calculations. The burden of planning every move has become unbearable. It was as if her entire home was entangled in a web, and she was getting more and more entangled every day, like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Sniffling, the girl wiped the approaching tears from her eyelashes. There was still a lot of time before the opening ceremony, but spending it at home was definitely a bad idea. Sam turned on the tap and began washing her face with cold water until the tips of her fingers began to go numb from the low temperature. Looking at herself in the mirror, she gave a critical chuckle and began to untie the strings of her old-fashioned pajamas as she climbed into the shower. Even a short conversation with her mother would make her head ache, and a cold shower would wake her up enough to figure out how to sneak out of the house without getting reprimanded.

***

Since morning, the adults had been as gloomy as thunderclouds. It seemed that they had also heard the same thing that he had heard that night, and it had thrown them off their balance. At one point, Wes had tried to reach out to the source of the night’s call on his own, but his mother had quickly stopped him, telling him not to be foolish and to stay quiet and not leave the house until it was allowed. The teenager pulled his headphones off with a nervous movement. His favorite band couldn’t distract him from his heavy thoughts today. He was so lost in thought, staring into the void, that he didn’t notice how his short and unconscious movements had started to pick at the band-aid on the small wound on his index finger. The threads of the adhesive-coated fabric began to separate, and his restless fingers continued to pick at the band-aid until his sharp fingernail caught on the wound, peeling off the black scab. Cursing at the sharp pain, Wes reached for a new band-aid on the bedside table. Cursing at myself for making a scar from a simple cut because of my stupid nerves. Weston sighed, leaning back against the headboard. It wasn’t possible to keep his composure and be rational like before. It wasn’t possible to suppress the echoes of someone else’s pain and fear deep within his chest. And right now, when he needed to be composed and level-headed, he couldn’t seem to push his anxiety away. He couldn’t reach out to the adults through his thoughts. They closed themselves off from the children with a dense, gloomy haze, continuing to discuss something quietly in Mrs. Weston’s office, behind tightly closed doors. It was strange, because his parents had never stopped him from listening to their thoughts while they were working or dealing with serious household issues. Even when they were discussing a contract with this gloomy northerner, no one had chased him away the way they were doing now. It meant only one thing—that they probably didn’t know what had happened during the night. He already understood that. There was something more than just a simple call. Something deeper and more complex that caused anxiety. As he tried to reconstruct the chain of events in his mind, Weston was once again drawn back into the strange night vision, an overly realistic dream. A crystal ball, vaguely familiar, a pulsating crimson mist that filled his mind, pushing all thoughts out of his head and leaving only a voice that was almost impossible to resist. Until tonight, Wes had never encountered anything so powerful and all-consuming in his life. A connection that made him feel like a slave to an invisible queen, hidden behind a thick veil. It was difficult to shake off the feeling of something vaguely familiar. The teenager felt as if he had seen “It” somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite place it. He was pulled out of his thoughts by a short trill from his phone, and not immediately at that. The message in the club chat was from Fenton. “Can you describe in more detail what happened? What was it like that was so unnerving everyone today?” Rational. A little detached from the rest of the group, but still trying his best not to be a complete outsider. It seemed that this guy always had an easier time looking at things from a distance. It was difficult for Wes to admit to himself that he felt a mix of envy and admiration for this guy. The former seemed like a shameful mundane, while the latter was a well-deserved recognition. After all, you have to be a really extraordinary and extremely lucky person to survive a plane crash and have enough willpower not to die in the Colorado mountains. It wasn’t even a question of whether to trust him or not. The problem was how to explain to him what had happened. The call or their communication wasn’t something that could be simply recounted like a gossip. It was more like trying to understand how to explain to a deaf person what sounds were and what they had heard. “I don’t even know where to start. It was something like a cry for help. Not the kind that people do, but the kind that they make automatically if they get hurt. Only at the emotional level. But with a message similar to something like “Stay away.” It’s a cry that you don’t hear, but you feel it as an echo of someone else’s pain. It’s like if someone in the next house cut themselves while butchering a turkey, but your finger hurt.” Wes chose his words carefully and thoughtfully. For some strange reason, the more he tried to find human words to describe what had happened, the more he understood the reason for his own anxiety. “I don’t know if the others felt it, but visually, I would describe it as follows: A man in dark makeup with a large nose, a wide painted smile like that of Gacy the Clown, and mascara smudges on his face with thick white makeup. But it’s all like in a red haze.” The guy felt his cheeks burn. He felt a little silly describing it all. Ordinary words didn’t seem enough to tell what the night call was, consisting of emotions, sensations, and smells forming an indistinct picture, and so he decided to use images from the nightmare that preceded his awakening as the most emotionally appropriate. Weston patted his cheeks lightly, trying to collect his thoughts, when Sophie’s message arrived: “I saw it too! I just thought it was bald and wore all black and old. It smelled of dust, powder, and old cloth.” Alice: “I thought it was part of my dream!” Catherine: “So you saw it too? From that distance.” Wes was thinking. He was describing what he was hear, trying to translate it into a more understandable language. A visual and physical language that would be more acceptable to Fenton, but he hadn’t expected such a reaction. It was becoming more and more strange. He had only heard from his older relatives about a call that was so strong that it contained enough elements to create a complete and clear visual image that could not be interpreted in two ways. Only in old fairy tales did the late great-grandmother talk about mysterious and powerful Ancestors who could cast a spell indistinguishable from reality. In her stories, they were kings and queens who ruled the crowd around them, just as a queen bee rules a swarm. — Poked my finger in the sky and killed an eagle, — Wes felt a little annoyed and disappointed in himself for some reason. A text from Danny interrupted the girls' conversation: “Is this what you saw?” A short message was attached to a photo of a slightly worn-out booklet with a part of Danny’s pale hand, with slightly darkened claws at the roots, similar to those commonly depicted on movie corpses. The photo was a little pixelated due to the quality of the camera on the guy’s old smartphone, but it was still readable. “Circus Gothica” was the title of the show, accompanied by a dark and stylized poster that appeared to depict either catacombs or gloomy caves. Despite the dark and gothic theme, the show was likely to be relatively ordinary. The program featured aerialists dressed as bats, werewolf acrobats, and vampire magicians. Just as Wes was about to say no, a man in the lower left corner of the brochure caught his attention. A man in old, tattered black clothes, with a large, fleshy nose and a bleached face with a frighteningly ugly large red mouth and streaks of black mascara on his cheeks, blending into a dirty gray mass at his chin. Wes zoomed in on the image to get a better look. The man was holding a cane with a crystal ball at the end. The crimson mist inside seemed to be moving, even in the static photo. “Yes!” ― hastened to reply Carthine, sending a cropped photo of the booklet to the general chat. Just that part of it, which was the man with a cane, which at the same moment was considered by Wes. “The photo is a little blurry, but I definitely saw someone who looked very, very similar. It’s impossible to mistake this sphere,” Sophie added. “It makes me dizzy just looking at it.” Wes felt a chill run down his spine. He could almost physically see the uneven crimson mist in the rather mediocre quality photograph coiling into a spiral within the orb adorning the cane in the man’s hands, pulsating in time with his heartbeat. The air seemed to carry a foul and distant scent of gasoline. “Where did you get that?” was the only question Weston felt was appropriate at the moment. “The Gothica Circus” has arrived in town today. Sam and Tucker have been invited to join the show tonight.” Danny replied curtly. “Only real vampires in the program,” read the slogan on the circus’s banner, written in red ink on a dark background. Weston wasn’t sure what exactly was causing the feeling, but he was almost certain of its source. There was a dull ache in his temple, and his tongue has taste of blood from where he had bitten it. A red haze filled his vision, replacing all thoughts and emotions with a commanding voice and pain. A lot of intense pain. “Don’t go there,” he wrote briefly. “Don’t go there” “Don’t go there” “Don’t go there” Sophie, Catherine, and Alice repeated the action, sending a fully duplicated message to him. They were only a moment behind him, but they were more united than ever.

***

It was almost 10 o’clock in the morning, but the temperature outside was rising almost exponentially every second, and the thermometer was clearly not going to stop its vigorous ascent towards new records. Danny had been suffering from the heat and stuffiness since the beginning of the warm months, and Maddie was worried that he might catch fire. He took quick ice-cold showers several times a day just to cool down a bit. If the water came out of the tap with ice cubes, he would have been delighted. The air conditioner in his room had been running all night, and he had already been reprimanded for wasting electricity. “Your portal consumes much more,” crumbled the overheated teenager, irritated by his father’s criticism. There was nothing to say in response to this fact. At least Maddie. The woman watched as her son gloomily munched on a cold sandwich, washing it down with ice with orange juice. There was no other way to describe the contents of the glass, which was filled with a mound of ice cubes and only slightly diluted with juice, she can’t. — Careful honey, you’ll ruin your teeth, — Maddie grinned, watching Danny crunch through an ice cube as if it were a piece of juicy apple. She reached out to pat his hair, but the teenager quickly dodged. — It’s hot, — he said irritably. Tiny clouds of cold steam from the ice flew out of his mouth. — Your hands are too hot, — he muttered, swallowing a piece of ice he had chewed to the end. ― How are you going to go to the show with your friends if the weather is already driving you crazy? ― the woman went to the coffee maker and set the mode for the strongest drink. — The main performance will be in the evening, when it may not be so hot, — the teenager said, checking the program from one of the pockets of his oversized cargo jeans. The red letters on the black paper looked eye-catching and tasteless to Maddie’s personal opinion. It was almost physically painful to read. But perhaps that was the point? While waiting for her coffee mug to fill, the woman approached her son and looked at the brochure. “Circus Gothica. Only real vampires in the program,” read the title, but the program itself was quite ordinary, aside from the theme. There was an opening ceremony, a themed fair, and an evening show. The only issue was the timing. — I don’t like the fact that it’s ending around eleven o’clock in the evening. And they’re located in an old neighborhood near an abandoned train station, — Maddy said, reading the program’s eye-popping letters with doubt. — Are you sure you’ll make it home safely? — Sure, — Danny replied immediately. — After all, I won’t be there alone. — You always manage to get into trouble with your friends, — Maddy teased, nudging her son’s arm and mocking his lack of luck. She turned back to the coffee maker to add milk and sugar to her mug. — At least text me when you’re returning so I don’t worry, okay? ― Okay, — Danny crunched the ice again, not sparing his teeth at all, and poured the rest of the ice with a drop of drink into a small thermos, which he hid in his belt bag along with the program. — Can I go? — Go, or you’ll be late for the opening, — Maddie replied with a smile, watching her son pull on his favorite panama hat with a lot of badges. — Don’t get too hot in the sun. — Got it! — the teenager shouted, closing the door behind him. The Fenton thermos hanging from his belt strap clanged against the doorframe. Maddy thought a little belatedly about why her son needed two thermoses, but the thought didn’t linger in her head for long. Who knows why? It’s so hot outside, and it probably wouldn’t hurt to have extra cold water with him. Shrugging, Maddy, limping slightly on her still-healing leg, headed back to the lab, sipping her hot drink slowly. After all, her son’s minor eccentricities were nothing compared to what they’d been through this spring. He’d recovered relatively quickly, or so it seemed. Even his sleep issues were no longer as severe as before. He complained that the heat was keeping him awake, and he often got up in the middle of the night to get a glass of ice water, but surprisingly, he didn’t sleepwalk. Maddy sometimes recalled the partially overheard conversation between her son and Vlad after the plane crash. It was surprising that her reserved son and her aloof “classmate” had found common ground so easily. ― Watch out! The woman barely managed to dodge a small homemade dart that pierced the wall right next to her shoulder. In her surprise, she almost dropped her coffee mug. A few drops of hot coffee spilled onto her hand. Fortunately, her protective glove saved her from getting burned. — Jack, what the hell? — she exclaimed indignantly. — I’m sorry, love, — the man replied with a wide smile. — At least I managed to warn you. — What is it? — Maddy pulled a dart out of the wall with a sharp movement to examine her husband’s new creation more closely. It was a wooden casing with an iron center, which appeared to be connected to a small power pack in the tail, and was likely intended by Jack to strike the affected target with an ecto-energy blast. However, the purpose of the wooden dart casing was still unclear to the woman. — This is a Fenton vampire-hunting dart, — Jack replied cheerfully, snatching the object from his wife’s hands to demonstrate it in more detail. — It’s an advanced device from the past. Modern electronics housed in a real aspen shell. Danny informed us yesterday that a circus of such undead had arrived in town, and I decided it would be a good idea to address this issue. However, it’s a hastily assembled prototype that requires further refinement. The stun mechanism failed to activate upon impact. Maddy closed her eyes to take a sip of her coffee, a deep breath and counting to three. When she had expressed her desire to delve into the history of “witch hunting” to her husband, she had not anticipated that Jack would be so eager to reimagine these ancient and highly questionable methods for identifying and eliminating supernatural beings. Aspen stake… — Darling, — she began slowly. — Tell me, how do you know that the Goth Vampire Circus is actually run by real vampires, and not just actors dressed up as vampires? — Instinct, honey, — the man explained proudly. — A hunter’s instinct has never failed me. “He’s a sweet simpleton, and that’s what you love about him,” Maddy reminded herself as she took another sip of coffee, trying to suppress the urge to express her thoughts about the quality and accuracy of his “hunter’s instincts.” She remembered his skepticism on Halloween and his refusal to listen to her and close the portal to avoid trouble. She also recalled his willingness to cooperate with shady government agents who planted bugs in their home. The anti-ghost deflector which where left burns on her body. And that was just the beginning… Her husband clearly needed to be talked to seriously, but would he listen? Would he hear her? Would he understand her? — This is a version of the aspen stake that, according to legend, should be driven into the heart. Am I understanding this correctly? — Maddy asked, touching the tip of the dart, which had been slightly bent after hitting the wall. — That’s right, — the man replied cheerfully. — Once the projectile’s center of gravity and the ectoplasm charge mechanism are calibrated, this little girl will be able to resist any evil spirits. — Jack, dear, — she said slowly and as calmly as she could, — Tell me, in your theory, do ordinary people not die or suffer from being stabbed in the heart? The man thought about it, looking at the dart in his large palm. Most likely, he hadn’t thought about what would happen if he mistakenly hit a “mere mortal” with this thing. Was it because of his confidence in his own infallible “hunting instinct” or simply because he hadn’t thought about it, just like with the isolation of the ghostly deflector? At the time of the belt assembly, for example, he was sure that ecto discharges didn’t affect humans, but what about her burns? Vlad’s? Danny’s, after all? She should have trusted her son from the beginning, instead of relying on her husband and his word of honor in safety. — Get back to the drawing board, dear, unless you want to get a murder charge, — said Maddy, as she headed for her work computer and electron microscope. The specimens of small, ectoplasm-covered spiders she’d caught today crawling out of a small crack in the wall near the ghost portal were far more interesting to her than a potential means of killing someone.

***

It was murderously sunny and hot outside, even though it was only the first half of the day. It was too sunny for a goth. Sam would have preferred the gloomy October weather and the fog coming off the forest lake to make the long-awaited event more atmospheric. A black circus tent had already been set up over a vacant lot near an old abandoned train station. All around was an old neighborhood, full of half-empty buildings that looked as unattractive as possible. The gloomy, dark gray-stained facades and windows, filled with half-rotten boards, looked at the wasteland in front of the tent, which was filled with a black stream of people, with a gloomy indifference. On the other side, the wasteland was surrounded by empty, rusted, and destroyed by vandals and homeless people, old passenger and freight train cars, most of which were firmly attached to the rails due to the oxidation of metals. And the dilapidated station in front of this train graveyard looked like a tombstone in front of a mass grave. The perfect place. After applying vegan kajal to her eyes, Sam put away her mirror and covered her face with a translucent shawl that reached almost to her waist, flowing from her head in soft folds. — You look great, — a familiar voice said with a hint of amusement. — I can’t remember the last time I saw you wearing makeup. Even dressed in all black, Pauline couldn’t hide her glamorous nature. She wore a little black dress, lace gloves, and a white calla lily made of fabric in her French twist, along with blood-red lipstick. It was as if she had attended the funeral of her wealthy husband, who had left her his entire fortune. Was it mournful? Yes, to some extent. Was it gothic? It was a philosophical question. The girl took off her old-fashioned dark glasses and, putting them in a small handbag, held out her hand in a thin lace glove so that a black-and-white magpie, whose feathers shimmered like mica in the sunlight, could perch comfortably on it. In its beak, the bird held a hairpin with a large fabric flower, from the center of which, like stamens covered with black dew, hung thin chains with black crystals. Sparkling in the bright sunlight, they reflected light on the girl’s dark face in small beams. The brunette’s brown eyes, heavily lined with black eyeliner and shadows, and adorned with long, sharp eyelashes, sparkled with a touch of devilishness. — Thank you, Pin, — she said, giving the magpie a small berry and taking the cloth flower from its beak. — Do you like to make a dramatic entrance? — Sam couldn’t help but be sarcastic as she watched the magpie take flight from Pauline’s hand and head towards the gloomy circus tent. — Did you just notice that? — Pauline’s well-defined eyebrow arched slightly. — I hope you don’t mind, — Pauline handed her a black flower to pin in her hair and secure the shawl on her head. — After I finished my dress, I had a lot of leftover fabric, and I decided to experiment a bit. The satin seemed perfect for the black lily, — Pauline finished attaching the flower and took a few steps back to admire her work on the live model. The wide, rather low heels of her shoes creaked slightly on the crumbling concrete of the old platform. Sam breathed in the heavy scent of her perfume. It was complex and multifaceted, blending seamlessly from a typical girly floral scent to a hint of damp earth and moss, most likely coming from her skin and being masked by the sweet floral perfume. They didn’t cross paths much at school. They didn’t have many common interests or points of contact, especially when you look at it from the outside and consider their “shared background.” But that was only until you started to get to know them better. Polina dragged Sam into an extracurricular sewing club. It was a place that should have been filled with as many “girly” stereotypes as possible, but the reality turned out to be much more complex. — You’re almost La Llorona, — Pauline remarked, pleased with her work. — And you’re almost a grieving widow who had nothing to do with her wealthy husband’s untimely demise, — Sam replied, nodding towards the old canopy in front of the abandoned train station. It would be a good idea to find some shade from the intense sunlight. Pauline chuckled slightly, took a fan out of her purse, and began to slowly fan herself, spreading the scent of her heavy perfume through the hot air. Judging by her behavior, Sam’s comparison, as well as her new look, appealed to her. Previously, her tendency to try on new masks had seemed empty and uninteresting to the gothic artist. The populism and consumerism that underpinned the stereotypical perception of the popular didn’t allow her to fully appreciate the art and the pursuit of beauty that dispelled the eternal boredom of the popular, cold-blooded cheerleader, who was tired of everything around her. A white T-shirt and a panama hat with lots of colorful badges flashed through the black crowd of people with made-up faces. — Danny!? — Sam called out to the familiar figure in surprise. The teenager turned around at her call and waved at her with a modest smile. His kind-hearted, pale face didn’t fit in with the gloomy crowd around him. He began to look even more like an outcast than he usually did at school. “Normis” had come to the “freaks” event just to see something new and unique, like exotic animals at a zoo. At least, that’s how it probably looked to some of the true goths attending the opening ceremony. A couple of guys in matching oversized, tattered T-shirts over tight-fitting turtlenecks shrank away from Fenton, as if they were afraid of catching his smile. Sam hurried to pull the guy aside, into the shade of the station’s worn-out awning. — What are you doing here? — she asked in surprise. — I thought you wouldn’t leave the house until after sunset for the main performance? The sun’s going to fry you! — I was looking for you, it’s urgent, — he replied quickly. — Why haven’t you been answering your phone? — I left my phone at home so my mother wouldn’t bother me, — Sam adjusted the edge of her shawl as she stepped into the shade, shaking off the white fluff that had apparently fallen from the magpie’s body. — What’s the matter? — Hi, Pauline, — Danny cast a strange glance at the object of his attention. It wasn’t like usual. Yes, his cheeks were slightly flushed, but he didn’t look like a lovesick fool who had lost his mind at the sight of a pretty girl. — I’ll tell you later, when we’re leave. — And the sooner the better. — Leave? ― the girl was perplexed. It was only now that she noticed that behind her friend’s smile there was some kind of twitchy nervousness. Danny could only have one reason why something couldn’t be said out loud in front of strangers like Pauline, and the realization sent a chill down his spine, unnaturally noticeable in the summer heat. A trumpet-like sound echoing off the walls of the dilapidated houses and the empty carriages signaled the beginning of the opening ceremony. Amidst the decay and desolation of the carriage graveyard, a small procession of carriages stood out for their relative newness and fresh paint. The black carriages were adorned with intricate web patterns, stylized replicas of medieval book illustrations, and eerily realistic depictions of skulls, body parts, and dried flowers. — Greetings, children of the night! — The wide sliding doors of one of them opened, and a man appeared, his bald head completely covered in white makeup. Thick and unkempt black eyeliner streaked down his cheeks, and a red painted mouth under a large, fleshy nose was stretched into an unnatural smile. — Today is a sunny and joyful day. Are you ready to let this bright sun into your hearts and allow it to dispel the darkness? “No! Ugh!” came from the gloomy crowd. Sam felt her eyes begin to ache. For some reason, looking at the man was almost physically painful, but she attributed it to the bright sunlight. — Good! — the ringmaster replied to the crowd. A gust of hot wind blew the hem of his old, dusty cloak. — For today I invite you to hide in the darkness of the world of the Gothic Circus, which has come to you directly from Transylvania. Make way for the true children of the night! Sam thought she saw the bright knob of the man’s cane turn scarlet in the dazzling sunlight. A subtle but rapidly intensifying dull ache settled in her temples. It seemed that the spot where Pauline had attached the lily was the coldest point on her head, which was enveloped in a strange heat. Sam rubbed her temples awkwardly, trying to focus on what was happening. From the blackness of the carriage, a procession of people dressed in tight-fitting costumes began to slowly emerge. Even their faces were completely covered with fabric. It remained a mystery how they could see where to go and perform acrobatic tricks blindly, without bumping into each other or people in the crowd. Following them was a teenager, around the age of fifteen, dressed in a red, voluminous gown. With a short haircut and a deathly blue face, she had thick ropes wrapped around her wrists and neck. Clearly, she was playing the role of a deceased person. Sam noticed her bare feet, which she struggled to move as she walked, scattering black rose petals on the ground. There were short ropes around her bruised ankles, with weights tied to them. Deep down, Manson hoped that this was just a dramatic make-up effect. The procession was completed by mourners who carried a large black coffin wrapped in thick chains, wailing as they did so. Inside the coffin, someone was struggling to escape, while the mourners, draped in black tarpaulins from head to toe, carried it to a black tent. The audience was enthralled, applauding the spectacular appearance of the traveling circus performers as Sam watched with a racing heart as an otherworldly green light ignited in her friend’s eyes.

***

― Yes… Mrs. Weston, I will definitely convey everything to Head Masters in the smallest details… Yes… And the same to you. After hanging up the phone, Grimley looked up anxiously at the stairs leading to the second floor. Upon his return from the trip, the master had seemed much more rested, but today he had closed himself off from the clan and had not even left his room. This had happened to him before. During the hot summer, the man’s photophobia would often flare up due to his illness, causing him to postpone his daily activities until late in the evening, when the harsh ultraviolet rays of the sun would have diminished. However, Grimley remained concerned. No one could have predicted what the next season’s flare-up of the chapter would be like. He didn’t want to disturb his master once again, but judging by Ms. Weston’s anxiety, which could be felt even through the phone line, the affairs of the southern clans were actually very serious and did not tolerate delay. The man tried to reach out to the master once more, but his mind hit a blank wall. The Masters locked himself in a mental bunker, shutting himself off from everyone. It still seemed too human to Grimley, but how could you go against someone’s desire to be alone with themselves? Climbing to the second floor to the head’s room, the man carefully knocked on the heavy door with the tip of his little finger. During the summer exacerbation, Masters’s sensitivity of the skin and vision to bright light was exacerbated, but his hearing, which was already terrifyingly sharp, was not. It was a pity, but without the ability to mentally reach out to the master, disturbing his sensitive hearing was the only available way of communication. — Come in, Grimley, — the door lock opened silently under the master’s power, — But stop at the door and don’t come any closer, if you please. The man did everything exactly, moving on his toes along the soft pile of the carpet. It was dark in the master’s chambers. The thick curtains are closed, preventing sunlight from entering the room. Mastres was sitting in an overstuffed armchair, with a glass of thick, cold blood in his hands, which he was slowly sipping. A soft robe was worn over an ordinary white shirt and soft trousers. He looked frankly bad: his skin was gray, and the cracks in his bloodless lips were filled with dried blood, which he ate slowly. His cheekbones were sharp, but his blue eyes still had a bright, scarlet glow of strength. — I have an urgent message from Lady Weston, — Grimley began. — I would not bother you, but the matter of the southern clans seems urgent. They say they have heard something similar to a call, but they are certain that it is not just one of the creatures. They claim that it is the echoes of one of the Progenitors, or what remains of it. And you are the only person known to Lady Weston who is close to them. She believes that you may know more about this than the southern clans. — No one has heard from the progenitors for over a hundred years. The last of their remains must be slowly decaying somewhere in Europe, — the man said, taking a slow sip of the thick blood in his glass. The sweet smell in the air made Grimley’s appetite grow. — Be so kind as to show me everything you’ve heard from her. The man’s eyes glowed with a crimson light, opening a small crack in his mind for Grimley’s own. And he did not dare to oppose the clan leader’s will.