by K L Rymer
“Looks... looks as if you’re going to have to win her over with your natural charms instead, Eli,” Misaki snickers, wiping tears from her eyes.
I grind my teeth. She could at least try to maintain a little decorum, but it’s all at my expense. Why hold back?
Misaki finally stops, and thank the fiery pits of hell. Her laughing almost caused my demon to come out to play.
“This I have to see,” she announces next. “You’ll have to let me inside your head, Eli.”
I scoff. “Like I’d give you access to my most precious thoughts, you twisted fuck.”
She waves a hand in dismissal. “No, hear me out. You’ve never had to win a woman over without the use of your powers. So really, you know fuck all about women, despite the hundreds of—”
“Thousand,” I correct.
Misaki stares at me aghast. “How are you even still alive?”
I shrug. “Demon powers. I rarely get sick. You should know... you’re not exactly a virgin yourself, Misaki.”
She narrows her eyes then continues. “As I was saying... despite all the women you’ve bedded over the years, you need to be taught how to approach women the right way. Let’s be honest, Eli. You’re a miserable arsehole. You’ve got the looks, but no woman would fall for you with a personality like the Grim Reaper.”
I give her what I hope is my most sinister scowl. She’s right, but it’s never been anything I’ve had to worry about. One look into my demonic eyes and women rip their clothes off for me. I’ve never had to win a girl over the old-fashioned way. How do normal human men cope?
A bright smile takes over Misaki’s face, showing off her pearly whites. “You just need to smile, Eli. Like this. It’s not hard.”
My scowl deepens as I burn holes into her stupid, contoured face. “No.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself. Have fun trying to win White’s daughter with a face like a smacked arse.”
She gets up to leave, but I stop her before she reaches the door. “Wait.” I pinch between my brows, hardly believing what I’m about to do. I’d have to let Misaki inside my head, seeing what I see like a backseat driver.
It’s something we could do since we were kids. Look inside each other’s minds. It’s like telepathy. In demon born, it’s common for siblings to possess such mutual powers, but never first cousins. Even our fathers never possessed such abilities.
“Do you really think you could help me win White’s bastard?”
She meets my gaze. “Maybe. I do have ovaries, after all. Plus, American girls do love their British men. You’ve got that working in your favour. Just think Jane Austen, and you’re good to go.”
Jane Austen? Fuck. As the Americans say, I’m screwed...
I brush a hand through my hair again, letting it fall over my eyes. Then I gaze up at the ceiling, damning whatever deity may listen. “Fine... I’ll let you inside my head, but you’re only there to observe. You don’t touch a thing, understood?”
She smirks. “Understood.”
I rise to my feet. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow, we locate White’s bastard and start phase one of my plan.”
Misaki opens the door and walks out of the room. “Trust me. She’s going to fall head over heels for you, Eli.”
Giles heads to the front door to let her out, and I sink back into my seat, staring at the wall in horror.
I was going to have to play nice with White’s bastard. I’d rather stick a fork in my eye.
But I’ll do it. For my mother.
2. Crystal
I linger outside the door to the theatre, clutching the crinkled script in my hands.
My heart’s in my mouth as I take several deep breaths.
You’ve got this, Crystal. You’re a good singer. You’ll get the part.
I stand amidst a crowded street in London’s West End. A few passers-by glance my way, but the rest ignore me, carrying on with their day.
In a large city, you’re just another face among many. People seldom have time for you. I come from a small, close-knit town in north Louisiana where everyone knows your name. So the change to the big city was terrifying and thrilling all at the same time.
Londoners weren’t all so bad. After my first audition, I cried all the way home on the Tube, and a kind old woman spared me a few moments. Despite her thick Cockney accent, she reminded me of my grandma, telling me to never give up on my dreams.
That audition had been terrifying. I could barely get two words out, but the girl who got the part was beautiful. She could have been a supermodel.
I’m painfully shy. It may sound silly for someone who wants to perform on stage, but if I go to that place in my head, imagining myself singing in front of my grandparents in our small living room, it’s like I’m a different person.
But then I freeze up the last second, and I’m a deer in the headlights.
I can sing. And act. I just need to show the rest of the world that I can. Besides, I’m doing well enough to pass all my classes at college; I’m studying a BA in musical theatre in one of the best schools London has to offer.
So I take another deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest as the busy street starts to spin. But then I right myself back up and fling the door open, and then everything becomes a blur. After I give my details, I’m shoved into a backstage room, and my heart sinks to the pits of my stomach. There are dozens of other hopefuls, but that’s the nature of open auditions for you.
Everyone wants a chance at stardom.
Some of the other auditionees are beautiful beyond belief. One tall girl practices her pipes in the corner, her harmonies perfect.
In fact, she’s not the only one. Others sing too, waiting for the big moment when they get up on stage and sing in front of the panel.
It’s like being on American Idol.
I feel so small and out of my depth, but it wouldn’t be the first time I felt this way.
Sooner or later, they call my name.
“Crystal White.”
My head pops up. “You... you mean me?”
“Yes, hurry along,” the woman says, urging me onwards.
Somehow, I end up on stage, blinking into a million lights. Dark silhouettes watch me from a panel like hawks, and suddenly I become that frightened little mouse, wanting to flee and run, but I’m frozen.
“Name, please?” a sharp female voice asks.
The casting director.
I gulp, feeling my tongue swell in size. “C-Crystal W-White, m-ma’am.”
“And who are you auditioning for today?”
My mind goes blank. “Um... I... d-don’t remember.”
A man snorts at the end of the panel.
Oh, fudge. What did I just say?
Finally, I give them the name of the character, and my voice sounds so automatic, it could belong to someone else.
Oh no. I’m on autopilot. Never good.
“Well, sing for us then,” the casting director says. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
My throat dries up as my heart thuds in my ears, and then a weird squeaking sound leaves my lips.
I didn’t even know I was capable of such a noise.
“That’s enough for today, Miss Wright.”
My heart stops, and that all too familiar crushing blow hits me full force.
Not again.
“N-no. Please... just give me another chance.”
“That will be all today, Miss Wright.”
My eyes sting, but not because she keeps getting my name wrong. But because I keep doing this over and over. I’ve failed myself yet again. I had promised my grandma on her deathbed that I would try, finally break out of my shell and blossom into the little star I am deep down.
I just need someone to give me that chance. I’ve really come a long way since moving to the UK to study theatre. I really have.
“Please... this means everything to me...”
“I won’t ask you again, Miss Wright.”
“It’s White,” I say w
ith more force, feeling my anger rising to the surface.
“Well then, Miss White. If you don’t leave of your own accord, we will have to get security to escort you out. We have another girl waiting.”
I turn to the left of the stage. It’s the same beautiful girl who watches me with sad eyes, and I don’t blame her. I’d sympathise with me too.
She’d make a perfect star.
Finally, I rush off stage, and just as I go to collect my purse in the cloakroom, I hear her belt out in song.
Her sweet, melodious voice fills me with regret.
The part’s hers. I missed my chance.
The harsh city air clogs my lungs when I stumble outside, and I take deep breaths. Several people look at me curiously, and I try my best to hold back tears.
Don’t cry. The whole world’s watching, Crystal. You’ll only make a fool of yourself.
I manage to hold back the waterworks, and slowly make my way back to Victoria Station.
After a while, you’d think I’d get used to this, but it never gets easier.
I can’t believe I actually gave up a morning of work. Just another epic failure. Maybe I should just go back to Louisiana and forget London. Forget my dreams, and forget about meeting my father.
You see, dreams of the West End weren’t the only reason I came to the UK. I came looking for my father, too.
My whole life, it had just been me and my grandparents. My mother left when I was three years old, so I never knew either of my parents.
But then one day out of the blue my father makes contact. He starts providing me with money to come study in the UK, and before long I had enough to move. He’d even helped me get a dual-citizenship and skip the visa, yet I still had to pay international student fees.
Not to worry: I’m still living out my dreams.
After high school I’d gone straight into work, doing every job under the sun from retail, admin, hospitality, and even fast food service.
But then I finally got my big break and had a chance to study theatre and fulfil my childhood dreams.
My grandmother had told me all about my father on her deathbed. She’d handed me newspaper cut-outs depicting his face, and with thick blond hair, kind blue eyes, it was like gazing into a mirror. There were pictures of him doing missionary work in Africa, building a school and helping orphans, and I’d cried for joy.
My father was a good man. But I also found out that he was a hard to get hold of type of man, too. No one knows where Lord Michael White lives, being a man of mystery who keeps his location secret. And he’s only ever contacted me by email. It almost feels as if he doesn’t want to meet me. In fact, he hasn’t been replying to my emails since I moved to London.
But he wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble to get me to the UK. He obviously does care about me. I just need to give him time.
Finally, I arrive at Victoria Station and bump into Gerry outside.
Gerry is a homeless man I’ve somewhat befriended in the last several weeks. I often bring him a sandwich or two, just a bite to eat to keep him going, and other necessities such as warm clothes and sleeping bags. He also has a dog named Billy, a brindle Staffordshire terrier who’s forever wagging his tail, and I bring him tinned food, too.
It’s not much, but I’ll help in any way I can.
“Thanks, Crystal, you’re an angel,” he sighs, tucking into his sandwich while Billy helps himself to a bowl of dog meat (but not before giving me a big doggy kiss, of course).
The sandwich is tuna, Gerry’s favourite, though it’s a little squashed from being inside my purse all morning. But the man still looks grateful.
“So, how the audition thing go?” the man asks next, a mouth full of bread and tuna.
I suck in a deep breath then feign a smile, but he sees right through the façade.
His face falls, and then his watery blue eyes shine. My problems are so trivial compared to his, yet he still spares me a sad thought. He’s too kind for this life, and I just wish I could help him and Billy more. But there’s not much more I can do. I’m as broke as they come.
“Not good, hey?”
I shake my head, trying my best to hold in tears.
Gerry gives a warm smile and it lights up his whole face, giving me hope. If someone in his difficult situation can still find a reason to smile, then so can I.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get there one day. Keep trying, and someone will finally see what a star you are.”
My heart breaks at his kind words, and I give him my brightest smile. “Thank you, Gerry. You’re sweet, but I must go. I’ll come back again as soon as I can.”
“Take care, Crystal,” he calls back as I head towards the ticket barriers inside the station.
The train ride back to Croydon was a miserable affair, but at least I kept the pain inside this time.
Finally, I arrive at my destination, making my way towards a pedestrian crossing. The number of times I nearly got run down when I first moved to London, it’s a mystery I’m even still alive. They drive on the left side of the road, so I always make sure to use a crossing in case I forget myself (yeah, I’m your typical ditzy blonde).
I walk down several streets, and before long my eyes settle on a small corner café, and I’m fearfully aware of the time. I said I’d be back by 1pm. It is almost 1: 45.
When I push through the door, the smell of bacon and coffee hits my nose. The regular patrons turn my way. A couple of builders working on the scaffolding across the street, a little old lady with a kind smile, and a young woman with a baby.
Babs, the owner, rolls her eyes from over the grill when she sees me. “Crystal, you’re late.”
“I’m so sorry, Babs. I promise it won’t happen again.” I make my way through the side door of the counter, slipping my apron on.
She raises a thin, pencilled brow. “That’s what you said the last few dozen times.”
“I know, I know, it’s just...”
Her brow rises even higher, disappearing into her hairline. “Well, what?”
The waterworks finally make their ugly appearance, and Babs gives a theatrical sigh, throwing her arms around me. “There’s no need to cry, darling. It’s just a play.”
A few of the customers look up, but I’m past the point of caring. Babs was a good boss, really. A little rough around the edges and her voice is like a foghorn, the polar opposite of my soft Louisiana drawl. But I love her.
I’ve come to see her as a friend. When I first moved to London, I was desperate for work. Having been turned down from every other café and restaurant with a handful of resumes, she was the only one who gave me a chance.
Babs could see the star in me right from the start.
“I know,” I cry, sobbing into her shoulder. “But that’s the fifth audition now.”
“Not to worry. I’m sure your big break will come. You just need to come out of that shell of yours, missy.”
I laugh, wiping my tears. “Yeah...”
“Now go on. That man by the door has been waiting for his tea for five minutes.”
Alarmed, I rush around the counter to give the builder his tea, but he’s very understanding when I apologise.
The door dings open just as the youngest of the builders asks me to say y’all (I don’t say it so much since moving to the UK). The British seem to love my southern accent, the men especially, but when I peer up at the door, giggling like a silly idiot, my heart stops.
The most exquisite man I’ve ever seen stares straight back at me with piercing grey eyes, and my knees weaken. In fact, it seems the whole café stops just to take a look at the newcomer.
He wears an expensive tailor-made suit and a white ascot tie. The corners of his sculpted lips pull up with a small smile, and I can’t take my eyes off them. The word kissable comes to mind.
“Hello,” he whispers, his voice as deep and as exquisite as he is.
“Hi-hi...” I manage to say, my cheeks burning up.
Fudge. It’s
like I’m back on stage again.
3. Eli
I’ve rendered the poor girl speechless, naturally of course.
She stares at me with the biggest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, and for a moment I’m spellbound. Though there’s a reason for their ethereal blueness.
She and everyone else may not realise it, but there’s divine power inside this unassuming girl. It radiates from her very form like sunshine, and it makes me sick to my gut.
There’s no doubting she’s White’s brat. She reeks of his blessed power, and I’m tempted to skip the pleasantries and kidnap her right there, but there are too many eyeballs around.
A shame, because she’s small. Too small for that matter, only reaching my chest, and I roll my eyes inwardly.
She looks about twelve, the last woman on earth I’d bring home to my lair. I like my women grown and fully developed, of which she appears to be lacking beneath that pink pinafore dress. The pigtails don’t help her either.
Though she’s not completely unfortunate looking. Suppose she’s appealing in a doll-like way.
I only plan to charm her enough to win her affection and harbour her powers. It’s not long-term. What I plan to do with her after, I haven’t thought it through yet, but anything to tempt White out of hiding and make him fight.
She will be my ransom.
My eyes wander over the café. The peasants watch me with the same wide-eyed awe. I’m probably the last person they expected to see walk in here today.
The chavy-looking young mother even neglects her child for a moment, gazing at me with those lustful eyes. She wears gold hoop earrings and a tacky blue tracksuit, and I cringe.
Not a chance, love.
The builders, all men between the ages of twenty to forty, give me curious looks. They’re a fugly bunch.
Last but not least is the bleach blonde fifty year old standing at the counter, her garish, bright pink lips mouthing the words “wow.”
They’re rough-looking, but nothing I can’t handle. I half expected to be mugged or stabbed the moment I stepped out of the car, but so far still alive. Maybe Croydon’s not as bad as the media portrays it to be after all.