I can’t have that.
I shift my weight until my feet dangle on the pathway. I push myself off, grazing my palms. Wiping the grit on my jeans, I stand, shivering, before him.
He shrugs out of his blazer and drapes it around my shoulders.
“Better?”
I nod.
“Come on, then,” he says, extending his hand again.
Nervously, I take it. Warmth seeps from his fingers into mine, and I smile. This is the one man who lights up my dismal life.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders and his musky scent makes my head reel. There’s something else there; I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not that typical rock star smell—no narcotics, no alcohol. It’s like…burning.
We cross the short distance to the academy, and he leads me towards the back entrance. The stairs are black wrought iron, and for one crazy moment, I think about racing to the top and throwing myself off, but we reach the Artist’s Parking Lot.
The Sniper Scope van has been parked across two spaces. The doors at the back have been dented, and I think back to the accident.
He takes his arm from me and rummages in his pocket. Metal clatters against metal and he pulls out a set of keys.
“We’ve got rum. We’ve got coffee. We’ll warm you up.”
The doors swing open, and I’m sure my jaw drops. It’s more disorganized than my bedroom. In the van there, are opened suitcases, complete with wrinkled clothes. Supermarket carrier bags are filled with alcohol bottles. There is the unmistakable aroma of faded cigarettes and cannabis.
“It’s not much, but its home for the next couple of weeks.”
I climb inside the van, wary of where I should sit. Eventually, I squeeze myself against the wall, hands buried deep in the blazer pockets.
Alex rummages in amongst the junk and emerges with a red flask. He unscrews the lid and my nostrils tingle.
Coffee. Good honest whole bean coffee.
Using the cup from on top of the flask, he pours until it’s nearly full. I take it gratefully, and our fingertips brush.
A carrier bag rustles and he produces a tall bottle.
“The one and only.” He grins. Lambs Navy. The potential for my mouth to water is so high; I take to biting my nails instead.
I watch him carefully. He unscrews the lid and raises it to his lips, before pausing in thought.
“Ladies first.”
He offers me the bottle, and without hesitation I take it. When it graces my hand, I pour a liberal amount into my coffee.
I take a sip. It tastes so good. My body tingles as I keep a firm grip on the cup, my heart beating like a drum.
“Thank—”
“Don’t thank me, Hayley.” He takes a long pull on the bottle, and I get lost in my thoughts.
I, Hayley Caroline Sherwood, am sitting in a tour van with Alexander Francis, drinking coffee and rum. This is every girl’s dream!
This was Jack’s dream.
Tears fall. They sink into my jeans and coffee. My body shakes. I let my head fall back against the van with a thump. The fingernails of my free hand dig into the flesh of my palm, hard and unrelenting.
Alex reaches out and clutches my hand. He forces it open and wedges a few fingers into the grip. My eyes open in a flash, but I can’t control the trembling in my lip.
“If you’re gonna hurt anyone, hurt me.”
I shake my head.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I do!” I scream.
“Why? Why do you have to do this? Self-harm is not the way to go. I should fucking know! There are so many options, and this is not one of them. Think about those people who have died. Those people who have loved you. What would they say if they could see you, eh? What would your grandma say? What would Jack say?”
Silence falls.
“What?” I whisper.
“Nothing. Just a slip of the tongue that’s all,” he says.
“How…how do you know about Jack?”
“I heard one of our fans died, and I had to know what happened.”
I gulp down rum-infused coffee.
“They lied. The papers…they lied. It wasn’t like that at all!”
He gives my hand a squeeze. “If you want to tell me what happened, I’m right here.”
I swallow my rising fear.
“Me and Jack were together. Had been for nearly a year. I loved him so much. We went driving. His parents had bought him a car after passing his test. We…we’d been drinking. It was fucking stupid! I didn’t know what was happening until it was too late. I…I made us crash! He let me get behind the wheel. The car spun out of control. We crashed into a tree, and were lucky to survive. I managed to reverse into the road. But we…we were hit. Jack’s side. He didn’t survive…”
Tears start to fall, harder than before.
“I walked away with bruises and a few cuts. The toxicology report came back fine—I couldn’t understand how. When the police questioned me about the accident, I lied through my teeth to save my sorry skin. The van driver was dead too, and yet…I’d survived…”
I drink the rest of my coffee straight off, but it burns my throat. The pain in my heart has spread to every nerve ending in my body. I feel dead inside.
Alex is quiet for a minute. I look into his eyes, and I cannot resist the temptation for a second more. Maybe it’s the strong American coffee or maybe it’s the rum, but I lean into him, brushing my lips against his.
He starts and pulls back, and I feel my heart break.
“I’m sorry.”
He reaches for me, his hand snaking around my neck, pulling me back to him. Our lips meld into one being. His tongue glides over mine, and they partake in their own slow dance to the beating of our hearts.
As we part, my eyes blur. Silence envelops me, and I can’t feel anything. I collapse onto Alex’s chest, gasping for air, like a fish out of water.
“Alex…”
“Shush, dear one. Everything will be better soon.”
He rolls me gently into his arms until I’m facing the smoke-stained ceiling. I can’t focus on anything. Bile stings my throat.
“Alex…”
“Don’t you know the meaning of shush?” he asks calmly.
I try to sit up, but my body seems to have forgotten how. What’s happening to me?
A sharp sting on the neck makes me cry out with pain. From the corner of my eye, I see a hypodermic needle. A needle? Fluid slowly descends from the inner tube. What the fuck is happening to me?
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I struggle in his grip. Thoughts are a jumbled mess. I’m scared, I’m sick, I’m…I don’t even know anymore.
“Alex…what are you doing…to me?”
He takes the needle and breaks the end. I watch as he tosses it into a corner of the van. He hooks his arms under my body and moves me so I’m lying on the floor of the van. The carpeting is thin and threadbare, and a chill seeps into my skin.
I can’t move. It’s as if I’ve been paralyzed. My speech slurs.
“Alex…”
He leans over my body, and I want to scream. His face contorts before my eyes; he’s gaunt and colorless. His eyes are glassy and blue, with an intensity that scorches me. Hair black as sin hangs to his shoulders in a tangled web of curls and knots. “How could you not take responsibility for the death of a young boy? Your own boyfriend! It sickens me. It’s abysmal. It’s fucking disgusting, that’s what it is!”
He spits in my face. “Vulnerable little Hayley. Poor manic-depressive. You don’t even know what love really is, do you? You should have kept cutting, and then I wouldn’t be here, taking care of this pathetic mess that’s become your life. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve anything!”
His shining white teeth gleam in the darkness. “Lucifer will be extremely pleased with your condition.”
He edges towards the van doors and climbs out with grace and poise. I feel my body racking with thick and fast shakes. The nee
d to shout, to scream, to do anything is there, but I can’t do anything.
“Alexander?” I try fruitlessly.
He strips himself of his white shirt, revealing a chiseled Adonis-like body. He arches his shoulders forwards, until in one fluid movement, he thrusts his upper body backward. With an ear-piercing screech, long black feathered wings spring out of his back. They unfurl, flapping gently in the breeze. One twitches uncomfortably.
What remains of Alex looks into my eyes. My mind pleads with him to help me, but all he does is grin like a jungle cat. His wings curl around his body, enveloping him in shadow. He raises his right hand and snaps his fingers. An intense flame erupts from his index fingertip.
“Goodbye, Hayley. I’ll see you in hell.
The Incident of Pokrov
By Erica Sim
I had never been so happy to arrive anywhere as when we reached my friend Alyosha's dacha, or country house. The two-and-a-half-hour drive from Moscow had turned into four; Sasha had gotten us lost several times.
In addition, rain had begun to pour while we stopped to eat. We all were soaked, and Lyosha's Lada Zhiguli reeked of that warm, wet-animal smell endemic of buses after a rain. The back seat was stifling with the windows now rolled up, and four of us crammed together. In the back with me, were Sasha's girlfriend Masha, and my two good friends Simon and Charlotte, from the English school where I worked. We were happy to get out of Moscow and tag along with our Russian friends for a week in the countryside, celebrating Alyosha's birthday and the coming end of summer.
Eventually, we arrived at the tiny village of Pokrov, then drove down a narrow dilapidated road for ten more minutes until we reached his dacha. The dacha itself was larger than most, with a huge yard. The wooden siding was painted a deep forest green, and the windows were shuttered with delicate traditional carvings, painted fresh white.
I was struck by how gorgeous Russia is in the summertime, once you leave the city. The rain was already clearing up, leaving only a few fluffy clouds. The birch trees swayed in the wind; the trunks were almost black from the rain. The yard was dotted with apple trees and lined with a poorly tended vegetable garden, all the way down to the river Kirzhach. On the banks was a small hut—the banya, or sauna—as well as a tiny pavilion next to a charcoal grill. A thick forest stretched off to the east as far as the eye could see.
"We eat now," Alyosha said to the three of us. "Bags go in house."
I bit back a correction—after all, Alyosha was not my student at the moment, and we were here to have fun.
The house was spacious if sparsely furnished, and I was happy to note that it had both electricity and running water. No hot water, though, I realized after using the bathroom. That was rather par for the course, however.
We walked down to the pavilion, where Alyosha and Sasha had already started the coals, preparing them for the shashlyk, a type of shish kebab. They plugged an MP3 player into some small speakers and blasted 80's Russian rock. The guitar riffs and synthesizers could likely be heard from the neighboring dachas.
Another Lada pulled up in the yard, and three men piled out. They looked very Russian, and I could immediately tell they were not from Moscow. Two of them were dressed like they were right out of a Soviet film, in light-colored jeans that ended at their socks and plain T-shirts. The third was very tall, built, and only wearing very short shorts. He carried his T-shirt under one arm, and he wedged a soccer ball under the other.
The driver leaned out and yelled something at Alyosha before driving off. I could only understand the words "station" and "train". Even after living here for a year, my Russian was elementary at best. Luckily, there was no shortage of Russians in Moscow who were anxious to practice their English with me.
The three newcomers ambled up to join us. The men all shook hands. We females received only nods.
"Hello. How are you," the tallest one said in an extremely thick accent. "I am Sasha. What are your names?"
He sounded a bit like a Bond villain, with his ridiculously hard 'h's and complete lack of intonation. Paired with his height and physique, he was quite an intimidating figure.
"Of course, his name's also Sasha," Simon muttered behind me.
Tall Sasha frowned. He asked Alyosha what we said. In Russian, his tone was comically softened, almost female.
"Many Sashas," I explained in Russian, pointing to whom I now thought of as Little Sasha, though he also towered above most of us.
"Ah, your Russian very good!"
"Spasibo," I said. "I'm Jean, by the way." I instinctively stuck out my hand to shake. "This is Simon and Charlotte."
He smirked as he took my hand, and then raised his eyebrows. "You have strong hand. Like man."
"Um, thanks? In America, women shake hands all the time."
"Jean! Charlotte! You help Masha with vegetables!" Alyosha called.
We did as he asked.
Dinner was ready after an hour. We had the shashlyk, the fresh vegetables, bread and cheese, pickles, and of course, beer and vodka. There were a few bottles of juice and soda for mixers, as well as a bottle of wine 'for the women'.
By that point, everyone had arrived. There were the three I'd already met, plus two from the station and the guy who'd picked them up, not to mention another full car. We foreigners were vastly outnumbered, and I knew only Alyosha, Little Sasha, and his girlfriend, Masha.
"I feel kind of uncomfortable," I confided to Simon. Charlotte was off talking with Big Sasha, trying to work her not-insignificant charms on him.
"Me too. I feel sort of like they don't want us here."
"Who cares? I mean, Alyosha wants us here, and it's his birthday, but I do feel sort of out of place."
"Maybe we shouldn't have come," he said.
"No, don't say that. We'll make the best of it. Y'know, relax, have a drink; we'll get to know the others soon. They'll start talking to us once we're all drinking."
"My Russian's a bit better then, anyway."
"Yeah, mine too."
We grabbed two bottles and clinked them together.
We all sat down around the picnic table, reaching for and passing paper plates piled high with food. I sat in between Little Sasha and a dark-haired boy I hadn't met, and across from Simon and Charlotte.
I spoke mostly with the two Brits through most of dinner; Sasha was speaking with Masha on his other side, and the dark-haired boy had yet to acknowledge my presence, let alone introduce himself. I was beginning to wonder if Simon was right, and we should have stayed in Moscow.
Determined to speak to someone new, I waited until we'd finished dinner. I poured myself a drink and offered the bottle to the boy next to me. "Do you want?" I asked in Russian.
"Yes, please," he answered. His English accent was better than anyone else's there. He let me fill his glass, but stared resolutely at his plate.
"I'm Jean," I finally said, once it became clear he was not going to say anything more.
He finally looked up, and my breath caught in my throat. He was gorgeous. A fuller embodiment of my "type" would not be possible. He had delicate, almost feminine features, but with a thick brow. His dark, shaggy hair showed off his cheekbones and was nearly the same color as his slightly deep-set eyes.
"My name's Zhenya," was all he said.
"Nice to meet you." I could barely get the words out. I was so tongue-tied in front of him that I started to stutter.
Thankfully, he spoke next. "Where are you from?"
"America—from Chicago. Uh, what about you?"
"From the Vladimir region, but I study in St. Petersburg."
"Oh, I love St. Petersburg! What do you study?"
"Music, mainly."
"Oh, cool!" That got me an odd look. I must have been a bit too effusive. I calmed myself, taking a deep breath and a large drink of my screwdriver. "What do you play?"
"Mmm, a lot. Piano, violin, guitar, and singing."
"Will you play something?" I pointed to the acoustic guitar propped up against
a support beam.
He smiled then, a little half-smile that played around on his face. "Maybe. Later." He took another drink. "Do you play anything?"
"Uh, piano. I used to be good, but that was a long time ago. Now, only the guitar."
"Will you play something?"
"I play badly."
"Do you sing?"
"Also badly."
He smirked. "In a couple hours, none of us will care. It will be good to have some English songs."
"Toast!" interrupted Big Sasha loudly, standing up. He began a long toast in rapid-fire Russian. I couldn't understand a word of it. I snuck a sideways look at Zhenya. Our eyes met. My heart did a little flip. I smiled and raised my glass to him. He looked away.
"To Alyosha!" Sasha finished.
"To Alyosha," we all echoed.
"Time for music," said one of the Russians, handing the guitar from the corner to Zhenya.
He plucked the strings once, adjusted the pegs a touch, then strummed and smiled to himself.
"What are you going to play?" I asked.
"What do you want to hear?"
"A Russian song."
He nodded and began a traditional song—Moscow Nights. He sang in a rich, warm baritone, perfectly on key. I must have been making puppy dog eyes at him because Simon elbowed me and then mimicked my lovelorn stare.
"That was beautiful," said Charlotte when he was finished.
"Yes. You sing really well," I added.
"Do you know any English songs?" she asked.
"I know Beatles."
He launched into song “All My Loving”, mimicking the accent perfectly, but missing a bit of the grammar.
We applauded politely after he finished.
"Sorry, my English is bad."
"No, no, not bad at all. Your accent is especially good."
To my left, Simon yawned and then looked at his watch. "Christ, it's half three already. I should go to bed."
"Come on, Simon. Don't be lame."
"Yes, Simon, don't be lame," added Alyosha. It was one of his favorite English phrases.
Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology) Page 11