Life isn't a bottomless cup of latte; sometimes it's just a sip of reality.
Alex didn't blame me for arriving late at night. He didn't bring up the nightmare either—he never did. He didn't have to. His gaze spoke louder than words ever could, heavy with understanding as I sat there, throat raw and chest heaving from the echoes of terror. He just stared at me, his heartbeat pounding with as painful and kind melody as ever after I woke up at night with a sore throat, panting.
He watched me with those keen eyes, as if he could still hear the remnants of my screams ricocheting through the room. That night, I'd screamed until my voice gave out. When I awoke, my first instinct was to glance at Alex's bed. He lay there, feigning sleep, his breathing steady, as if oblivious. I was secretly grateful for that pretense.
My pride couldn't stomach the thought of anyone witnessing me at my most fragile, and Alex had grasped this long ago. From my very first nightmare, he'd understood. As long as he could pretend to ignore the dark specters that haunted my sleep, I could cling to the illusion that everything was fine. It wasn't, but I desperately wished it could be.
I knew Alex suspected something. He never said it, though.
One morning, when he burned his hand and barely stifled a yelp, I was at his side in an instant, before he could even register the pain. I asked about the burn, but in his eyes, I saw a different kind of pain—one that had nothing to do with the wound. Grumbling sleepily, I headed towards our room so I wouldn't have to face the worry hidden in his eyes.
Alex suspected the truth, yet he didn't ask. He knew I wouldn't answer anyway. Not because I didn't want to lie to him—I could lie with ease, whether it was needed or not—but because it would be pointless. Wolves can scent lies, after all.
Alex had known me longer than anyone else. He was well aware of the barriers I kept in place, the lines he wasn't allowed to cross. When he chose to stay by my side, he accepted that. And so, he waited patiently, never pushing, never prying. No, Alex was neither naive nor dense. He'd been betrayed by the world, and somehow, I'd become his sanctuary. From the moment he chose to trust me, he did so with an unwavering, almost reckless faith.
The morning came, as merciless as ever, and I dragged myself into the day. Hopping on one foot, I pulled on my socks and devoured the breakfast Alex had prepared, the routine as mundane and comforting as if the night's horrors hadn't existed.
When the gray demon cat slinked into the kitchen, I shot it a glare but said nothing. Alex didn't question me about my demons, so I kept quiet about the cat. Sooner or later, I'd deal with it. Hopefully sooner.
(...)
At lunch, I pulled Coffee aside, disrupting her precious coffee break. She shot me a look of mild annoyance but followed silently. I didn't waste time.
"What are the ferocious ignobles and dealers after?" I asked.
Coffee's lack of surprise was unsettling.
"I have no idea," she replied, her voice calm but laced with foreboding. "I think they're scouting."
"For what purpose?"
"One of the kings is making a move. He wants territory."
I wasn't too pleased with this information. M Our small country's underbelly is ruled by four 'kings'. The Crimson King is the ruler of vampires, presiding over the western region of our small country and most of Austria. It is rumored that he holds immense power even among vampires, supposedly belonging to the first-generation ancestors.
However, it seems that the renowned wisdom of the vampire king has evaporated into thin air if he intends to turn against the other three kings—especially since I've heard that he gets along quite well with the southern lord.
"Is Crimson out of his mind?" I asked, skeptical.
Coffee shook her head. "I wasn't talking about Crimson. I meant the 'Fifth King.'"
The blood froze in my veins. I'm not stupid; I've also heard rumors that another powerhouse popped up out of the blue—I just didn't want to believe it.
"Fifth?" I echoed, my voice tense.
Coffee frowned but eventually decided to answer. "My father is quite involved," she said.
That was alarming. Coffee's father, a relative of the first-generation ancestors and king of the bloodsuckers, was nearly two thousand years old. If he was interested, the situation was dire.
"Apparently, a half-blood monster is uniting and dominating the ignoble vampires across the country. His army must be massive since we've largely ignored the ignobles as long as they followed the rules. I don't know what he's promising them, but his forces are growing quickly. He's likely preparing for war against the South."
"Wonderful," I snorted.
Was my city about to become a battleground for a vampire war?
"Leave it to my father and Crimson," Coffee said, her hand brushing my arm, perhaps in a gesture of reassurance. "We can't do much. Let the lords sort it out. Another war benefits no one."
"You're right," I agreed.
Indeed, the last thing anyone wanted was humans discovering our existence.
After that, we trudged back to the classroom for a double literature class, a session that promised to be as thrilling as nails on a chalkboard. I loved the subject itself, but the teacher? Not so much. She was human, which was the first strike against her, and closer to sixty than my patience allowed. But the real kicker? She was a screamer. She could rival a banshee, her voice echoing down the hallway from room two-oh-one, piercing enough to make my sensitive ears beg for mercy.
If this keeps up, I might need to demand compensation from the school for my impending hearing loss. Life as an informant is tough enough without this auditory assault. Sighing, I fiddled with my cross pendant, feigning interest as the teacher passionately dissected some poems. You might think the cross meant I was religious. Wrong.
It was a constant reminder of what I was—or rather, what I wasn't. Human. It reminds me that I am not human. I can never become human. Because there is no place in the world that can accommodate me.
I've always been different, an anomaly that didn't fit anywhere. I'm more than a human, less than a purebred noble, different than a half-blood—I'm always on the edge, but I don't really belong anywhere. Some spit on me, some look up to me, but no one can ignore my existence. I'm an anomaly in the world, a phenomenon you can't just get by.
I exist on the fringes, where people either sneer or revere, but they never ignore. A mixed-blood. A rare breed, if not entirely unheard of, but certainly unique. My father was half-vampire, half-fae, and my mother human. Three bloodlines intertwined within me, a combination that shouldn't be possible, yet here I am.
Fae fear iron, their skin blistering at the slightest touch. For me, my iron pendant is just a constant itch, a malevolent reminder of its presence. Vampires crave blood; I only have a trace of that thirst. Sunlight, the bane of my ancestors, doesn't require me to hide—my eyes are still sensitive though, and as the light from the sun gets stronger, sunglasses become an essential part of my face.
As for strength and speed, I've inherited diluted versions of both. Vampires are unmatched in strength, but I'm merely stronger than the average monster. Fae are swift, but while I'm quicker than most, I'm not in their league. The infamous cruelty of the fae stirs within me, surging with the full moon and receding as it wanes, a cycle I've come to accept.
But none of this would bother me much if it weren't for the prejudice. Pureblood mania runs deep. Monsters hate what they perceive as corrupted blood, and I embody that corruption. Sure, Alex and Coffee don't care, but they're rare exceptions. For most, being a mixed-blood is a curse.
In a world obsessed with purity, being an anomaly isn't just lonely; it's dangerous.
It was no surprise that Alex didn't come home with me. In fact, I figured I wouldn't be seeing much of him for a while. If I had to guess, he'd launched into some arbitrary investigation involving a nasty case of dangerous bloodsuckers.
A devilish smile curled my lips. It could only mean one thing: enough time to finally deal with the cat. But first, I needed to eat. I was in such a foul mood that, despite passing the buffet numerous times, I didn't bother freeloading off any unsuspecting kids. I just didn't have it in me. Honestly, I never thought I'd see the day.
The fridge offered nothing appealing, so I resorted to a five-minute packet of dry soup. It was either that or starvation—a dismal situation. I heated the water in the microwave, added the contents of the sachet, and covered the bowl to speed things up.
Midway through, something rubbed against my leg. I nearly dropped everything when I realized it was the cursed demon cat. It must've mistaken me for Alex, purring sweetly as if to deceive me. My face twisted in disgust, and for a fleeting moment, I seriously considered giving it a well-aimed kick to send it flying out the window. But instead, I reminded myself that its elimination needed careful planning—this spiritual torment had to end.
I decided to give the demon one last chance. Rather than an immediate sentence to damnation, I pushed it away with my foot, quite firmly. It tilted its head, meowing both questioningly and indignantly. The temptation to pluck its whiskers one by one was overwhelming, but a sharp glare from me sent it scurrying under the table.
With a victorious grin, I finished my soup, rinsed the bowl, and headed to our room. As usual, Alex's bed was a mess, and he'd added to the chaos by tossing his clothes all over the floor.
The forecast predicted rain later, so I dug through my closet for my leather jacket. Finding it, I tossed it on the bed and headed to the bathroom.
"Hi there, sweetie!" Berry greeted me from the mirror, earning one of my signature death stares.
"Shut up and disappear," I growled, glaring at my reflection.
"Come on, what's got you in a mood?" my reflection taunted with a wide grin, "Bad day, little Shay?"
"Do I have to repeat myself?" I threatened.
Finally, the situation registered, and Berry's grin faded. The mirror's image mirrored my expression before he vanished. I watched for a few more seconds, ensuring he was truly gone. Satisfied, I shed my clothes and stepped into the shower.
I love cold water—it reminds me of the rain. Sometimes it falls heavily and ominously, other times it's gentle, caressing flowers and trees. I've always had a fondness for the rain.
After my shower, I didn't linger at home. Grabbing a few more essentials, I left the apartment—and the useless cat—behind and set off for work.