[ENG.] Azazel - Lucifer's Son

13. The Invitation

I came home completely wrecked.

Totally, physically, emotionally destroyed by the morning I'd just lived through.

I shut the door behind me and leaned back against the wood, slowly sliding down until I was sitting on the cold floor of the entryway. My backpack dropped to the side with a dull thud. I closed my eyes, pressing my palms against my eyelids like I could wipe away the images that kept playing on a loop in my head.

*"Little girls aren't really my thing."*

Stan's voice was still ringing in my ears, cold and sharp as broken glass.

All I wanted was to bury my face in my pillow and wrap myself in the warm fleece blankets I kept at the foot of my bed. I wanted to disappear into the dark of my room, switch my brain off, forget everything.

But that wasn't happening.

The day wasn't over yet — outside, the afternoon light was still filtering through the windows, too bright, too alive — and on top of everything else, there was that stupid research assignment. The one Stan had given us for tomorrow. The one I still had to do.

Obviously.

I dragged myself up off the floor with what felt like a heroic effort, legs still shaky, and shuffled toward my room.

Then my phone started ringing.

Once. Twice.

I sighed and grabbed it off the table where I'd tossed it.

"I swear this is literally the worst possible time." I answered without even checking who it was, even though I already knew.

Sebastian's familiar laugh came through from the other end.

"Someone's on edge, *dragă*." His tone was light, teasing. "Did something happen with Stan while I was gone?"

He snickered, and I could picture him perfectly — sprawled somewhere, probably on his bed, wearing that smug little grin.

"Don't joke." My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. I started chewing on my fingers, a nervous habit. "That guy is a psychopath."

There was a pause on the other end, then:

"I was right, wasn't I?" Sebastian's voice shifted — more serious, more careful. "Tell me, Jo."

I could picture the grin disappearing, replaced by that worried look I knew so well.

"No," I lied, flopping face-down onto the bed. "It's just that I think he's got some serious issues with his inner self, you know? Like... multiple personality type stuff."

I stared at the ceiling, searching for the right words.

"His mood swings are genuinely concerning."

I gave him the short version, no details. I couldn't. Not yet. The words were still too raw, too painful to say out loud.

"Well, Jolie," Sebastian said, and I could hear the smile creeping back into his voice, "you've probably driven the poor man to a complete breakdown with that personality of yours. God help him, honestly."

He said it with this fake tone of deep compassion, trying to lift my mood with one of his little digs.

Despite everything, I smiled.

"You know what's actually reassuring? The fact that after years of putting up with me, you're somehow still alive. That means one of two things: either you're exactly like me, so my energy doesn't faze you — or I'm not actually that bad."

I rolled onto my side, pressing the phone against my ear.

I got up from the bed and moved toward the desk, switching on my computer. Might as well get this stupid assignment over with.

"Touché, *dragă*," Sebastian admitted. "Although I think there's a third option — my completely unnatural tolerance levels. Honestly, I might be reaching my limit soon."

"Shut up, *nătâng*." I dismissed him, opening the browser.

Idiot.

"Me, an i***t?" His voice shot up in mock outrage. "That's a low blow. Are you seriously questioning my intelligence?"

"Okay then, Mr. Intelligent," I replied, starting to type, "did *you* do the research assignment?"

"Yes, Jolie." His tone went serious. "And it's also time for you to get on it, because tomorrow you're going to end up with a failing grade that's only going to tank the already not-great opinion Stan has of you."

The name hit me like a punch to the gut.

Stan.

"Goodbye, Sebastian," I said — probably too quickly. "I hate you."

I was joking, but my voice gave me away.

"Talk later, liar."

And before I could say anything back, before I could get another word in, the line went dead with a click.

I stayed there with the phone still against my ear, annoyed at the comeback I never got to make, at the conversation that ended too soon.

I sighed and set it on the desk.

I opened my laptop and the screen lit up in the already-fading afternoon. The blue glow of the monitor was the only light in my room — I'd forgotten to turn on the lamp.

I opened the assignment document and read:

*"In 1500 words, describe the worst forms of torture inflicted on witches between 1484 and 1486."*

"Light topic..." I muttered sarcastically to myself, shaking my head.

Of course Stan would assign something like this. Of course he would.

I started typing into the search engine. Then I opened the first links. Then the second batch. Images of medieval torture instruments filled the screen — the iron maiden, the wheel, the rack.

Hours passed in a blur of research, of information pulled from digital books and websites. The light outside the window disappeared completely, giving way to the dark of night. My room was lit only by the glow of the computer.

My eyes were burning. My back ached from hunching over the desk. My fingers moved mechanically across the keyboard — copy, paraphrase, cite your sources.

1,487 words. Almost done.

When I finally typed the last sentence, I looked at the clock in the corner of the screen.

2:47 AM.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Exhausted, I closed everything down and was about to shut off the computer when a small flash of light pulled me back.

A new email notification blinked in the bottom right corner of the screen.

Among all the unread messages — spam, newsletters, promotions I'd never signed up for — one blinked steadily, with "URGENT" written in big red capital letters next to it.

I frowned.

Who the hell sends urgent emails at almost three in the morning?

Puzzled by the timestamp — 2:43 AM, just four minutes earlier — I opened it without thinking twice.

What appeared on the screen left me speechless.

---

**SENDER:** Unknown

**RECIPIENT:** Lady Jolie Vladă

*Please read the following:*

*To the esteemed attention of your Most Gracious Ladyship,*

*It is with the greatest honor that I hereby extend to you, by order of the Master, a formal invitation to the masquerade ball to be held at Bradford Estate on the Saturday of the current month and year; the doors shall open at 8:00 PM.*

*Awaiting your kind response, I feel it my duty to inform you that the utmost punctuality is required for this event, as are garments of the finest quality.*

*Thanking you for your gracious attention, I remain, yours most respectfully,*

*Butler Stinger.*

---

I sat there staring at the screen for several minutes, completely still, reading those words over and over.

*Lady* Jolie Vladă?

Bradford Estate?

A masquerade ball?

*Butler Stinger?*

This had to be a joke. Some elaborate spam, or maybe a virus dressed up as a fancy invitation.

When I'd moved to Sheffield, I hadn't exactly done my research on the kind of people who lived there. I knew it was a historic city, with old neighborhoods and Victorian architecture, but I never imagined the class system was still a thing — all that lords and aristocrats stuff I thought had died out a century ago.

And yet this letter put it on full display, with that formal, almost archaic language, and that *Lady* in front of my name like I was some kind of duchess.

I tried clicking on the sender to pull up more information, but it was completely blocked. No visible email address, no real name — just "Unknown."

Strange. Really strange.

I shut the laptop harder than necessary and, without even the energy to change into pajamas, crashed onto the bed fully dressed.

The mattress received my exhausted body like a hug. I closed my eyes, and the last images that drifted through my mind before sleep took over were a blurry mix: Stan's furious face, the mysterious invitation.

---

The next day, the temptation to just stay in bed was almost impossible to fight.

The alarm went off at seven — that awful, relentless sound that seemed specifically designed to torture — and I ignored it completely, blindly reaching out to shut it off without even opening my eyes.

Five minutes later, it went off again.

Ignored that too.

Then my phone started ringing.

Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

Sebastian.

Had to be Sebastian.

I shoved my face deeper into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound, but the phone just kept going. Ring after ring after ring.

"Oh, for the love of—" I grumbled into the pillow, voice thick with sleep.

But the phone didn't give up.

Eventually, after what felt like forever but was probably just ten minutes, I was forced to abandon the cocoon of blankets I'd built around myself — which honestly felt like a form of cruel and unusual punishment.

The Inquisition had nothing on this.

I decided to keep ignoring the phone — still ringing — and dragged myself to the bathroom, feet shuffling on the cold floor.

I looked in the mirror and groaned.

I looked like a zombie. Deep purple-blue bags under my eyes. Hair going in every direction like I'd stuck my fingers in an electrical socket. Pale, dull skin. Eyes red from too little sleep.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I took a quick shower — the hot water hammering my back, trying to bring me back to life — and got ready as fast as I could. Jeans, black t-shirt, cardigan. Hair thrown up in a messy ponytail because there was no time for anything else.

Looking in the mirror again, I realized that even if I'd walked out in my pajamas it wouldn't have made much difference. I looked like a mess either way.

The doorbell started buzzing aggressively.

Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

Unmistakable sign that a very impatient Sebastian was standing on the other side, waiting.

I sighed, grabbed my already-packed backpack from the night before, and went to the door.

I opened it.

Sebastian walked straight in, shoulder-checking me hard enough that I stumbled sideways. His auburn hair swung across his face from the abrupt movement, but was immediately pushed back with that signature gesture — fingers raking through it, tossing it back — that was just so completely him.

"You've completely lost it, Jolie!" he practically shouted, spinning around to face me with his arms spread wide, waiting for an explanation. His dark eyes were burning with a level of anger I rarely saw in him.

"No," I replied, with an exhausted calm, closing the door behind him. "Actually, I'm in my own apartment."

I was not in the mood to fight. Not after yesterday. Not with him.

"Stop it, seriously!" He took a step toward me, still loud. "Do you think this is funny? You know I'm constantly terrified something's going to happen to you."

As he kept talking, he moved closer, his voice gradually dropping from a shout to something more controlled — but no less intense.

"Are you kidding me right now?" I stared at him in disbelief, crossing my arms. "What exactly is going to happen to me, Sebastian?"

"Jolie." His voice went hard, cutting. He stopped just inches from me, close enough that I had to look up to meet his eyes. "I'd like to remind you that your father is still out there, and for whatever reason, he could come looking for you."

His jaw was clenched, every muscle tense.

"Either way, you need to answer my calls, Jolie. Every time. No exceptions."

His voice rose again.

Something snapped inside me.

"You're not my father, Sebastian!" I jabbed a finger at him, blood boiling. "Stop acting like it!"

"Thank God for that!!" he shouted back, and the words hit the entryway walls like a thunderclap.

We both stopped.

Everything went still the moment we actually looked at each other — inches apart, both flushed red with anger, matching furious expressions on our faces. Breathing fast and hard. Hands balled into fists at our sides.

We were about two seconds away from actually coming to blows.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by our ragged breathing.

Then, slowly, the anger started draining away, replaced by something heavier. Shame. Regret.

"I'm sorry, *dragă*." Sebastian was the first to speak, looking down. He rocked slightly on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets now. "I went too far. I shouldn't have."

His voice had gone back to the gentle one I knew.

"Yeah." I replied, still sullen. "You shouldn't have."

I tried to push the anger from the argument back down, forcing a tight smile onto my face that felt completely fake.

A few seconds of silence passed. Then I remembered.

"Hey, Seb — I need to ask you something." The memory of the late-night email came rushing back.

"Go for it." He looked up.

"I got a weird invitation last night." I started, but was immediately cut off.

"Yeah, me too." Sebastian nodded, looking genuinely puzzled. "I honestly can't figure it out. We've never hung around people rich enough to own an *estate*."

He shrugged, then literally dropped his full body weight onto my couch, which creaked under him. Legs stretched out in front of him, arms spread along the back.

"Honestly we've never really hung around anyone, Seb," I said, sitting down beside him. "This should be interesting."

I leaned into his side, letting the familiar warmth of the contact melt the last traces of tension between us.

"Or dangerous," he added after a pause, voice going more serious.

I turned to look at him.

"Why dangerous?"

"Because we don't know who invited us, Jolie." His eyes met mine. "We don't know what they want. We don't even know who else is going to be there."

"Since when are you scared of your own shadow?" I scoffed, raising an eyebrow.

He was right, obviously.

But part of me — that stubborn, curious part that had always gotten me into trouble — couldn't help wanting to find out what was hiding behind that mysterious invitation.

"We're going anyway, aren't we?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

Sebastian sighed, shaking his head with a resigned smile.

"Obviously." He paused. "But I'm bringing the knife."

"What knife?"

"The one I always carry."

"You always carry a knife on you?"

"Since we moved here, yeah."

I looked at him, not quite sure whether to feel protected or alarmed.

"You're insane."

"And you're reckless," he replied, smiling. "We're a perfect match."

I laughed, in spite of everything.

And for a moment, sitting on my beat-up couch on some random Thursday morning, I forgot about Stan and his cutting words. I forgot about everything except the sense of safety that only Sebastian could give me.

But I knew it was only a matter of time before reality came knocking again.