[ENG.] Azazel - Lucifer's Son

17. The taste of blood

I sat down on the little wooden bench, running my fingers over the white-lacquered carvings.

The afternoon sun was warm on my skin — that specific kind of gentle warmth that only exists in spring, when winter is finally over but summer hasn't quite shown up yet. I loved lazing around on the porch of my tiny house, watching the golden light filter through the branches of the apple tree by the gate, taking in everything around me.

Wildflowers in the meadow. White butterflies. Clouds drifting slow across a blue sky.

Perfect.

Everything was perfect.

Then I heard a sound.

It was coming from the small dirt road that led straight to the house — heavy footsteps, uneven. I stood up on my tiptoes and made out a staggering shape in the distance.

No.

My father.

Drunk again.

The perfection of the afternoon shattered like glass.

I smoothed my little blue floral dress with my hands — the one my mother had made me, the one with the white buttons — bracing myself for what was coming. Like every day. Like always.

I held back tears of fear and sadness, biting down on my lower lip so hard I tasted blood.

The fact that I was a child — an eight-year-old child, his own daughter — didn't change his violence one bit. If anything, it seemed to make it worse.

I squeezed my stuffed rabbit tight — the gray one with the half-torn ear — and set him carefully on the bench, letting him watch the beauty of that spring afternoon in my place.

At least he could still enjoy it.

My father arrived. He barely made it up the three porch steps, gripping the railing to keep from falling. The smell hit before he did — alcohol, sweat, something rotten.

My chest tightened. My hands started shaking.

I wished I had the little knife Sebastian had given me on the day of our first training session — the small one, with the wooden handle — but I'd left it somewhere in the woods behind the house, after the last time.

My father grabbed me by the hair.

The pain was immediate, burning. I screamed — or at least I tried to — but the sound died in my throat.

He dragged me inside, my small hands clawing at the doorframe, my knees slamming against the steps.

The stench of alcohol flooded my nose, so strong, so disgusting, that I felt a wave of nausea surge up my throat.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted someone to save me.

But my voice was completely gone, vanished, like someone had stolen it right out of me.

So I started crying silently, knowing full well it would only make him angrier. Warm tears running down my cheeks, dripping onto the worn wooden floor.

He threw me down like I was a bag of rags.

My small body hit the floor with a dull thud. Pain exploded through my back, through my hands that had tried to break the fall.

I looked up. He was looming over me, huge, threatening. His foot lifted.

He was about to kick.

I shut my eyes.

And time stopped.

When I opened them again, everything was different.

The light had changed — no longer golden but cold, silver, like moonlight instead of sun.

And he wasn't the only one there anymore.

Another figure stood tall above me, between me and my father.

Tall. Strong. Protective.

Dimithryus.

He held out his hand — a big hand, with long fingers and a scar across the back — to help me up.

I grabbed it without hesitation, my small fingers disappearing into his.

And it was like snapping back to reality all at once, like waking up from a dream inside another dream.

I wasn't a little girl anymore.

I wasn't eight years old.

I was tall, grown. My little blue dress was gone, replaced by... what was I wearing? I couldn't quite make it out.

We weren't in my old house in Romania anymore, with the white porch and the apple tree.

We were... where? Everything was blurry around the edges, like reality was sliding away.

And finally, I could scream.

All my pain came out in one desperate cry that tore through my throat. Tears exploded — years of tears, eight years of fear and rage and pain I'd never been able to let out.

I pressed my hands over my face, trying to muffle the terrible sound that kept pouring out of me, again and again and again.

Dimithryus pulled me close.

His arms wrapped around my trembling body. One hand on my back, the other in my hair. He rocked me gently, back and forth, the way you do with a frightened child.

— There's so much pain in you, dulceață.

His voice was different here — softer, almost sad. He breathed it into my hair, warm against my forehead.

— I don't understand. — I sniffled, genuinely confused by whatever was happening. Nothing made sense. — What... what's going on?

— It's a nightmare, Jolie. — He whispered slowly into my ear, his voice low and hypnotic. — Just a nightmare. Relax.

I melted into his arms, letting myself — just for a moment — feel safe.

I pressed my nose against his thin black t-shirt and breathed in deeply. Cedar. Bergamot. Something darker underneath, almost spiced. Good. So damn good.

— I don't like you. — I said, even as my fingers curled into his sides, gripping the fabric of his shirt. The gesture contradicted me immediately, shamelessly.

I felt his smile more than saw it.

— I know. — He smirked quietly, and the sound rumbled through his chest against my ear. — About as much as I don't like you.

I looked up at him then — lifted my head to meet his gray eyes.

And he smiled.

One of those smiles that short-circuited your brain before frying it completely. Warm. Genuine. Devastating.

He reached toward me — slowly, so slowly I could track every single millimeter.

His fingers traced the lines of my face with a gentleness that knocked the breath out of me. The line of my jaw. The curve of my cheek. The arch of my brow.

Touching me like I was something precious. Fragile.

— Now wake up. — He said, pulling away.

— Wait— — I reached for him, but he dissolved like smoke.

And everything faded.

---

I jolted awake, heart slamming in my chest.

For a moment I didn't know where I was. The room was wrong — too big, ceiling too high. Walls the wrong color.

Sebastian's place.

The memory came back slowly. The woods. The episode. Sebastian throwing me over his shoulder. Falling asleep on his couch.

I dragged my hands down my face, still warm from the dream. I could still feel it — Stan's smell, the sensation of his fingers on my skin, the heat of his body against mine.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But it had felt so real.

Familiar sounds drifted in from the kitchen — Sebastian moving around at the stove. The sound of a pan. The smell of eggs and toast.

I pulled myself off the couch, stretching. Every muscle protested. I was still in yesterday's clothes — the black training suit, now wrinkled and caked with dirt from the woods.

I went to the bathroom to wash my face and try to do something about my hair. The girl in the mirror looked like a disaster — dark circles, red eyes, hair going in every direction.

Perfect.

When I finally changed into the clean clothes Sebastian had left me — jeans and an oversized hoodie of his — I made my way to the kitchen.

Sebastian was at the stove, back turned, focused on scrambling eggs in a small pan. He had on gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. His copper hair was still messy from sleep.

— Seb. — I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. — Why didn't you wake me up? We have school today.

He didn't even turn around.

— Dragă. — He grabbed a spatula, stirring the eggs with practiced ease. — Danielle specifically ordered me to kidnap you and keep you here to avoid going.

— What?

— She's coming around ten. — He continued, glancing at the clock on the wall. — You two are going to go buy a dress for tomorrow night.

The dress. The ball. I'd completely forgotten.

Sebastian finally turned, shooting me a quick glance before going back to what he was doing.

— Morning to you too, blue eyes.

I looked at him for a long moment. He seemed normal — the usual Sebastian, easygoing and sarcastic. But there was something in his eyes, a subtle tension in his shoulders, that told me he was still thinking about yesterday.

About how I'd almost tried to kill him.

— Yeah, Sebastian. — I said, keeping my tone light. — I'm feeling better, don't worry. I know you were dying to ask.

I slipped past him, nudging him with my shoulder, and grabbed a piece of toast from the plate.

He smiled — small, but real.

— Good. Because if you'd said otherwise, I would've tied you to the couch until you went back to normal.

— Normal is overrated.

— Says the girl who turned a tree into a pincushion yesterday.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

For one second neither of us said anything.

Then we both burst out laughing — that nervous, almost hysterical laugh that comes when things are too serious to deal with any other way.

We had a big breakfast together — scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, orange juice.

Sebastian was genuinely a great cook. Every bite was perfect — eggs creamy but not too much, bacon crispy, toast golden just right.

— I have to admit — I said, popping the last piece of bacon into my mouth — your cooking skills are pretty impressive.

— Pretty? — He raised an eyebrow. — They're exceptional and you know it.

— Fine, fine. — I raised my hands in surrender. — Exceptional.

— Thank you. — He smiled, satisfied. — I'm good at a lot of things, you know.

— Way too full of yourself.

— Way too honest for my own good. — He corrected me.

I'd bet on it — he really was good at everything. Cooking, throwing knives, making me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry. Being the best friend a person could ever ask for.

After breakfast, Sebastian walked me home.

The ride was quiet — we talked about nothing in particular, carefully avoiding any mention of what had happened in the woods. It was like we'd made a silent agreement not to go there. At least not yet.

When we got to my apartment, I turned toward him before getting out.

— Seb.

— Yeah?

I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to say sorry. I wanted to tell him I was scared of myself, that I didn't know what was happening to me, that I needed help.

But instead I just said:

— Thanks for breakfast.

He smiled — that sad smile I knew too well.

— Always, dragă.

Back in my apartment, I had plenty of time to think while I got ready.

I took a long shower, letting the hot water work the tension out of my muscles. Then I sat in front of the mirror, working the knots out of my hair on autopilot.

And while I did, I thought about the dream.

Dimithryus had shown up in that horrible nightmare — one of the many that replayed my childhood, coming back again and again like ghosts that refused to die.

And he'd been my only anchor.

Why him? Why not Sebastian, or my mother, or anyone else?

I knew the dream wasn't real — obviously it wasn't. Stan had never been there. He'd never saved me from my father. He'd never held me while I cried.

But I could still feel it.

His fingers brushing my face. His chest rising and falling with his breath. His arms — so strong, so steady — holding me like nothing could hurt me as long as I was there.

I stared at my eyes in the mirror — flat, tired, confused.

I couldn't get it out of my head, how soft and gentle Stan had been with me in the dream. And that was exactly what made it feel more unreal — because he was anything but soft and gentle in real life.

He was cruel. Manipulative. Cold.

*"There's so much pain in you."*

But he'd said those words in the dream with a sadness that had felt... genuine.

And even though I knew better, I felt stupidly indebted to him for saving me.

In the dream. Only in the dream.

— You're an i***t, Jolie. — I told my reflection. — A complete i***t.

The reflection didn't answer, but it looked like it agreed.

The doorbell rang.

No.

Not the doorbell.

Fists on the door.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM

— JOLIE! OPEN UP!

Danielle.

I ran to open the door before she literally knocked it down.

— God, Danielle! — I huffed, letting her in. — There's a doorbell, you know.

My friend burst in like a hurricane, freezing cold, pulling her heavy coat tight around her shoulders. Her cheeks were red, her nose too. She was visibly shaking.

— Sorry, Jolie. — She shivered, teeth chattering. — But I seriously couldn't wait out there anymore. It's freezing!

— It's January, Dan. What did you expect?

— A little compassion from my best friend?

I gave her a look of fake offense, then sighed.

— Fine. Come in. I'm making you hot chocolate before you turn into an actual ice sculpture.

Danielle's eyes lit up.

— I love you.

— I know.

Ten minutes later, Danielle was on my couch with a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her hands, finally stopped shaking.

— Better? — I asked, sitting next to her with my own mug.

— Much. — She sipped it, closing her eyes. — Oh my God, this is the best thing I've ever had.

— It's just hot chocolate.

— It's hot chocolate made with love.

— It's hot chocolate made with powder mix and milk.

— Details. — She waved a hand.

We laughed, and for a moment everything felt normal. Like before the woods, before everything fell apart, before Stan and all the mess that came with him.

But then Danielle set down her mug and looked at me with those eyes full of excitement.

— So! — She clapped her hands together. — Are you ready?

— Ready for what?

— To go buy the most beautiful dress of your life, obviously!

Oh no.

— Dan, I'm not sure I—

She didn't let me finish. She literally grabbed my arm and yanked me off the couch.

— No excuses! — She said. — This ball is going to be incredible and you NEED the perfect dress!

— But I—

— NO!

She looked at me with such determination that I knew there was no winning this one.

I sighed, defeated.

— Fine. Fine. Let's go.

Danielle let out a shriek of joy, nearly knocking me over as she hugged me.

— It's going to be amazing! I promise!

Famous last words, I thought.

But I couldn't help smiling at her excitement.