Possessed hearts

Морион Анна

Brandon looked at me intently.

– Where was this picture taken and when? – He asked.

– Ten years ago. In Prague. The girl seemed picturesque, so I decided to take a snap of her. I didn't think you'd be so attracted to a photograph of a mortal," I told him in a sweet tone.

– I don't want that picture. I need something else.

I grinned wryly. I thought there was something odd about his phrasing. Like a confession.

"Something else." If he didn't want the photograph as a work of art, did that mean he bought it back just because I made it?

No. No way.

– Frankly, I have little interest in your motives, Brandon. But now that we're done, I'll leave you to it. – I rose from my chair, tossed my hair carelessly over my shoulder, and picked up my clutch.

– 'And it was because of your indifference that you called me with this question?

– Oh, you intrigue me terribly. But not today.

– I wouldn't be so sure.

– Or maybe you just like to question my indifference? – I said sweetly.

– Is this the only copy? – Brandon suddenly asked in a cold tone.

– Yes.

– Where's the picture you showed to Attick?

– He has it. As agreed. Bye, Brandon. You're a pleasure to do business with. – I winked playfully at him and walked slowly, beautifully and smoothly out of the restaurant.

It wasn't until I left the hotel that I allowed myself to squeeze my eyes shut. For a few seconds. Banish this conversation. This meeting.

He knows. About me. Knows my secret.

But he reacted with complete indifference. I can breathe a sigh of relief.

And yet. The fact that I was seen with mortals by two witnesses is disturbing. Two? Maybe more? Shit. We have to be careful.

Five minutes. Five minutes, but it was an eternity.

Get out! Get out of here!

"I need Adam," I thought.

But this time, if I do find him… I'll kill him. I'll kill his light form.

I needed to kill.

Kill. Something pure. A light.

Adam.

But I didn't find him that night.

Back at the hotel, devastated, angry and nervous, I called the airport to buy tickets.

To escape. Out of this city where Brandon Avery Grayson reigns supreme.

But as I clutched my phone, sitting in the chair in my expensive suite, I realised. The truth had hit me: I had no one to fly to.

Misha is with Fredrik, and he won't be happy to see me.

My parents. No. They have their own lives.

Mariszka and Markus… Yes, ha ha ha! You bet!

Mscislav… I don't even know where he is or what he's doing.

Martin.

I dialled my older brother's number. He answered after four seconds. I counted.

– I'm coming to see you. On tonight's flight. Where are you? Meet me at the airport.

A minute later, a night flight to Gdansk was bought. One way.

CHAPTER 6

It's about one o'clock in the morning.

Martin and I are sitting on a wooden bench facing the sea, overlooking a narrow but picturesque bay full of ships, old-looking yachts and boats. On the other side of the bay, to which a wide paved bridge connects us, shine the bright red glowing letters of an advert near the roof of a low building. The lights of the waterfront are reflected in the dark water. The lifeless glow of the streetlights. The quiet noise made by the few mortals left here in the late hours pales against the beauty of this evening. The sound of the waves caresses the ear. Somewhere on another street, a street musician is playing, making a living by singing and playing guitar. But he has a good voice. Strong. Solid. It's nice to hear him in duet with the splash of the sea.

Martin met me at the airport. But I didn't stay in his flat. I went to the nearest hotel, because this time I didn't care where and in what conditions I would spend the few hours when I would come to my room just to change my clothes.

It's one o'clock in the morning and I'm sitting in the centre of an old Polish town looking out over the bay.

Just a couple of days ago, I couldn't imagine spending the night like this. Just sitting on a bench. Next to my brother.

We don't speak. Martin, my dear brother, has always understood me like no one else. Only with him can I be myself. One hundred per cent. With Misha – sixty, because she mustn't know me as I am. With my parents, maybe seventy-five. With Mariszka and Mscislav, maybe eighty. No. Seventy-nine. When I was with Fredrik, I let myself be ninety per cent me. Only Martin knew me inside and out. Only with him could I really relax, discover all sides of my multifaceted character. A break from compromising my nature for the sake of others. He didn't ask me why I'd come here. He just met me at the airport and drove me to the hotel. We made an appointment and parted ways.

We met. We sit. We don't talk. He doesn't ask anything. And it's beautiful. I couldn't lie right now. Not to him, not to myself. But I don't want anyone, not even Martin, to know what I'm hiding. It's too humiliating. My shame and my ruin.

But maybe I should try. Tell him everything? Maybe I'd carry the burden a little easier if I shared it with Martin.

– How long have you been talking to your parents? – I finally broke our cosy silence.

– A couple of days ago. Are you going to have an exhibition? – Martin leaned back on the bench and looked at me.

I had no doubt that he was already aware. As were all the Mroczeks, though. The whole clan.

– Yes. In three weeks. I want to see you at the opening. – I turned round to face him, one leg tucked under me. Good thing I was wearing jeans and sneakers.

Sneakers. That's a red flag. I don't tolerate athletic shoes or shoes without heels. But today I was so sick of what had happened in London that my soul needed a change. So I bought sneakers. In the nearest shop. For seventy zlotys. The most ordinary black sneakers with long black laces, which I hid inside.

But the sneakers weren't the worst part. Something more frightening happened: today I didn't wear a single gram of make-up. I wear make-up even when I don't go out. There are days like that – when I'm heavily engaged in my work that requires the use of photoshop. And today I looked like a teenager. Sneakers, jeans, plaid red shirt.

How come Martin doesn't make fun of me? He's probably being delicate and pretending not to notice the dissonance. And he's different from the Martin who's always sitting in the office. Used to. Now he lives in this small town, where he opened a small restaurant with Eastern European cuisine. So now he looks like an ordinary but too good-looking mortal. Grey jeans, white T-shirt with the inscription "Greetings from Gdansk", white trainers. Not different from a mortal student. The only thing that distinguished Martin and me from the mortals around us was the absence of autumn jackets or jumpers or anything to protect ourselves from the cold September night. Windless and bright. But bright not because of the moon – it was hiding behind the clouds. It was the dead light of the streetlamps.