Sarah's hands remained on my face, her delicate fingers
tracing the intricate lines and seams of my inhuman visage.
Her touch was clinical, yes, but there was also something
else, curiosity, fascination. She leaned in slightly, her eyes
narrowing as though she were examining the fine details of
an ancient artifact. After a silence that seemed to stretch
beyond the confines of the mortal breath, Sarah spoke — her
voice, a quiet balm against the turbulence of my mind.
"Hey… wanna come in?" she asked, her tone serene, as if the
world outside her words could not intrude. "In?" I echoed,
the syllable escaping my lips in awkward disbelief. She
nodded softly, her gaze unwavering and unafraid, as if my
monstrous visage were but a passing shadow she had long
since grown accustomed to. "I'm… kinda hungry," she said,
with that disarming simplicity, "if you want to help me cook
something." I hesitated. Me, fumbling with pots and pans, a
creature better suited for ruin than recipes, and yet, there
she stood, her calm tethering me to something faintly
human. "…Yeah. Sure," I admitted, my voice betraying
reluctant honesty. "I'm not that good at cooking, really." Still,
she merely smiled and said, "Come on." I followed her to the
door. She pushed it open with a grace that made the gesture
seem ritualistic, almost sacred. "Come in," she beckoned. And
so I did.
The house greeted me not with grandeur, but with the quiet
beauty of simplicity. Modest walls, their pale hues warmed
by the golden light of the outside. A wooden table, scarred
and worn, spoke of years spent gathering moments rather
than wealth. The faint scent of lavender clung to the air, the
ghost of some long-ago perfume, perhaps hers. My eyes
wandered to a small painting resting on the mantel, and
there she was: Sarah, captured in youth. And though I have
never held fondness for children — oh, the endless clamor,
the chaos they trail behind them — this child was an
exception. Sarah, even then, was radiant. A woman held her
in the portrait, blonde hair framing a gentle face, grey eyes
like storm clouds breaking for the sun. Surely, her mother.
Beside her stood a tall man in black, but his face was
obscured by some smear upon the glass, leaving his features
veiled, unknowable. "My mother passed away when I was
just little," Sarah's voice came from behind me — softer now,
almost breaking. I turned to her, listening as she continued,
the words unspooling like an old wound she'd learned to live
with. "She was ill… very ill. My dad and everyone else could
not help her. It all started from the moment of my birth. I felt
it was my fault — that I was cursed somehow. But my dad
loved me… loved me as much as my mom did. They said I had
a healing touch." Her lips curved in a bittersweet smile,
though there was sorrow there too. "It was ironic, honestly…
to me, at least. But they said it, and so — I decided to be a
doctor. To prove their word true."
She finished, and the silence that followed was heavy, yet
not empty. I think I understood her then, why she could look
upon me, upon this thing I had become, without recoil. She
too had been branded by fate. She too had felt the whisper of
being forsaken. Yet unlike me, she had been loved, fiercely,
unconditionally by those who should have loved her. She had
been shown that the world could be held, mended, healed.
Whereas I… I do not know who the hell my father even was.
My mother, when she was present, was as tough as stone,
and the world? It has done little more than grind me into
dust. And now, a demon, a specter claiming to be my true
mother has shackled herself to my existence. My thoughts
were broken by her voice again, gentle, apologetic. "Hey…
sorry if I rambled for too long." "No, no, it's fine, really," I
said, shaking the fog of my bitterness from me. "I just… hope
you and your father are doing better now." She smiled then.
And goodness me… that smile. It was a blade, but not one of
pain, a cut that laid me open, struck some deeper, softer part
of me. Every movement she made was precise in its
unintentional cruelty, every glance an assault on my
defenses. Sarah was, in the strangest and most unearthly
way, beautiful. Everything about her was dangerously
lovable. "Hey, Adam… you okay?" she asked. For a moment, I
was hypnotized by her — caught, ensnared like a moth in
unseen webs. "Oh — yeah. Yeah," I said, the word clumsy in
my mouth. She tilted her head. "Shall we begin?" "…Sure," I
breathed.
The kitchen was small, almost fragile in its simplicity, yet
she moved within it like a composer, orchestrating every
step with quiet precision. Sarah's hands glided across the
counter, her sleeves brushing the wood, every motion
deliberate yet effortless. She stirred, reached, and turned
with a grace that made even the mundane feel sacred.
I found myself… watching her. Her hair caught the faint light
of the hanging lamp, strands shifting like threads of gold and
ash. Her eyes were focused, but her expression serene, the
kind of face one could trust when the world itself became
untrustworthy. My thoughts betrayed me, drifting into
dangerous places. She's the only one, I realized, the only soul
who could look at me and not flinch. The only one I could
trust. Then, with a jolt, I hissed under my breath, "Focus,
dammit." But the discipline slipped. My eyes fell upon the
raw meat set aside on the table — dark, glistening — and
something primal, feral, stirred within me. The scent was
faint, but it ignited memory: the taste of blood, that
forbidden ecstasy, came rushing back with crushing clarity.
It wasn't simply nourishment — it was revelation, madness,
divinity condensed into crimson drops. I clenched my fists,
nails digging into my palms. "Not again…" I muttered. "I
don't want this again." But the thought — the hunger —
clawed and clawed, refusing to leave. Then I heard her voice,
close, almost curious "You want this, right?" I turned. My
breath stopped.
Sarah had just sliced her palm — the knife slipping or
perhaps guided, I couldn't tell. Her blood welled up in perfect
scarlet beads, dripping down her wrist, painting her skin like
some ritual offering. I froze — utterly stunned. "Sarah?
What? Why?" My voice cracked under the weight of panic
and dread. "Don't do this, please." But she only looked at me,
calm as the tide, her eyes unyielding. "Trust me, Adam. It
won't be easy… unless you feed on it." The hunger howled in
me then, like a beast freed from its cage, thrashing at the
edges of my control. "No — no! I'm not a monster!" I
staggered back, my own voice sounding alien in my ears. "I
won't—" "You must." Her words cut sharper than the blade
had. "Please, Adam. Trust me, okay? It'll be worse if you don't
have some blood." Her tone — soft, pleading — broke
through me. I stared at her, my mind a tempest of refusal and
inevitability. Every betrayal I'd endured, every hollow
promise, every hand that had pushed me down rather than
lifted me — all of it burned through me. And yet, she stood
there, wounded for me. The truth was cruelly simple: I had
no one else. No one to trust. No one to anchor me. No one but
her. My breath trembled. My resolve cracked. And then… I
gave in. I stepped forward. The monster within, no longer
chained but not fully unleashed, guided me. "Sarah…" I
whispered, a plea, a warning, and a surrender in one breath.
I lowered my mouth to her hand, to that crimson wound, and
sank my teeth into her skin. The blood came.
But... It wasn't the crude, iron-stained sustenance I remembered.
No, this was… different. It tasted like liquid dawn — sunlight
distilled and darkened, warmth laced with some ancient cold. Each
drop was an aria, a hymn sung by something older than the world.
It was beautiful — divine. It coursed through me not as mere
blood, but as revelation — and with every swallow, a truth
unfurled within me. I understood then, beyond doubt, why Sarah
had never flinched, why she gazed upon me and saw not a
monster. Because she was not human. She had never been human.
She was something more. And with her blood still on my tongue, I
wondered — with fear, awe, and something dangerously close to
longing — just how much more she truly was. I turned my gaze
upon Sarah — fear creeping unbidden into my voice. "Sarah?" She
met my stare with unshaken calm. "Yes… you and I are on the
same page, Adam." Her words lingered like smoke. "I am not
human," she admitted, voice unflinching. "I… well, I still don't
know what role I play in the grand scheme of things. My mother
died because I was too strong for her. She was human — and inside
her, I fed on her blood, her energy. My influence left a mark on
her… a wound my father could not heal, despite who he truly is."
The weight of her confession hung in the room, and then — From
nowhere, like the whisper of a ghost given flesh, Nasira appeared.
Her voice dripped with realization. "I knew it. You are Michael's
daughter." Sarah turned, neither startled nor frightened, only
resigned. "I figured you knew that the moment you looked at me."
"Yes," Nasira replied, her tone sharp but softened by the faintest
trace of nostalgia. "You look like him a lot." I blinked — shock
rippling through me like cold water.
"Wait… wait, what?! You can see her?" Sarah nodded, as
casually as if we'd discussed the weather. "Yeah. From the
beginning." Nasira's eyes glinted — unreadable. "Well… I'll
leave you two alone. Have a great time, I guess." And with
that, she dissolved into the air, her presence fading like a
phantom dream. "She seems upset," Sarah said, frowning
slightly. "Who is she really? I hear her with you all the time.
Friend of yours?" I hesitated, words thick on my tongue.
"Well… maybe she's the reason for what I've become." Sarah's
brow arched, but her tone remained light. "You don't seem to
like each other. Why is that?" "Sarah! the meat!" Her eyes
widened. "Oh!" She spun, quickly snapping off the oven. A thin
curl of smoke trailed upward from the pan. "Well… uhm…" she
said sheepishly, "hope you like it a bit crunchy?" I smirked
despite myself. "I actually kinda like it this way." We sat. We
ate. And for a moment — a strange, stolen moment — I almost
forgot the shadows we both carried. I thought of telling her
everything. About Nasira. About the dreams. About the name
that echoes endlessly in my head. But just as I gathered the
words, I saw something hurtling toward me. A spoon. Sarah's
hand. "You should try that one," she said, holding out a bite of
her cooking. I froze, my face heating like I'd been caught in
some childish embarrassment. 'Didn't I just hug her? Didn't I
drink her blood? And now I'm shy about a spoonful of stew?
Get a grip, Adam…' I took the bite. And as I expected it was
incredible.
Flavor blossomed like some ancient spell breaking open on my
tongue. "Sarah… that was amazing," I said, and the words felt too
small for the sensation. Then — that smile. That same unbearable,
piercing smile of happiness. I wanted to leap from the window
and simply fly — if only to escape the weight of how much that
smile made me feel. I swallowed the lump in my throat, eager to
return the gesture. I scooped up a spoonful of the food I'd cooked
— or rather, the thing I'd vaguely assembled and hoped would not
kill us — and held it out to her. "Here, try th—" I stopped. 'Was I
really sure mine tasted good? Or would this concoction make flies
— the trash-lovers of the earth — drop dead from a single whiff?' I
began to retract my hand. "Actually, not that on—" But Sarah had
already leaned forward, unbothered, and took the bite. I stared in
horror. 'Rest in peace, Sarah. It was great knowing you.' She
chewed. She swallowed. And then — "Adam…" she said, her
expression shifting into something startlingly sincere. "…Can you
teach me how you cooked this?" I blinked. "What?! You… liked
that?" She smiled again, brighter this time. "I loved it. I really did."
I fumbled for words, stunned. "I… I don't even know how I cooked
it. It was just a simple dish, you know, I—" I stopped again,
distracted by the sight of her — so focused on the food I'd made,
as if my questionable creation were a rare delicacy. Had I
discovered her weakness? Sarah, for all her elegance, for all her
otherworldly poise… was a food worm? She was that type of
person. And yet her look betrayed none of it — she was slim,
perfectly in shape. 'Am I a pervert for noticing?' …Yeah. I think I
am. But still — I decided to give her more of my food. "Here," I
said, handing her another spoonful. "I'm truly happy that you
liked it."
As I held out another spoonful, Sarah took it with that serene
ease of hers — but this time, she paused. Her eyes lingered on me,
then softened… and a quiet chuckle slipped from her lips.
I frowned, caught off guard. "What?" Sarah tilted her head, a
mischievous glint breaking through her calm. "Your new face," she
said. "When you smile… you look like a kitten." I stared at her,
certain I'd misheard. "…A kitten?" She nodded, stifling another
laugh. "Here, look. You make the cat's mouth when you smile." She
handed me a mirror. I took one glance, forced the faintest grin, and
recoiled. "God dammit, what is this? Really?" Before I could
process the humiliation further, she was suddenly behind me —
and with some sleight of hand, she placed a ridiculous little
headband on me. Two black cat ears. Perched on my skull.
"Perfect," she declared. I was offended — deeply. And yet… It's
Sarah. How can I be offended? I looked at my reflection again. This
time, I grinned wider. The absurdity hit me, and for the first time
in a long while… I laughed. We both did. For that fleeting moment,
the pain, the hunger, the centuries of shadow — all of it lifted. But I
could not let the reprieve blind me. I could not ignore the answers
I needed. After we finished eating, we drifted into the quiet routine
of cleaning dishes. Water ran. The clink of porcelain filled the
silence. And then, as the bubbles thinned and plates stacked, I
asked, almost too casually, about the dream. The constant one. The
pregnant divine figure — and the human holding her by chains.
She froze for half a breath, her hand still holding the cloth. "Oh…"
she said, her voice different now. "Have you… heard about
Nasira?" The name hit me like ice-water. My blood ran cold — of
course I knew her. She's been tethered to me since the beginning.
"…Continue," I urged.
Sarah leaned against the counter, her eyes narrowing in
thought. "Well… I'm not a history enthusiast like you," she
said lightly, "but from what I know… Nasira was a bird. No,
not a normal one. An angel. A phoenix." I hung on every
word. "She was strong. Too strong. Strong enough that she
had to be tamed… by taming herself. Her maker — a Greek
god, I think. I don't know much—" "Hermes?" I cut in, the
name tumbling out like a curse. Sarah nodded. "Yeah. Him.
He was her creator. But… she tore off her own wings. And so
Hermes was in control." I didn't breathe. I didn't want her to
stop. "Is there more?" Sarah nodded slowly. "Hermes
wasn't… well, he wasn't a good person. A trickster. Nasira
didn't like her father being that way — so she stopped taking
off the wings. She tamed herself by choice, not by force. And
eventually… she ran off. Left her father to fall to his own evil
deeds." Her voice softened, a shadow of pity creeping in.
"Then, years later, she found someone she thought was
human. His name was Mihail — son of someone whose name
I don't know. But he and his father… they were beyond
terrible. Poor Nasira. Always caught in webs of evil." Sarah's
eyes lowered. "She loved him. She decided to choose her new
master. And oh… what a mistake that was. Being married to
a vampire." My breath stilled. "A vampire?" I thought of
myself. Of Sarah. "Do vampires exist?" I asked aloud, though
the answer stood before me. "Of course," she replied simply.
"Here you are. Here I am. Yet you are... kinda different
looking." Her voice hardened slightly.
"Mihail tricked her. Used her powers for himself. But then
comes his son… his son was something else. He feared him.
Because the boy wasn't just a vampire. He was a nephilim."
I blinked, my mind turning over the name. "Nephilims…
spawns of angels," she explained. "And he feared him, because
he would be stronger. Too strong." She looked at me then, her
tone suddenly sharper. "Nasira, Mihail and their son are still
alive today. Mihail has great power at his disposal." A thought
slammed into my mind like a hammer as I noticed the
president on the TV. "Don't tell me this Mihail guy is the same
Mihail — the president." Sarah's eyes met mine. "You got it." I
felt my stomach twist, but I pressed on. "Well… continue. His
son's name — and what else happened?" Sarah shook her head.
"The son is unknown to me. Really. But my dad knows every
detail. That's where I got most of the info." She smirked faintly
then, almost wry. "Also… did you know Mr. President doesn't
like me that much?" I blinked. "Why? You're strong, aren't
you?" "Pretty much," she said lightly, "but I don't really show it.
That's how I stay hidden. He's looking for me. I can feel it. Like
I'm always being searched for. Always being… watched."
The moment she said the word watched, something inside me
coiled. That feeling — that damn feeling. Invisible eyes. Always
there. Always staring. She tilted her head, studying my face.
"You feel that too?" "Yes," I admitted, the word heavy. "I do.
Apparently, our senses are… alerting us." I swallowed, unease
creeping in. "Hey, Sarah… could you please lead me to the
bathroom?" "Sure," she said softly, already moving.
The bathroom mirror was small, it showed me more than
mere reflection. I stood before it, the water running, my hands
and face wet with its cool sting. My eyes met their own image —
my new or perhaps my real visage. I stared at it. At myself. At
what I had become. And in that stagnant room, with the quiet
hum of water and my own ragged breath, I thought. About
everything. Every moment, every cruel twist, every detail that
led me here, piecing together fragments of truth like broken
glass in my hands. The eyes. Those damn, invisible eyes.
Watching. Always watching. I understood now — they were my
senses, screaming louder than any human ear could hear. A
primal instinct thrumming beneath my skin, telling me: You
are not human. You are something more. More animal than
man. More predator than prey. Perhaps those eyes were not
just phantoms of instinct. Perhaps they were agents. Sent by
Mihail. Waiting, lurking, ensuring that I remained docile.
Ensuring I stayed human enough — never unlocking whatever
potential simmers in my blood like a sleeping god. Because I
can feel it — that my potential is not yet complete. Nasira. She
calls me her son. I doubted it once — scoffed at the notion. But
now… with all I know… Perhaps she is right. But if she is my
mother — if she is truly what she claims — then who was the
woman I called "mother" all these years? Was that memory
loss? Or… some kind of brain reboot? Was she something else —
a spy sent by Mihail to oversee the Pandora's Box he thinks I
am? A caretaker… or a warden… to keep the lock from ever
opening?
And Nasira herself… Why does she feel more demon
than angel? Was it Mihail's corrupting touch, his poison
seeping into her wings, her radiance, until only shadow
remained? And then Mihail. The president. Him. Out of
everyone… I almost laughed. "Yeah, yeah," I muttered to
myself. "What else did I expect?" Is this some kind of
Illuminati nonsense? A web spun to control the masses,
to pull the strings of all mankind? No. No, this isn't some
grand net over society. This feels… personal. Too
personal. Like all of creation has turned its gaze, its
scrutiny, its judgment… upon my head. An order made
solely to watch me. Am I overthinking this? Maybe. But
something in my blood tells me I'm not. I'm getting
close. So close. Mihail is a vampire. And his father… his
father too. That name, Mihail it stirred something from
my education, from scraps of history. A name that
whispered alongside another. Vampire. Mihail. My
thoughts turned darker still. Is his father… could it be…
Vlad the Third? Dracula himself? Could his son,
immortal now, truly be the President of the United
States? It's absurd. It's insane. Like some terrible cliché
of a TV show's "spooky" villain come to life. But after
everything I've seen… everything I've become… I
cannot be surprised by anything.
And if Mihail is Nasira's husband… Then yes. The truth is
clear now. Too clear. I felt bile rise in my throat as the thought
crawled into my mind, poisonous and vile. The thought that he,
that Mihail. That the president, that smug, cursed, immortal
bastard. Was my father. The words made me sick. I would
rather drown in acidic waters, burn in their abyss for five
hundred years than accept that thought as truth. But my
thoughts kept turning. Kept darkening. And then, those damn
words again — like scripture mocking me. "God tests His
creations." If this is His test… It is pure, unrelenting unfairness.
Why didn't He ease it? Why didn't He intervene? My faith
frayed, tearing at its seams. I still believed He existed. But I no
longer believed in His justice. "Well then," I whispered to the
mirror, my reflection staring back like an unblinking judge.
"This is my life. And none of it is God's concern." "To hell with it
all." I stared at myself — at my teeth, my eyes, the dark veins of
hunger threading beneath the skin. "I am a vampire, right?" A
creature of darkness. Forsaken by all that is holy. "It is what it
is…" I gripped the edges of the sink, water dripping from my
fingers like blood. "If God exists…" I bared my teeth — a smile,
or a threat, or perhaps both. "Then I shall be His opposite."
As above, so below. I whispered the phrase, letting it weigh the
air down like ash. "And I will stick to that," I swore to my own
reflection, "until I am proven wrong." I waited for guilt. For
hesitation. For doubt. None came. Only the steady drip of water.