Читать книгу Demon mentor. Crypt of the Seven Angels - Natalie Yacobson - Страница 5

Just a stick in her hands. Long and lightweight. The same as his. At first, Blaise thought Damian was joking about her. But his face was serious and in the semi-darkness it seemed somehow unusually focused. They walked in circles in some gloomy room, like an empty hall, and no one dared to strike first.

«Is it so difficult to fight someone with whom you could make love instead?» as if his eyes were mocking.

He probably would like something different now. His coldness was only external, behind it could be a fire. But she felt cold in the literal sense of the word. It was as if she had been frozen, and she became like a statue.

«Stronger hand, but not too strong,» he quietly admonished. «Imagine that the weapon is a part of you, whatever it is.»

«I can’t,» she meant that she couldn’t do what she personally thought was absurd, but he understood her in his own way.

«You can do anything, you just need to want.»

And again a moment of silence. They looked at each other, as if asking prices. Blaise did not slow down in a circle. They walked here like animals in a cage. And each either did not dare to attack first, or gave the other the opportunity to assess the situation.

For a moment she thought she saw right through Damian. It was a moment of feeling of some kind of absolute power over him, as if he was her puppet, and not a mentor. Everything was decided by the coldness in her. It was he who prevailed over the creature that entered this world to teach her.

But what about physical strength? Blaise was pretty sure Damian had it huge. But he wants her to defeat him. Not because he can succumb to her, but because in the end she will be stronger. Blaise had no idea how this could be achieved. But she wanted to be strong. Very strong. So strong that no one dared to attack her.

With her eyes, she appraised the enemy. Blue eyes sparkled dangerously from beneath ash brows, graceful fingers curling around the stick.

«Anything can be a weapon,» Damian taught her. «Anything you want to use as a weapon.»

Now it was time to move from words to action. But she did not dare. Although Damian had not for nothing brought her to this gloomy basement hall, where the ceiling, though propped up by a column, was enough free space to feel like on a training arena. Like in the ring. As in a vicious circle.

Blaise experienced all sensations at the same time. It was both the battlefield and the enchanted ring. Both physical strength and spiritual. Both realism and a fairy tale. She needed to combine two principles in herself to win: the present and the desired.

Although if the desire is too strong, it conquers everything around, even you. These were also Damian’s words. She wanted him not to be wrong. His parting words became her dark prayer. For a moment. She could no longer pray either to God or to the angels who did not answer her. Only strength.

«Come on, bolder,» he finally encouraged.

And she attacked. A couple of hits. The stick clinked on the stick. Blaise suddenly felt the power that even such a simple weapon in her hand gives. Even it can become overwhelming. Damian had explained to her the general techniques of this type of fighting a few minutes ago, and she tried to practice. Pretty good. He praised her mentally. She could almost hear. And she liked the very feeling that she was doing it. Fights! Then at the decisive moment, when her family was being killed, she could not, but now everything worked out. It’s too late. It’s too late. She seemed to rise from the grave to do what she could not before.

Determination, concentration, accuracy. That’s all she needs. And to hell with empty prayers to the angels. Blaise finally felt like herself. There is nothing to believe and pray for, you can just pick up something simple like this stick and feel yourself in battle as if your wings really opened up behind you.

Everything was going well. Even fine, but suddenly she felt like she was trying to take a breath underwater. Her throat was tight. The room they fought in was not a crypt, but Blaise felt as if the insistent wings of marble angels were flapping over her. The feeling is from a dream, not from life, but it has never been so real, even there, in the crypt. It seemed that one of the marble statues had come off the pedestal right now and was trying to wrap it in its crushing embrace. For just a moment, Blaise lost control of herself, and the stick slid past, hitting Damian across the face.

He swore. It seems she nearly knocked out his eye. She, too, accidentally touched herself with the other end of the stick, and now there was an abrasion on her cheek.

Did Damian sense the presence of the marble creature nearby? She did not dare to ask him about it.

«How do you?»

«Nothing.»

For a moment, she noticed a large abrasion above Damian’s eyebrow, but a thick bang almost immediately fell on it.

«It heals quickly on me,» he boasted. «So don’t be shy and don’t lose control of yourself.»

He lightly touched her shoulder, and the feeling of pressing marble embrace immediately disappeared. There was only an unpleasant sediment from them, as if they tried to freeze or drown her in the cold ocean, but they could not. The touch of his hand was warm, and alive, and quite pleasant. This is what people call friendly support. Blaise stood motionless for a minute. She didn’t know what struck her more: dark illusions about the angels from the crypt or a completely unexpected reaction to physical contact with him.

She noticed that the abrasion on his forehead had really disappeared somewhere, or it was impossible to see it in the semi-darkness. Blaise didn’t even ask him why they were learning to fight in the semi-darkness: because of the lack of electricity in this old building, or because of the danger that someone might notice them here. It was better not to ask questions about which she did not want to think at all. There was too much to watch out for. Until… Until she learns to stand up for herself. The first lesson seems to have failed.

The oppressive sensation of marble statues where they are not and cannot be instead of the usual crypt, slightly warped her.

«Did you feel it too?» she finally decided to ask, looking around the room in search of something unusual left of them.

«Pain?» He grinned, running his hand over his forehead.

«Cold,» she prompted. «Grave cold.»

Damian stopped smiling.

«There’s a cemetery not far from here,» he explained. «A very old cemetery, if that’s what you mean.»

«I am not talking about that.»

Blaise shook her head stubbornly, and luxurious blonde strands fell over her eyes. She pulled her long hair into a ponytail so that it would not get in the way during class, but it got in the way anyway. The wild, silky strands were so rebellious. She would have cut them, but Damian would not let her. Taking the scissors from her hands, he began to whisper to her some biblical nonsense about the power of Samson, hidden in her hair, and about the consequences of cutting them, drawing frightening associations between her and him. And then the scissors disappeared somewhere. True, they were already stupid. In general, there were not so many things left in this old house, and almost all of them were unsuitable for the household. In any case, Blaise could cut her hair with a knife, but Damian managed to intimidate her. She remembered that she really hadn’t cut her hair in a very long time, because it seemed to her that this should not be done. Or it was his words that had such a narcotic power on her. They were intoxicating like sweet poison. All barriers were destroyed. He said that she would fight with truly masculine dignity, and she started to get it out.

It’s a shame that the golden hair, which had grown below the waist, was a good omen by which she could be recognized in the crowd. No one else has such luxurious hair. And she is the heiress of de Rozier. The only survivor of all the heirs. Only her inheritance has most likely already been divided among others.

«The cold that follows you from the crypt will disappear by itself if you stop going there,» Damian said finally.

«I don’t go,» she snapped.

«Mentally, you are there.»

He was right. She had nothing to say to that.

Blaise turned sullenly away from him. It still seemed to her that an angel was hiding behind one of the surrounding columns, chilling everything around her and embittered by the fact that she had thrown him there, in the crypt with his brothers.

The hand still gripping the stick began to shake slightly.

«They rob you of your strength, they don’t give you. Forget them, «whispered her strange friend, leaning low to Blaise’s face as if for a kiss.

«I can’t,» the words escaped her lips with difficulty. She wasn’t surprised how he even knew about them. After all, he, like anyone else, could have followed her when she went to the crypt. Then it’s strange why the vagabonds haven’t made a shelter for themselves in it. If it’s so easy to get in, anyone can sleep there. However, falling asleep there, among the statues and graves, last night, Blaise somehow felt completely safe. Every time she came there, she knew that no one slept there anymore, did not even go there. The statues seemed to be guarding their space. But sleeping among them turned out to be a terrible test. If she had somewhere else to go, she would never have stayed there overnight. She was still scared.

They said that over time this feeling goes away. As a child, she and her brother even tried to spend the night there to check…

Blaise shook her head again. There is nothing to remember about the past. The tangled labyrinth of memories led her only to new pain, because all the paths in it led to the center – the evening when she was killed. They killed in the literal sense of the word, because after the experience she had ceased to be herself.

And no angels from the crypt intervened in all this. So is it worth believing in them? Or is it better to trust Damian? But he had never said that they were not there. He just said that it is better not to think about them. And these are different things.

Curiously, if you look into his eyes and ask him directly, does he have the courage to say they don’t exist?

«Learn to be invincible,» he whispered softly. «Do not think about anything that can provoke defeat. Just don’t think and that’s it. Close your mind to them.»

And his whisper seemed fiery again.

In this darkness, there was no one but the two of them. Rivals. Accomplices. Lovers? If he becomes her lover, will those seven in the crypt leave her?

The inner cold prevailed again. The thought of love and intimacy triggered a memory of abuse. About the knife that was brought to her face. He wanted what the attackers wanted from her yesterday, and Blaise involuntarily winced. How easy it is to cripple a person psychologically. Yesterday she knew what love is, today it was a feeling that locked in a cage and, in general, disgusting. She imagined how he felt and felt a slight contempt for him.

That’s all, marble closed around her. She is a statue herself. And if she becomes alive again, then she will die from the wounds inflicted on her. Therefore, it is better to remain stone, even if it offends someone. Life decided for her.

And the mind stubbornly returned to the gloomy crypt for help to them. Those who have already refused it. Damian was right. We must forget about them. Belief in them makes her weaker. But Blaise couldn’t. Childhood’s beliefs that they were there were still too strong. They cannot be eradicated. They are rooted in the soul along with family traditions. Angels must come to life for the descendants of one family. So why are they marble?

After all, she’s not a foundling. And not a changeling brought in by faeries to replace a stolen child. She is no stranger to her family. She’s definitely from Rosier. If she cannot inherit material wealth, then the bloody and accursed heritage in the crypt belongs only to her. No one else would dare to claim it. A curse is a curse. But it did not touch her. How did it happen?

Blaise was tormented by reflections. Damian still leaned towards her, as if this closeness helped him read her mind. And his expression turned grim.

Blaise tried to pull away.

«Is there a clock in this house?» She asked casually.

«Why do we need them?» He also moved slightly away.

Blaise looked down at her feet. The round floor, lined with lines and symbols, somehow reminded her of a dial. You need to count the columns, probably twelve. Before the fight. They moved in a circle like the hands of a clock, and there was something inexorable about it. Like time. Like fate.

«I want to know how much time is left before revenge.» In fact, she wanted to count how long the angels would be silent and sum up the crushing results.

«Then leave serifs in your mind,» he threw down the stick and wanted to go, but, having reached the columns at the exit, for some reason turned around.

«Do you know how many there are?»

Blaise shook her head.

«Thirteen.»

«In honor of the devil’s number?»

«No, in honor of twelve o’clock in the afternoon,» said Damian.

«Then why thirteen?» Her voice sounded in the empty dark space, like a faint golden echo.

«One of them symbolizes something that doesn’t seem to exist. The thirteenth hour, which is not taken into account by people, but which is in order to admit into this world those who are called from the other side by your desire to get to know them. Creatures like me. Pure thirteen is just right for us. The thirteenth hour, which is not there, but it is there for us to come. The thirteenth year in the calendar of signs would be the year of the demon or angel you call… that’s up to you. Which wings are better: light or black. Thirteenth day…»

He stood far away, but she felt the touch of his hand on her cheek, as if he were near. A teasing touch.

«This circle is for me…»

Damian laughed devilishly.

«Are you kidding? Or do you want to intimidate me?»

«What do you think yourself? He suddenly became serious.»

Blaise looked around. It no longer seemed to her that marble angels were hiding behind the columns. Such a feeling could only be an illusion.

«It’s too early to think,» she said suddenly and firmly. «I will think about it when you teach me everything you promised. Then the time will come to evaluate you.»

He nodded, acknowledging her conclusion. And he didn’t even repeat:

«Remember the contract.»