The foreboding throbbing of a headache builds up in my nape as I reverse my car and head back home.
The first stars glimmer over the deserted road, when diverse lights start blinking on the dashboard. I expected my tiny twenty-year-old Honda to abandon me one day, but does it have to be here? There are only trees around, and calling a tow truck would cost me a fortune. I decide to press on, when the car starts making terrifying noises, like a dying creature taking its last breath. I manage to pull over on an overgrown side road just as the engine light comes on, and my loyal ride since college dies on me.
Great. It’s already dark, and there are no other cars on this lonely highway. The thin moon mocks me from the indigo sky, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
Well, Celeste, you’ve been through worse! I try to cheer myself up and pull out my cell phone. Why am I not surprised when I see no signal on the screen? As if this mishap has been perfectly orchestrated by some higher power, to what purpose, I do not know.
I step out and open the hood, the crisp autumn wind throwing a handful of leaves in my face. The universe is set to ridicule me tonight, I note, while examining the motor with my cell phone flashlight. The fresh, inky air thickens around me, shadows stretching bony hands from the trees, and I shudder. Night birds of prey commence their lonely calls, like lost souls searching for direction. Slowly, a foreboding creeps into my gut. Something will happen, I’m sure of it, and it won’t be something pleasant. My instincts tell me it won’t be a story I’ll tell Jasmin about and laugh. I snuggle in my beige raincoat, bracing myself for whatever’s is coming.
Then I hear the sound of a motorcycle approaching, and before I can wave them to stop, the leather-clad rider pulls over and dismounts the powerful machine. He must have seen the emergency lights of my car on the overgrown side road.
Oh my God, how tall is he? Icy terror floods my belly when he approaches, walking with the casual grace of an athlete. Without realizing it, I take a step back, away from this stranger that I know in my guts will do anything but help. I lose sight of the reflection of my horrified face in his black visor as he removes his helmet.
How many pills did I take again? And was their effect supposed to last this long?
White, shoulder-length hair, halfway up, tied in a casual man bun. Glowing, fern-green eyes, fluid feline movements, fine lips curled upward in something intended to be a smile. A grin of a predator, bearing the tips of razor-sharp fangs, this is how he appears to me.
He steps toward me, stretching out his hand, his combat boots kicking the gravel.
I prepare to bolt into the thicket, yet social conformism wins the battle over my gut instinct. You can’t just run away from strangers trying to help only because they look similar to…
“I see you require my assistance again.” He speaks in a low voice, dragging the “a”s in an alien way that sounds somewhat familiar.
That ominous “again.” So it was him. The mysterious stranger who saved me from the train.
“Car troubles, I see. Let me take a look.”
He takes another step toward me, and I know something has irreversibly changed in my life. If there is a path for everyone written among the stars, I have just taken a dangerous, forbidden detour. And there is no way back.
The stranger approaches me, his scent of leather, machine oil, and some unknown incense wrapping around me. He still smiles, looks at me like I’m his dinner, and leans over the engine.
Swallowing dryly, I finally gather the courage to speak.
“Thank you for saving me, then,” I stammer, avoiding the elephant in the room and holding back the flood of questions on the tip of my tongue. What was he doing on the tracks, why did he disappear into the tunnels when people came to help? What was that mechanical monstrosity with him? And how the hell is he here now?
He turns to face me, a cold smile on his thin but beautifully shaped lips. I could barely see his face back then, and the light is scarce now, yet he is strikingly handsome in a stern, masculine way. A few loose strands frame his angular jaw, his high cheekbones bearing scars, one snaking around his lips to his chin. I realize I find them intriguing, and each one has undoubtedly a blood-curdling story. I take a step toward him, ignoring the clamor of alarm bells in my head. His eyes are still fixed on the engine, yet I see his nostrils flare and his massive muscles tense, a beast of prey preparing for a leap.
Transfixed, I stare at him, my lips half-open, unsure what to do or say next or why this whole situation hardens my nipples and sends heatwaves to my core, when, suddenly, the impossible happens.
Darkness descends upon us, consuming the meager light of the night sky, just as a monstrous human shape with black wings dives from above, a gush of wind from the mighty wings almost knocking me to the ground.
The white-haired stranger, my mysterious savior, shouts a warning, grabs my wrists, and drags me to his motorbike.
“The Dreadful One is here!”
When the creature lands with a loud thud on the roof of my car, I’m already sitting behind the strange biker as he speeds down the road, instinctively clinging to him as he accelerates. I’m too stunned to react, too terrified to fight.
I shiver in my thin beige raincoat, the cold force of wind pulling my hair and stinging my face. Did I fall asleep behind the wheel and end up in some twisted afterlife? Or is it some side-effect of my medication cocktail? The rugged outline of the stranger’s back I’m clutching is a solid reality. So is the landscape that appears fleetingly familiar. The freezing draft that buffets me as we push against the night air steals the words from my mouth. Where is he taking me?
Squeezing the man’s waist, I look back. Nothing follows us. It seems like the demon has given up the chase, but I spot the grotesque figure standing on top of my car, head cocked, sniffing. The Dreadful One? What does that even mean?
A myriad of questions buzz through my head, when I notice that we’ve reached town, and the motorbike halts to a stop at my street, at my door. I hop off the leather seat, yet hesitate to rush to the building’s door.
“What was that?” I demand, voice trembling.
The man jumps off the bike with a graceful move that makes me wonder if he’s a dancer, “You are hunted, Celeste,” he declares simply, and I’m so flabbergasted that I don’t even think of asking how he knows my name or where I live.
And then I do the craziest, most irresponsible and yet somehow logical thing in my life.
