A/N: Bonus chapter brought by Raimondo Moncada's graceful support on Patreon! All hail lord Moncada!
[Blood Diary Entry]
Warmth surrounded me, almost like a hug.
The cozy atmosphere of this old bookstore always had a way to calm me down. To make me forget how awful this city really is.
A city where rain never really stops. A city where nights tend to be even more alive than the days.
Outside, enormous sky-scrappers rose as ugly monuments to human greed. Steam rose from the streets, and neon lights served as light pollution.
You could find people at every corner at all times, each minding their business—entranced and enslaved by their own little bubbles. But if you looked closer… You could almost see things that didn't quite belong.
People moving in strange ways. Vanishing into alleyways and not coming out. Scanning the populace with eyes that belonged more to a predator than to a human.
"Are you okay laddy?" An old almost raspy voice—yet oddly elegant—woke me up from my own musings.
I looked up to see an old woman dressed in red clothing, donning that carefree and kind smile most old people are known for.
Ms. Thorn. The old lady that owned this quaint bookstore. She tended to look after me whenever my mother got too immersed in her own studies.
Can't say I liked her, something about her always made the hairs on my arm prick up, as if I got electrocuted. But I can't say I disliked her as well… I owed the old woman too much for that. Plus, she always seemed genuine in her care for me, so there's that.
"Nah, I was just lost in my thoughts, thanks though." I offered her a reassuring smile, telling her that I wasn't lying or trying to cover more depressing thoughts.
"If you say so," she looked at me with that strange knowing gaze, it always irked me how she behaved as if she knew all of my deepest secrets. "Your mother should be about done with her research. So, you should get ready to head out."
I scoffed.
"Yeah, research…" She raised an amused brow. "All she does is read some dusty old books filled with occultist gibberish."
She chuckled. "You don't believe in that laddy?"
"What do you take me for?" I seethed in frustration, it was not the first time I had had this conversation. Sometimes with her, sometimes with my mother. "'Course I don't believe in that, they are bogeyman stories, made to scare children, nothing more."
"You are a child though?"
I stared at her entirely unamused. A stark contrast to her teasing grin.
"You know what I mean…" I puffed out my cheeks.
"Hah, sure I do laddy, you are a very mature 8-year-old man." She said with the most sarcastic tone she could muster. "But let me tell you this, just as a warning, because I like you…" Her teasing playful tone vanished, replaced by a cold seriousness. "This world, it's more than it seems to be—you would do well to be careful laddy."
Before I could even reply I heard a stern voice behind me.
"You are speaking too much Ms. Thorn. You are going to scare the poor child." The woman behind me said that, but I could see there was more, her eyes told me there was a whole other story behind those words of hers.
Ms. Thorn simply shrugged her shoulders.
"I was just giving advice to the kid, Safia." Her eyes gave the same feeling as Safia's. "There are cruel people in the dark, he should be wary of it."
Safia was by all accounts a charming woman, black hair tied in a bun, pale delicate skin, puffy red lips that almost seemed to be constantly pouting. She wore a dark turtle-neck dress with thigh-high boots, on her face a comically large pair of glasses. She exuded grace and cuteness at the same measure
Safia's eyes narrowed, and her brows furrowed.
By her side a kind, more motherly voice spoke.
"Now, now, let's not do this shall we? You are going to get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that Safia."
"You are not funny Isolde." Safia replied in a dry tone..
"At least not very." Ms. Thorn chuckled, earning a murderous gaze from Safia. The old woman simply raised her hands in surrender.
I looked all around me, not understanding anything that was going on. These people were all somewhat odd, but today they seemed to want to kick it up a notch.
"Well then… Let's go home Darian dear." Isolde my mother, offered her hand to me, a kind and loving smile adorning her face.
I looked at her suspiciously, not liking this situation too much. I know there is something she is keeping from me, not just her, but Safia and Ms. Thorne as well.
She just kept smiling, hand outstretched towards me.
I sighed and picked up my backpack, stuffed a cookie on my mouth and took her hand.
Ms. Thorne and Safia chuckled.
"Done with your illuminati stuff mom?" I teased.
"Indeed, I have my dear." She just replied without much candor, at this point she developed thick skin to my constant tries to embarrass and annoy her.
Still, I had fun doing it. Because no matter how thick skinned she got, I could always see that twitch on the corner of her mouth that betrayed her.
I smiled a fulfilled smile.
Her hand grabbed mine just a little tighter.
"Bye Ms. Thorne! Bye Miss Safia!" I waved my goodbyes to the ladies.
"Bye little Darian." Safia waved me off, meanwhile the old woman just nodded in my direction.
Mother also exchanged goodbyes, and we left the old bookstore.
We made our way back towards our apartment, always beneath an umbrella of course. Damn rain!
We always kept to the main streets. Even if taking a few alleys here and there could cut down our walk by a lot, mother always insisted we keep by the main roads.
I always found that behavior peculiar but never thought too much of it.
Maybe she got mugged sometime in the past and developed some sort of trauma. Who is to say.
Soon enough we made our way back home.
Going up a few rows of stairs and there we stood, in front of our modest apartment.
Mother slotted in her keys and turned the lock to open the door.
The apartment itself wasn't all too bad, it's just okay. But here is where I grew up. So, I feel right whenever I am in between these walls. I guess everyone has experienced this feeling sometime in their life, this sense of belonging.
A very used-up sofa stood in the corner.
Whenever I looked at this old piece of furniture, all I could remember were stormy nights and I cuddled up on my mother's embrace as she sang me lullabies or told wonderous stories.
I couldn't help but smile sweetly.
"I'm home." I whispered softly. But apparently not soft enough, as my mother caught it.
"Yes, you are, my sentimental son." My mother said it with a sweet and warm smile, though her eyes were glinting with playfulness.
Yeah…
I am home.
Wherever me and my mother are.
That is my home.