Chapter 4: The abnormal Paris

Emily woke up to find a chicken staring at her.

A chicken.

Orange, fluffy, with eyes full of stern life wisdom. It sat on an old map, the one Emily had carefully set aside yesterday, trying not to disturb the chaos ruling Hunter's attic. And yet here she was, on this mattress, and Hunter...

Hunter was nowhere to be seen.

Emily slowly sat up, taking a closer look. There were fewer things. The most valuable ones—the revolver, the daggers, the strange mechanisms, even the old clock that had ticked all night—were all gone. Only the chicken remained, and it clearly had no intention of explaining anything.

Emily waited. Then waited some more. Then waited with a look of oh, come on, seriously?

Silence.

"Great," she muttered with a sigh. "Left me in magical Paris without instructions. Brilliant." She glanced at the chicken. "Do you at least know what to do?"

The chicken clicked its beak.

"Thought so."

A lavender-colored cloak hung on the railing. How sweet of him to think of her, but it would've been better if he had stayed. Emily tried it on in front of the mirror—pretty decent, with a silver clasp, velvety, light, making her look like a local. She also found a shirt among the junk, but as for trousers, she had to stick with her pajama pants. Oh well, not visible under the cloak.

An hour later, Emily gave up and stepped outside, hoping to find something resembling an answer. The attic opened onto a narrow Parisian street, and at first glance, everything seemed normal: old buildings, worn-out signs, the smell of croissants barely piercing through the thick scent of something… well, not entirely human.

Emily took three steps. On the fourth, a man in a hat ran past her, and under his cloak, winged hooves peeked out. He mumbled under his breath, "I didn't lose! I just didn't win!"

On the seventh step, she noticed the market.

It was probably the most chaotic market she had ever seen. Every corner bustled with activity—a woman with cat eyes was selling "true inspiration potion" (which, according to her, guaranteed a 48-hour energy surge), an old man with goat horns traded in tiny mechanical dragons, and three suspicious men were discussing the exchange rate of Celtic galleons like stock brokers on Wall Street.

Emily stopped in front of a stall displaying a box that shimmered inside, as if a miniature galaxy pulsed within. The vendor, a man in a cloak shifting through all the shades of sunset, smiled.

"Memories on demand! Buy one—recall what you never knew!"

"Tempting," Emily muttered and moved on.

She walked a little further and saw a brothel. But not just any brothel.

"Enjoy the DEEPEST fantasies!" proclaimed a sign in golden letters. "Sensations beyond this world!"

Something resembling a transparent ghostly tentacle slipped out of a crack in the window. She quickly turned away.

"Right," she said to herself. "Just a wonderful place."

Suddenly, a fresh newspaper issue tumbled to her feet from a passing carriage. Emily picked it up—thank God, the French from boarding school hadn't gone to waste.

"Scandal at Wicked Delights Academy!"

Emily blinked. Well, the name already sounded suspicious. But the further she read, the more she wanted to put her head in her hands.

"Another incident at the Academy! After last night's attack, the evening ball ended disgracefully—three students have disappeared! The administration assures that the situation is under control... but anonymous sources report more victims..."

Emily decisively folded the newspaper. Clearly, if she wanted to understand what was going on, she had to find Hunter.

Or… enroll in the Academy before magical Paris ate her. Or, far more likely, turned her into one of those types selling mini-dragons and cryptic promises.

Maybe Hunter had returned?

Emily was about to head back—twilight was falling, and the streets definitely didn't feel safe—when something made her look up.

The tower.

The Eiffel Tower wasn't the same as in daylight. It seemed darker, its metal frame shifting as if it breathed. A faint grinding noise echoed in the wind, and the shadows within its structure moved, though no one should have been there. It felt like something up there was watching her. A chill ran down her spine.

Had the tower… tilted? Or was that just her imagination? The sensation of being observed became unbearable. She thought she saw additional stairs in the ironwork—leading nowhere, and windows that had never been there flickering with a greenish light. As if reality itself here was flexible, mocking her.

"No, no, no," she muttered. "I'm here by accident."

A strong urge to run seized her.

She dashed through the narrow streets, leaping over mystical puddles (which probably cursed, dissolved shoes, or demanded one's soul), sped past the market where two figures in silk masks were selling a "remedy to erase memories of embarrassing moments." She didn't ask how that worked. At the corner of two alleys, some wizard in a tall hat was offering passersby a chance to sell their dreams. And judging by the queue, he had plenty of takers.

At last, exhausted, she reached the building where she had spent the night.

And found the door locked.

Emily knocked. First politely. Then impatiently. Then with the desperation of someone potentially being stalked by living architecture.

The door creaked open, revealing a maid. She wore a corset, had flawless skin, full lips, and that kind of look that could make men drop to their knees. But her voice was the kind that made you immediately check your wallet—just in case it was already gone.

"What do you want?" she asked, leaning against the frame.

"I lived here," Emily explained. "With Hunter. The attic."

The maid snorted.

"Hunter's not coming back."

Emily blinked.

"What do you mean? Did he… die?"

The maid snorted.

"He left. Took his things. Most of them. Some were carried out by a servant. This is Paris, dear. It happens."

"A servant?"

"Fox tail, silent, eyes like a demon's."

Emily swallowed.

"That's horrible."

"You should see real demons," the maid sighed. "Now listen carefully. Paris at night is not the same as Paris by day. If you like being alive, don't linger in the streets. Especially alone. Especially after midnight."

"Why?" Emily whispered.

"Because those who walk at night will see you as easy prey."

Emily felt it again—that gaze. As if something, somewhere in the darkness, was watching her with open hunger. Was her reflection in the puddle too dark? Did shadows always move when she stood still?

A sudden chill crept over her.

"What should I do?" she whispered.

The maid shrugged.

"Your choice. Find shelter—or be ready to run."

Emily took a step back, glanced at the dark streets, and felt something in that darkness looking back.

Her hands trembled.

She didn't want to cry. But the hot tears came anyway, rolling down her cheeks. Her lips trembled, and her legs refused to move. She was alone. Completely and irreversibly alone in this distorted Paris, where shadows had eyes and people had tails.

And worst of all—she had no idea where to go.