Chapter 6

My gaze wanders the abstract water stains in the corners of the high ceiling. Long shadows dance on the walls over the windows. A small panel sits to the right of a window—clockwork, if I had to guess. Varujan doesn’t know me or that I supremely object to animal cruelty. Yet, somehow, it seems like he’s goding me. It reminds me of something Dad preaches: there are no victims, only volunteers. Classic Dad and his insensitivity. Well, that beetle didn’t volunteer its life. The boar and stag he hunts down don’t volunteer theirs. I get it that the animal kingdom is brutal, but we are people. We can do better.

Besides, I have a feeling Dad says things like that to minimize Mom—as if she chooses not to be stable.

“Such is life, no?” Varujan strides toward the stairs, shoulders back, smirk on his lips. “Nature’s way.”

“You sound like my dad.” A hint of annoyance in my tone. “He grew up here. He has a game reserve outside Varig.”

Varujan’s brows lift. “You have Romanian blood.”

“Not exactly. My dad’s parents migrated here from Germany.”

“Ah, yes, Saxons. Many settled this land. He is a hunter, then?”

“More like a predator.” I don’t want to waste this moment talking about my dad. “So your band’s called Cordial Maladies? Dope name, by the way. What’s your instrument? Or do you sing?”

“Both.” Varujan starts down the stairs and his voice carries. “I play the harp, the dulcimer, the balalaika.”

I follow behind. “What’s a dulcimer and balalaika?”

“Romanian instruments for strumming.”

“Where’s your practice room? Do the locals complain about the noise? The women in the store gave me a trespassers beware vibe.”

“We have acoustics in a sound-proof area.” Vaujan pauses and turns, his expression darkening. “Be careful of villagers who put their faith in superstition.”

“Yeah, I get it—locals and folklore. My dad warned me about that. And they think we’re the weird ones, right? I guess they got my imagination cranking. I mean, all of this does. It’s so different than my hometown.”

“Different, but the same.” Varujan resumes his descent. “Every society shares the need for a belief system. Here, we share an agreement with the villagers—we keep to ourselves, and they leave us to our own devices.”

“Uh, what kind of devices?”

“Musical instruments, of course.” He angles enough for me to see his smile.

I want to learn more about his culture, about the differences we’ve both grown up with. About the nomad lifestyle that led him to an abandoned church. “This village must be the edge of the boonies. Does anyone have Internet out this way?”

“At the inn down the street.”

“There’s an inn here? Looks like nothing.” Geez, I’m being rude. I push my hair behind my ear. “This church may be crumbling but it’s still like the best garage band venue I’ve ever seen.”

Thunder crackles outside. We cross the floorboards to the corridor. Its stained ivory walls darken from the outside’s consuming gray. Wind drifts in and prickles my skin. I should go before that storm hits. It will trap me here until nightfall. Navigating in the dark with all those potholes would be a nightmare. Not to mention the wrath of cave-dad.

In front of the next window Varujan’s chin lifts and nostrils flare as if breathing in the wind. It’s an odd reaction, like a dog, when it catches a scent and pauses to learn more.

“You may stay as long as you like,” he says, though his attention is out the window and not on me. “Let me gather the band, and we will play for you.”

I dig through my bag for meds. Rain—even the build-up before it—stirs the air with allergens that can keep me indoors for twenty-four hours. “Another day. My dad will kill me if I get stuck out here all day.”

“Are you certain of this?” Varujan asks.

I glower. “Dead, murdered, executed. Got a cabin full of weapons to prove it.”

He doesn’t seem amused. “The rain moves in from the north. It will be behind you.”

“I can’t risk it. But … I could come back soon.”

Varujan holds my gaze now for one long magnetic moment that I can’t break away from.

“We are always here,” he says.

All at once, metallic shades of apprehension engulf me—hues of rust and iron and lead. My nerves spring into awareness.

Varujan’s head tilts inquisitively. “You have trepidation. Tell me your thoughts, Morgan.”

My name on his lips causes my stomach to flip. But his sky-blue gaze sends a shiver up my spine. It reminds me of Fate’s shrewd stare. Their presence holds some kind of power over me, affecting my thoughts in a way that beckons them into the open.

“You wonder how we live here,” Varujan continues, studying me.

I sneeze, wipe my nose. “Well, yeah. Kinda. Not that I look down on it. It’s totally unconventional.”

Varujan’s pupils narrow into slivers. “Kind words from the American tourist. For a moment, I wondered if you had fallen under the spell of local folklore. They have many names for us here.”

More thunder rumbles outside, low and steady. The church walls quaver.

“What kind of names?” I try to sound casual.

“I wondered if you would ever get around to asking,” he says cooly. “I believe the word Westerners are most familiar with is vampire.”

I push my hair behind my ear and fake a laugh of absurdity. My hand trembles. “That’s crazy.”

Is it? Yes, totally.

“People tend to make up names for alternate lifestyles they do not understand.” Varujan’s voice is soft, velvety. “Some cruel, some steeped in peculiar. You should know that I do not drink blood.”

My lips twitch to the side. He’s having fun with me.

“But I do stay up all hours of the night.” Varujan shrugs. “Playing music, dancing. And you?”

“I wish.” It feels like forever since I’ve been to a party or blew off steam. I could really use it, too, since I’m obviously overthinking this and doing exactly what Dad said I would—letting fiction twist my thoughts.

My surroundings become familiar and I head for the sanctuary.

“I would hate for you to get trapped in a storm,” Varujan says, trailing just behind me.

I pause at the frescoed wall and turn to meet his gaze.

He lays a hand on my arm. “Stay. We will show you around.”

Tingles erupt up and down my body. His skin is cool and crisp.

“I can’t. Not today.”

Varujan picks up a large iron key on a hook beside the portico door. “Then shall we make a trade?”

“For?” I ask.

Why does it feel so hard to leave? Maybe because I never expected to want to stay.

“You connect Boala Cordialas with the cyber world,” he says, “and in exchange, we show you the artist’s way to infinite muse. It is what you seek most, no?”

He’s dead serious. As if he has the secret sauce for success.

“I am only a musician,” he continues. “But I can help you free your mind if it does not come easy for you.”

His influence flashes over me and I can’t tell if it’s positive. Maybe he does have the secret sauce. He seems to have total command over his emotions—the ability to master resolve like Mom’s psychotherapist. Not that I’ve been present for all Mom’s sessions, but I’ve tagged along to plenty of family support groups and seen some unforgettable outbursts from other patients. To which the doctor never lost her cool.

“What makes you think it doesn’t come easy?” I ask Varujan.

“Why else would you be here?” He pushes open the heavy oak door. Wood crunches over cement. “Come back soon, Morgan. This is a free space where you may always speak your mind and be whomever you are. Never a reason to hide your true thoughts around us, even the wicked ones.”

A devious grin forms on his face as we reach the iron gate.

“Here we encourage spontaneity and boldness. Artists are pioneers. We must cross the barriers in our minds.” He finagles the key into the lock until it clicks and widens the gate.

Iron sings out with a long, creaky squeal.

His words marinate. I’ve never heard someone talk like this. It’s like a dream. And he’s offering me an opportunity, along with a chance to bond with other artists who aren’t all wrapped up in followers and newsfeeds.

In the courtyard, a wind gust picks up a collage of leaves and swirls them into the air.

SLAM!

The iron gate clangs shut.

Behind it, Varujan smiles between bars.

It’s a familiar but far away expression. Reminiscent of a buried memory. Something hidden, like a newsprint article pressed between the pages of a book waiting to be rediscovered.

“Hurry home now, Morgan,” he calls. “You do not want to melt.”

If he only knew how much I’d already melted in his presence.

I flash a coy smile.

“Next time,” he says, “Boala Cordialas will play for you. Then you will see. We will help one another.”

I glance at the sky and gauge my window of dryness—time to hustle. I start to wave, but Varujan’s gone. The portico door shuts with a sturdy thrust.

Now, to make it home before the rage. Both nature’s, and Dad’s.