~ CHRISTOPHER ~
Tuesday the 30th of May, 1989
I lumbered out of my room, still flushed over the dream I’d just had. Catherine had locked me in place, trapping me in a spell, but instead of torturing me like the Maris demon had, she’d kissed me. Or more accurately, she’d ravaged my mouth, barely allowing me to breathe. Then it had stopped, just like that, someone yelling at me to wake up.
I headed down the hallway to breakfast, wishing I could forget about what had happened on Monday, the dream about Catherine not helping at all. I’d been tormenting myself since the run-in with her, continuously mulling over whether to tell my grandfather and parents about what she was. But every time I went to open my mouth, I clamped it shut, the urge to keep her secret strong. I didn’t understand why, especially after what had happened with the last Maris I’d had a run-in with. Maybe it was because Catherine didn’t give off the same vibes as that demon had. She also didn’t look like a Maris. Her eyes were an unusual hazel instead of blue, and there was no way they could be contact lenses, since a Merge’s natural eye colour couldn’t be concealed. But she had to be a Maris to have caused the blue rosary to attack me. The beads were harmless in the hands of humans. My people were descended from angels or demons, sometimes a mix of the two, but never human. We couldn’t procreate with humans, their physiology different from ours. We might resemble them, but that was all we had in common, other than walking the same earth.
I stopped just outside the kitchen and peeled the plaster off my burnt fingertip. It felt like I’d touched nitro-glycerine. I zeroed in on the mark that the bead had made. There was a circular outline with a cross inside.
“Chris?”
I looked through the kitchen doorway at my mother. She was standing by the stove with a spatula in her hand, dressed in a red and white polka dot dress, looking like she’d stepped out of the pages of a 1950’s advertisement.
“Are you feeling better, figlio?” she asked, calling me son in Italian, her accent much stronger than mine. She was Roman, my father having met her during a tour of the Sistine Chapel. They were both scholars, specialising in religious and classical studies.
“Still not good,” I replied, sticking the plaster back down. I’d lied to her about being sick last night, using my ability to heat a thermometer to fool her. It was an old trick I used every time I didn’t want to go to school. Sometimes she fell for it, other times she saw right through me. Though, this time I had a feeling the confusion roiling within me was making her believe my lie.
“Are you up to eating some pancakes?” she asked, brushing her black hair back. Unlike mine, hers was natural, and much thicker, the curls cascading down her back, stopping just above her apron strings. Her olive skin was also a shade darker than mine, while her brown eyes were a deeper tone, almost black in the shaded light of the kitchen.
I shrugged at her offer of pancakes, not really that hungry, plus I was starting to get sick of them. My grandfather had been asking her to make pancakes a bit much lately. I liked brioche, not the syrup-covered stuff that my nonno had taken a liking to after our visit to America.
“You still have to eat,” she said. “Go sit down. I’ll bring you a couple with some berries.” She turned back to the fry-pan.
I headed for the dining room, walking past the breakfast bar that separated it from the kitchen. The smell of pancakes followed me, making my stomach grumble. My father glanced up from his newspaper, then went right back to reading it. He was sitting with his back to the window, a picture of The Last Supper above his head. Outside, there was a rolling expanse of countryside, my new family home just outside of Agnaru.
My grandfather grunted with approval as he tucked into his pancakes. He was at the head of the table, barely taking a breath between each bite. I took a seat next to him, still battling over whether to tell him about Catherine. But if I did, he’d kill her—or worse, he would order me to do it. Despite what had happened yesterday, I didn’t want to kill Catherine. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I knew one day it would happen, that I would be forced to burn someone alive. It went hand in hand with being one of the Seraphim—fire angels, the keepers of the red rosaries. My grandfather had burned people... No, they weren’t people, they were demons, like the Maris who’d attacked me in Italy. But maybe Catherine wasn’t a demon Maris; maybe she was an angelic one. That could explain why she had different coloured eyes. I’d never met a Maris angel before. They kept away from my kind, water and fire not going well together.
My grandfather’s chocolate-brown gaze flicked to me. “It’s rude to stare, Chris.”
It’s rude to talk with your mouth full, too. “Can Marises have hazel eyes?” I asked instead, knowing I’d get a clip around the head if I’d voiced my thoughts.
He swallowed down his food. “Why would you ask that, Chris?” he replied, wiping the corner of his mouth with a thumb.
“Just curious whether they always have blue eyes.”
“They do.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Can other Merges use Maris beads?”
“Apparently, Stellas could.”
I frowned. “What’s a Stella?”
“Non-Earthly Merges.”
“There are other types of Merges?” I asked, surprised I’d never heard of them. I’d only been taught about four kinds: the Seraphim, Halos, Terras, and Marises.
“Stellas are different. Legend says that they don’t come from the Fallen Ones, but are of pure blood.”
“Why am I only just learning this now?”
“No one likes to talk about them, because they’re the Merge equivalent of what the humans call the four horsemen. Though, there are many more than four, that is, if the records about the Great Angel and Demon War are correct.”
My father cut in, “No one talks about them because they’re not real. They’re a myth, a nonsense not worth discussing.”
My grandfather threw him an annoyed look. He went to open his mouth, probably to disagree with him.
“What colour eyes do they have?” I asked before he could get a word out, knowing if they started one of their ‘philosophical’ debates it would end in an argument, usually with one of them storming out. My grandfather and father were hotheads—both literally and figuratively.
My grandfather returned his attention to me. “Why are you asking about Stellas?”
“I was just curious whether there are hybrids of our kind, like how there are hybrids of vampires and werewolves.”
My father snorted out a laugh. “Those things are myths, like Stellas.”
“What are Stellas exactly?” I asked, directing my question at my grandfather, my papà sounding like he was in one of his antagonistic moods. It was almost as though he was poking my grandfather with a stick, trying to get him to react.
“They can use all of the legendary rosaries,” my grandfather replied, his shoulders tensing, probably anticipating my father challenging him.
My eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” He flicked my father an annoyed look. “And how many times do I have to tell you, Antonio, that vampires and werewolves aren’t myths.”
My father went to reply, but I got in first. “Are there any Stellas still around?” I asked, not interested in the other creatures, my nonno and pàpa having a longstanding debate over whether they were real or not. My father thought they were a myth perpetuated by demon Terras, while my grandfather swore black and blue that he’d seen the Slavic Creatures—as he called them. I remembered him going on and on about a video I’d rented, one called The Lost Boys. He’d insisted that vampires were nothing like the ‘ordinary-looking humans’. He’d described them as repulsive, bloated creatures, who resembled zombies more than Hollywood’s creations. Though, he did agree that demon Terras had a taste for blood, stating that they resembled Hollywood’s version of vampires. Thankfully, I’d never met a Terra demon, only angelic ones.
My grandfather frowned. “Stellas live in Heaven, not Earth, and only come down on God’s bidding.”
My father snorted out a laugh, causing my nonno to tense.
“What colour eyes do they have?” I quickly asked, needing to get as much information out of him before he blew his stack at my papà.
“It’s not documented,” he replied. “There’s very little information about them in the great books. And keep your damn opinions to yourself, Antonio,” he snapped at my father.
My mother slipped a plate of pancakes topped with berries in front of me. “Yes, Antonio, stop antagonising Pàpa,” she said, levelling him with a hard stare.
My father shrugged. “I’m not doing it to antagonise him, I’m speaking up so he doesn’t fill Chris with nonsense. The boy should be doing his school work, not talking about whimsical stories.”
“I’ve done all my work,” I replied.
My father snickered. “You don’t know the meaning of work, my boy.”
I shot a glare at him. “I work plenty!”
He rolled his eyes, his resemblance to my grandfather uncanny, so much so that I would’ve sworn he was his son instead of son-in-law. Or even a brother, since my grandfather looked unnaturally young. I’d asked why they resembled each other so much since they weren’t supposed to be blood, but got shot down, the dark secrets in my family obviously deemed inappropriate for my ears. I just hoped that my parents weren’t siblings. Stephen had gone on and on about it, taking great glee in telling me I was the inbred freak, not him.
My father continued, “Then, show me how hard you can work by finishing sorting out your mother’s books.”
“I’m home because I’m sick, not to sort through books.”
“Well, it’s better than lying in bed all day.”
I didn’t reply, not agreeing with him. And he knew it too, a scowl pulling at his sardonic lips. At times I’d wondered whether he was part demon, because unlike humans, angel and demon Merges could procreate with one another. I grimaced, realising that would make me part demon too, though it wouldn’t surprise me. Some of the thoughts that ran through my head were definitely not angelic, things that I wrestled with daily, my temper as bad as my father’s at times.
“You can at least spend an hour out of your precious day to help your mother,” my father snapped.
Grunting a, “Whatever,” I pushed away from the table, not touching my pancakes.
“He didn’t mean to do it now,” my mother piped up. “So sit back down and eat your breakfast first.”
“I’m not hungry, my stomach hurts,” I said, throwing a glare at my father, the arsehole probably taking pleasure in deriding me. Whatever I did was never good enough for him. Whatever I said was always wrong. He’d always been like that. An arrogant arsehole who thought the world of himself and very little of me.
I turned for the door.
“Chris—”
My father cut my mother off. “Leave him to sulk, at least we can eat in peace.”
I tensed, but instead of answering back, I headed out of the room. I was sick of my father always calling me lazy, not to mention treating me like a tantrumy kid, when he was the one who constantly threw his toys out of the cot. Like the time he’d seen my tattoos. I’d gotten them without permission, causing my father to blow his stack. But he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten angry, my grandfather yelling at me just as much. They thought that I was advertising the fact I was a Seraph, which I disagreed with. Full-blooded demons could sniff angelic Merges from a mile off, like a vampire drawn to blood. Only non-demonic Merges couldn’t tell who we were—unless they saw our rosaries—and I’d never been attacked by one of them.
Pushing through the bulky door at the end of the hallway, I entered my parents’ library. The walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling shelving, a librarian’s heaven. Unfortunately, most of the books that belonged in them were still sitting in a mountain of boxes.
I headed past the boxes, stopping in front of a partially filled shelf. I ran my fingertips over the books that my mother had already catalogued, more interested in learning about Stellas than doing my father’s bidding.
I stopped on a large red manuscript about rosaries. I pulled it out and carried it over to the heavy mahogany desk that had taken four men to carry in. I sat down in the cushioned chair and opened the book to the contents page, scanning for anything about Stellas. Finding a chapter referring to them, I flicked through the book to the page and started reading:
A Stella can use all of the legendary rosaries due to their purer angelic heritage. Unlike other Merges, they’re not descended from fallen angels, God not having cast them out of Heaven. Instead, it is proclaimed that they came to Earth to cull the demon population, which we know as the Great Angel and Demon War.
I frowned, wondering whether some had stayed on Earth after the war. Eager to find out, I continued reading:
Stellas were named after the stars and can pass between Heaven and Earth, something no other Merge is capable of doing.
The description stopped at that, the small piece of information nowhere near enough to quench my curiosity. I turned the page, spotting a reference to the 1934 revised and updated edition of The Book of the Rosary, originally written by a 17th century monk named Dominic Crefalio.
I grimaced, recognising the book as one of my mother’s most prized possessions, a manuscript that I wasn’t allowed to touch due to its value. My attention shifted to the glass cabinet that it was locked in, which was in the far corner of the room. Determined to read the book, I pushed out of the chair and headed for it. I jiggled the cabinet’s handle, wondering whether I could get it open without the key, which my mother wore around her neck, something she rarely took off.
“What are you doing, Chris!?” my mother yelled, making me jump. “You know that cabinet is off limits.”
I turned to face her, wincing at her irate expression. She was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes looking pitch black from a distance.
“I need to see The Book of the Rosary, Mamma. The other book said it had more information about Stellas.”
She uncrossed her arms and walked towards me, her sandaled feet barely making a sound. “Why this sudden interest in Stellas?”
I shrugged, not wanting her to know, since she would tell my grandfather. “I read about them somewhere and was curious. I’ve never heard of them before. So, can I read the book?”
“No, it’s a dangerous book, and you didn’t appear to know about Stellas in the kitchen,” she said, her expression suspicious. “Are you lying to me, Chris?”
“No, and books can’t be dangerous,” I snorted, avoiding answering her fully.
She moved closer, staring at me point blank. “Information in the wrong hands can be dangerous, and you’re too young to read what’s in those pages,” she said, indicating to the book. “Maybe when you’re older, I may allow you to read it if I think you’re ready.”
“I’m old enough, and I should read it if it’s so important. You’ve always said ignorance is more dangerous than knowledge.”
“The answer is still no!” she snapped, instantly looking regretful of her outburst. “Please, figlio, don’t ask again.”
I grimaced, but still nodded in feigned acquiescence, knowing my mother wouldn’t back down.
“Good boy,” she said, reaching out to touch my forehead, probably checking my so-called fever. Fevers for young Seraphim were sometimes dangerous, since we weren’t fully in control of our innate fire. It could cause us to flame up, like I’d almost flamed up with Catherine.
“And you’re still hot,” my mother continued. “Grab a wet flannel and go back to bed.”
“What about Papà? He wanted me to work for an hour.”
“You shouldn’t be working when you’re sick.” She indicated to the door with her head. “Go on.” She gave me a soft smile. “I’ll deal with your father.”
Knowing I was beat—for now—I headed for my room. I just needed to bide my time until I found the right moment to get my hands on that book. I wanted to know what Catherine was—and I wasn’t going to stop until I found out.