Blood of the Devil

Chapter 7 - Forgive Us Our Trespassers

When Letha’s eyes fluttered open, and the black cavern greeted her, she groaned.

“Damn,” she muttered, rolling onto her stomach, “Just my luck.”

Pain shot through her back, but she jammed her teeth together and used the balcony rail to haul herself up. Panting heavily, she assessed herself. Her back was aching, her hands throbbing, and her jaw was stiff. Her shoulder was warm, the cut from that morning reopened, and she felt sick in the stomach. Letha rolled her shoulders around, loosening her muscles, and walked towards her brothers room; she’d felt worse.

Opening the door quietly and slipping through took some work, her muscles disinclined to move properly after several hours of uncomfortable sleep at the head of the stairs. As Letha pressed the wood shut, hearing a reassuring click, she flicked the lock and marched to her brother’s bed.

Hadrian was lying on top of the covers, still in his school uniform. His throat was an angry red, his face pale, and beads of sweat glistened by the lamplight. Letha, her lips pursed, noted that he had made it to a bed. Her fingers grazed his hand, his cold skin sending Goosebumps up her arms, and her brow furrowed. She tugged off her brother’s boots, dropping them as quietly as she could by the foot of the bed. Untucking the doona, she flicked it over his socked feet. She felt like a mother putting her child to bed.

Suddenly tired, Letha slunk across to the desk. Collapsing into the chair, she ran a hand across her face and neck, ignoring the pain, and glared down at the books her brother had set out. The textbook glinted at her in challenge, and Letha looked back at Hadrian in annoyance; school, like many things, mattered to him. Flipping to the last used page in his workbook, Letha glared at the unfinished questions, waiting for them to complete themselves. Sighing, she opened the textbook to the corresponding page and began copying, trying to imitate her brothers neat cursive. Hopefully her messy forgery just looked as if he were sleep-deprived and caffeinated.

There was a gentle sigh behind her, and Letha glanced in the window above her, catching the reflection in the glass. The Gymnast was swaying to imaginary music, muttering under her breath. Letha wondered whether it was this town or decades stuck in a half-existence that had turned these ghosts batty.

“Handspring tuck pike,” the girl said in accented English, smiling at Letha.

She nodded politely over her shoulder, “same to you.”

The German wondered to the window, where she cocked her head, rolling her eyes, “Twist flip pike.”

Trying to track a date on the page, Letha ignored her, scribbling below the third question. She was halfway there. More insistent, the gymnast bent her head in front of her, blocking her view of the book with her luminescence. Irritated, Letha looked up.

“What?”

“Twist flip pike.”

“Yeah,” Letha gestured for her to move aside, “Like that helps.”

The girl frowned at her like she was an idiot, shaking her head.

“Ich spreche kein…. Gymnast!” Letha protested.

The girl took a deep breath, “Double handspring roll jump, leap twist land, spring pike land.”

“I hear you,” Letha growled, knocking the chair backwards as she rushed to stand, “I just don’t understand you.”

Gesturing to the window, the gymnast pressed her shadowy head through the glass, and Letha watched enviously. Doing her closest imitation, Letha pressed her face against the pane, squinting into the night. A writher of movement caught her eye, and flames poured into Letha’s cheeks.