Beguiled, The Deadlock series, Book 2

Chapter 1: Angels

Angels don't always look gorgeous. Sometimes, they have rough hands and smoked-yellow moustaches. Their faces may be wrinkled, carved with paths that reveal the burden of each year of hard living. Even more, they may hit the brake at the very last moment if they mean to spare your life. But they do cover you with their worn-out coat to protect you from the hailstorm and they don't ask a lot of questions. They take you in their old, rattling truck and drive you to the nearest village to find someone who can speak your language.

He asked for my name.

"Emma." I mumbled. "My name's Emma."

"Tourist?" he asked.

"Yes, tourist." I lied.

Angels could tell when you needed help. They even bought you a drink and waited until you found the strength to speak again.

"What's happened to you?" a stout, young woman with long, curly black hair asked me, having been assigned with the interpreter's role by my angel. I guessed she must have been the café owner's daughter, judging by the resemblance they shared. He'd been the first to storm out of the café to my assistance when my angel pulled over and called frantically for help. The poor man had been so alarmed by my shivering.

"Was anyone after you?" About a dozen saucer eyes around me were waiting for answers as she tried to wipe my hair with a towel. She smelled of fresh lemon. A faint but still invigorating scent, released every time she brought her hands close to my face.

"Yes." I nodded, still shivering. I thought it wasn't a good time to tell her I could speak Greek.

"Who was it?"

I sat up on the uncomfortable, plastic chair, searching vainly for a lie. "I'm not sure."

She put the towel on the table, looking worried. "Shall I call the police?"

"The police?" That brought me to my senses. The police were the last thing I needed.

"No. I'm fine now. I was just scared of...the storm." I tried to sound embarrassed. If I had started lying, I must have been my self again. She turned to translate my silly explanation to our audience, and next minute, I realized I had disappointed her customers who'd been expecting something more exciting to disturb the tranquillity of their simple life. Just normal, ordinary life. Deadlock-free.

"Where are you staying? I can call a taxi to take you home."

Home. Home is where your heart is. Once again, my dad's voice repeated in my head, like a broken CD. Where was my heart now? Did I have a heart anymore? It must have been shattered. Its pieces felt scattered all over my chest.

"Yes. I need a taxi. I must go to Korinth," I said.

"Korinth? It's three hours drive at the least."

"I have money." I had been wearing my bag across my chest ever since I'd left the Squad Headquarters. Just a few hours ago, I was still in the future, a time-traveller to Christopher's world, determined to set him free and get him back.

For a fleeting moment, I thought of what those villagers' reaction would be if I tried to tell them what was lying ahead. To warn them. Tell them we were all being watched; and those of us who stood as a threat to the future world, like me, were in mortal danger. Those villagers would not call a taxi for me then, but the fastest means to the closest mental health institution. Who could blame them?

"Okay. I'll take care of it. Just drink your ouzo. It'll make you feel better," the chubby, young woman said and turned to our curious audience, who reminded me of the chorus of old men in ancient Greek plays, to translate our short conversation. Obviously, my situation was of no interest to them anymore. They smiled in front of the naïve tourist who had gotten scared of the thunderstorm and started running. They probably had other problems to deal with now that the hail was ripping against the blossomed trees, destroying the crop of this year. Maybe their lives weren't really as simple as I'd thought.