To Decadent Poets - Chapter 4

To Decadent Poets - Chapter 4

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

A friend: a being life can’t explain Who only goes when another is born And the mirror my soul multiplies... — Vinícius de Moraes, Friendship Sonnet

Oliver watched Chris attentively, hesitating, his leg shaking with the anxiety that was running through his blood. The boy seemed like a good company to have and he was really funny with a dry sense of humor. They had spent most of the journey talking and Oliver’s accent had kept other people away, not that Chris seemed to care.

He was surely a singular creature, Oliver thought, analyzing the boy: Chris had auburn hair and his brown eyes carried disdain for everything and everyone, making Oliver remember himself before everything happened.

The Oliver from before had been unruly and sarcastic, so much he could exasperate even his parents, who were the epitome of patience. But everything changed after his mother and Hadrian had been taken from them.

It changed because Oliver knew he shouldn’t give his father more grief than the one he was already in and also because no one liked foreigners, let alone a funny one. So, he’d spent a lot of time learning to bite his tongue to stop his dry comments and ironic observations from slipping out, as Much with his dad as with the rest of the world.

In reality, he had to do so a lot of times still: it was hard to give up that part of him, the only one that connected him to his old life, and Oliver didn’t like to do it. But he didn’t feel safe enough to go back to being himself and, if he faked long enough, maybe he wouldn’t be able to separate the mask from who he really was anymore. From what he’d lived through.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” asked Chris suddenly, his eyes still closed from the nap he’d announced he’d take, scaring Oliver, who felt himself flush for being caught staring.

And maybe it was because of his shock, but he snapped in a petulant tone that he hadn’t dared to use in a long time now:

“You’re not the epitome of sociability, mate,” Oliver was surprised at himself and his eyes widened, regretting his words almost immediately although his pride stopped him from apologizing, so he just swallowed, facing Chris, who just stared at him for a moment silently. Oliver was caught by surprise by the slow smile forming on Chris’s pale face.

“Touché,” he said before straightening on the train stool and changing the subject abruptly: “Where are you going to alone?”

“To my father’s boss’ property. He let me stay there during the war,” answered Oliver with a resigned sigh when he saw the daring Shine of Chris’ eyes, making it impossible not to be honest with the boy “What about you?”

“To my godfather’s property,” said Chris, shrugging even though it was noticeable, at least for Oliver, that was complicated “he also let me stay during the war. What’s the name of the place you’re going to?”

“Taigh Hill” Oliver’s pronunciation slipped a bit in the two words but it seemed that Chris had still understood him because for a moment he looked at Oliver as if assessing him, and then he smiled.

“It seems like Destiny got it right today, don’t you think, Oliver?” he softly asked, making him frown, confused with what Chris meant “I’m also going to Taigh Hill. I’m Elijah Wood’s godson, whom I believe is your father’s boss.”

——— ◘ ———

They talked during the rest of the journey, learning more about each other, or at least as much as they allowed each other to know. It was hard sometimes to talk about some things and they respected this, not pressuring the other into talking about what they didn’t want to and Oliver liked that. He liked that silent complicity that seemed to exist between him and Chris. It was encouraging and trustworthy, and as soon as they began to talk, Oliver realized Chris had a certain gift to encourage the worst parts of him, like his sarcasm and his temper.

And when they discovered their common taste in books, the talk flowed through them like a river’s stream, running between the two with a scary naturality that could make Jane Austen even more certain about her assessment of the human relationships in Sense and Sensibility:

It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; —it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.

Oliver really liked to get to know someone who wasn’t his father in all of London and wondered for a moment if that friendship would last. Chris seemed nice enough and didn’t care he was German, which was a more than good start.

And while they discussed how much they wished to read A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, next, both of them realized they had more in common than the rest of the world could guess they had. At that moment, Chris commented thoughtfully:

“I make a habit of thinking people are idiots. Of course, I always need to remind myself that they also have something good inside of them, even if they are idiots, but most of the time, I feel quite alone because of it. I mean, most people would advise me to not get close to you and I think that’s so dumb because look at us! It’s not like our differences mattered more than our similarities.”

Oliver smiled, really smiled, when he heard that. It was like Chris had just read his mind as if he could understand what Oliver thought. It was impressive considering they Only knew each Other for a couple of hours but some friendships were just like that, weren’t they? Spontaneous and simply inexplicable in the strength of their connections.

After his comment, Chris changed the subject, asking him about what he thought Taigh Hill would be like.

“Much bigger than my house, that’s for sure,” Oliver said with a sarcastic smirk blossoming on his face while he leaned down on the rough tissue of the train’s stool “But you’re the one practically related to them, what do you know about the place?”

“I’ve never been to Taigh Hill and never met my godfather or his family, to be honest,” Chris admitted, resting his feet on the stool after glancing out the door of the cabin they were at. He also had this smirk on his face, the kind of smirk just a young man who was arrogant and completely sure of himself could flash around like a trump card for life. “I think they’re old and deaf but really gentle. Elijah and his brother, I mean, Elliott. My mom said Elliott is married and has two daughters, one of them our age. My father and he were at her christening when I was a baby. What do you think about that?”

“I’m not sure there’s much to think about,” Said Oliver, shrugging and looking out the window. “If they’re not annoying and spoiled, I have nothing to say about any of them.”

“Maybe they’re like ghosts, walking through the mansion with pure, virginal white gowns, ready to give us heart attacks like in Gothic books,” Chris joked, making Oliver laugh out Loud and he didn’t even worry about the people passing through their cabin, who looked through the glassdoor as if they’d heard a specially nasty curse word. “Worse, they could be complaining harpies like old housekeepers who value morals and the old times.

“My God, I really hope not,” Oliver shivered, joking, and added: “I hope, by the way, that none of them are like that. It’d be torture.”

“Can you imagine if Elijah or Elliott want us to wear those old vests and hay hats, or worse, those white pants that get dirty with literally anything?” Chris’ eyes widened as if he couldn’t think about anything scarier thing and Oliver laughed. “I think I could have to run away and live the rest of my life in nowhere of Scotland.”

“Well, those clothes are not so bad,” Oliver said, and Chris looked at him incredulously. “They’re worse.”

They both laughed hard, imagining all kinds of scenarios possible for Taigh Hill and mocking them all. The conversation was comfortable and light like most conversations they’d had ‘til then weren’t. To Oliver because his longest conversations were, with the exception of his father, with the butcher; and to Chris because his friends were always talking about matters that didn’t concern him at all.

Soon the day transformed into twilight and both of them got silent to watch the rose and orange sky, the colors mixing up and changing every minute over the emerald-green lawn of the plains and the mountains that surrounded lakes so still they seemed like portals to the skies. It was in comfortable, soft silence they shared deeply; the kind of silence that could make old friends get emotional but not the two of them.

Because, after all, they had just met, and it’d be weird if it happened. But in that silence, their eyes met, hazel against green, and they laughed together with a complicity neither of them could understand because they had never experienced it before.

But it was one they liked a lot.

——— ◘ ———

When they finally got off the train, Chris was insistent that they stay close, so that it would be easier for Miss Turner, the Wood family’s housekeeper, who would come to get them, according to their parents, to find them. Although the thought was quite practical, Oliver could not help but notice that some of the boys their age were glaring at them when they heard his accent and he was thankful when Chris had nothing to say about the matter.

He didn’t need everyone reminding him of what he was all the time.

They walked through the station, then, trying to get rid of the crowd mounting together because of the small size of the place. They were in a small city near Inverness, as they had been instructed to stop; and decided to wait outside, in the street, something Oliver was grateful for, as those people were starting to make him really uncomfortable.

It didn’t take long for a lady with a prudish dress that seemed to belong to the last decade to pass by them with a car that seemed old. She looked at them both with a semblance that varied between doubt and a welcome. There was also a girl with red hair like crackling fire, who looked at them both curiously.

“What are your names, boys?” The Woman asked, and her voice was firm without being harsh, her hands were trembling and her black hair, which had begun to become gray, was the only thing that denounced her older age.

A rosary hung from her neck in a delicate silver chain and the darkness of the metal left it clear she had the habit of rubbing it.

“I’m Oliver Krause, ma’am,” the blond boy introduced himself in a meek tone of voice, very different from how he presented himself with Chris during their journey.

The other boy, with a quick glance at Oliver, also introduced himself with a charming smile, much more open than the first:

“I’m Christian Evans, at your pleasure, ma’am.”

The housekeeper, who frowned slightly at hearing Oliver, smiled a bit at Chris, commenting:

“A good christian name, just like the rest of your family, Mister Evans,” she paused, then added: “Get on, I’m Marjorie Turner, your new housekeeper, and this is Mister Elliott Wood’s youngest daughter, Annie.

They smiled at the red-haired girl and she smiled back at them, still cautious and timid like a little mouse. Oliver and Chris hurried to put their bags in the trunk of the car, which Miss Turner indicated while she seemed nervous, looking to the train station with a bit of anxiety clear on her face.

But as soon as it came, it went away when a boy their age left the station and looked around, seemingly lost. He had dark brown hair and eyes, and his skin was almost as pale as paper. As she saw him, Miss Turner made her way to him and spoke to the boy, bringing him along after a few seconds.

“Boys, this is Noah Kurtz. He’ll also live with us in Taigh Hill,” said the housekeeper while she climbed back into the car, which seemed to be even more filled with people.

Seeing that the only seats available were either at Annie’s side or Oliver’s side, the woman took the place beside Oliver, a very conscious choice the attentive young people noticed but didn’t comment about it. Oliver was tense since he heard the boy’s last name, knowing he was his dad’s boss’ son and worse, Jew.

His own ascendence from Liora made Oliver a Jew for all effects, both culturally and ethnically, although he never thought much about it — it wouldn’t help Oliver because when people looked at him, none of them saw a Jew and that’s what was important to the world.

Noah didn’t say anything more than a murmured and general greeting as he climbed into the vehicle, avoiding everyone’s eyes. This intrigued Chris, who tried, as the car started to make its way, shaking beyond what he thought was possible on the dirt road, making some kind of conversation with Noah, only to receive back monosyllabic answers that discouraged him. Finally, he turned his attention back to Oliver, talking to him in low voices.

The girl, who regarded the three boys with a curious look, soon lost her interest and directed her attention to the window, feeling ignored, which made Oliver feel bad for her — he knew what it was like to be ignored and left out for reasons outside his control. The housekeeper also kept quiet; her eyes lost to something none but her could see as she rubbed her rosary distractedly.

In general, it was a trembling, tedious path filled with silences far from comfortable like the ones Oliver and Chris shared on the train. The newest friends looked at each other, predicting a boring stay from that experience alone, not even dreaming of what they’d soon find in Taigh Hill.

Go to Chapter 5

I won't be settling for anything less than an Odysseus level of obsession from my future husband thank you very much

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All Creatures on Earth - Volume 1

Hey, guys! That's my book here, I decided to post a few chapters (or maybe more) after translating it from Brazilian Portuguese to English. I really wanted to share this work and hope you enjoy it.

Buy the entire work on Amazon through this link!

Here's a quick summary of the book:

Title: All Angels from Heaven Above

Series: All Creatures on Earth

Tags: Dark Academia, Murder Mystery, Fantast, witches, demons, angels, colonialism, imperialism, political intrigue, hate to love, friends to lovers, friends to enemies, hurt without comfort;

If you liked... you're gonna like this: Vicious, The Atlas Six, The Shadowhunters Chronicles, Stalking Jack the Ripper, etc.

Trigger Warning: the story deals with themes of grief and also mentions child neglect, physical and psychological abuse, as well as a few gory depictions of murder, and mentions addiction, though barely.

Add: The book didn't have a Sensitive Editor, so any problems with how people of color, disabilities, or queer people are portrayed can be discussed directly with the author.

Synopsis: Adra is a witch in a world of demons, which means problems all on its own, but when your father is murdered by the same person who is killing teenagers inside the mysterious Lethe Academy, she won't hesitate in the face of hardship to enter the school and hunt down the person responsible for it.

With Damian Kolasi, a cheating demon who's also charming as Hell, and his friends' help, Adra is prepared to take revenge on her father's killer. But what seems to be a simple case of assassination becomes embedded into a political web Adra didn't expect to fall into, just like she never expected her body to react to Damian as intensely as it does whenever he's near.

Sometimes, we can't get everything we want. And Darkness conquers all.

Summary (with links):

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4 - Coming Soon...

Lfmao bold of you to assume that's not the main reason why I'd marry someone

I won't be settling for anything less than an Odysseus level of obsession from my future husband thank you very much

All Angels from Heaven Above - Chapter 3

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

Buy the whole book through this link!

“I offered help to one of Detective Carino’s superiors and found a memory ritual that could answer the Royal Guard’s question regarding that… unpleasant situation,” explained Eupraxia before Spiridon could talk again, ignoring the strong tension in the saloon. 

A memory ritual demanded a lot of a group of witches and it was done in extremely delicate steps. The first part consisted of letting the shadows take their magic to where the situation had happened, which wasn’t so difficult. The second part, a bit more complicated, depended on the witch’s ability to weave a thin, intricated web of their own power so that memory could be trapped in it. 

The third one, the most dangerous of them, occurred when the other witches joined in the ritual: all of them, together, would build a bridge that would pull the memory from inside the mind of the witch responsible for the first two steps and project it into an open space, like a shadow theater.

Adra looked around, to the officers with equally disdainful and fearful expressions, and then to the nervous and cautious witches and wizards. She didn’t like the idea of doing such a difficult ritual with so much tension around her at all but the Guard would hardly accept leaving without it being done or giving them privacy.

To those demons, they needed to see to believe it. And they wouldn’t accept anything less because demons didn’t trust witches and vice-versa. The simple fact that they had accepted Eupraxia’s offer to one of her high-ranking lovers was a surprise, considering how the Royal Guard treated witches: pitiful beggars in the best-case scenario, prostitutes whose bodies and dignity were free-for-all in the worst case.

“Very well then,” Spiridon agreed begrudgingly. Not even he could deny such an important favor to the Royal Guard. “But if we’re going to do it, I want our most powerful witch doing the first two steps.”

Of course, you do, though Adra, frustrated when every pair of eyes turned to her. She didn’t like that attention and didn’t want it but didn’t have a lot of choice in it. 

Regardless of her power, the memory of the ritual would only indicate the culprit if the witch who was doing the ritual knew them. The most they would see were shadow figures and that was making her worry. Adra hoped they didn’t have too much hope about that, despite Eupraxia’s presumption.

Sighed in resignation, she stepped forward, letting Thalassa’s hand slip from her own, and stared at Eupraxia, who seemed ready to kick her. Adra ignored the lead detective’s stare when she spoke:

“Let’s go on then if no one is opposed.”

Despite Thalassa’s last warning, the woman didn’t interfere in the clash, probably too shocked by Eupraxia’s lack of prudence. That was big but it surely wasn’t good, especially considering that the chances of it going wrong were too high.

The witches seemed calmer now that Adra was chosen to do that task — she was the one in danger after all — and accepted her request, positioning herself. Spiridon nodded towards Adra when passing by her. His dark eyes didn’t apologize but Adra didn’t want apologies, so she only nodded back, walking towards the north side of the circle the other had opened in the middle of the room.

Eupraxia took to herself the task of moving the officers to a place where they could see what was happening but couldn’t interfere with the shadows. When everyone got silent, Adra closed her eyes, focusing on the Darkness, on the points of the room filled with it.

For witches, the Darkness was its own language that sang to them like old friends, as mermaids would sing to unsuspecting sailors. It could be good and bad and, especially, it could be controlled. Adra knew each song and each pun, therefore she let It flow around her, like the breath of a night breeze, cold and humid, making her hair flutter and trying to mix up with her soul.

It wasn’t so difficult to go through the city she was born into the Academy, even in the shadows, jumping from shadow to shadow quickly. And, when she entered the walls she had never entered, Adra followed to where the shadows came together more tightly, attracted by evil and Death.

She followed that still energy and, when she reached the place where Aglaie Kalliergei had died — even if she didn’t know which room was it because everything around her was just an echo of her power —, Adra focused on reviewing the dark memories, just like one would leaf through a book to see what was it about.

It wasn’t hard for her web to catch the memory she needed like a fly in a spiderweb. As soon as she got it, all the other witches felt the threads that connected them in that ritual being bound tighter, thus completing the ritual.

It was hard, however, to try not to be offended when they began to pull out the memory from her head: the feeling of being invaded was like strong dizziness and, for a moment, Adra couldn’t tell where she was or what she could see as she opened her eyes. With a deep breath, her sight adjusted to the scene that played in front of her.

The first figure appeared and Adra guessed it was the victim, even when all she could see was a black shadow like ink and water mixing up in the form of a manikin, with no sign of their own identity.

As a consequence of the successful ritual, Adra felt more than saw the restlessness of everyone in the saloon while her powers projected that image. 

If Aglaie’s death had really been a murder, the Royal Guard would have had serious problems to deal with, especially with King Stavros, since the prince had been studying at the Academy for a few years now. A piece of news like that wouldn’t be kept from the media for much longer, especially when there were other people involved in that ritual, which could chase away the usual clients of Agraés and would bring serious economic problems to the city.

Then, a second figure appeared and Adra frowned. Different from the first one, the second silhouette was diffuse, almost transparent, and she could see Thalassa’s blurred face through it.

It worried her.

Darkness called Darkness, and every kind of It — shadows made by the lights, inner evil, bad and/or too intense feelings — answered to the witches in the same way. It didn’t make sense the second figure was so different from the first one.

Confused, Adra followed the way through her own powers, trying to find something wrong in the web in which she captured the memory but there wasn’t anything. The silhouette just seemed to not have an inner darkness, which was quite literally impossible: every single one of them — demons, witches, and humans — had something bad that forced them to respond to a witch’s power, and that’s why they were so feared.

The two figures looked like they were talking but the Darkness didn’t speak the language of people and couldn’t hold on to words, that had their own power, therefore all they could hear was the cold silence of a possible fight. Then, like a snake, the blurred figure attacked the first one and a searing light blinded Adra for a second, cutting her powers off like one would cut the strings of a puppet, sending a sudden ray of pain through her throat and her chest. 

By the shocked gasps that Adra could hear through her own surprise, she could understand she wasn’t the only one who had felt it.

When all seemed back to normal and the room adjusted back to how it always was — the shadows slipping back to their rightful places — the witches looked at each other, all surprised and fearing. The ritual wasn’t supposed to end up like this, the memory should have continued.

But they still had an answer. 

“Murder,” Spiridon announced in a low tone of voice while the rest of the witches whispered among themselves, unease with what had just happened. 

Adra observed with caution when the officers walked as far away from the witches as they could while they moved but looking convinced enough to not cause trouble — or maybe they were a little more preoccupied with getting the hell out of there. She turned to Eupraxia, whose green eyes shone with presumption while facing the lead detective.

“As I said it would be,” she said.

Adra had the desire to recoil back at the danger those words could mean. By what she knew about the woman, Eupraxia was ambitious but rarely a fool. That was one of the few moments when the matron was purely stupid.

Detective Carino’s jawline was tense when he stared at Adra, ignoring Eupraxia and Spiridon’s verdict. It was just when she nodded that he turned to the woman and said:

“I’m going to send this information to my superiors, madam Skourleti, and I thank you for the help, just like I would for the discretion,” he said formally, his voice tight and rigid, his eyes sharp with an authority that seemed to come to him naturally, not from empty threats.

Eupraxia looked pleased with that answer and nodded, quickly moving away to join the fool group of women who admired her when the rest of the coven stared at her with caution. Spiridon, taking the reins of the situation, announced to the rest of the room, his voice echoing through the shadows this time:

“Well, this night was surprising to us all and I’m sure we’re all tired. Therefore, I think going home and having a good night's sleep.”

The witches grumbled their agreement, all ready to get rid of the officers, even when none of them were really planning to go home.

“Adra,” the lead detective’s voice caught her attention and Adra looked at the soft violet eyes they both shared. “We should go together.”

“Fine, Dad,” she agreed with a sigh, knowing that Carino would want to talk about what had happened that night in one way or another, so it would be better to be done with it.

Ignoring the equally disgusted looks from witches and officers, Adra took the overcoat her father gave her and put it on, sighing happily when she felt the warm flannel from the lining under the black fabric, pleased to verify that the garment was from her own wardrobe and it went all the way down the end of her equally black dress, hugging her waist like a bodice.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said, smiling at Carino, who returned the smile, still tense but caring.

“I thought you’d be here, with all this happening,” was his answer.

He sighed, looking tired, and Adra just pressed her lips together, without voicing her preoccupation. They would have time to talk while walking home.

In silence, both climbed up the stairs, emerging to the cold night air and the mist, the golden lights of the poles were the only thing they could see in the distance. Other officers from the Guard were there too, no doubt waiting to get company for the night and Adra tried not to frown at them when their eyes locked.

All of them knew she was the boss’ daughter, the only untouchable witch in that city. And not because Carino protected her but because she was the only one who had the chance to attack them back and not face the consequences of it. It was enough that they feared her even more than they feared other witches.

“Adra!” Thassie’s voice came to her ears, making her turn in time to see her friend climbing up the Coven’s stairs, her expression preoccupied but Thalassa’s arm was pulled by one of the officers, a heart-shaped man that was probably useless. 

Adra saw the panic growing in Thalassa’s eyes from afar and made her way back to her without thinking twice, in time to hear the officer saying:

“You’re a pretty piece, huh?” he sniveled, tightening his grip on her arm when Thalassa tried to escape. “Maybe you could show me what you can do, witch.”

Thassie tried to escape once again, looking scared but he just raised his hand to grip her hair. Adra caught his wrist before he could, however, making the unknown officer let go of Thalassa to face her.

“It’ll be better for your health if you don’t touch her,” Adra just said, her voice whispering the danger in the Darkness but it was the dagger in her hand, hidden from the other Guard officers, that posed the biggest threat.

The man’s eyes widened with fear when he felt the blade against his stomach.

“You little whore...”

“Careful, Gregório,” Carino said, appearing behind Adra, his voice soft, like his daughter’s, just a ruse to hide the promise of violence underneath his words. “My daughter is a bigger threat than I need to be. And I’m still your boss. Go home.”

The man looked from Adra to Carino, doubtless recognizing the semblance between them, and made his way back, whining his protests as the filthy pig he was. Letting him go, Adra turned to Thalassa, using the shield of her father’s broad shoulders to hide her dagger back in its place.

“Are you okay?” she asked and Thalassa just nodded, embracing herself. Adra’s voice got softer than she was used to when she spoke the next words: “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Thalassa said, staring at Carino, who sighed and walked away just enough so that they could talk without being heard. When she got comfortable, Thassie grabbed Adra’s hand and said, her blue eyes shining brightly. “Promise me you’re not going to hear that demon, Adra.”

She hesitated, caught by surprise by the gravity in Thalassa’s expression, and then pressed her lips together in a tight line, incapable of promising something she wasn’t able to uphold. When Thalassa saw that, her blue eyes shone with her frustration and she let go abruptly of her hand.

“Fine, and then,” she said, already climbing down the stairs, back to the Coven, no doubt to alert the other witches to use the alternative exit that night.

Adra watched her walking away, wanting to ask her friend to come back and promise her whatever she wanted but she knew she couldn’t. That was her only chance of getting into the Academy, of being the first witch to ever do such a thing. And Adra knew the importance of being the first. But she also couldn’t promise something to Thalassa because at the back of her mind, around a thin web, shone a part of the memory that wasn’t seen. 

And in it, Damian Kolasi entered the room where Aglaie Kalliergei had died just a couple of minutes after the killer.

Chapter 4 - Coming soon...

Buy the whole book through this link!