It wasn''t until the next spring that I could play a full piece fluently, and that piece was Victor''s favorite song. I didn''t understand back then why it seemed so important to please him, but I gave it all my effort, and each smile he gave me in approval felt like the warmest embrace I''d ever received. I was terrible at reading music sheets, but my tutor always complimented my sharp ears. It only took hearing a song once or twice, and I could reproduce it perfectly on the piano. Before I even noticed, I was being called a genius—not just by Margaret or Victor or the tutor, but by everyone who ever found me playing. Even those who hadn''t seen me play had heard stories of the mysterious Casta?eda child who could play sounds made by angels—or so they said.
The days became months, and the months became years, and I could finally speak to people. I didn''t feel as insecure or judged anymore, and the heart-wrenching past that had shaped me till then seemed a distant dream at times. The reputation around Casta?eda faded a little, and now everyone wondered where I''d come from and why my music was so brilliant. But I knew I''d never be like the rest, despite my adoptive father''s efforts.
Victor named me after his great-grandfather, Florian Casta?eda, and baptized me as his son. I finally attended a private school for boys, where I was supposed to grow and learn about the world and things Victor couldn''t teach me at home. But my inability to be around people became a curse I couldn''t escape. Despite my failure to make friends my age, I excelled—for the little time I was there—in every subject. Maybe that made other kids envious, and rumors started circling again, trashing my name. "The devil," they called me, because they remembered Victor was always a lonely man with no wife and therefore no children. So for them, I became the demon he''d brought to life.
My appearance didn''t help either. I was always pale and flimsy, and very short for my age. Other kids made fun of me, tried to steal my things, called me names, and insulted me and Victor. I tried to ignore them and excuse their ignorance and malice in my head, but I couldn''t help hating them, cursing them in my mind with gruesome images I wished would become their future. I no longer carried that devilish shadow people once feared; now I was just a toy for them to break. I was ashamed of wishing them horrors and punished myself by cutting my skin with whatever sharp thing I could find, hoping the pain would redeem the evil inside me. I thought looking at those scars would stop me from hating anyone who treated me badly, reminding me of the kindness and compassion Victor had tried to teach me. But soon I discovered my skin wasn''t like anyone else''s—if I''d been wounded before, now I healed in seconds. That only proved them right. No human could do that, but the monsters I''d read about in books could.
My nightmares didn''t stop either; they grew stronger and more vivid each time. I got paler, lost my appetite, and stopped playing the piano for a while. Victor was worried, so he brought the best doctors in the country to examine and diagnose me. He was also concerned I hadn''t grown much in all that time. I was eleven but still the size of a six-year-old. For some reason, I felt he was guarding me too close, pacing nervously on days my condition worsened, hunting for something I couldn''t name. He started to act very weird those days; my innocence didn''t let me see through his protection and care, which I rather enjoyed and appreciated.
The doctors analyzed me for months, but after Victor, weary and hesitant, explained my rough childhood, they blamed the chest I''d been locked in most of my life for the weakness in my muscles and bones. They prescribed medications to hasten my growth, and Victor hired instructors to teach me exercises for my physical development. For three months, none of it worked, and my nightmares kept worsening. I couldn''t remember what I dreamed—just the terror lingering each night. The only changes were my hair, growing longer and paler, more white than blonde, and the dark circles deepening around my now pitch-black eyes. My nails grew long and sharp like claws, and Victor secretly cut them short so no one noticed. I never told him about my healing, afraid he''d fear me as much as I did and cast me out like my mother had. I struggled to hide it from him, but his excessive care shielded me—I had no cause to be hurt, so I wouldn''t heal magically like the otherworldly creature I was. I trembled at my own shadow, certain everyone else would too. I couldn''t bear to lose Victor—he alone seemed to care.
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It wasn''t until a dark, rainy night the next December that he stopped the treatments and the scientific hunt for answers about my strange appearance, inviting instead the most horrifying guest I''d ever seen.
Her name was Greta Velmont, with coal-black long hair and a teenage girl''s face on a body that smelled of an ancient soul. "Is she a witch?" I asked, but Victor didn''t answer—he didn''t need to; it was obvious. "There''s another side of knowledge we all fear but seek when what we know doesn''t give answers."
I knew then the rumors about Victor and dark magic rituals were true, at least a little, and it gave me hope he wouldn''t abandon me. We were both tied to darkness in an unexpected way. Greta was asked to stay the night to watch over me. Apparently, Victor thought she could help him understand what was happening when the nightmares struck, especially at that hour when no one else could cut through my darkness. Her room was next to mine, which I found odd because she brought no luggage, like she''d risen from the rain itself. So when I started screaming at midnight, she ran in with a glowing candle. I wish I''d escaped the night before, because what happened next was the start of something worse than all the pain I''d ever known.
I remember—and this was the first time I recalled one of my horrible dreams—standing in the middle of the room, suspended in the air, floating. The walls danced to a sharp whistle, a melody I knew but couldn''t place. Black feathers fell at my feet, and everything was red and black. My arms were coated in more black feathers, my short nails now long, sharp claws. My body, feathered too, was bigger—like a monster''s.
I was so scared I screamed—maybe like every night before—and this time, Greta burst in. Horror painted her face like a mask that owned her. She cursed me in a foreign tongue, raking through some ritual to cleanse me of my wretched curse, yet I felt the urge to laugh. I landed in front of her, grabbed her neck with my feathered arm, and as she fought to break free, I squeezed until her head snapped off, her body collapsing, eyes bursting in a bloodbath. My uncontrollable laughter filled the room with the darkest joy I''d ever felt.
What happened next slipped from my mind, but when I opened my eyes, I was in Victor''s bed, burning with fever. Margaret was beside me, hands bloody from clawing at the mess, crying, and Victor paced from the bed to the window, clutching his forehead and pulling his hair.
"Victor..." I whispered. He rushed to me, sending Margaret away. "Why am I here?" I asked. He seemed to steel himself to explain, but I already suspected my latest memory wasn''t a dream. "What did I do?" I begged, but he gripped my hand tight, mumbling things even my sharp ears couldn''t catch. It''s curious how deaf I could be when panic struck me down.
He wouldn''t let me leave his room for a week. He fed me himself, read to me, talked about his usual things. He brought his gramophone so I could hear piano pieces while stuck in bed. I didn''t feel weak or sick, and I ached to leave, but I said nothing—I knew I''d done something awful, and maybe I''d stay there forever. I didn''t know. Looking back, I wish I had. Victor didn''t seem to be punishing me but protecting me, not just from the outer world but from myself.
During those long days and nights—curtains shut, alone except for Victor''s visits every few hours—I didn''t sleep once. I also noticed the mirrors were gone. I''d been in that room before; there''d been a big one across the bed and another in his dressing room. Now both were missing, like they''d never existed, and I started wondering why.
One morning, Victor came in with a look that terrified me. I thought he''d ditch me—his eyes were sad, heartbreak in his pupils, but a resolve to do something unspeakable burned in him. Unlike what I expected, he wasn''t alone. A tall black man followed, dressed in a black suit and top hat, his long dark hair streaked with one golden strand that stood out sharp. He was a stranger—no sound he made felt familiar—yet I knew instantly I''d trust him with my life, no question.
"Hello, Florian..." he said, but his lips didn''t move. I must''ve looked confused because he said exactly what I needed to hear. "My name is Magnus, and I''m a priest. Not the kind you see in churches—I walked a darker path once. Your father, this fine man, can''t hear a word I''m saying. Only you can, Florian, because you''re not human. Not entirely."
Those words pounded in my head like drums at the end of an orchestral song. Not entirely human, he said, and I couldn''t argue. I''d known it all along. But why did he know more about me than I did?
"You must listen carefully. What you are isn''t allowed in this world—you''re a dangerous creature, and it''s my job to end your existence. This man beside me is a man of God, a man who loves you more than anything. He''s known what you are all along, knows to fear you, but doesn''t. He has hope. That''s why I''m here. There''s a place you must go if you want a chance to live. Follow me, no questions. Do everything you''re told. If you don''t, I''ll kill you. What''s your answer?"