As the evening crowd dies down and only a few groups remain in the dining room, I purposely carry as many plates as I can over to Kristi and begin to wash them at her side. She doesn't initiate any conversation, though her soft hums drift over the rush of water. I can tell she's concentrating or thinking about something else, so for a while I let us both ease into routine.

"No one else is assigned to dish duty?" I ask after I've made it half way through my stack

Kristi shakes her head. Taking up a few dishes with her small hands, she sprays them off and water splashes around us. Her pace is admirable, fast and effective.

I try a different approach. "How long have you worked here?"

"Almost a year."

That's it, my first real answer. Nice and steady. I only need one bit of information at a time.

"How long have you known Hugh?" I purposely avoid using Lucien or Anne's name, since they seem to be the most hostile. To my relief Kristi doesn't seem as affected at the mention of Hugh.

"Same time—a year," she replies. I pick up on a slight accent in her voice, well masked, but it's there.

Steam from the sink rises and plasters strands of hair to the side of her face. She lifts another stack of plates from the sink and arranges them inside the industrial washing machine.

"Where are you from?" Soap bubbles form in the sink, multi-hued color swirling on their surface before they pop. I feel bad interrogating her, but there's no other options, and I've no ill intentions.

"Romania."

Okay. Now we're getting somewhere.

"Is that where you met Hugh?"

She sighs with a deep set frown. "Why do you ask so many questions? I told you it's no good."

"But why aren't questions allowed?" I've already decided I'm not leaving without hearing as much as I can. I don't want her to feel alone, like I did for too many years.

"My life is of no concern to you," she mumbles. Cheeks flushed from working, Kristi looks almost like a little doll, but her eyes don't shine. "You wanted this job, you got hired, now you work here. Same for me. Anne offered me a deal, and I took it."

"What was the deal?" I can't imagine what this place could offer her, what Anne would give worth this harsh treatment.

Kristi sets down the dish she's working on and turns to face me. "I will tell you one more time. There are some questions you don't want the answer to."

I give it one more try. "Then what about their eyes? I saw Lucien's change color when he drank the wine."

Kristi stares at me, the water still running in the background, but her expression doesn't translate into you're-bat-shit-crazy. No, it's that hint of sympathy again.

"You remembered, most don't." She turns back to the sink. Her face settles into its neutral state, but she doesn't dismiss me.

"How could I not remember someone's eyes turning red?" My voice becomes more animated, panic and confusion seeping out. How can I not remember the way he assessed my scars? How could I not question his offer of protection despite having just met me?

Kristi sighs and her posture falters. "I can see this will be harder for you than most. Try to forget. For most of us, the better we are at forgetting, the easier life will be."

"And what if I can't?"

"Then they will make you want to forget."

—

Kristi refused to give me any specifics. At least now I know I wasn't crazy. Or if I was, so are Lucien and his associates.

The thing that did bother me was Kristi's lack of indication that I should, or could, leave if I wanted. If I was getting myself in some kind of danger, wouldn't she tell me I'm better off quitting?

The resigned way she spoke made it feel as if there was no way out. But I can still walk away from it all, disappear altogether. I've ghosted jobs before, so I know it can be done. I haven't done anything yet to make myself a target. I've only been here one day, so there's a good chance they'd just move on. Hire someone else. I can fade away like I always do.

Is that what I want? I didn't come here looking for trouble, but I did come looking for something. Or rather, like I was drawn to something, The same things that always got me in trouble when I was a little girl. The things my mom hates me for.

Debating on whether or not I should show up for tomorrow's shift, I slug a bag of trash over my shoulder and carry it across the now silent kitchen to the back entrance. Mags is finishing up at the register, and this is the last chore that needs to be done before we leave.

The back door opens on silent hinges. So damn fancy and impeccable, just like the rest of Transylvania. Maybe they have some sort of voodoo here that makes wine change the color of your eyes, keeps the food tasting good, and prevents rust. Hell, anything could be on the table at this point.

As I take a step outside, Lucien's voice reaches my ears from down the alley. I perk up.

"So the rogue's Source gave up on life, did he? Good riddance, when that bastard shows up again I'm killing him."

Moonlit mixes with the light from one streetlamp, and though the waste bin is only a few steps from the door, I pause.

"It will be a relief to rid ourselves of the pest," Anne's voice bends around the side of the alley. "But you might have another issue on your hands."

"What are you getting at?" Again, I can't quite pinpoint where it's coming from, but I know that voice belongs to Lucien.

"She remembers," Anne says. "Deception must not have worked."

I freeze. They're talking...about me.

"Did you use the full effect?" That is either Hugh or Marc, but I'm not sure.

"I always use the full effect on the first try," Lucien responds.

I should toss the garbage in the bin and be on my way, but I can't move. A napkin blows down the alley, then gets caught in a stack of crates and crinkles. I hold my breath.

"You were probably too distracted from mapping out her scars." The speaker scoffs. "Not that we didn't all notice the cut on her side."

I clench the garbage bag tighter, not caring to figure out who the speaker is.

Somehow, they know. As if they can see everything I try so hard to hide.

How could they have noticed? The scars on my wrists are one thing, but he mentioned the cut on my side. There's no way for him to have seen it...

That's it. I'm definitely in too deep on this one. Whatever hellish mystery I stepped into, I can damn well leave it alone and hopefully keep my sanity as well.

A scuffle. The skid of debris on pavement.

I rush to the waste bin in a half-sprint, losing any sense of nonchalance and toss the bag of garbage inside.

"You came back, foolish rogue," Lucien's voice echoes in the distance.

My footsteps thud along with my heart as I spin and retreat towards the back door.

I wait, holding my breath. No one follows.

My chest heaves and I brace an arm against the wall to gather myself. Red paint shines back at me, shadows stretching in long trails across the silent restaurant. There's not even a pretense of merriment anymore. Inside is empty—but the alley outside isn't.

At this point I don't know if I should be consoled by the lack of sound or more threatened. I keep my head down and go back in to check if Mags is done. The flame of my curiosity has been thoroughly put out. I don't want to know what Lucien's game is here, or what part I'm supposed to play in it. 

All I want is to go home to my dreary thoughts and safe bed.

Who's the rogue they're talking about? Any guesses?

❤️‍🩹 Siberia