C15 12. If you don’t go to the bed, the floor goes to you

The sun had already fallen asleep when my body tired to tremble with silent screams. I threw my feet to the floor, exhaustion overwhelming me, but hunger rivaled sleep for the title of the main disturbant of the peace.

“Grant.”

Silence.

“Grant Cirkul.”

I walked up to the boy and shook his shoulder, but all I got in response was a sniffle. His head rested on the wooden rim of the chair, his arms at his sides.

Of course, I didn't mind sleeping either, but I wanted to get to bed first.

“Wake up!” I slapped his pale cheek a couple of times. His eyes opened at my action and looked at me so doomed-unconsciously – and then closed again. He turned away.

With sadistic determination, I stretched my neck muscles, inhaled deeply, and pulled my enemy's son down onto the carpet. He groaned, but I didn't even feel pity. I wasn't going to spend the rest of the night trying to keep myself warm on the pile.

I crouched down, pulled the sleeping alcoholic's torso onto my back, and staggered towards the library exit blowing a loose strand from my forehead.

I decided to trust my heart and turned left - in his favourite direction – but after ten metres I shamefully gave up. Threw the unpleasant companion down on the parquet, slid the curtain and sat down on the windowsill. My palm touched something pleasantly rough, and it looked like I'd stumbled into a secret spot: there was a square folded plaid and a sofa cushion on top of it.

A quiet muttering brought me back to reality. I looked at Grant, crouched in a fetal position on the floor, his hair disheveled, strands messily falling over his eyelashes, and the white shirt should probably be renamed grey – its owner had slumped over my shoulders a few times, so I wasn't sure that he hadn't picked up dust along the way. But even in the moonlight, his face looked cute and fragile.

Well... For the first time I felt sorry for him, so I threw the plaid over him, though most of it covered his head and his bare ankles lost the opportunity to get warm. But I didn't bother to adjust it.

I looked out the window, where the moon's glare rippled on the leaves, driven by the wind. My reflection was dull and tear-red, my hair dishevelled, but my appearance did not cause me shame, a desire to preen myself or turn away to avoid seeing myself again. I looked into my eyes, which were so familiar, framed by brittle lashes, and tried to find my soul in them. I tried to find my past self, the little girl who looked at the world with interest and curiosity, the teenager who was shy of pimples and glasses, the young girl who dreamed of living freely and enjoying her little pleasures.

But I couldn't find her. A pale shadow in a funeral dress sat before me, with a white collar kissing her skin, a pulse beating beneath it. The gold ornamentation, four letters and two numbers drew me into a wild apathy. “Siri-22” glinted in the window reflection, a deadly little thing packed with technology capable of blowing this presentable mansion to smithereens.

I lifted my palm, ran my forefinger over the rough surface of the engraving, over the cool smoothness of the ivory. Yes, they didn't skimp on such killer jewellery. The scientists who were present in the ward during the morning examination were discussing my peculiar choker among themselves. I heard them mention the precious ivory and sapphire crystals soldered into the gaps between the diodes.

And who would need to create such an expensive piece of jewelry? Frighteningly expensive, deadly charming, eye-catching and causing cold goosebumps under the heart.

“Fru, fru-fru, mru...m.”

I staggered downstairs, where the president's son was tossing and turning, picking dust from the baseboard with his nose. His mumbling through his sleep made me grin wildly, and then I burst out laughing, crushing the sobs of laughter in my wrist vein. His slurred speech patterns turned into barely intelligible words, then back into the gibberish of a drunk in a back alley.

I banged my forehead against the glass, but my attempt to calm down failed. It was terribly funny to me: night, moonlight, a corridor with dark corners, a boy polishing the parquet with his cheek, and a hysterically laughing girl entangled in a thin thread of chain, bound by a vengeance pact to this place. And that would be all right, except the sniveling young man was the son of her mortal enemy, the scion of President Cirkul himself.

And the female silhouette that was leaning its shoulder against the window frame was me. The one who forty hours ago had said goodbye to the earth and the sky, to the air and all living things.

So how come I'm still breathing?

The contract. Three months.

I groaned, sliding onto the windowsill, which was long and wide – just the right length for melancholy, stargazing. Calm down, Siri, you've got three months to be patient. Then you'll do your duty of vengeance and step into the next world with a fine mood.

All that remained was to endure a ninety-day existence side by side with this snoring, pale (but, let's face it, handsome) guy.

I returned the plaid to the windowsill, withdrew the pillow and put it under my butt, wrapped myself in the wool blanket that still remembered the warmth of another man, and threw back my head, promising myself to think about the future and the death of the president at the right time. For now, I just wanted to catch my heartbeat and gulp in air, suffering from insomnia.