Etnana and Antonia have a cousin—Aaron, who died three, maybe five years ago, and went from mortal to cherubim? I’m not so certain. I’m not familiar with the angelic hierarchy. I merely know how things are ran in the underworld. . Regardless, he was in charge of guiding souls to heaven or hell, respectively. A type of psychopomp. Aaron was promoted, and became our superior. A high adviser among cherubims. He rules over Morrigan, who we know as Remin, who rules over us as what you would consider to be our “Boss”. She carries out the job of messenger between Aaron, and the Reapers. Specifically, the Nightwalker coven.

Mirrow, I met when I woke up. She became a my caretaker for the couple months it took me to recover from my two century slumber. After two centuries of sleeping, you become emotionally stunted for a little while. It’s really quite a horrid experience. I wouldn’t recommend it. Ayoria had taken one of Mirrow’s loved ones long ago—her husband, I believe. Rather than resent him, however, she became fond of him. Who knew? Humans don’t usually see Reapers, but apparently she had a slight sensitivity for the preternatural, so she became his confidant, and vice versa. Her husband had left her to care for her sister-in-law, Valentina. A very violent, very vicious, almost sardonic excuse for a lady. When Mirrow opened her café, she asked both her sister-in-law, and me to perform every so often, since we both have certain skill when it comes to playing musical instruments. Though an awful, wretched woman, she knows how to play the violin exquisitely. She mimics Giuseppe Taratinni like no other performer i've ever had the pleasure to hear. I play the pianoforte every other Tuesday evening… but you already know that.

Valentina fell in love with a strange man… Kael, I believe is his name. Odd fellow. His sister, whose name I must admit I do not know— beautiful woman, by the way, though extremely intimidating. Both of them, actually. They’re both very intimidating indeed. Nevertheless, they’re both acquainted with my beloved Antonia. They were coworkers, or something of the like. I know the sister and my fiancé share an apartment, and that Etnana is fondly acquainted with her, as well as Mirrow, and Valentina… and

Years ago… three, maybe four, Etnana dated, and got engaged to a young man by the name of Spencer. No, not Spencer... Spencer James Raphaelo Hiroshi Ishmael Milagro Michael Tyler Staph. A gorgeous Italian man. By all means, the incarnation of Aphrodite’s mortal lover Adonis himself! He dated my darling Antonia when they both assisted the same high school. He was—is, still a friend of Aaron’s. Spencer also passed away, and took over Cupid’s position as the angel of love. Hmm… apparently we have everything in our family: Angels, demons, vampires…all we’re missing are witches!

Through Spencer I became acquainted with Angela, or “Reiv”, as she is commonly regarded. My sweet Angela, my doomed Angela. Sister to Victor and Nicholas Maverick. Charming young men. Redheads, all of them. Karen Maverick’s deranged niece. She lost her mind at the young age of sixteen, and ten years later it’s only gotten worse. Poor darling… It was through Angela that Mirrow met Lady Karen, and not long after that, they opened the café we all frequent, which now bringing us to a full circle! Will you look at that. Oh, but how rude of me! All this time I’ve been yammering about my acquaintances and myself, and neglecting my duties! Would you like a cup of tea?

Foolish. It had been a foolish idea to have gone out so late, and in such humid conditions, too. The next evening, I woke up with a puffy nose, and a horribly swollen throat. I could scarcely speak. Splendid. I was now being stalked by a figment of my imagination— a lunatic who claimed to be a vampire— I’d been lacking an awful lot of sleep thanks to his frequent, yet sporadic visits, and I had now lost track of how many times I’d missed class ever since I met him. Need I add the fact that I had just caught a cold, and was suffering from it? Never mind the fact that I could lose my life at any second at the hands of said lunatic, simply for living an ordinarily dull mortal life, were he actually a real person. I would be very surprised, if I made it through the semester without a mental breakdown.

I had just gotten out of bed, and grabbed my glasses from the nightstand, when I realized that the bed I laid in, was not my own. I was dreaming. The sheets felt, and looked expensive. All around me, everywhere I looked— sheer luxury. I felt as though I’d spent the night in one of those extremely overpriced suites. Looking back on it, I feel somewhat silly; having taken such meticulous notice of all those pointless details. Then again, isn’t that second nature to all writers?

The room— the house itself was a character all on its own; a living, breathing, entity. The heavily decorated moldings at the foot of the walls, the beautiful realist paintings framed in elaborate golden margins. Allusions to Greek mythology, most of them— scenes of ill-fated lovers hinting Cupid and Psyche, as well as Orpheus and Eurydice; all painted in a style strikingly similar to William Bouguereau’s. It was all so beautiful, so… intoxicating. All my life I’d dreamed of owning a house like that. This was by far the grandest hallucination my mind’s eye had ever created. Aside from Cassian, of course. Now he had been one hell of a delusion, and he would surely be the death of me— both literally, and figuratively speaking. I wouldn’t’ve been surprised if by the end of the semester I ended up locked up in a padded room in an insane asylum with a name like ‘Serendipity’, or going though electric shock therapy.

Why did logic and reason have to ruin everything? No. Why did I have to make sense of everything; keep my feet on the ground? Why couldn’t I simply give in to my insanity? Yes, I’ve lost it. Yes, I talk to people who don’t exist— to people only I can see. Did I mention they’re the most beautiful monsters I’ve ever seen? I’m suffering from both visual, and auditive hallucinations, and I’m having the time of my life. This is what literature does to you. Art, writing, and literature combined will heighten your imagination, and creativity, to the point where it takes completely over your senses, and you can’t control it anymore.

“Do you love him?” He asked. “No.” I stood motionless, still staring at my reflection, looking at him somewhat vaguely in the window. “Then why do I sense so much hurt in you?” There was a long pause. It felt as though an eternity had passed, but he calmly waited for my reply. I took a deep breath, trying my hardest not to let my voice crack, or my eyes tear, but my eyes already felt as if wrapped in cellophane. “Attachment.” I said coldly, slamming the phone on the table, tensing up, fists clenched at my sides, and walking down the small corridor down to the bedroom to grab my denim jacket. Completely disregarding whatever it was he’d said to me afterwards.

“I’m going out. I don’t want you anywhere near me.” I strolled down the stairs, past the living room, and literally slammed the door on his face. I got in my car, and headed out the gate, into the highway. Not once did I look at him on my way out. I didn’t know where the hell I was going, nor did I care. I’d immediately turned off my phone the second I slowed down at the first stoplight. No interruptions, no distractions, no pity party— just some time to think on what had just happened, some time to meditate.

I drove for hours all the way to only God knows where, and stopped at the highest point in town, where I could get out the car, sit down on the ground, and simply stare at the tiny illuminated town, hundreds of miles below me. The ground was wet still from the storm earlier, and it still drizzled slightly. The humidity in the air, and the cold temperature made me thankful for the fact that I’d brought my jacket with me, and in an odd way, brought me comfort. I loved the rain. I simply adored cloudy skies for some reason.

It was the stupidest thing, really. I’d only known the guy for three months, and dated him for two and a half. I didn’t love him. I knew that. The only reason I’d gone out with him in the first place was because I knew nobody, and he’d been the one with the interest since the beginning. And he didn’t love me either. Not the way he’d said he did when we first met each other, anyway. I liked… the attention, the little pleasant details— the company. It was a nice feeling, being ‘loved’, and needed. I’d never even been close to experiencing anything like that when I was in middle school, or high school. I was an outcast. I’d always been. I was still an outcast even now, and I was angry at myself for even considering my need of someone to care about my feelings.

I’d been in love before, and had my heart broken many times silently, indirectly, buy guys who wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence. And I was fine with it, because it simply wasn’t their fault. Now I felt horrible, useless. I felt as though I’d never be good enough for anyone, and wished I’d had my heart beaten to a pulp a hundred times before when I was younger, if only it would make things less painful as I sat there, contemplating the tiny cars speeding down the streets below.

I sighed a long, mournful sigh, full of hurt and regret. Heartbreak. So stupid… I repeated those words over and over. The whole situation was stupid. No, you did not love him. No, it wasn’t your fault. You can start crying now. But I couldn’t. Regardless of the effort I was putting into it, and the fact that the tears were there, waiting to leak out, I simply could not cry— get it over with. Just cry. Cry, let it go, and it’ll all be over before you even know it. It was all a useless struggle.

“You think you can ignore me, and slam the door on my face as if I were just anyone?” I felt a horrible chill run down my spine, and through every square inch of my body as my senses caught notice of that melodic preternatural voice. So familiar. “You” I whispered, glaring behind me at the nothing, then at the sudden materialization of wild blue eyes so dangerously near me, invading my personal space. “I told you to stay away!” I attempted to hit that meddlesome immortal, but just as expected, his movements were too fast for me, and just as the thought of punching him had slithered its way into my mind, he already held me captive; hands imprisoned tightly behind my back, fangs precariously close to my neck, grazing my throat ever so slightly. Gasp. Fear. Silence. Shudder. Panic. “Foolish little ingrate” He laughed.