The Trial of Ashkova

No one was supposed to be awake. No one was meant to be there, not at night and not this late. Night had wrapped her velvety hands around the land many hours before. The darkness extended infinitely, kissing the low-hanging branches of the trees and slumbering in the eaves of the buildings that soared up into the sky. Yet despite the aching cold and frigid wind four figures walked through the night. The snow fell in steady spirals from the heavens and covered their tracks within minutes, erasing any evidence of their presence. The building which they headed towards was guarded, however not very well. The watchman sat slumped against the wall, his breath circling from his parted lips in soft white wisps that quickly vanished on the cool air. The cloak he wore was wrapped tightly around his thick frame, but despite his best efforts shudders of cold raced across his body. The first of the four hooded figures paused, drawing a blade from his hip. Without an ounce of compassion, he drew the sharp ebony edge across the man’s throat. The watchman’s eyes didn’t even open before blood began to run like water across the stone steps and drip onto the white crystalline snow. He slumped forward; dead.

The four dark shapes moved on into the building. They all knew the building well, following the winding halls and turning passages with ease. The group soon reached a room piled high with books and aged scrolls. All four paused, the one who had killed the watchman bent down to gently place the bloodstained weapon on the ground. The dark figures extended around the blade in a small circle, each shoulder gently grazing its neighbour. Soft white light from a phantom source barely touched its fingers to the blade yet by some unknown magic the metal seemed to draw it in, fragmenting the silvery glow in every direction.

No one was supposed to be there.

The second to the left of the dagger began to whisper in a foreign tongue, the words forked and harsh. Magic lay in those words, horrible darkness that began to build on the air. The magic sparked, a flame jumping to life upon the blade that hovered like a beacon between the four.

The words of the tallest figure stopped, the fire broke free and the one who had slain the watchman smiled as the enchanted fire engulfed the room. The flames licked every inch of the building and kept going and going, burning with the ferocity of a demonic beast. The night hung thick with smoke and the once silent land quickly became raucous as people died and families fractured. But the four who had entered the building did not scream and the flames never touched their skin. They parted in each direction of the compass, melting into the blazing night.

It was raining. It did almost daily during winter in London and today wasn’t dissimilar from the day before or the day before that. The same never-ending carpet of sullen cloud stretched on endlessly and the same rain fell in in the same chilling drops onto the same grey pavement. A world of grey surrounded Kaiya; even the gloves she wore were grey. There was something lifeless about that colour, neither dark enough to be truly ominous nor light enough to bear hope. Grey was the pointless in-between, like the unwanted black jelly beans at the bottom of a lolly bag. But, regardless of Kaiya’s incessant grumbles, the rain continued to fall. The city didn’t stop for the weather and the weather didn’t change for the city.

Clouds of white left her mouth, the cold biting at the end of her nose and creeping through the soles of her much-loved boots. It was bitterly cold and too early for her to be awake on a Monday. The combination of these facts meant that Kaiya’s day was already off to a horrible start.

“You’re late.”

She was met with a grumble as she stepped over the threshold of the small café. Kaiya closed the door quickly behind her, the bell suspended from the weathered wood of the door jingling in an overly merry tinkle. She thanked the gods for the wave of warm air that flowed over her body, defrosting her nose and warming the ends of her fingers.

“There were delays on the Tube. It won’t happen again.” Kaiya replied, knowing all too well that the promise most probably couldn’t be kept. The Tube was always delayed. Promptly and with false urgency she removed her gloves and slipped them into the brown messenger bag that hung from her right shoulder. Kaiya hated being late, being ten minutes early to everything was a mantra she’d lived by for her entire life. But today that promise to herself was broken and she was late, and according to the large ancient clock that sat on the shoddily painted wall, by a whole 15 minutes.

Well there’s not much you can do about it now.

Kaiya thought to herself as she turned to assess what her day had in store. As a general rule, Kaiya could judge by the number of people within the small space how busy her day was going to be. Today, she was glad to see that if everything went to plan her day would be average, perfectly wonderfully average.

The clothes of the workmen and women inside the small café were just as dreary as the weather outside. Black suits paired with black ties, black satchels and blank expressions. Monotonous dress to reflect monotonous lives.

Her shift began at eight and finished at one in the afternoon. The remainder of her day would be spent in her room studying for university finals and avoiding her mother at all costs. She hated living at home, for reasons that were complicated. Yet, her finances didn’t allow for her to buy a nice bike let alone rent a reasonable apartment in central London. At least not one that wasn’t also homing an array of mildews and moulds. There was only so much a measly job in a café and the slim and disappointing paycheque could get you.

“Katrina called in sick, so you can jump on the bar today,” the stout, sour-faced chef named Anthony grumbled to her as he came out from behind the heavy kitchen doors.

Anthony was a large man with a short, thick stature and an unpleasant scowl that never left his thin lips. It didn’t matter if it was a gorgeous day in the middle of June or early on a Monday morning, Kaiya had never seen the man look pleased or at the very least mildly impressed with anything. And, just like yesterday, he scowled at her from where he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a spatula coated in an indistinguishable green liquid held firmly in his hand. She gritted her teeth and flashed a slightly pained looking smile, she hated the bar.

Having barked his concise order he left, the door swinging back and forth aggressively behind him until coming to a creaking rest slightly ajar.

The paint on the door was probably one of the most neglected areas of the café. It was, in Kaiya’s opinion, the second most neglected area. The front door took out a concerning first place. Considering how important first impressions were for most people, it would be assumed that the front door would be kept neat and well-maintained. Alas it was not. Rickety and in desperate need of replacement, the wooden door stuck to the ground and needed a firm push to get moving, so firm in fact that at times the small glass pane set deep within the door itself rattled in its own flimsy holding. The greyish paint was peeling off in ribbons, revealing not only the poor quality of the paint but also the hideous bright blue coat underneath. Sure, it added character to the place, but Kaiya was certain “decrepit ol’ café” wasn’t the look that Café Koda or Anthony was going for.

She kept quiet despite her strong opinions on the matter and her deep desire to break into the establishment late at night in a balaclava, paintbrush and roller in hand. This was simply due to the fact that Anthony, even when he was in a good mood, was a right royal pain in her ass. Kaiya knew that if he came into his café one morning to find it changed he would be less than impressed. The pair had a long, fraught history to say the least. Ever since she started her job at the small establishment a little less than five years ago, she had felt scrutinised, monitored and even personally victimised by the icy, calculating eyes of the chef who had nothing better to do than pick mercilessly on other people. Kaiya did empathise with the slowly greying man who, day after day and week after week, was all but trapped in a single room with no company or sunlight for hours on end. She couldn’t imagine having to make the same bland meals day in and day out. If your only company was a greasy English Breakfast and piles of lemonade scones all day every day, the constant isolation would make anyone’s attitude towards others more than lacklustre.

“Kaiya, did you hear me? Katrina isn’t in today, you need to make coffee.” Anthony barked again, waving the spatula in his hand about as if it illustrated his point better. It didn’t, but instead sent spots of green food onto the nearby wall. Feeling guilty that she had ignored him the first time, but annoyed she offered him a quick reply.

“Sounds good.”

She nodded at the tired-looking chef and another forced smile before she moved swiftly to the spot behind the bar, usually reserved for Katrina. She reached into the pocket of her faded blue jeans and pulled out her worn and peeling name badge, pinning it onto the left upper breast of her apron. Despite its popularity Café Koda could barely seat twenty people, which at times was an inconvenience and at others a blessing. It did depend on Kaiya’s mood that day and if she was willing to deal with the often long and complex coffee needs of the painfully proper white-collar class. Every inch of the small space had been made practical. Booths of black corduroy lined every imperfectly painted grey wall in a desperate effort to minimise the sound easily generated in the small space. Each booth was donned in mismatched cushions that gave no consistency or order to the aesthetic appeal, or lack thereof, of the café. From the roof, several hanging lights buzzed sporadically giving the café an industrial, grungy vibe. Café Koda was different and for that reason, as well as maybe her and Katrina’s coffee-making skills it became a one-stop-shop for early morning commuters.

Kaiya set to work, the smell of fresh coffee wafting around her as she ground the tiny brown beans into a fine powder, warmed the milk and spooned tea leaves into small brown terracotta teapots. Folksy music played through the speakers, the sound pleasantly familiar as well as helping her avoid overhearing conversations she’d rather not be privy to. Every workman whose coffee she made smiled at her, the emotion not quite reaching their eyes as they grasped the paper takeaway cups between their desperate fingers. Caffeine is the drug of the tired and the busy. If coffee didn’t exist Kaiya knew that there would be a significant number of early morning meetings and classes not attended. Not her own, however, she despised the taste and couldn’t understand how anyone could enjoy the horrible bean water. As Kaiya sipped the far superior green tea she’d made for herself and looked out of the windows to see who was coming in to order next, she couldn’t help but notice the man several customers back.

Dear god no. Not again.

Her eyes followed him closely as he walked through the old wooden door. The man was wearing a grey suit, not unlike the others she’d seen that day, immaculately ironed and well-fitted. She guessed that he was middle-aged, if only just, and had a pair of thin wire-framed glasses that were out of fashion and did nothing for his round-shaped face. But it wasn’t the style of the suit nor glasses that caught her attention, but rather what was on his back. What Kaiya saw made her splutter, choke and hurriedly set her drink down before rather unfashionably coughing aggressively into the back of her hand. Her heart jumped to life and her mouth instantly dried.

Not again.

Melting grey-white flesh hung in ugly skin like rags off the humanoid being that clung onto the man’s back. Claws, long, dark and taloned sunk into the fine grey suit, leaving large gashed marks that she knew only she could see. Naked and unclothed, the thing clutched onto his shoulders as if for dear life. The thing’s legs wrapped around the man’s waist, its small skinny limbs appearing utterly useless. A bulbous head sat on narrow, slight shoulders with a pair of eyes the whites so milky she wondered if the thing could see at all. Kaiya didn’t know what it was, even though she’d seen a million of the things before. It didn’t matter how many times she told her mother of the sightings Rosaline adamantly refused to tell her daughter anything. It was against the law. Kaiya was the second youngest child, but undoubtedly the most stubborn. The only one of four children to have wandered adamantly away from the family business. But over the past handful of months, much to her frustration, a long thin cord tethered to the inevitable had prevented her from walking away from any further. Each passing day brought with it another set of hollowed eyes, wrinkled flesh and gaping jaws. It was only getting worse and Kaiya could not shake the horrible feeling that the number of the beings was increasing. The one on the back of the man before her marked the third in the last two days.

A new record.

She thought bitterly, sending a glare in the direction of the thing. Which, rather unfortunately, the woman behind the man with the glasses took personally.

It took every ounce of her composure to remove her glare, smile at the gentleman and write his order with a steady hand. She could feel the milky whites of the humanoid thing honing in on every sweeping motion of the pen in her hand. Kaiya did her best to ignore it, instead of repeating the order over and over as if it were a song she couldn’t get out of her head: a flat white, low-fat milk with two sugars. She went about warming the milk, desperate for anything that would keep her mind distanced from the truth she had been rejecting for so many years. Kaiya tried to push the image of the man walking through the doorway into the dark and dreary recesses of her mind.

But she couldn’t. It was still there as if her mind was stuck on a constantly repeating cycle.

That man was going to die today.