Eve Anon Vol.1

By Stefani Christova

Evgenia, a strong-minded and beautiful girl, spends the summer in Bulgaria. There, she finds herself courted by two zmay—supernatural beings from the local folklore. Both of them are stunningly handsome and powerful beyond imagination. Both of them promise her the world. However, their intentions are not as forthright as she is led to believe, and soon the love story turns into a nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stefani Christova
• Release date: Dec 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9780991371754

Stefani Christova

Stefani Christova, born and raised in a charming old town in the foothills of the Balkan Mountains, now lives in Colorado. Still, her hometown with its colorful inhabitants is the realm where most of her stories take place.

Book preview

CONTENTS

Title Page

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

EPILOGUE

About the Author

Copyright

Acknowledgements and Credits

Chapter 1

It must have been Wednesday when I landed at the Sofia Airport, or maybe Thursday, it was hard to tell. The seventeen-hour trip from Denver had lasted twenty-two, and we had been circling until we almost ran out of fuel. The fog was everywhere. It surrounded the plane like a sea of low-fat milk and oozed through the cracks between the jet bridge and the deck, making a curtain through which the passengers disappeared one by one. I followed them in turn, the fog drifting along and dimming the lights in the long corridors. At every corner, the patter of feet echoed back, and it seemed we were going to run into another crowd of sullen, drowsy people. We didn’t and eventually got to the main terminal where sleepy-eyed clerks squeezed oranges and the coffee machines had just been turned on. Six clocks on the wall told the time in six different cities around the globe, none of them making sense, probably broken. To prove me wrong, the long hand of all six jerked to the next digit in perfect unison. The act finalized the trip and brought the world into order. My ears popped. Sounds flooded in, speech became comprehensible, and the day started to feel like a Wednesday.

As if by command, a path free of people opened in front of me and I saw Grandfather across the hall. White-headed and handsome, he stood with an ease that made him look like one of the wise men. Next to him, Grandmother clutched at her handbag. She had a fresh perm. On her right, Uncle was sweating and out of breath in his too tight, creased suit. They looked exactly as they had for the last seven years, meeting me in July, sending me off in September. They were even lined up in the same order as if they hadn’t left this spot for the ten months of my absence.

Waving, smiling, moving in slow motion despite the effort to hurry, I reached them at last and submerged myself in their affection. They kissed me on both cheeks and put their arms around me, except for Uncle who had his hands behind his back. With a ceremonial flourish, he asked me to choose a hand. If I guessed right, there would be a small present for me there. I could never make a wrong choice—he had a present in his other hand too, which he would give to me when I left. This year I chose his right hand and found an antique enamel egg-holder shaped like a tulip. The petals were yellow with diaphanous green streaks. The same green as the color of my eyes, they noted, and walked me to the taxi stand, gathered around me, proud of my good looks and my poise, and a little jealous of the stares I attracted.

In the taxi, I answered the flow of trivial but inevitable questions. Everything was good with me. No new sports injuries, no conflicts with my father and stepmother, and no—no problems with the authorities. Everybody loved me. All my professors at SCU loved me (my father was one of them so he loved me too), my stepmother assured me on a daily basis she loved me, and since I’d started counting, a total of twenty-seven boys had told me they loved me. Even the family dog made a point of loving me to death. I could never reciprocate so much love.

Shush, Evgenia, Grandmother said. You are cranky, that’s all. Have a cookie.

I had a cookie.

No one inquired further about my new family or my love life. We crossed the Balkan Mountains in the splotchy darkness of predawn and started down the northern slopes as the sun was rising over the Danube plains. The small, red-roofed town of my childhood was tucked in the foothills, another hour away. By the time we reached it, the excitement had worn off and I felt drowsy with fatigue. Once home, I headed in the direction of my room, skipping the customary tour of the house and the garden for the first time ever. No, no breakfast. No, I won’t bathe. Need to sleep. Please somebody unplug the phone. Who is calling? Oh, it’s for me?

Evgenia, I need a favor. My father’s voice cut through with clarity renouncing the ten thousand miles between us. You know about the lecture I am giving tomorrow, yes? I just remembered that little village, Stork. Typical sixteenth-century folk architecture throughout. It is less than an hour from Kirpich.

Father, I’ve just arrived. I am tired.

You always sleep on planes.

Not this time. On the transatlantic I partied with these Scandinavian kids, and then in Frankfurt—

Just go and take some pictures for me. I’ll need them before 1:00 PM Mountain Standard Time tomorrow. Keep in mind the time difference.

But—

By the way, don’t tell your grandparents you are going to Stork.

Why not?

Long story. Just don’t. Promise you won’t.

Okay. I don’t care.

Thank you, sweetie. That’s my girl.

His girl fabricated a lie for her grandparents and sleepwalked to the bus station. I went along, feeling a pleasant detachment from my body still throbbing with jet engine vibrations. The bus to Stork was about to leave, and I was the only passenger. The driver told me that the village was two hours away, not one as my father had claimed. Nothing to be done about it. I took my seat and passed out. A moment later the driver was shaking me awake. We had arrived.

Swaying and yawning, I stepped out of the bus into the bright, unchangeable ambience of a remote mountain village. A tiny church with a moss-covered slate roof leaned away from the tavern. A pair of storks circled over the church steeple. Chamomile grew between the cobblestones. Two-story houses with deep eaves, white walls, and boxes with red geraniums on every balcony hid behind six-foot stonewalls and heavy, wooden gates. The gates were wide enough for three horsemen riding abreast and probably required two strong men to open. For everyday use, small doors were carved in one of the panels of the great double gates. I took my camera out and trained the lens on one of these doors. My finger was still on the button when the door opened and an elderly man stepped out. He had a tall lamb-fur cap and a white, fluffy, perky, glorious mustache. I thought his presence in the picture would make it more authentic and was about to shoot, but he saw me and stared at me for such a long time that I was sure I had offended him with my camera. I stifled another yawn and walked over to apologize.

So, you’ve finally decided to visit the birthplace of your ancestors, the old man asked in a very loud voice.

You must be mistaken. My grandparents are from Kirpich. I came to take some pictures of the local architecture. I hope you won’t mind.

I am not mistaken. I am talking about your other set of grandparents, on your mother’s side. Let’s ask my father if you don’t believe me. The old man grabbed my camera-free hand and pulled me inside the door.

I wasn’t shocked—if there is one thing I am not, it’s easily shocked—but I was surprised enough to follow the old man with no protest.

The door screeched and closed behind us on its own accord. A cobblestone path led to the house where, on the sunny side of the porch, an even older man was having his breakfast. The older man’s lamb-fur cap was taller than the younger old man’s, and his mustache whiter, fluffier and more glorious.

Father, the first old man shouted, this is Lilla’s great-granddaughter, what do you say?

That’s her alright. What does she want?

She wants to see the picture. Take her upstairs.

I don’t want to see any pictures, I said.

That’s not what you just told me. The first old man looked at me as if I were cheating and ushered me into the house where his father had already gone. The three of us started up a narrow stairway, with me in-between. Hanging on the walls of the stairway was an arrangement of ancient daggers, knives, revolvers, old photographs, and framed cuttings from magazines. The father stopped on every other step to point at one piece or another. This was my grandfather’s hunting gun. And these two were my father’s revolvers. This knife used to belong to somebody my uncle killed in a tavern squabble. We use it now to skin the pig come Christmas; it is the sharpest in the house. And this here is your great-grandmother Lilla.

In the faded black-and-white picture, two young girls in traditional costumes stood in front of the same well I’d seen outside. There wasn’t a need to ask which one was Lilla. The tall, skinny one, with roses woven into her headpiece, could have been me.

Eh… who is the other girl? I asked.

My mother. She and Lilla were sisters-in-law. The older man pointed a sharp, bony finger at me. To her deathbed, Mother blamed herself for what happened. She had dreamt about fire the night before the wedding and didn’t warn the family.

What happened?

The two old men seemed to have waited for this question all their lives. They started shouting in my ears, tickling me with their long, white mustaches, coughing and getting out of breath, their voices getting stronger and louder with every word.

Of all the nonsense they told me, I could make out that my maternal great-grandfather had been daft and my great-grandmother had been a harlot, or insane, or both. Or very clever. She had been having an affair with somebody and telling her husband that her lover was a zmay.

Excuse me, I interrupted. This is all very interesting, but maybe you could tell me about it some other time. I am very tired.

There is nothing more to tell, the father said. As soon as Lilla’s father found out about her cheating ways, he put a hole through her chest with his Mannlicher, that big.

I must have had a blank look on my face. The son spread his hands apart to show me how big the hole had been.

Are you telling me that her own father killed her because he thought she’d been involved with a legendary creature? How could he possibly have believed that?

What was there not to believe? Others had seen the zmay, too. My mother had seen him. Admittedly, a very handsome fellow when in human form, and very—

Okay. I am leaving now. Pleasure talking to you, but I need to be going.

They talked some more, but I had stopped listening, nodding and taking little steps in the direction of the gate.

Finally outside and alone, the reason for my trip came to mind. I walked to the middle of the village center, took the camera out, and turning around in a circle, I shot about eighty pictures. The job was done, and it was only two fifteen. I walked over to the bench in front of the tavern, and using my backpack as a pillow, I made myself comfortable.

My head was still full of the old men’s voices. Were I not that tired, I would have found their stories entertaining. It was clear that they had decided to spice up the family history, borrowing from the popular myths and inventing the angry father with the Mannlicher for additional drama.

In Balkan folklore, the zmay dominates the sky and rules the weather elements. Evidently, it’s fashioned after Zeus, the sky god. The zmay is a dragon-like, sentient being with a tendency to lust after beautiful women, to whom it appears in human form. Many folk songs explored the problems of inter-species relationships, which didn’t seem much different from human-to-human relationships. I couldn’t remember any such song in its entirety, but usually the maiden would be telling her mother, A zmay loves me, Mother. How about that? And the mother would answer…I forgot what.

That was all I knew, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I overcame my sleepiness, ignored the promise I’d made to my father, and called home.

Guess what, Grandma, I said when she picked up. I met two old men and they told me they were my great-uncles.

There was silence on the other side as if Grandma was holding her breath. Then, What are you doing in Stork? You said you were going to Raven. Come home at once. Don’t listen to the old men. They are liars. They are crazy. They have promised never to tell you…may their tongues wither in their treacherous heads.

Grandma indulged in a few more rounds of vigorous cursing before asking, So what did they tell you about your mother?

Nothing, not a word. Nor did they mention my other grandparents. They all must have died unexciting, boring deaths. Lilla, my great-grandmother, was the only one they talked about.

Grandma, breathing laboriously, was trying to believe me. I could tell that. One day, I was going to sit her and the rest of the family down and shout in their faces until they heard me. I don’t care about my mother. She means nothing to me. I’ve known the secret for as long as I can remember. The woman suffered postpartum depression. It was her choice to die. Get over it. I am not damaged. I don’t feel remorse, or guilt. I feel nothing. And I would never do a crazy thing like that. I am the most level-headed person since Eve. Now, let’s all take it easy and forget about it.

Someday, I’d do it. For now, I tried to reassure Grandmother that I am still my innocent self. I gave her a full report of the encounter with the old men, without her interrupting even once. When I mentioned the zmay story, she only said, Oh, I am sorry, dear. We didn’t know back then. I thought she was talking about my maternal great-grandmother being in a sexual relationship with a mythological creature, but she was referring to her humble place of birth, which, by the way, invalidated my claims for being a pureblooded citizen of Kirpich. I didn’t plan on advertising it.

I closed my eyes, but the sun-drenched village wouldn’t leave me as if it had imprinted itself on the inside of my eyelids. I slept, watching the shadows running up the stone walls of the houses across the street, the small lizards scattering in and out of the well, and one or the other of the storks landing in the nest with a twitching snake in its beak. I missed the precise moment, but the empty village suddenly filled with people. Somebody made a racket opening the tavern shutters, old men started arriving by twos and threes and instead of entering right away, stopped by the door and chatted in loud voices. The aroma of fresh-baked bread drifted from the bakery, and a queue of ancient women and men formed at once. Then, one really old woman passed by with a herd of goats, which started nibbling on my backpack and my sandals that I had tucked under the bench. Through my sleep, old people went back and forth, stopping sometimes to check on me, voicing their disapproval like discontented clocks. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

The bus came around five, bouncing on the cobbles, and leaping over the potholes with jerky, cartoon-like motions. No one came with it, and no one left but me. The bus driver started whistling, but he fell silent as soon as the bus crossed the hunchback stone bridge over the river and was swallowed by the darkness of the forest on the other side. Old trees, oaks, elms, walnuts, crowded on both sides of the road as if they had parted only to let the bus through and were going to move back after it passed. There was no sign of rain before, but under the canopies of the trees, it was raining. The rain didn’t fall in its usual fashion—it seeped through the leaves like green vapor. The driver was quiet behind the plastic partition, and it was lonely on the empty bus. The headlights cut through the moss-colored drizzle, changing the woods into something different, alien and disturbing. The leaves on the trees turned into dragon scales, the tree branches into claws. Deep, growling noises upset the birds nesting in the trees. From the foliage, a round reptilian eye stared down at the bus, unblinking.

Abruptly, the bus came out of the tunnel and into the brittle twilight. The road was dry, and the town outline was sketchy but reassuring in the distance. The bus driver resumed his whistling and asked me if I would rather have him drop me in front of my house since he was going to the depot anyway. All I remember after that was falling asleep between sheets that smelled of the lavender Grandma kept in the linen closet.

Chapter 2

Shortly after midnight, in a room suffused with the pale light of a three-quarter moon hanging low in the window, I woke up with the feeling of a brief but severe disorientation. I was in bed, my arms relaxed on top of the covers, my breathing as regular as it could be, my heartbeat loud in my ears. There was somebody in my room.

Very slowly and very cautiously, I opened my eyes and peered through the mesh of eyelashes. At my feet, on top of the brass frame of the bed, crouched a dusky young man. He sat on the heels of his crocodile-skin boots, perfectly motionless, sinewy arms resting on his knees, his big hands with beautiful, elongated fingers loosely entwined. Aside from the boots, he wore only a pair of tight jeans. I glanced over the slender torso, the broad shoulders, the clean line of the throat, the strong chin, and the sanguine mouth with slightly parted lips. Confusion washed over me.

Who was this man? What was he doing in my room? How was he able to keep his balance on the one-inch brass tube? Was he, possibly, a Gypsy acrobat from a circus passing through? Not likely. He was too tall for a Gypsy, and he wasn’t looking for things to steal. He was looking at me. Through the strands of dark hair hanging over his face, his black eyes stared at me with an intensity that reminded me of the demons Vrubel painted.

I felt more disturbed by his dark, savage beauty and by the mournful expression on his face than by the bulk of his body hovering over me. If I could see him so clearly, he must be able to see me, too. He must have noticed the slight quiver of my eyelids and the droplets of sweat on my neck. What made him so calm, so sure I wouldn’t scream and raise the household?

As if he had read my thoughts, the young man put a finger to his lips and smiled. His smile was genuine and disarming, and the softness of his full, bow-shaped lips made him look less feral, almost innocent. Still, there was something reptilian in the way his body moved, something majestic and powerful, and utterly sensual. He looked more handsome and more fearsome than Archangel Michael.

I was dreaming, of course.

I smiled back and propped myself on my elbows to take a better look at the stunning youth I had conjured up. The movement upset his balance, and for a split second—or did I imagine it?—he changed. See-through wings spread wide, disturbing the air in the room. Suddenly fluid and translucent, his body wavered, looking human one moment, dragon-like the next. Scales glimmered up his arms and neck. Inside his chest, his heart pulsated like a new-born star, pumping through his veins not blood but plasmic fluid. The vision didn’t last. He gained his equilibrium, the wings folded, his body became solid again, and the scales melted, leaving only a few, running from his wrists up his forearms in a flame-shaped pattern.

I laughed, relieved and delighted by the power of my imagination.

I’ve just invented you, I said. You are a zmay.

He didn’t deny it. He laughed too and jumped to the floor, graceful, almost weightless. And you are a girl. The sweetest, the loveliest, the most beautiful girl a zmay could wish for. We belong together.

We belong together? I hope you mean this in the traditional way.

The traditional way?

Well, you know how it is supposed to go…the passionate kisses…the torrid sex…. Could you pretend you are madly in love with me? I thought for a moment. Or ravish me, or something?

I wouldn’t think of that! the zmay said. His voice was suddenly deep and enticing, and had a ring in it that sent shivers over my body.

Mmm…I like your voice. And why not?

I am into consensual love-making.

I consent.

The zmay frowned in a becoming way, his eyebrows making a straight line. He bowed his head over my face and looked at me.

I do not understand your humor, he said, but I am sure you don’t mean that. This is not a folk song, and I haven’t come to ravish or harm you in any way.

Oh, I see. What do you want to do then?

I…I would like to get to know you better.

You want to get to know me?

"Of course. Don’t you want to get to know me?"

As it seemed, my subconscious would not allow me to have sex with somebody before the dating rituals were performed. Even in my own fantasy. What nonsense!

The zmay in the fairy tales are somewhat more assertive and salacious, I said, not as an accusation but as a matter of fact.

The girls in the fairy tales are somewhat more bashful and docile, the zmay pointed out. Times have changed.

That was right, times had changed. The males, as it seemed, of all species, had become less manly, the females less womanly. Just like in a unisex fragrance ad. I heaved a sigh and I started reciting. My name is Eve and I am nineteen. I ski, snowboard, paraglide, dance, go to parties and rock shows, and in the time left over, I study to become an architect. Is this enough information?

The books here are on history, not on architecture. The zmay pointed to the books piled on my desk and on the chest of drawers.

Courtesy of Uncle—a high-school history teacher and an ancient empires enthusiast. He gave me the books when my obsession with the past became bigger than his.

You are not interested in the future?

Not at all. I like to be surprised. Now, your turn. Who are you?

I am… My name is Gor.

Nice to meet you, Gor, I said, trying not to laugh. Gor means ‘of the forest’ in Bulgarian and it’s a fitting, if not a blatantly stereotypical, name for a zmay.

What is there to do in this town on a first date? the zmay asked. While I considered the question, he took one of my books and started leafing through it, pretending he could see in the faint moonlight, or maybe able to do so.

What could be a good place to take a zmay on a first date? The park across the river should be all right. The town was supposed to maintain it, and there were benches and the occasional light, but it was overgrown and wild for the most part. Very appropriate. However, I would rather stay in bed with the zmay.

Sorry, but I can’t get out of the house. I’ll wake up my grandparents.

I can help you out of the window, the zmay offered.

How?

As soon as I asked, he was upon me. His strong hands encircled my waist and lifted me out of bed and out of the window. The next instant, we were standing on the flagstone patio, my stomach still jittering. The whole thing took less than a heartbeat. I didn’t even see his wings spread. As I was catching my breath, I became aware of his evergreen scent, and then, of the small pebbles under my feet, one of them poking painfully into my heel. I rubbed one foot onto the other to free the pebble, but it didn’t work and I had to dig it out with my index finger. The progression of experiences was too graphic and too coherent even for my most lucid dreams.

I felt the first pang of worry. As I had learned from the two old men, there were insane nymphomaniacs in my ancestry, and insanity was known to run in families. Probably nymphomania did too. Hallucinating a supernatural creature, not to mention feeling carnal about it, could be a very bad sign. Let’s hope I was dreaming.

I didn’t say do it. I asked how, I whispered, keeping quiet in case I was already fervently mad, wandering around the yard barefoot.

Did I scare you? the zmay asked just as quietly.

You didn’t. But I need to change into something more appropriate. People don’t go out in their pajamas.

We were back inside before I had finished speaking.

I opened the wardrobe, minding the loud hinge, and put on shorts and a shirt. The zmay waited with his back to me, arms crossed, his head slightly tilted, hair flowing to one of his shoulders, leaving the other exposed, hard and muscular and looking velvety in the moonlight. I wondered if it felt as smooth as it looked and ran my fingers across it. The zmay shuddered under my touch and turned around in one swift, fluid motion, catching my hand with unwarranted force. Sparks flew everywhere and small shocks of static electricity prickled my fingers.

Are you ready? he asked, smoke drifting from his mouth and nostrils. Startled by the Promethean display of special effects, I could only nod.

We walked the empty streets in silence. The houses cuddled with each other against the foreboding of the night, but as soon as we passed by, they turned to study us with their blank facades. A zmay and a girl, what a curious couple. In the darkness, someone was plucking guitar strings, and the sound came forlorn and distant.

So how do you like it, being a zmay? I started a conversation.

Fine, I guess. How do you like being a human?

Not so much. That’s why I fantasize about zmay if you haven’t noticed.

How often do you fantasize about zmay?

Tonight is my first time. I’ve just learned that one of my female ancestors had a fling with a zmay some seventy-nine years ago. I guess that got me thinking….

Whom did you fantasize about before?

Typically about Caesar or Alexander the Great, I said, and to hint about my species impartiality, I added, sometimes about the Predator.

The Predator?

You know, from the movies.

The zmay stopped abruptly. We were crossing the bridge at the moment. He leaned on the parapet and looked at me with odd, wary eyes. I knew I looked lovely. My hair was a mass of waves and curls that would fall down to my waist if the night breeze would let it. My green eyes and honey-colored skin were most exquisite I’ve been told. The zmay didn’t seem to notice. He kept his eyes on mine, looking uncertain and disappointed, which he wasn’t trying to hide. As if I were in his dreams acting inadequately, not the other way around.

I have the feeling you are not taking me seriously. Why is that, Eve?

Oh, I am taking you very seriously. Do you want to walk along the river? I asked, all of a sudden worried that the exhibitionist, who usually lurks in the park to spy on couples, might still be around to spoil the mood. Even without him, I was having such a hard time seducing my imaginary date that it was starting to look like some self-inflicted payback for every boy I’ve ever rejected.

I wanted to go, but the zmay made a gesture for me to wait. His unwavering attention was on me, and not in a way I found encouraging.

What is it? Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you find me attractive?

The zmay touched my hair with hesitant fingers. I find you so attractive…it…takes my breath away, he said, sounding out of breath, his resonant voice falling another octave. Perhaps this is the problem. Being with you doesn’t feel real. If I had ever dreamt, I would say it feels like a dream, a wonderful dream, but an irrational and confusing one. There is so much I need to tell you, and I don’t even know where to start. Anything I say changes its meaning when I say it.

"I don’t understand. What