Eritis Mea

By Anna Ferrara

For Vlada, a cruise ship singer raised to be Christian, her same-sex, God-fearing, Bible-quoting singing partner, Dasha had always been someone she could only ever peep at in quiet moments, whenever nobody was around, or looking...

... until a stranger claiming to know how to get her the love of her dreams changes everything.
Suddenly, Dasha is head over heels in love with Vlada, open to homosexualism, ever ready to throw religion into the wind in order to be with her. Everything is lovely and wonderful, for a while, until the consequences Vlada had not been warned about rear their terrifying heads... and make her question the rationality of giving up everything for a love disapproved by God, church and family.

In this story with multiple endings and many surprises, the fate of our protagonists will depend on the choices you make on their behalf. How will you behave when life pushes you beyond the boundaries of what you know to be possible, or true?

Would you put your trust in faith or love when that happens?

Would you be able to survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Ferrara
• Release date: Feb 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463375167

Anna Ferrara

Anna Ferrara is a novelist who specialises in plot twists, horror and lesbian characters. Strong, independent women feature in all of her novels because she often finds herself mesmerised by them in real life. You can read more about her work and person at annaferrarabooks.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

It is the smell of soil appearing abruptly everywhere that first informs Dasha that something might be terribly wrong somewhere.

She first smells it when under an open starlit sky, way out in the middle of the South China Sea; while standing on a smallish stage in the middle of the top-most deck of a mass market cruise ship called the Funtasia Melody, surrounded by two swimming pools, four whirlpools, a bar, water playground and five humongous water slides; with wind blowing strands of fringe away from her face and chords from the electric piano behind her beginning to play.

To her, it smells a great deal like summers at Grandma’s house. The scent of raw countryside. The smell of the pots of plants by the window in that old-fashioned kitchen. Soil that is sweet with rain and plant matter, freshly turned. Thick like it is right in front of her nose, more noticeable than the smell of sea or even her own perfume.

But... how?

Around Dasha—as she sees when she opens her eyes after having delivered the first few lines of her song with them closed—is only a crowd of predominantly Chinese guests dressed in swimsuits and beachwear. The same crowd for whom she had been grooving, beaming and dancing in a somewhat hysterical, happy manner for the past hour.

Not one of them is covered in mud or grass, yet every last one of them smells like they most definitely should be. As if at least fifty of them must have dunked themselves in raw soil and come to stand in front of the stage without rinsing off.

Why?

Beyond the rails enclosing the deck—while throwing her shoulders back and allowing her voice to rattle about her chest, head, bones, tendons, veins and eardrums until it comes out of her in the form of tragic reverberations—Dasha can see only the blackness of night, heavy grey clouds and unending, dull-coloured ocean.

There is no sign of land or any other ship within sight.

Within sniffing distance, there is only a migraine-inducing, perpetually-changing mess of artificial colour, painted by roving spotlights and the countless light fixtures built into practically all surfaces and structures for the sole purpose of looking spectacular.

Nothing around her looks like soil or plant matter, not even vaguely, much less in the quantities Dasha would expect to be seeing, given the intensity of the scent in her nose.

There is the green of the mini golf course in the distance, but that is obviously enough just coloured carpet. There are dull browns atop the cones a couple of guests are eating out of but those are clearly just compliments of the ice-cream cart parked near the entrance of the Kiddy Club.

Why then did it smell like soil was everywhere?

Before she can think of a logical explanation, the crowd goes wild. She is in the middle of the song now, where all the high pitches and power belts are, and she is nailing every note, as she had for every last one of her performances of that very same song.

In front of her, about a hundred people sing along and sway from side to side like the thousands of people before them had done, except this time, unlike any other time before, they smell like soil while doing so.

To get her mind off the smell, Dasha turns her attention back to the job at hand, raises an arm, keeps her posture tall and pulls out all the stops right on cue without missing a beat. And it is then she sees them.

Eyes: shiny and red, soon after morphing into a shade of shocking purple, then one of blinding yellow, then electric blue and finally, neon pink, before turning red again and repeating the change of colour many times more in quick succession.

The only colourful ones in the sea of black eyes before her.

An electrical current punches her heart then, followed by a gush of nervous chemicals charging towards her stomach. Goose pimples emerge on her forearms, along with the sensation of palpitating veins and Dasha immediately feels a desperate need to look away, to save herself from having to feel all of those awful sensations—only she can’t.

Those eyes, she recognises. They had been in front of her many times in the past six months, in dreams and quiet moments, whenever no one was around or when she was sure no one else would be watching.

Stop, she tells herself. Don’t start this now! You’re at work for Christ’s sake! Focus on the job!

She blinks hard, expecting those eyes to disappear after her doing so, for that was how she got them to disappear all those times before, yet they remain before her, ceaselessly morphing into all colours of the rainbow, watching her with a level of captivation unusual enough for her to take notice.

Under her six-inch heels and ankle-long skirt, the raised platform she is standing on lurches at irregular intervals and threatens to topple both her and the microphone stand in front of her.

She stares, and feels her stomach swim as those eyes stare right back at her.

Thank you very much everybody! That was our last song and, unfortunately, we’re going to have to leave you for the night! But, we’ll be back here tomorrow, same time, same stage, same good fun, so don’t miss us too much, because you’ll be seeing us again, sooner than you know!

Those words, spoken by a male voice through the speakers above her head, were hers. Dasha snatches her mind away from the coloured eyes then because she—not the man who’d spoken on her behalf; the man standing some distance behind her with a glitzy electric guitar hanging down his front and headset mic taped to his cheek—was the one who was supposed to be speaking them.

She realises then her body must have finished performing the song without herself paying much attention for there is now applause and hooting roaring from below the stage. Like always.

Numerous dots of black eyes, and also the rainbow-coloured ones, are watching her expectantly, as if expecting words to come out of her mouth... expecting her to tell them something… anything…

And yet…

... all Dasha can think of saying is—

—Lada?

Because those rainbow-coloured eyes… they are still there.

Solid? In appearance. Practically… real.

More real than they had been in six months.

Want to tell everybody where else they can catch us over the next five days, Dasha? the man with the guitar, Pavel, says next, the curiosity in his voice now obvious. And everything else in store for them tonight?

The unspoken message in his tone is clear. He, and now she, knows the band will not be able to get off the stage unless she does what she’s contractually obligated to.

For the next three minutes, that is exactly what she does: regurgitate lines she’d delivered over a thousand times before—persuading the crowd to go catch the very exciting, mind-blowing magic show happening at the ship’s main theatre in half an hour, sharing the line up of activities for the night ahead and also in the day after and eventually, finally, cueing the DJ waiting in the booth across the floor to take over the show.

Upbeat techno music pops through the speakers the second she finishes, as it always does, and the spotlights on the stage go out.

Just like that, she is at last free to relax her cheek muscles again, and be herself.

For a while at least.

Are you feeling okay, Dasha? Pavel asks in Russian shortly after, while winding the wire of the mic he had removed from his cheek around its transmitter.

Dasha doesn’t reply. Although she had consciously avoided looking at those rainbow-coloured eyes when rushing to finish her spiel, she turns right back towards them the second she can.

And all that she can see now is the mess of tousled, rainbow-tinged hair that had been above them; changing colour faster than those eyes had done before in rhythm with the pounding electronic beat Dasha can feel entering her body, through the bones of her feet, travelling all the way to her elbows.

That mess of hair is moving steadily away from her, as if washed away by the sea of black-haired heads moving along with it, looking like it might just vanish from sight at any time, in the same way it had done many times before.

Let her go. Let all this end. Dasha knows that will be best for them both—and the wisest thing to do—but, against her better judgement, she finds herself pulling up the skirt of her body-hugging grey cotton dress, jumping down the stage and running towards the rainbow-tinged mess of hair as quickly as her heels would let her.

Management wouldn’t approve of her doing so, she knows that, but all the same, the awareness that she might just never see those eyes again if she doesn’t catch up with them there and then propels her forward.

Lada! she shouts as she pushes past guests and deck crew to get closer; ignoring, in that moment, everything she learned about poise and decorum when in the presence of guests.

She yanks her skirt a further couple of inches higher too for it is obstructing her legs from moving as much as she would like. Vlada! Wait!

Close to the doors leading to the air-conditioned insides of the ship, the mess of hair turns, revealing those eyes yet again, only, now that they had moved a good distance away from the roving spotlights near the dance floor, they are less colourful than before and more apparently grey.

Those eyes lock onto Dasha’s after a short spurt of confused searching and immediately afterwards, the tanned, exposed shoulders under them heave in sigh as the face they are on mutates into one of awkward discomfort.

By the time Dasha gets right in front of the eyes, slightly winded, with a heart that will not stop jumping within its cage, those eyes are already shooting blazing glances at all corners of the deck, trying to look everywhere but towards her.

How are you here? Dasha gasps in Russian at once, for that was the language they used to use when alone together.

Sorry, the spookily beautiful face before her—tanned from being in the tropics, with nothing but a light blush and creamy nude lip on—says, also in Russian, except while looking towards the sky rather than directly at her. I thought you would have been done with your contract by now. I wouldn’t have chosen this ship, this route, if I had known—

Yes, they extended our contract by two weeks because the temps couldn’t start any earlier but no, no! That’s not what I meant. I mean I’m… I’m happy. That you’re here. I really am.

She nods hard, in part to prove her point and catch the eye of the person before her, but mostly to dislodge the bundle of nerves building around her chest.

You’re looking great, by the way! So… so pretty… as always. How have you been?

Good. And you. That spookily beautiful face smiles, politely, and, for a brief second, glances towards her at last, but then looks away so quickly and with such obvious awkwardness right after, Dasha begins to feel her stomach churning in rhythm with the rocking of the ship.

I’m… okay...

Great.

Great?

Yes. Great.

Yes, great? Dasha watches the spookily beautiful face before her squirm under her gaze and finds herself, for the first time when in her presence, without words.

A long time ago, under those enormous, ferocious-looking eyebrows, those eyes used to look right into hers for minutes at a go. Sometimes more.

And now, they do not even stay a second.

That is supposed to be a good thing—a blessing; a relief; she knows that—and yet Dasha finds herself wishing otherwise. Even with that awful smell of wet soil clinging onto the chill of the atmosphere between them.

Shall we go? a metallic-sounding, Italian-accented male voice suddenly says in English from behind her. The show’s about to start.

Dasha turns at once, startled by the familiarity and yet simultaneous foreignness of the voice. Because even though it feels like she’d heard the voice many times before, somehow she cannot quite place where she had heard it from—

—until she sees the statuesque, perfectly-structured, wafer thin, long-limbed, bambi-eyed man towering behind her.

Viktor Mordanova? she says right away. The answer is now right before her eyes.

She isn’t a fan but it is impossible to not know that face and that voice when it had been practically everywhere in the past decade. Most of her colleagues in the ship’s Entertainment Department—both male and female—have posters of that very man pasted on the walls of their cabins. She, because of wanting to fit in, does too.

Hello, the 26-year-old Russian supermodel-Instagrammer-actor-singer-author who is known for turning everything he touches into gold says in more Italian-accented English. Lovely set. You’re really talented.

Thank you. And... and you’re… gorgeous. Dasha frowns, suddenly terribly conscious of her own shortness and physical imperfections, while simultaneously flummoxed by how she could have missed noticing that supermodel—who is almost a whole three heads taller than most, and practically glowing with shiny, flawless skin—in the audience earlier.

Thank you. You’re very sweet. Look, I would love to chat, but we were on our way to catch the magic show in the theatre and it’s going to start, so how ‘bout we catch up again tomorrow? Maybe over a drink or something, hmm?

We?

"Yeah, we better go or there won’t be any seats left, that spookily beautiful face adds while smiling, not politely but… warmly... at the supermodel. With full-on eye contact too. See you another time, Dasha. Nice meeting you again."

One polite glance that lasts no longer than a second and Dasha is alone again, with only the sudden sensation of coldness for company.

What about breakfast? she hears herself shout, before she can know any better. At eight thirty? At The View? We could just… eat. And talk. And you’ll be free to go do whatever you need to do after that… from then on.

Past the automatic glass doors leading to the insides of the ship, that mess of blonde hair marches on without turning back. Her supermodel companion, however, does look back. Sure, we’ll be there, he says, with a smile that has the power to make even the hardest of hearts feel affectionate. See you tomorrow morning!

After that, in what seems to Dasha like slow motion, they melt into the crowd and become unseeable again.

Many minutes pass before Dasha figures out how to remove her eyes from the glass doors, and way more pass before she remembers that she would need to collect her microphone and iPad from the stage before heading back to her cabin.

When she does at last find a way to move her legs again, she does so with a sudden gaping hollow of nothingness gnawing through her heart and stomach.

She is so bent on getting back to the stage in one, unperturbed piece, she never notices the group of six teenaged Chinese girls coming up to her side, asking to take a photograph with her in English.

She is so bent on hiding the waves of despair creeping through her pores amidst the sharp pains piercing through her chest and ribs, she doesn’t notice when those girls scamper away soon after, discussing her behaviour with whispers and curious looks on their faces.

SIX MONTHS BEFORE

Chapter 2

It really began with a goodbye.

Six months before, a wave of sudden nerves disorientated Vlada as she stepped into the dark corner behind the stage curtains of the Funtasia Melody’s main theatre.

It wasn’t the first time she’d stood there—she had performed that very segment over a thousand times in the six months she had worked on that very cruise ship—but on that particular night, she found her limbs trembling, her stomach churning, her throat dry and tight and her head a little dizzy.

Her hands were so damp, she had to grip the mic she was holding more tightly than ever because she could sense, with the amount of sweat fast emerging from her palms, it was at risk of slipping out.

Her heart was so jittery, she felt perpetually uneasy and practically afraid, with no reprieve in sight.

What she was feeling felt extremely similar to stage fright, except Vlada could tell it wasn’t just stage fright. She had overcome that very early on in her career, and hadn’t had much of a problem with it in the years since. This, on the other hand, was more intense and not quite as easy to shake. And she hadn’t had quite enough experience with it to have figured a means of stopping it yet.

She did know why she was feeling that way though. It hadn’t taken her long to figure it out because there was always a trigger, and on that particular ship, the trigger was obvious.

All it took was seconds of that trigger coming to mind or walking into the room and Vlada would find herself inundated with a mess of nerves for hours, sometimes even days.

On that particular day, in that particular moment, that trigger was directly opposite her, all the way across the stage, standing in darkness behind curtains herself, just waiting for the on-going dance segment to end.

To Vlada, the vague, dark shape of her trigger, with head somewhat bowed and eyes cast toward the ground, reminded her of an exquisite sculpture, radiating