# Bite of Destiny
## Chapter 5: The Gathering Shadows
---
The phone call came at three in the morning.
Demri was not asleep—sleep remained an uncertain companion, arriving in fragments and departing without warning—so he heard the ringtone pierce the apartment's silence with jarring clarity. A moment later, Aylin's door opened, and she stumbled toward the living room in a state of half-consciousness, phone pressed to her ear.
"Anne? What's wrong? Is it Baba?"
Demri remained still in the darkness of his room, listening. The walls were thin enough that he could hear Aylin's side of the conversation clearly, though the voice on the other end remained a murmur of concern. Anne, he had learned, was the Turkish word for mother. Baba was father.
"No, no, I'm awake. What time is it there? It's—" A pause. "Okay, okay, slow down. What happened?"
Another murmur. Then Aylin's sharp intake of breath.
"When? Is she— okay. Okay. Yes, I understand. I'll see what I can do about flights. No, don't— Anne, please don't cry. It's going to be okay. I'll be there as soon as I can."
The call ended with a soft beep. For a long moment, silence. Then Demri heard something he had never heard from Aylin before: the sound of quiet weeping.
He rose from his bed and moved to the doorway. She was sitting on the couch, phone clutched in both hands, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. The streetlight through the window cast her in shades of amber and shadow, making her look smaller than she was. Fragile.
"Aylin?"
She looked up, startled. For an instant, her expression held something raw and unguarded—grief stripped of all pretense. Then the walls went back up, the composure reasserted itself, and she became the Aylin he knew: strong, capable, in control.
"Sorry. Did I wake you?"
"I was already awake." He crossed to the couch and sat beside her, maintaining a careful distance. "What happened?"
"My aunt. My mother's sister. She had a stroke." Aylin's voice was steady now, but the steadiness was clearly costing her. "She's in the hospital. They don't know if she's going to make it."
"I'm sorry."
"She basically raised me, when my parents were working. She used to make me read to her from her romance novels—these terrible, melodramatic things with shirtless men on the covers—and then she'd critique the plots like she was a literary scholar." A ghost of a smile crossed Aylin's face. "She always said the authors didn't understand how real love worked. Too much drama, not enough dishes."
"Dishes?"
"She said you know you really love someone when you don't mind doing their dishes. When the boring, everyday stuff doesn't feel like a burden." The smile faded. "I need to go to Turkey. But I don't know how I'm going to afford—"
"Go," Demri said. "Whatever it costs, whatever needs to be arranged. Go."
Aylin shook her head. "I can't just leave. The community center, my responsibilities here, and you—"
"I will be fine. The community center will survive. Your aunt needs you."
"But—"
"Aylin." He reached out, almost unconsciously, and took her hand. Her fingers were cold. "You taught me that some things matter more than practicality. This is one of them."
She stared at him for a long moment, and something in her expression shifted. Not the walls coming down exactly, but a window opening. A glimpse of the person beneath the composure.
"Okay," she said finally. "Okay. I'll look at flights."
---
The next morning was a blur of activity. Aylin found a flight leaving that evening—expensive, but available—and began the frantic process of packing and arranging coverage for her responsibilities. Demri helped where he could, which mostly meant staying out of the way and answering the door when visitors arrived.
The first was Maria, who appeared at noon with a casserole dish and an expression of maternal concern. "I came as soon as I heard. How is she holding up?"
"She's managing," Demri said, stepping aside to let her in. "She's on the phone with the airline now, trying to confirm her seat."
Maria set the casserole on the kitchen counter and surveyed the apartment with a critical eye. "And what about you? Are you going to be all right here alone?"
The question caught Demri off guard. He had not considered his own situation in the chaos of the morning—had not thought about what Aylin's departure would mean for him. The apartment, the routine they had established, the buffer her presence provided against the curse's whispers... all of it would be gone.
"I will manage," he said, echoing his words about Aylin. "It's only for a few days."
"A few days can feel like a lifetime when you're alone." Maria's gaze was penetrating. "You have my number. If you need anything—food, company, someone to talk to—you call. Understand?"
"I understand."
She nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned her attention to the casserole. "This is lamb stew. It'll keep in the refrigerator for a week. Heat it slowly, and don't forget to eat. Men always forget to eat when women aren't around to remind them."
The generalization seemed unfair, but Demri chose not to argue. "Thank you, Maria."
"Don't thank me. Just take care of yourself." She paused at the door, one hand on the frame. "And take care of Aylin when she comes back. That girl carries too much weight on her shoulders. She needs someone to lean on."
Before Demri could respond, she was gone.
---
The second visitor arrived an hour later.
She was younger than Maria—perhaps Aylin's age, with dark skin and braided hair pulled back in an elaborate pattern. Her clothes suggested artistic sensibilities: a paint-stained jacket, jeans with strategic rips, boots that had seen considerable wear. She surveyed Demri with the frank assessment of someone accustomed to sizing up strangers.
"So you're the mysterious roommate," she said. "I'm Jade. Aylin's probably mentioned me."
She had, in passing. Jade was a childhood friend, an artist who worked at a gallery downtown and shared Aylin's commitment to community service. They had grown up together in Millbrook, attended the same schools, navigated the same challenges. According to Aylin, Jade was the only person who could consistently beat her at chess.
"She has," Demri confirmed. "Please, come in."
Jade entered with the easy familiarity of someone who had been there many times before. She dropped onto the couch, kicked off her boots, and fixed Demri with an evaluating stare. "Aylin says you have amnesia."
"That's one way of describing it."
"And you just appeared out of nowhere, lying in the middle of the road, with no ID and no memory."
"Also accurate."
"And she invited you to live in her apartment."
"Yes."
Jade nodded slowly. "That sounds like Aylin. Absolute disaster of a judgment call, but exactly what she would do." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "So here's the thing. Aylin is my best friend. Has been since we were six years old. And she has this tendency to trust people who absolutely do not deserve it. She sees the best in everyone, even when the best isn't there."
"I'm aware of this quality."
"Good. Then you're also aware that if you hurt her—if you take advantage of her kindness in any way—I will make your life very, very unpleasant." Jade's smile was bright and utterly without warmth. "I'm an artist. I'm extremely creative. You don't want to know what I can do with a palette knife."
The threat, delivered with such casual certainty, was oddly reassuring. It meant Aylin had people who cared about her, who would protect her even from threats they could not fully understand. People who would notice if something was wrong.
"I have no intention of hurting her," Demri said. "You have my word."
"Your word." Jade's eyebrow arched. "The word of a man with no memory, no identity, and no verifiable history. Forgive me if I don't find that entirely reassuring."
"What would you find reassuring?"
She considered this. "Time. Actions. Proof that you are who you claim to be—or at least, that you're not actively terrible." She stood, pulling her boots back on with practiced efficiency. "I'm going to be checking in while Aylin's away. Showing up unannounced, asking nosy questions. Consider yourself under surveillance."
"I would expect nothing less."
Jade paused at the door, her expression softening slightly. "She likes you, you know. Actually likes you, not just tolerates-you-because-you-need-help likes you. That doesn't happen often with Aylin. She keeps people at a distance." A pause. "Don't make her regret letting you in."
Then she was gone, leaving Demri alone with the weight of her warning.
---
The third visitor was not expected at all.
Aylin was in her room, packing, when the knock came. Demri opened the door to find a young man he did not recognize—tall, well-dressed, with the kind of carefully maintained stubble that suggested significant investment of time and product. His smile was immediate and practiced.
"Hey! You must be the new roommate. I'm Trevor." He extended his hand. "Aylin's boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend. It's complicated."
Demri accepted the handshake cautiously. The man's grip was firm—too firm, a dominance display rather than a greeting. "Demri."
"Weird name. Where are you from?"
"It's... difficult to explain."
"Mysterious. I like it." Trevor leaned against the doorframe with casual entitlement. "Is Aylin here? I heard about her aunt, wanted to offer my support."
"She's packing. I don't think she wants to be disturbed."
"Oh, I'm sure she'll make an exception for me." He moved to step past Demri. "We were together for two years. I know her better than anyone."
Something in Demri's chest tightened—not the curse, but something older. A protective instinct he had not known he possessed. He shifted slightly, blocking the entrance. "Perhaps you should wait until she's finished."
Trevor's smile flickered. "Excuse me?"
"She's dealing with a family emergency. The last thing she needs is additional stress." Demri met his eyes steadily. "I'm sure you understand."
For a moment, the mask slipped. Behind Trevor's polished exterior, Demri glimpsed something less pleasant—ego bruised by the challenge, resentment at being denied entry. But the moment passed, and the smile returned.
"Right. Of course. I'll just—"
"Trevor?"
Aylin emerged from her room, suitcase in hand. Her expression, when she saw her ex-boyfriend in the doorway, was not pleased.
"What are you doing here?"
"I heard about your aunt. Wanted to see if you needed anything." Trevor's voice had shifted, becoming softer, more solicitous. "A ride to the airport? Help with expenses? Whatever you need."
"I don't need anything from you."
"Aylin, come on. I know things ended badly between us, but that doesn't mean I don't care—"
"Trevor." Her voice was flat. "We broke up because you cheated on me. With my colleague. At my workplace Christmas party. You don't get to show up now and pretend to be supportive."
The words landed like blows. Trevor's mask cracked more visibly this time, revealing something ugly beneath. "I made a mistake. One mistake. And you've been holding it against me for—"
"Goodbye, Trevor."
"Aylin—"
"She asked you to leave," Demri said quietly.
Trevor turned to him, and now the mask was entirely gone. His eyes held the cold fury of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. "Who the hell do you think you are? You've known her for what, a couple weeks? I was with her for two years."
"And yet she wants you to leave and me to stay." Demri's voice remained calm. "That suggests something about the relative value of those relationships."
For a moment, he thought Trevor might swing at him. The man's hands clenched into fists, his weight shifting forward. But something in Demri's posture—or perhaps his eyes—made Trevor reconsider. He stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender.
"Fine. Whatever. Enjoy your dysfunctional little arrangement." He looked at Aylin one final time. "You'll regret this."
Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing angrily down the hallway.
Aylin sagged against the doorframe, the energy draining from her. "I'm sorry you had to see that."
"You have nothing to apologize for."
"Trevor is... he's not a bad person, exactly. He's just—"
"Entitled. Manipulative. Unable to accept responsibility for his actions." Demri shrugged. "I've known many such individuals."
Aylin laughed—a tired, surprised sound. "Yeah. That about sums him up." She looked at her suitcase, then at the clock on the wall. "I should finish packing. My flight's in four hours."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Just... be here when I get back." She met his eyes, and he saw the vulnerability she usually kept hidden. "Promise me you'll be here."
"I promise."
---
The drive to the airport was quiet. Jade had offered to take Aylin, and Demri had accepted the unspoken invitation to come along. They sat in the back seat of Jade's battered Subaru, watching the city scroll past the windows, while Jade navigated traffic with the aggressive confidence of a lifelong urban driver.
"I talked to Maria," Aylin said eventually. "She's going to check in on the center while I'm gone. And Jade will—"
"I'm going to keep an eye on your mysterious roommate," Jade interrupted. "Make sure he doesn't steal anything or set the apartment on fire."
"Jade."
"What? Someone has to be suspicious. You certainly aren't."
Aylin sighed but didn't argue. Instead, she turned to Demri. "There's food in the refrigerator—Maria's casserole, plus some leftovers. The super's number is on the fridge if anything breaks. And Mrs. Petrova downstairs—"
"Makes incredible baklava. Yes, you've mentioned." Demri allowed himself a small smile. "I will be fine, Aylin. Focus on your family."
"I know, I know. I just—" She broke off, staring out the window at the passing scenery. "I hate leaving. It feels like running away."
"You're not running away. You're running toward. There's a difference."
She turned to look at him, and something in her expression softened. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've had a very long time to observe human nature."
Jade snorted from the driver's seat. "He talks like a fortune cookie, but I'll give him credit—that was pretty good."
The airport appeared on the horizon, a sprawling complex of terminals and parking structures that seemed to embody the controlled chaos of modern travel. Jade pulled up to the departure curb, hazard lights flashing, and they all climbed out for the farewell.
"Call me when you land," Jade ordered, pulling Aylin into a fierce hug. "And call me again when you get to the hospital. And then call me every day because otherwise I'll assume you've been kidnapped."
"I'll call," Aylin promised. "Take care of things here."
"Always do."
Then it was Demri's turn. He stood awkwardly, uncertain of the protocol for farewells. In heaven, departures had been formal affairs—ritualized exchanges of respect appropriate to one's station. Here, the rules were different, and he had not yet learned them.
Aylin solved the problem by stepping forward and hugging him.
It was the first time she had done so. The first time anyone had embraced him since his fall. The contact was warm and brief and left him feeling oddly bereft when it ended.
"Take care of yourself," she said. "And don't let Jade intimidate you too much."
"I heard that," Jade called from the car.
"You were supposed to." Aylin smiled—genuine, if tired—and picked up her suitcase. "I'll be back in a week. Maybe less, if things improve."
"I'll be here."
She nodded once, turned, and walked through the automatic doors into the terminal. Demri watched until she disappeared from view, swallowed by the crowd of travelers, and felt something he had not expected: loneliness.
*Now you see*, the curse whispered. *Without her, you are nothing. Just a fallen thing, adrift in a world that has no use for you.*
"Shut up," he murmured.
"What?" Jade looked at him sharply.
"Nothing. Just... talking to myself."
She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she jerked her head toward the car. "Get in. I'll give you a ride back."
---
The apartment felt different without Aylin.
It was the same space—the same worn couch, the same seventeen plants, the same artwork on the walls—but the absence of her presence made everything feel hollow. Empty. Like a stage after the actors had departed.
Demri wandered through the rooms, trailing his fingers along surfaces he had touched a hundred times before. The kitchen, where they had shared countless meals. The living room, where they had talked late into the night. Her bedroom door, closed now, guarding a space he had never entered but which still carried traces of her presence: a faint scent of lavender, the quiet energy of her faith.
*Pathetic*, the curse observed. *Mooning over a mortal like a lovesick adolescent. Is this what you have become?*
"I have become someone who cares," Demri replied. "That is more than you can say."
*Caring is weakness. Caring is the crack through which corruption enters. You know this. You have seen it countless times.*
"I have also seen caring as strength. As the force that holds communities together, that lifts the fallen, that defies the darkness." He moved to the window, looking out at the city lights. "Aylin taught me that."
*And when she learns what you truly are? When she discovers the curse that hungers for her light? Will her caring survive that revelation?*
The question struck deep, touching a fear Demri had tried to ignore. What would happen when Aylin learned the truth? Would she see him as a threat to be neutralized, a monster to be destroyed? Or would her faith—that impossible, unreasonable faith—extend even to him?
He did not know. And the uncertainty was its own kind of torture.
A knock at the door interrupted his brooding. He opened it to find Jade, holding a bottle of wine and wearing an expression of grim determination.
"I know I said I'd show up unannounced," she said, pushing past him into the apartment, "but this is different. I'm not here to spy on you."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because Aylin asked me to keep you company." She set the wine on the kitchen counter and began rummaging through drawers for a corkscrew. "And because, despite my better judgment, I'm starting to think you might actually be one of the good ones."
"That remains to be seen."
"Most people would have jumped at a compliment like that. You're suspicious of it." Jade found the corkscrew and began working on the bottle. "That's either extreme insecurity or extreme self-awareness. I haven't decided which."
"Perhaps both."
"Perhaps." The cork came free with a satisfying pop. She poured two glasses and handed one to Demri. "Drink. It helps."
"Helps with what?"
"With being human." She raised her glass in a mock toast. "Welcome to the club. It sucks, but the wine is good."
---
They talked for hours.
Or rather, Jade talked, and Demri listened. She told him about her childhood in Millbrook, about the art that had saved her from despair, about the gallery where she worked and the pretentious collectors she secretly despised. She told him about the time she and Aylin had snuck into an abandoned factory to make art on the walls, only to be chased out by security guards who did not appreciate their creative vision. She told him about her own failed relationships, her ongoing struggle with self-doubt, her determination to make something meaningful of her life.
And somewhere in the telling, something shifted. Jade's suspicion did not disappear—it remained, a constant undercurrent beneath her words—but it was joined by something else. Grudging acceptance, perhaps. Or the beginning of trust.
"You're a good listener," she said eventually, wine glass nearly empty. "Most men want to talk about themselves. You actually seem interested in what other people have to say."
"I find people fascinating. Their stories, their struggles, their small victories and defeats." Demri looked at his own glass, still mostly full. "In my... previous life, I observed humanity from a great distance. Everything was patterns and statistics, movements of populations and shifts in belief. But up close, individual lives are so much more interesting."
"Previous life?" Jade's eyebrow arched. "What, like reincarnation?"
"Something like that."
She studied him for a long moment. "You're really not going to tell me who you actually are, are you?"
"I'm not certain I know who I actually am. The person I was before... that person is gone. Destroyed, or transformed, or simply forgotten. The person I am now is still being formed." He set down his glass. "That's the truth, Jade. Not an evasion. Just the truth."
"Huh." She was quiet for a moment. "That's either very profound or completely insane."
"As you said, perhaps both."
Jade laughed—the first genuine laugh he had heard from her all evening. "Okay. Fine. I'm officially suspending my suspicion. Not eliminating it, mind you. Just... putting it on hold."
"I'm honored."
"You should be. I don't suspend suspicion for just anyone." She stood, gathering her jacket. "I should go. Early morning tomorrow—gallery opening, lots of pretentious collectors to smile at."
"Thank you for coming. It was... appreciated."
"Yeah, well." She paused at the door, looking back at him. "Take care of yourself, Demri. And take care of Aylin when she gets back. She needs someone who sees her clearly. I think you might be that person."
Then she was gone, and Demri was alone again.
But this time, the loneliness felt different. Less like an absence and more like a space waiting to be filled.
---
That night, as Demri sat in the dark living room, something changed.
He felt it before he saw it—a shift in the air, a deepening of the shadows, a cold that had nothing to do with temperature. The curse stirred within him, not with its usual whispers, but with something closer to alarm.
*Something is coming*, it said. *Something is already here.*
Demri rose slowly, every sense straining. The apartment was still, the city outside continuing its endless hum, but somewhere beneath the ordinary sounds, he detected something else. A presence. A watching.
He moved to the window and looked out at the street below. The lampposts cast their usual pools of light, and the usual pedestrians moved through the usual patterns of late-night activity.
But in the shadows between the lights, something moved that should not have moved. A darkness that was darker than the darkness around it. A shape that was there and then was not, as if reality itself was uncertain of its existence.
*They know*, the curse whispered. *They know you're here.*
"Who?" Demri demanded. "Who knows?"
But the curse had no answer. And the shadow, when he looked for it again, was gone.
Still, as Demri stood at the window watching the empty street, he could not shake the feeling that he was being observed. That somewhere in the gathering shadows, something was waiting.
And its patience was running out.
----