Carmiabell: The Black Apple

Chapter 7

Even though Phoebi swore on her cousin’s dead rabbit—an unfortunate event involving a particularly aggressive chicken that she swore she’d never speak of again—that she had told no one, I couldn't help but feel a knot of distrust in my stomach as Zuina inexplicably stood by her side, arms crossed like a pint-sized guardian of secrets. I remained unconvinced.

“Swear on the rabbit, huh? What’s next? Swearing on the family goldfish?” I muttered, glancing at the duo with suspicion.

I was meticulous about keeping my mouth zipped, yet somehow, carrying that bag everywhere felt like an invitation for trouble. It wasn’t exactly a masterclass in stealth; more like a poorly executed magic trick where the rabbit was out of the hat and the audience was eyeing me suspiciously. Surely, no one would be interested in my stuff—unless they had a peculiar fondness for half-eaten snacks and old homework assignments.

The soft spot I had for Zuina saved Phoebi from a punch to the face, which I was tempted to deliver in a bid to extract the name of the person she was trying to keep secrets from. The tension in the air grew thicker than a goblin’s unwashed socks, every goblin turning into a potential suspect. Their eyes darted around as if sensing the current of secrets swirling around us like a bad smell.

I couldn’t say the same for Phoebi or Zuina; it wasn’t their bags bearing the weight of a devil’s bargain.

“Did you know that chickens can’t fly?” Damon appeared out of nowhere, his timing impeccable, ready to annoy me when I needed it the least.

“Really? I thought they were just training for the Olympics,” I quipped, rolling my eyes as he took a seat next to me.

I was no jock nor a fan of sports, but I found myself more times than I could count seated courtside during basketball games. It was all about watching Damon leap like a majestic gazelle, his blue-shark sleeveless jersey lifting just enough to tease a glimpse of his magnificent abs. Now, however, this was my sanctuary, the only place where I could gather my scattered thoughts before detention—my personal fortress of solitude, minus the cape and dramatic theme music.

Part of me wondered if he had noticed my covert glances during those games. Had I really been that obvious, or did he think I was merely squinting at the sun?

“Yes,” I replied flatly, a direct counterpoint to the chaos in my head. Frankly, the fact that chickens couldn’t fly was the least of my worries—unless one happened to fly into my hair, which would be a completely different kind of adventure.

“Me too.” He grinned, that familiar smirk stretching across his face, the one that could light up a room—or at least dimly illuminate a cave. His turquoise eyes sparkled with mischief, and for a moment, I felt myself being swept away, like a fish caught in a net of seaweed.

Damon shifted his gaze from me, feeling hotter than a dragon in a sauna, to the court. He sighed dramatically, the kind of sigh that suggested he was contemplating the meaning of life—or maybe just whether he wanted nachos for dinner.

“What’s your definition of adventure?” His tone was suddenly calm, as if he were ready to dispense wisdom like a sage—or maybe just a very bored teenager.

“What do you mean?” I replied, genuinely confused.

His brows twitched, and for a moment, he looked like a cat trying to decide whether to pounce or nap. He stared at a spot on the court as if it held the answer to the universe. “My definition of adventure is—”

His lips formed a small ‘O’ as he pictured whatever ridiculous scenario had invaded his mind. I could tell he wasn’t even watching the court; he was somewhere else entirely, probably deep in thought about the mysteries of the cosmos—or maybe just where he left his keys.

“Trying something new,” he finally declared, breaking the silence. “Like riding a griffin, or a witch's broom, or solving a mystery like those big detectives. Did I mention dancing with trolls? Or walking through a monster-infested forest?”

Some of his ideas were undeniably absurd—if not downright impossible. Why would anyone risk their life in the name of adventure? As I reflected on it, I realized that was precisely what I had done—indirectly, of course, because who needs direct danger when you have goblins lurking around?

He continued to stare at the wall, seemingly lost in a world of his own imagination, picturing his “stupid” adventures.

“What’s yours?” His eyes snapped back to me, sparkling with challenge.

I dared not lock my eyes with his; there was a certain charm about him that left me feeling as exposed as a turkey on Thanksgiving. Instead, I turned my focus back to the now-empty court, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

I found it hard to articulate my definition. It wasn’t a question that appeared on any test I’d ever taken, but it certainly wasn’t about taking a black apple from the trash and putting it in my bag, only to have it snatched away by a goblin. That was a whole different kind of misadventure, the kind that ended with a trip to the hospital.

“Dating a handsome vampire like me and running off into the sunset?” Damon quipped, his playful smirk returning, restoring the humor that had felt so distant yet so tantalizingly close.

“Over my dead body.” I giggled, unable to resist his charm, a laugh escaping my lips like a startled cat.

“What? I’m not handsome?” He feigned shock, eyes wide like saucers, though the laughter dancing in them gave him away.

I would have to be dramatically murdered to get those words out of my mouth, but there was no way I was admitting to anything.

“I’m pregnant.”

“What?” His expression morphed into one of sheer disbelief, eyebrows shooting up as he processed my ridiculous proclamation.

“I thought we were talking about things that are impossible,” I teased, my heart racing with the thrill of our banter.

He burst into laughter, and for a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to bask in the warmth of it. The galaxy seemed to have hidden all its stars in his teeth, sculpting them to shine like diamonds in the dim light.

His canines—or should I say fangs?—were perfectly human-sized, but the jagged edges hinted at the wild side of him, like a playful puppy that might nibble on your hand. Only the promise of fresh blood or something equally magnetic could lead them to extend, resembling a wolf more than anything else.

“I love your sense of humor and your taste for adventure too,” he said, suppressing a grin that threatened to spill into another fit of laughter.

“My taste for adventure?” Every time I thought I had gathered enough confidence to look directly into his eyes, parts of my body conspired against me. Why did my cheeks suddenly feel like they were on fire? Why did my stomach twist into a chaotic knot of butterflies?

Fastidiously, I restored my gaze to the court, hoping that Damon hadn’t caught my moment of weakness.

“Yeah. It was all in your bag,” he continued, his tone teasing but layered with seriousness.

“What?” I nearly choked on my own spit, panic flooding my senses.

For as long as I had known vampires, they lacked the talent for stealing, let alone reciprocating anything of equal mass with a stone.

“You really want me to say it out loud? You already know what I’m talking about.”

“That’s not an adventure. That’s treason,” I shot back, crossing my arms defiantly.

“I know.” That infuriating smirk returned, taunting me like a mischievous little devil. “And that’s why I want to make you an offer.”

Damon one, Carmiabell one.