Cevic

Chapter 5

I’m lucky, I know

But I wanna go home

Mmm, I’ve got to go home

Let me go home

I’m just too far from where you are

I wanna come home

And I feel just like I’m living someone else’s life

It’s like I just stepped outside

When everything was going right

 

-“Home”: Michael Buble-

 

 

Da clatâ

=A state of being homesick

 

 

Stranger

 

Three knocks came on the wooden door, first two rapid ones succeeded by a loud last. Rezia and I stood as if rooted to the floor, rigid and unmoving as statues. There was no reason a human should be at our doorsteps, and neither of us had a reason to welcome anyone.

  I gingerly took silent steps forward, and looked through the peephole.

It was so blurry and the hole was tiny, I could not see much, but I could distinguish pale yellow hair and a short, lean figure, someone I had not seen before.

  Without making even breathing sound Rezia was suddenly by my side, ready to attack if necessary.

  I opened the door.

A short, harmless-looking blonde male human stood in scruffy old-fashioned blue jeans that hung loosely at his hips and a wrinkled white collar shirt, an enormous red duffel bag slung over his chest, looking terribly bored.

  “Service from overseas,” he explained, a thick accent I didn’t recognize curling around his baritone voice. “Mr Eric?”

  It took me a second to register it was my name, but Rezia was quick to channel her inner human side, with a hospitable smile that Cevicïans only reserved for high-ranked people they wanted to please, for no one else.

  “Yes, he is.”

 He set down a big brown box wrapped meticulously in green tape with a thud in front of us, pulled out a pen from the pocket of his red bag, and handed it over to Rezia.

 “Would you please sign the receipt?”

  “Sure,” answered Rezia brightly, taking the pen and paper.

I inwardly rolled my eyes. If she was even half as nice to me!

 “You said it was from overseas. Which country is it from?” I asked.

 “Iceland,” he replied, suddenly looking unnerved, glancing at me from Rezia.

 “How many days ago was it sent from Iceland?” I demanded sharply.

 The human male scratched his head. “Uh…this is speedy delivery, so it was sent about a week ago.”

 “Who sent it?”

 He eyed me with a look. “Um. Someone called… Miss Jamison sent it.”

  I nearly snapped my head toward Rezia, who was looking through the papers. The only Jamison I knew other than my human self was she. Rezia sent it to us? Rezia was incomprehensible sometimes, so assuming that she did, why didn’t she expect the delivery and was so surprised by the knocks?