Seven Devils ★ T.M.R ★

Chapter Eighteen

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THE PLUNGE
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Content warning: blood, seizure.
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A DOOR OPPOSITE the entrance opened slowly and a broad-shouldered man stepped through with exaggerated carefulness like he was trying to make as little noise as possible. Marina caught a glimpse of the small, dark room and a child in a tiny bed before he painstakingly closed the door behind him, wincing when the latch clicked.

He turned to the older woman and murmured something in Albanian. He shot the strangers in his living room a curious look, and the woman grabbed his arm and started muttering to him. Marina – who was quickly coming to the realisation that no one spoke any English – started wondering how successful their trip was going to be. Even ignoring the lingering tension between her and Riddle, she didn't see how he was supposed to talk to this man and empathise with him if neither of them could communicate with each other.

'Unless,' her feverish mind thought wildly, 'Riddle secretly speaks Albanian and has just been sitting on that this whole time. Or, plot twist, this man speaks Parseltongue.'

Marina snorted loudly at the mental image of the two of them sitting there hissing at each other by the fire, drawing a judgemental look from Riddle that made her compose herself. The small boy still sat poking the fire absentmindedly, his attention fixed on Riddle as he stared at him with wide eyes. He didn't look much older than ten.

Finally, the man approached them, the woman close behind. He pointed at her and Riddle and then pointed at the door, shaking his head with a frown. The storm rattled outside and rain pummeled the windows even louder as if to demonstrate his point. He pointed at them again and then gestured at his house with a broad, tanned smile.

"Is he inviting us to stay?" Marina asked out loud.

"Yes, your observational skills are unparalleled," Riddle said dryly.

The man watched them intently, and Marina realised he was waiting for a response. She gave him a warm smile and nodded, trying to convey her gratitude across the language barrier.

"Check if they speak French," Riddle said suddenly.

Marina looked at him sceptically. "I don't think –"

"Just try it," Riddle interrupted hotly.

Marina sighed and turned to the Albanian couple. "Français?" she asked.

They both gave her blank looks.

Marina looked back at Riddle with a physical manifestation of 'I told you so' on her face, which he ignored.

The man suddenly moved towards the middle of the room and produced a series of rustic mugs from a cupboard. The woman whom Marina assumed was his wife bustled off in the opposite direction towards the open kitchen where a heavy iron kettle sat hissing steam on the old stovetop. They arranged the mugs and the kettle on the table and excitedly produced an old-fashioned tin that they pried open to reveal a series of thick, sugar crusted biscuits. When the spread was complete, they waved Riddle and Marina over with broad smiles.

Marina stood and took a seat at the table, smiling back - they had already won her heart over. The woman poured her a steaming mug of dark, sweet-smelling tea and offered her the slightly battered but immaculately polished tin of biscuits. She took one gratefully and nodded her thanks – the biscuits were evidently the peak of indulgence.

Riddle was slower to join but took a seat next to Marina and received the same treatment. He looked strangely reserved, like he couldn't figure out what the couple was doing.