six | marine drive

Devan had wondered why there hadn't been a house number on any of the letters she had found in her mother's old drawer. As she pulled up on the side of the road and got out of the car without thanking her driver, she understood: it was the only house on the long stretch of road. It sat atop a hill, looming over the Welsh countryside like a lighthouse, with golden light spilling from the windows. It looked like a farmhouse, though as she opened the rusty gate and began to ascend the gravel pathway, the stones scuffing her boots, she saw that it was devoid of any animals save for a cat that watched her intently from the fence. There were stables at the side of the house that had long since been emptied, the wooden support beams rotting and on the brink of collapse. An old car that looked as though it hadn't moved from the overgrown grass in months sat next to them, and she hoped that meant he was home.

As she reached the top of the hill, she could just make out the sea glittering beneath the setting sun in the distance, the horizon a distant, faded blue line broken only by small silhouettes of yachts and ships. So this is where Musa Ali had been hiding while she had been sleeping in abandoned warehouses and run down apartments. He had been living in a family home without his family. A distant but noticeable wave of anger rolled over her, and she tightened her bag slightly closer to her body as she reached the door. It was painted a bright red that had begun to peel. She wondered, not for the first time, if she was at the wrong house.

Devan glanced back at the cat. It was staring at her, its black tail curling lazily around the fence. It made her feel uneasy, being watched silently as dusk settled in around her like a heavy blanket. "What are you looking at?" she scowled. The cat blinked before hopping down and disappearing behind the house. She sighed in relief.

She didn't dare risk the door being slammed in her face by knocking. Instead, she tried the handle. It was locked, but that was no surprise.

"Resero," she whispered under her breath. Unlock. The door clicked effortlessly, and this time when she tried the handle, it opened, with the hinges letting out only a small creak in protest.

The warm smell of spices, garlic and onion, tomato, and lamb hit her immediately as she stepped inside, and a sense of nostalgia settled within her heavily, curbing her hunger with its intensity. A brown mat beneath her feet welcomed her in the Pashto alphabet, and she was surprised to find that she could still read it. It had been years since she had so much as spoken her first language, and the sight of it brought her back to another time when she had been another person; a child.

"Farah?" A small Afghan man had emerged from the back room, which she assumed was the kitchen from the wafting aroma that accompanied him, and now stood in the shadows of the hallway with wide, almond shaped eyes that were almost identical to her own. The only difference between them was that his irises were a deep, incongruous blue against his dark skin. "Is that you?"

"Try again," Devan said, her voice loud and strange in the echoing hallway.

He took another step forward, emerging from the shadows with a tea-towel in his hand. His face was all grey stubble and harsh lines, but the curve of his mouth and his soft eyes reminded her of a childhood she thought she had forgotten. Those hands, now clutching the embroidered towel tensely, had once thrown her into the air and caught her on her way down. That voice had once sent her and her sister to sleep as he told her stories in his mother tongue. She thought that he would have been nothing more than a stranger to her, but she had been wrong.

"Devanshi?" he questioned finally. Nobody had called her that in years. His voice was still as soft as she remembered when he said it now, his accent still as thick. "Is it really you?"

"You are Musa Ali?" She already knew the answer, but she didn't want him to know that she remembered him. She didn't want him to know that she cared about him at all.

"But ..." he blinked in bewilderment and took another step. "Yes, Devanshi. It's me: Abū." Father.

"Good, then I am at the right house." Her eyes roamed the narrow hallway, looking for any signs to indicate if he lived alone or not. There were none; no pictures on the wall, no coats on the coat stand, no shoes on the rack but a pair of men's boots. "Well, are you going to invite me in or shall we have this conversation in the hallway?"

"Yes, of course." He set to action immediately, snapping out of his daze and leading Devan into a room adjacent to the kitchen. "Excuse me a moment. I was in the middle of making dinner."

Musa disappeared back into the hallway, leaving Devan to examine the living room. It looked as though the wallpaper and carpet hadn't been touched since he had moved in, with old-fashioned patterns and faded, unpleasant colours—dark greens, mustard yellows, deep reds and browns. The couches were small, the cushions sunken in from overuse and the pillows tattered and stained with tea or coffee—at least, Devan hoped that was what it was. There was a small television collecting dust in the corner, and on the coffee table lay small jars of herbs and salves and a leather-bound Healer's spell book. The only thing that looked touched was that and the large bookcase that covered the entirety of the back wall, with the books collapsing onto one another in disorganised piles. A prayer rug had been rolled up carefully and was propped up against one of the shelves.

It was the spell book that Devan was most interested in. She sat on the old sofa and began to leaf through it, forgetting for a moment where she was. The spells meant nothing to her, though, and most of them she couldn't imagine having any use for. It was clear her father had, for the pages were creased, yellowed and on the verge of being severed from their spine.

"I see you found my spell book," Musa said by way of indicating his return, a small smile curving the corner of his mouth upwards. He looked a little less pale and flustered now, though a few beads of sweat threatened to roll from his hairline.

Devan stood up again, closing the book with a heavy sigh. "Yes. It was hardly hiding."

"I am always using it. There is no sense in putting it away. Can I get you a drink? Tea, perhaps? You are welcome to stay for dinner. I am making qormah e nadroo."

She smoothed down her clothes, pursing her lips before she replied tersely, "No, thank you. I didn't come for a nice little catch-up over tea and biscuits. I'm sure you knew that."

He nodded solemnly, unable to make eye contact as he sat down on the armchair beside the couch and motioned for her to sit where she had been a moment ago. She didn't, instead heading to the window to look out at the view. The more she looked at him, the more she wondered if this had been a mistake.

"It is good to see you. A wonderful surprise. How did you get here?" he questioned quietly, and she heard him shuffle uncomfortably. She could sense anxiety radiating from him, so strong she could almost smell it, and his words, though kind, held uncertainty.

"A couple of trains and an hour-long ride in an Uber with a middle-aged, balding man who listens exclusively to Simon & Garfunkel. How else?" She crossed her arms and turned back to her father after having grown bored of the scenery, which was nothing but green hills for miles.

He shifted again, unamused by Devan's humour. Silence fell over them for a moment, and his eyes glinted with unanswered questions. Somewhere, Devan heard a clock ticking, making her uncomfortably aware of how much time was passing while they weighed one another up.

"Farah doesn't know I'm here," she said finally, watching as his shoulders fell—in relief or disappointment, she couldn't tell. "Neither does Shar. This ... isn't about them."

"Then how did you find me?"

She shrugged, pacing the worn carpet again. "Her old things. I knew you wrote to her and I doubted she would throw them away even now, so I looked for the letters. Found them in an old drawer in her apartment."

He nodded, opening his mouth carefully, as though deliberating his next question. "And how are they, your mother and Farah? Are they well?"

"I suppose you might say they are well. Their version of well is setting fire to things and tormenting people, though. They have been doing a lot of that recently."

His eyes glassed over, a sad look crossing his face. "They are lost."

Devan couldn't help but shake her head and scoff. "If that's what you choose to believe."

"Are you lost, Devanshi?"

"No," Devan sighed, fiddling with a golden horse ornament that sat on the top of the fireplace beside the couch. "I am looking for a property. Somewhere hidden, where nobody will think to look. I know you've done your fair share of running. I thought perhaps you would know of somewhere."

At this, Musa stood up, taking a few cautious steps to meet Devan. "Are you running, Lur?" She remembered that word only as he said it. Daughter. She had not been anyone's lur in a long time.

She felt his eyes burning into her, trying to pick her apart so that he could see into her mind and soul, and she looked back at him coldly. Up close, he looked older than she remembered, with crow's feet creasing in the corners of his eyes and his cheeks wrinkled with laughter lines. Even his thick eyebrows were greying. "I'm choosing my own path. Can you help me or not?"

"It was you, wasn't it?" He gulped and took a step back in realisation. "You were the ones killing the witches. Everybody assumes it is humans because of our past, but it isn't. It's them—you. I have thought it for months, that the humans would not do such a thing in this day and age, that no human has that power anymore, not when our abilities continue to evolve so much. Now you are here, and you are running from something. You are running from them."

"I'm not running," she said through gritted teeth. "But yes. It's them. I have no interest in killing innocents. Will you help me, Abū?" The word slipped out before she could stop it, a force of habit that somehow her brain still remembered after fifteen years of having not used it.

Still, it caused him to soften. "Yes. Yes, I will help you. Of course I will help you. Are you sure you will not stay tonight?"

"They're looking for me. Being here puts you in danger as well as I. My driver is waiting."

He sat down, tearing a page from the notepad resting beside the spell book on the coffee table and scrawling something down. "I stayed here when ..." Musa trailed off, but Devan could complete the sentence for him.

"When you ran away."

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. "It's not much; only a small cabin with no furniture, but if you have a sleeping bag and some food, it will give you shelter until you move on. It's in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside, and there are no towns for miles. You will have to walk some, perhaps stop at an inn. When it is time to go, there is an apartment in the next county over that has been empty since the nineties. Go there next. The village is small and everybody keeps to themselves. The apartment is above an old art gallery."

Musa stood again, handing the paper to Devan. She nodded gratefully, though she couldn't quite bring herself to thank him.

"My number is on there, too. If you need anything—"

"That won't be necessary. My driver is waiting outside and the trains only run for another couple of hours."

Musa wandered to the bookshelf as though he hadn't heard her, scattering the books onto the floor as he rooted for something. He found it in the form of a black, leather wallet. When he opened it, old photographs of she and Farah from when they were pig-tailed and sweater-clad and had not yet any idea they were witches slipped out. The pictures weren't what Musa was looking for, though. He pulled out a wad of cash and handed it to Devan without a second thought.

"This is not necessary. I will get by—"

"Money runs out quickly when you are alone, Lur." He curled her hands around it insistently. She could feel the rough calluses that came from years of chopping herbs and getting paper cuts from carelessly peeling through books. "Please, for my peace of mind."

She looked at him for a moment, her cheeks flushing with heat. She had not felt warmth in a long time, nor the touch of someone kind. "I will pay you back when this is over."

He waved her away, putting the wallet in the pocket of his trousers. "Don't worry about that. Just be safe, Devanshi." His hands cupped her face and for a moment she thought he might kiss her on the forehead as he used to.

She stepped away quickly, muttering, "I will," as she headed to the door with her eyes cast to the old floorboards.

"Devanshi?" He called. She turned to look at him expectantly, cash still crumpled in her fist. "I am proud of you for choosing your own path. You were never like the rest of them."

Devan shook her head, placing her hand on the doorknob before finding a response. "You're wrong," she replied finally. "I am too much like the rest of them."

Before he could argue, she stepped into the cold night, letting the door fall shut behind her. She inhaled, making the most of her final moment of nostalgia, her final moment of home. Then, before she could change her mind, she disappeared into the night.

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