My Ice Prince

I pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, inhaling deeply of the tart smoke. It was my second cigarette of the day. Then I remembered the envelope that the young vampire had lost, went to the car to get it, and went back up to the office, sat back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk (a bad habit) and stared at the envelope. After ru

«Misha? It suits her: an unusual name for a hysterical girl» I thought, looking at the envelope: it was opened, so Misha had already read its contents.

Should I have read it? No, well-bred people don't do that, but I was just a reclusive cancer, a lone vampire, and a smoker, so I pulled out the letter and read it, chuckling to myself. It was Maria’s handwriting.

«Yes, Maria is as usual in her repertoire: only she can write so wittily about even the most serious things» I thought involuntarily.

Maria’s advice to her sister was so strict and explanatory that I easily drew a conclusion about Misha : she was a little sister who was carried on everyone's arm, she had come to study for the first time in her life, she was among mortals for the first time, in general, she was still an i

And then I saw rule number nine, which read: «Never interact with Frederik Haraldson. Never» and I decided that the girl definitely knew something. I wonder how old she is? Eighteen? Twenty? She looked young, young really, and her skin wasn't as pale as mine. Wow, and she looked so much like someone I used to love. Loved? Hardly – it was some kind of eclipse. We had a brief but stormy affair, with all the consequences that had cast a shadow over Maria’s reputation, but I had no intention of marrying her – I was not that much in love with her, I was in love, but not really: it was just her passionate nature that had turned my head. And when I told her father that I did not intend to become his son-in-law, it was over between us, as well as the friendship between my parents and hers.

When did all this happen? Three years ago: Maria finished her studies, passed all her exams in one day and left. And I stayed: I had no reason to leave, nor did I have a stain on my conscience. Well, just a nasty little stain.

I folded the letter neatly, put it back in the envelope, put out my cigarette and lit a new one.

It was strange that I wondered if Misha knew about all this. It's only natural, though: she's Maria’s sister. Still, I wondered how Maria had let her little sister go here, and how their father had done it – because he hates me with a fierce hatred.

I finished my cigarette and put it out on my palm: another bad habit.

In the evening I began to pine: I wanted to get into the car and drive to Mischa's to talk to her, to get to know her, for she was a complete stranger to me, apparently the Mroczeks had hidden her away. I had heard that Maria’s other sister Mariszka had married Markus Morgan in the summer. I knew Markus Morgan, but we had had little contact with him. His brother Cedric I also knew and we even once studied on the same course at Harvard. A fun family: conservative, prim, puffed up. And Misha was a hysterical hysteric.

I smoked my sixth cigarette of the day, though I'd never smoked more than four. I went to the window and stared out at the streetlamp-lit street, then reached for another cigarette, but the packet was empty.

***

«There's a reason I was ba

I was so furious that I almost hit a couple of people, and it was uncomfortable to ride with a bent rear wheel, and my long, loose hair was in my eyes and obstructing my view of the road. When I got home, I hitched my bike to the railing, opened the door, took off my shoes, and threw them on top of the rest of my shoes.

– You're back already? So, how was your day? – Mary's voice came from the kitchen. – Are you hungry? I'll wash you a couple of cucumbers and tomatoes. And an apple!

«There she goes again with her vegetables! I told her to stay out of my way!» – I thought angrily as I hung up my coat in the wardrobe. At this moment Mary's concern irritated me more than ever.

I said nothing, went into my room, pulled off my carefully tailored suit, and scattered my clothes on the floor (I always took my anger out on them). But I didn't get any privacy: Mary came in a minute later.

– Wow, what's with the mood? – She asked, looking at the clothes strewn on the floor.

– I couldn't be worse! I got hit by a car! Or rather, it was some idiot! – I blurted out.

I was sitting on the bed, in my underwear.

– Hit? No way! – gri

She gri

– There's nothing fu

– You fell with the bike?

– Yes! And now my coat is covered in mud!

– But you haven't got a scratch on you.

I looked at Mary, mentally cursing her powers of observation.

– I'd just landed very luckily. And that bastard didn't even help me up! That's what men are like! – I justified myself fervently.

– But it had nothing to do with the clothes» Mary said calmly, picking up my scattered clothes from the floor.

I felt terribly embarrassed.

– No, Mary, leave it! I'll clean it up myself when I've cooled down a bit. It's like a ritual» I told her.

– You'd better get dressed, or you'll freeze» she said, still doing what she was doing.

– Mary, stop it: it's embarrassing for me when someone picks up what I've scattered. – I went up to her. – Oh, stop it, really!

She silently handed me the clothes she'd already collected.

– Is this your real hair? – Suddenly the neighbour asked.

She had never seen me with my hair loose before, for I always put it up in a high knot or ponytail so that it would not get in the way when I walked.

– Yes, of course» I replied, expecting her to admire it like everyone else.

– I can imagine how long it takes to dry them. Have you ever thought about getting a short haircut?

That question shattered everything I'd ever thought about Mary. I swear no one had ever said anything like that to me before; they'd all admired me and told me never to touch my hair with scissors. And she suggested I get a short haircut!

– What? Why? – My surprise was unrivalled.

– I could tell from the length of your hair that you don't cut it very often» Mary said. – I think you'd look good with fringes, but not bushy fringes, and something like a bob.

The last time I cut my hair was six years ago, when my mum accidentally cut off a huge chunk of it at the root when she was trying to untangle a knot with scissors, so I had to cut all my hair off, and I went around with a short guyish haircut, resentful of the world.

– No, my hair is something I'll never touch» I said firmly to Mary's suggestion, threw my things on the bed, and went to the wardrobe for clothes.

– But you've got to change! Okay, if you can't get fat because of your allergies, but your hair will always grow back! – Mary exclaimed unhappily.

– I think there's a fire in the kitchen» I said, suddenly smelling a foul smoke.

– My cutlets!

Mary ran into the kitchen, and I laughed quietly: people are so fu

I pulled out an old pair of jeans, warm socks (I don't know how warm they were, but they were pretty thick), and a long, big T-shirt with the name of some football club on it (it had been given to me by Martin, who had ordered it online and found out it was too small for him, and after that it was mine, but I only wore it at home). I put my hair up in a high ponytail, put my things neatly in the cupboard and went into the kitchen to chat to Mary.