After finishing the meat, Greg felt a little more confident. His stomach was full, panic backed off a bit, giving way to brisk irritation.

  “Alright,” he said to the empty house. “Plan is: find the kid, shake him down, get answers. If there are no answers… well. Then I’ll find more meat.”

  He wiped his hands on his pants and decisively shoved the door open.

  And regretted it instantly.

  The village was no longer quiet. The street buzzed like a kicked beehive. Greg had barely stepped over the threshold when he saw them.

  People. Lots of people.

  Not the friendly neighbors from the morning. A crowd.

  And the crowd was running straight for his hut.

  At the front barreled a big man in a blacksmith’s apron, swinging a massive hammer. Behind him—women with faces twisted by fear, clutching pitchforks. Someone dragged a rusty sword, someone else just a heavy club.

  “Demon!” someone screamed from the mob. “Grab the spawn before it calls the Darkness!”

  Greg froze. He glanced over his shoulder—maybe there really was some demon behind him.

  Behind him was only his door.

  “You mean me?!” he shouted, feeling his guts turn cold. “Guys, I just didn’t sleep enough!”

  They were twenty meters away now. He could see their eyes—mad with fear and hate. They weren’t here to talk.

  They were here to hurt him.

  Maybe to death.

  Instinct kicked in faster than thought. His body already knew what to do when fifty armed idiots ran at you.

  Greg didn’t want to fight.

  He wanted to be somewhere else.

  Pop.

  The world blinked. The crowd’s screams became muffled at once, like someone threw a pillow over them. The stink of dust and sweat turned into the smell of sun-warmed stone.

  Greg stood in the center of the village by the well. He looked around, breathing hard. His heart pounded up in his throat.

  “Okay. Right,” he rasped. “That was… fast. Where’s the kid?”

  He didn’t even have to search. His feet clicked into that strange autopilot again. Greg just ran without thinking about direction. Left past the bakery, right by the chicken coop, through a narrow alley—

  “How the hell do I know where he lives?!” he cursed on the run, barely keeping up with his own legs, which felt like they belonged to someone else.

  He burst out to a small, neat house with a green door. Greg skidded to a stop, kicking up dust. He looked up.

  A face flashed in the second-floor window. Him. That same boy.

  He looked down, and their eyes met.

  Greg saw the kid’s eyes widen in terror at the sight of the black-and-white head and the black eye. The boy jerked away from the window like he’d seen a ghost and vanished deeper inside.

  “Oh no,” Greg growled. Adrenaline boiled in his blood, demanding action. “You’re not running from me, brat.”

  He didn’t have time to knock. No time to explain. The pitchfork crowd would figure out where he’d gone soon.

  Greg stretched his hand toward the window and snapped his fingers.

  Pop.

  The boy appeared right in front of him—one meter above the ground—in the exact pose he’d had while fleeing the window. He shrieked and smacked into the road dust at Greg’s feet.

  Greg immediately bent down, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him upright. He didn’t expect that kind of aggression from himself, but fear of the mob and the chaos in his skull demanded an outlet.

  “So. Done running, kid?” Greg hissed, bringing his face close to the boy’s.

  The boy shook like a leaf. He stared into Greg’s black eye and couldn’t force out a sound.

  “Talk. Tell me what you know!” Greg shook him. “Why is my name Greg? Who the hell is Greg?! Why am I here? Answer me!”

  Instead of answering, the boy’s face crumpled. His lips trembled. Tears burst from his eyes, and a second later he exploded into loud, choking sobs.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “A-a-a! Don’t kill me! Mommyyyy!”

  Greg blinked. He let go of the boy’s collar like it was hot. All his fight drained out of him in an instant, replaced by confusion and disgust.

  “What?” Greg took a step back. “Why are you whining?”

  The boy dropped to his knees, smearing snot and tears with dirty hands, still wailing.

  “Hey, stop!” Greg awkwardly poked him in the shoulder. “Why are you falling apart? I didn’t even hit you. I just asked!”

  He glanced around. The situation was turning idiotic: he’s standing in the middle of the street with a black-and-white head, and a kid is bawling on his knees in front of him.

  “Stop screaming or I’m gonna start crying too—from how stupid this is,” Greg groaned. “You were better at philosophy than this hysterics crap.”

  The boy kept wailing, grinding dirt into his face. It sounded like Greg was cutting him up, not just standing there looking baffled.

  Somewhere in the distance came stomping and shouting. The pitchfork crowd had realized the “demon” had slipped them and was now searching the village. Time was short.

  “Oh, just shut up already!” Greg snapped.

  Talking wasn’t working. He grabbed the kid by the collar again like a misbehaving kitten and, ignoring the kicking, dragged him to the green door of the boy’s own house.

  “Come on. Enough with the concert in the street.”

  He kicked the unlocked door open and hauled the howling prisoner inside. It was dim in there, smelling of dried herbs. Greg slammed the door shut and leaned his back against it, blocking any escape.

  He released the boy. The kid immediately crawled into a corner, curling up and sniffling, staring at Greg from under his brow.

  Greg exhaled hard, rubbing his face. He felt like an idiot. Great mage, village terror—standing here not knowing how to calm down a kid.

  “Listen,” he said, trying to sound strict but not too loud. “I’m not going to kill you. Got it?”

  The boy sniffed, not believing him.

  Greg rolled his eyes—his normal eye rolled up to the ceiling, the black one just stared into nothing.

  “I don’t eat kids,” he declared firmly.

  Then he paused for a second, frowning.

  “Or do I?” he muttered to himself, scratching the gray back of his head. “Damn, I don’t remember. That stash had jerky… made from what? Probably cow. But who knows what my tastes were fifteen years ago?”

  The boy hiccuped in terror and got ready to wail again.

  “Stop!” Greg threw his hands up in a calming gesture. “Easy! I was joking. Probably. Look—plan is: I definitely won’t eat you. You’re too bony and dirty.”

  He crouched to be on the boy’s level and stared straight into his eyes with his creepy black-and-blue gaze.

  “You’re going to live,” Greg said very seriously. “But only if you tell me everything you know. Right now. Who is Greg? Why does the whole village want to stick me on pitchforks? And why does my notebook say I can trust you?”

  The boy stopped crying, only trembling. He stared at Greg like a rabbit staring at a boa.

  “Well?” Greg pressed. “We don’t have time. There are people outside with very sharp sticks and very bad moods, and they’re looking for me. If they bust in here, I’ll teleport again. And you’ll stay behind explaining why you were hiding a ‘demon.’”

  That did it. The boy swallowed hard, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and finally forced out in a hoarse whisper:

  “You… you’re not Greg.”

  Greg blinked.

  “What do you mean ‘not Greg’?” he asked. “Then who am I—Santa on vacation? My notebook says ‘Greg.’ And the old lady called me that before she nearly fainted.”

  The boy, still pressed into the corner, finally started talking more coherently, though he stuttered:

  “You… you look a lot like Greg. Face. But… Greg wasn’t like this.”

  “Like what?” Greg started losing patience.

  “Like… scary. And the hair and the eyes… real Greg’s were normal. Yesterday they were normal! Light. Like normal light hair.”

  Greg ground his teeth. So yesterday he’d still been “normal.” The damn transformation.

  “Although…” the boy suddenly frowned, studying him. “The dumb humor… that’s the same. Greg always made unfunny jokes when he got nervous. And he talked about clouds.”

  He paused, flicking his gaze from Greg’s black eye to the blue one and back.

  “No way,” the kid breathed. “You are Greg. Just… ruined.”

  “‘Ruined,’” Greg echoed with a bitter mimic as he stood. “Thanks, brat. Real good at compliments. Alright—what else do you know?”

  The boy sniffed, settling down. Fear retreated a little under curiosity.

  “I… I don’t know much,” he admitted. “When I first saw him—like five years ago—he was… well. Cool. He was a mage! He could fix a broken plow with one touch. Or call rain when it got too dry. The whole village knew him. They respected him.”

  Greg listened, feeling cold spread inside him. A mage. A respected man. Was that him?

  “And then?” he asked hoarsely.

  “And then… he started changing,” the boy shrugged. “He began forgetting everything. Mixing up names. He stopped using magic, said ‘magic is boring.’ A year ago he gave everything up and went to shepherding. Said sheep are easier—they don’t ask questions.”

  Greg ran a hand through his half-black hair. So first he’d been strong, then he faded into the lazy shepherd he remembered from the field.

  “And now…” the boy looked at him warily again. “Now you definitely don’t remember anything. And you look… like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a demon,” the boy whispered. “People say real Greg died. Or his soul left. And you… you’re a demon that moved into his empty body and finished him off.”

  Greg smirked—crooked and joyless.

  “A demon, huh. Maybe. I don’t know. If I’m a demon, I’m a defective one. I want to eat more than I want to kill.”

  Outside, shouting was already on the next street.

  “Find him! He couldn’t have gone far! Check the barns!”

  Greg looked at the door, then at the boy. Time was gone.

  “Alright,” he said, deciding. “Demon or shepherd—one thing’s clear now: I don’t belong in this village. If I stay, they’ll burn me. And you with me.”

  He moved to the window and peeked out. The way to the forest was still clear.

  “I’m leaving,” he said without turning. “I need answers. And food. Preferably somewhere they don’t stab you with pitchforks for black-and-white hair.”

  He turned to the boy.

  “Thanks for the info, kid. You were useful. Bye.”

  Greg put a hand on the window frame, about to jump out. He needed to run while his legs still remembered how.

  He looked at the street, estimating a route: climb a fence, cut through someone’s cabbage beds, hop a stream—

  He grimaced. Exhausting. Too much running, dirt, and extra effort. And he’d just eaten. Running on a full stomach was bad for digestion.

  He glanced back at the boy. The kid sat in the corner hugging his knees, looking at Greg like a natural disaster that had finally decided to leave.

  Let him sit. Safer for him. Time for Greg to go.

  “Don’t get bored,” Greg tossed over his shoulder.

  He turned away from the window and adjusted his bag strap. Someone was already pounding on the door with something heavy.

  “Open up, demon! We know you’re in there!”

  Greg yawned lazily. Why jump out a window, tear his pants, and sweat?

  He closed his eyes. His body remembered space. It was soft and pliable, like clay. You just had to want to not be here. Somewhere in the forest. Somewhere quiet, birds singing, no idiots with pitchforks.

  “I’ll just teleport,” he muttered with a slight smirk. “What’s the problem?”

  Greg raised his hand. Snap.

  The door exploded inward under hammer blows. The crowd surged into the house, screaming.

  But inside there was only a trembling boy in the corner.

  And emptiness.