Page 1 of Hospital for Immortal Creatures

Part I

1

The night sky above Sofia burst into a spectacle of lights, shaping whimsical figures that disappeared within seconds, as if devoured by darkness. Beneath the fireworks, below the endless cover of the evergreen trees that stood guard on the slopes of the Vitosha Mountain, people were celebrating.

Who could blame them? When the clock tick-tocks tirelessly in one’s ear – every tick, a year; every tock, another nail in one’s coffin – one must strive to live one’s best life. In other words, the way others say is best. Have fun, then settle down, get married, raise a couple of kids, earn money, save some up, and repeat the cycle again. Too bad fortunes aflame on the funeral pyre leave only ashen echoes.

It is no wonder, then, that in those few precious moments when one can take a break from earning and saving, popping a bottle of champagne and setting off fireworks seems like the most fitting way to proclaim to the world, I’m fucking alive!

Life used to be so much more, Mikhail Korovin thought to himself. He had lived forever – or a minute, depending on one’s point of view – plenty enough to mock the optimists.

The celebrations died down minutes after midnight, leaving only the faint smell of smoke in their wake, and he stayed a moment to enjoy the silence. Without the lights and clamour, the sky looked desolate, impersonal – a few scattered stars and one enormous orange moon on a dark mantle. There was a time when this glorious natural sight, so readily ignored by many, had excited his imagination, guiding his consciousness to worlds that would most likely never be. Now, he merely saw through it.

Mikhail knew this mountain better than the back of his hand. At its core was nestled the Hospital, home and sanctuary to numerous immortal creatures. It was supposed to be his refuge, too, but the green mass he observed from the top of the building was nothing more than an abyss closing in on him. Between the four columns holding the tower and crowning the twenty stories beneath, winter felt closer than ever.

While descending the spiral wooden staircase, Mikhail caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. From his very first breath in 1616, his eyes had carried the unusual appearance of a mid-October forest glade, where green, brown and yellow melted into one to create a palette of autumn hues that could bring warmth or frost, depending on his mood. His six-foot-six frame was a flawless canvas of muscles and milky white skin. Thick, fair chestnut hair fell around his immaculate features, framing his face and reaching down to his gently bearded jaw.

The staircase caved under his weight with an indignant creak. The level below was a gloomy antechamber with high arches on either end, leading into identical corridors. Through the single window, the city lights competed for his attention. He rushed past them and headed down to the thirteenth floor. In this part of the building, the central lighting didn’t work after midnight. His only guides were the dim-lit small lamps scattered on the walls, which barely fought off the darkness.

The Oracle’s room was the last at the end of the hallway. Inside, moonlight streamed through the window, silhouetting the clairvoyant’s petite figure. She sat in her wheelchair, facing a view of the city.

I wonder what she thinks of these pointless explosions, meant to celebrate life. Mikhail was certain that if he voiced his thoughts, he would never get an answer. At least, not one that echoed his own feelings towards humans.

For all her faults, the Oracle had never been one to judge others. ‘Free will, manticore. That is something that must never be taken away from a creature. The freedom to choose, right or wrong though it may be in the eyes of the beholder, is every creature’s privilege,’ she’d told him once. And it had been one of those rare occasions when he had actually understood her words. He hoped tonight he would get another clear message from her.

He scanned the room with its untouched bedsheets, small shelf weighed down by heavy books, and drawn curtains. His eyes settled on the wheelchair again, where the Oracle’s body almost disappeared under a thick blanket. In the dark, Mikhail could imagine her just as the stories described – skin as white as snow, silky black hair, bewitching tiger eyes. If only the stories knew the reality.

“Manticore,” she uttered in a croaky voice.

Mikhail remained at a distance in the centre of the room. “You told me to come back in ten years.”

She tilted her head. “Has anything changed in those ten years?”

Mikhail didn’t bother answering. If something had, he wouldn’t be here, asking for help.

The Oracle shifted in her chair. “Hmm, this silence is very unlike you. Why come here, if only to keep quiet?”

Anger bubbled up in his veins – too soon. He had promised himself to stay calm. After all, he was supposed to show respect. “Tell me, what do I have to do to restore the regenerative abilities of the six immortal species?”

“Is the situation truly that bad?” she asked him in an even tone.

“For every surviving creature, three die. Many tribes, covens, and individuals still rely on untraditional outdated methods of healing that are more placebos than anything else. When one gets injured or sick, transport is often difficult…” The words came rushing out of his mouth like he had been waiting to voice his concerns. “I shouldn’t have to mention that the current predicament is seen as an opportunity to end lifelong quarrels. Newer generations are so weak, they can’t unlock their secondary form. Breeding events are rare even without all that’s happening, and now the desire to procreate is lessening further. Deadly tournaments are still taking place, and don’t get me started on domestic disputes. And immortal bodies, regardless of the species, are ageing noticeably.” Mikhail knew that even his features had aged at least ten years since the Changes.

The Oracle listened, her back ramrod straight, though he suspected she was already aware of everything he had mentioned. A few moments passed before she turned her wheelchair and moved closer, allowing the moonlight to pour down her face.

Mikhail’s gaze ran up and down her gaunt body. She had once confessed to him that she was always cold, which explained why she was bundled up whenever he visited. But as with every previous occasion, the ten years hadn’t improved any of her disfiguration. Her right eyelid concealed the eye beneath, her lips hung loosely at one side, giving her mouth an eerie appearance, and her nose was a landscape of bumps and creases. A dark, deep scar had replaced her left ear, and only a few limp strands of white hair clung to her scalp. In contrast, the skin around her deformities had recovered, radiant and youthful, as if nothing had happened.

No one knew the origins of the Oracle’s scars. One night, sixty years ago, Zacharia, the head of security for the Hospital, had returned carrying with him a pile of broken bones and mangled internal organs – all that had been left of the Oracle. Somehow, she had survived the suffered trauma.

She stared at him with her one wide-open eye. “Why does all this bother you so much?”

“At this rate, the immortal species will be wiped off the face of the earth in the next thousand years or so. For some, the time may come even sooner.”

“What is meant to be shall be.”

“Spare me the bullshit. You told me that in ten years, there would be a solution!” Mikhail couldn’t contain his anger.

“Every creature deserves its fate,” she said, repeating in a calm voice the same words that he himself had uttered haughtily in the early years of his life.

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