Page 52 of Summoned
He must have read my hesitation because he added, “The world is simple, Nicole. There are two kinds of people—predators and prey. Either you attack, or you’re attacked. There is no middle ground. Never forget that.”
I swallowed the salt rising in my throat. “I didn’t do anything to provoke them…”
My father took a sip of wine. “You showed weakness. Next time, show strength. Then everyone will respect you.”
I remember my mother standing in the doorway, a sorrowful expression on her face. As if she wanted to say something but didn’t. By then, she and my father had already started to drift apart, but she was still doing everything she could to please him, including not interfering with his way of parenting.
My father was both right and wrong. Although they never crossed the line into physical violence again, the attacks from those girls didn’t stop, regardless of how I showed up. It took some time until the tauntsceased—and only because I made sure of that myself.
What do I remember most from back then? The isolation, in my own home.
The sense that I was on my own, no matter what I faced.
To this day, the one thing that comforts me is knowing I never gave those girls the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Another thing? I made sure that whenever someone accused me of stealing their boyfriend—or anything else—they were not mistaken. In that, my father was correct. Instead of wondering how to hold back your tears, it’s better never to give anyone a reason to make you cry in the first place.
And while I’ve learned how to defend myself against aggression, what the Black Joker did last night was nothing like what I’ve faced before.
He tried to break me with his touch. Had I admitted how much I craved him even while I hated him, it would’ve meant surrendering to him. And surrender isn’t just defeat; it’s losing the one thing I fight to keep: control. If I let that truth slip, Gaetano would’ve claimed victory in his twisted erotic game. Not just over me, but over everything I’ve built.
The memory of our game knots in my stomach like a warning. No matter how fiercely I pushed back, some stubborn part of me still longed to be claimed. And that terrifies me to the core.
* * *
I visit a place I never thought I’d step into again—our old neighborhood. The streets, the buildings, everything is as it was ten years ago. For most people, going back would bring warm memories, but for me, it feels like a stone pressing against my chest.
I drive down the familiar street and pass our old block.
A few minutes later, I pull up outside Daria’s building—an eight-story concrete monstrosity with multiple entrances. The empty benches out front remind me of the days when she and I would sit there, talking about boys who never paid us any attention.
Every step on the staircase traces a path etched deep in memory. Does Daria still live here? I knock cautiously. While I wait, I keep searching for a trace of him in the air.He won’t come. He never shows up in daylight.
Just as I’m about to leave, the door opens. Daria stands on the threshold. Her face is thinner than I remember, her hair the same chestnut shade, but longer. She wears a looseFriendsT-shirt. It’s her favorite show. Her green eyes sweep over me, widening in shock. “Nicole?”
“Hi. Can we talk?” I ask, trying to keep my tone steady. She glances over my shoulder. “I’m alone.”
Her expression tightens, probably weighing whether this is a trap. Her features soften, and she smiles. “Sorry about that. You caught me off guard. Come in.”
I step inside. The corridor looks the same—walls filled with memories that now seem ready to crush me. The living room has been renovated, but the homey atmosphere remained.
“Would you like some water? It’s scorching outside,” she says.
I shake my head. “I don’t have much time, so I’ll get straight to the point. Do you remember when we once summoned the Black Joker?”
A furrow appears on her brow. The silence deepens, and I can’t stop straining for signs of him—his presence, his scent lingering in the air.
Then Daria’s smile returns. “You mean that time in my grandma’s attic?”
I nod, drawing a deep breath. “The Black Joker is real. And he’s stalking me.”
Another moment stretches between us. Daria assesses me, as if she’s determining whether I’ve lost my mind or am just overreacting.
I approach her. “On my twenty-first birthday, he appeared and pulled out a contract—an actual, signed document—saying he would subject me to three trials.”
“Signed…” She blinks, as though not understanding.
“Yes,signed.With myblood.If I pass his stupid trials, he’ll grant me a wish. But if I fail…” I swallow hard. “…he’ll take me. Permanently. To his castle. Wherever the hell that is. And he’ll claim my soul.”
Daria continues staring. Does she not grasp the urgency in this? I try a different tactic. “He showed up at the Deliberovs’ ball. You must have heard it on the news? Mr. Deliberov had a heart attack during the event. He’s in the hospital now.”
