Chapter 16

The great variety of theories trying to explain the disappearance of Loreto Clair went from being logical and sensible, regarding the questionable state of her health, to all sort of sensationalism, speculating she had committed suicide or that she was in a rehab clinic for drug addicts and that her record label was covering up the truth. Luckily, none of them referred to the B.P.R.D. nor to her cancer. Everything had happened too fast. If Loreto had gone on time to the doctor and they'd had detected the malignant tumor in her stomach through exams, she'd have lived the inevitable psychological shock the disease brings with it like all patients. She'd have spoken with her parents, they would have cried together and she would have committed herself in a clinic to poison her body with chemotherapy for all the time necessary. The symptoms had always been there, yet neither she nor anyone around her saw them or wanted to mention them. Loreto was one of the record label's most sold artists. Tickets for her concerts sold out in a matter of minutes, her agenda was programmed for years to come. Tours, video clips for each of the albums' singles, interviews, photo sessions, studio recording sessions, miscellaneous participations in television programs, charity events, releases and attendance to fellow musicians' parties. That's how it was for the past ten years. At the beginning, when she was yet another indie songwriter playing in bars, small theaters and hotel foyers, she had difficulties making ends meet and had to arrange everything herself, however she had more time. She used to go out with Heather, they had movie evenings, she had a boyfriend, she visited her parents. She even weighed a couple of more kilos! Everything exploded with My Truth from her third studio album. The journey from then on was a never ending nosedive slide from the tallest sledge. There was no way of stopping. One month missing had been enough to feed magazines, newspapers and blogs with conspiratorial theories.

After the conversation with Prince Nuada, Loreto had no other option but to see him walking away disappearing from his dwelling. She had stayed on her own in a strange place meters underground among magical creatures who spoke unknown languages and who could kill her effortlessly. The kind elf servant who had cooked the delicious and comforting dinner insisted she rested even for a few more hours to recover some sleep and whenever Loreto would wish to return to the surface, she would escort her personally to the exit. And that's how it happened. She didn't know for how long she slept; it was impossible to know without daylight or windows. They appeared at the vault-like gate at the other side of the abandoned warehouse near the Brooklyn bridge. The elf stayed at the other side, for the sun was already rising. She retracted herself as soon as she noticed the weak sun rays reach her pale skin. The door closed, and the elf disappeared behind it like one of the many magical inhabitants of the underground world. If she told about it, no one would believe her. A few steps into the street, pedestrians pointed at her and filmed her with cell phones like an army of amateur Paparazzi. She walked until she caught a free taxi and quickly took it, escaping some bystanders who insisted on asking her where she had been and whether she was all right. The taxi driver also stared at her as if she was a zombie just woken up from the grave. Loreto only uttered her address and made sure to triple his fee, trying to buy the man's silence about her and her whereabouts.

She arrived at her apartment on the Upper East Side of New York. She opened the outer metallic shutters and admired the calm waters of the East River and its boats advancing in slow motion. The view to the river was one of the reasons she had bought such a spacious apartment in the city's upper town. It was an oasis of peace in the middle of the Big Apple's madness. Everything smelled musty. She opened all the windows completely and went out to the balcony. The day was sunny yet fresh, fall was ending its reign and winter neared with low temperatures at dawn. After a few minutes standing in her balcony, Loreto spotted a few Paparazzi from neighboring buildings pointing zooms and oversized photo cameras in her direction. Her landline phone rang. Peace had come to an end. It was her agent. She had to take distance between her ear and the device as the man shouted his anguish and concern about her. Then he told all the details of the mishaps he suffered cancelling concerts, giving interviews, rejecting contracts, annulling the agreement with the Grand Theater about her residency. At no moment did he ask about how she was doing.

"Mitch, I have cancer," Loreto said without further ado.

The man at the other side of the line went silent. Loreto hung up. She collapsed on her couch face down and sighed, exhausted. How far she was from Bethmoora! Half an hour by taxi, an entire universe apart. She forced herself to get up and dragged her feet to her en-suite bathroom. She undressed and went under the shower. She allowed the hot water to massage her skin. She soaped herself and palpated the almost non-existent dot on her left biceps where the bullet had entered. It was barely noticeable. She touched the five small scars spread along her abdomen. They were completely healed. She went out of the shower and grabbed her notebook. She searched for recommendations of the best oncologists in the city. The waiting lists for a first visit were months or even years long. She returned her agent's call.

"If you want to help me, I'll send you the contact info of a few oncologists. Get me an appointment ASAP and I forgive you for not having asked for a single second how the fuck I'm doing or feeling."

She stayed in the entire day. She had hundreds of missed calls, messages in her answering machine and hundreds of emails in her inbox. Her parents, friends, colleagues, the Grand Theater people, others from the studio, the record label, dozens of television and magazine journalists. What was she to say? She had taken part in the operation to capture the Prince of Elves and in the process, a man-fish had discovered a malignant tumor in her stomach? She switched the plasma TV on and immediately regretted it. A program was showing pictures of her taken that morning at the abandoned warehouse's exit at the Brooklyn bridge. She locked herself behind her bedroom door, closed the shutters and slept.

Three days passed without setting foot outside. She called for food delivery and decided to stick at home as the only shelter against the Paparazzi's lens. The world out there, the one she always knew, now seemed foreign and cold. Weeks in the agency amongst paranormal creatures and beings with special powers. The few hours in the company of Prince Nuada and the quick visit to the underground world that was his kingdom made her question everything. The sum of the situation was that the Prince was right. Humans destroyed all on their road. They killed each other! She had been naïve to even suggest to him to consider a peaceful solution to secure his people a safe and guaranteed return to the surface. His kind was the closest to look at history personified in a selected group of millennial beings. And despite their hierarchy in the planet, wisdom and acquired knowledge along the eons, they had been pushed to live underground like disregarded old furniture. She understood his rage, yet she couldn't share the way the Prince wanted to resolve the conflict. The killing would be total. The definitive holocaust of human race. She was also human. He had said he wouldn't hurt her, and she wanted to believe him but, in the context of war, would an experienced and smart warrior like himself allow the luxury of showing a behavior which exposes him before the enemy? He had already made that mistake and, as a result, had ended up chained in a torture chamber for almost four complete weeks. They could've hurt him much worse if Loreto hadn't interfered.

Her thoughts were with the Prince, his sister and his people. The fascination and immediate dread of the servant elf at the warehouse door when spotting the early morning broke her heart. On the other side, Loreto had to visit a doctor soon, a human one, yet in three days she got no signs of life from her agent. She hated to make use of her privileges and use her fame to get an appointment with an oncologist, but if she didn't do it, perhaps it was going to be too late.

The persistent ringing woke her up. Total darkness. Loreto jumped in fear off her bed and sat on the border. She switched the nightstand lamp on and in a frenzy she looked for the landline and cell phones. She prayed that it was Mitch with news of an oncologist appointment. She took both devices in her hands, yet they were silent. The ringing persisted. She frowned and went to the front door. Who was belling? Night had already fallen, the wall watch in her living room showed a few minutes passed two in the morning. She looked through the peep hole and didn't recognise the man standing at the other side.

Loreto, I'm Nuada.

Her stomach pit shrunk in expectation. The Prince? He looked like any other guy. Loreto opened the door dubiously. The man fixed her with his gaze. He recited something in that ancestral language her ears immediately recognized. And the Prince manifested himself again before her eyes. Loreto smiled broadly and gestured inside. She had an urge to hug his waist tightly and nestle against his chest.

Before the war begins, I will search for you. Now that I know your energy I will be able to find you. You will find refuge here and bring your parents. It's all I can promise.

Loreto swallowed hard. The moment was upon her. The extermination of the human race. The Prince walked through her apartment's livingroom with slow yet strong traces as if discovering an inhospitable territory. He advanced to the U-shaped couch and turned around to her.

"Will the war soon begin?", Loreto whispered and stoic, she endured the chills her own words caused in her spine. "Must I already go for my parents?"

The Prince took out his sword belt and removed the lance from his back. He let both weapons land on the thick white fur rug and sat himself on the couch with his head between his hands.

"There won't be any war," he uttered from the back of his throat.

Tentative, Loreto walked towards him and slowly sat down at his right side.

"Why not?"

The Prince raised his head and supported both elbows on his muscular thighs. He faced her behind long locks of bleached hair half covering his gaze.

"Because I've been betrayed," he said and let his head hang. His hair tips were almost brushing his long carved black leather boots.

Loreto held her breath. His voice was loaded with pain.

"Why are you here then?," she asked in a thread of voice.

The Prince turned to face her once again.

"Because I didn't know where else to go."