Psychro Killer: Chapter 11 - Christos and Athena

By evening, the air had cooled, and the sky deepened to twilight, the first stars flickering above the courtyard. Niko sat at the long table in Yannis’ courtyard, the soft glow of lanterns casting shifting shadows on the stone walls. It was his second night here, and though the day had been overwhelming, Yannis’ warmth had made him feel more at ease than he had expected.

When Christos and Athena arrived, however, a subtle tension crept into the air.

Yannis, ever the patriarch, rose to greet them, clapping Christos on the back. "Ah, Christos! I told you about Niko, yes? My nephew from London. He’s been looking after Alexa and Gorge today," he said, his voice booming with pride. "The children had a wonderful time with him. It’s good for family to be together like this."

Christos, nearly Niko’s age, shared Yannis’ strong features - dashing, with his hair swept back and a knowing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His handshake was firm, almost identical to Yannis’, but there was something else behind it. Beneath the formality, Niko sensed an undercurrent of distrust. Christos seemed to observe him closely, as though waiting for him to reveal something, to slip up.

Athena, meanwhile, was a vision of meticulous care. Thin and fussy, her satin sheen jacket gleamed in the lantern light, matching her perfectly polished appearance. Heavy golden earrings hung from her ears, gaudy against her slight frame and clashing awkwardly with her outfit. She smiled as she sat, but it was a smile without depth - her eyes darting around, more interested in the appearance of things than in the people themselves. Generous in her way, perhaps, but with a simplicity that bordered on a lack of imagination. She seemed more concerned with how things looked than with any thoughts that might stir beneath the surface.

The meal began with polite conversation, Yannis leading the way with his usual boisterous charm, describing the events of the day. Niko noticed Christos listening carefully, his eyes flicking toward Niko every so often, as though measuring him against some unspoken standard.

Christos came over to Niko and extended a hand stiffly. “So, Niko, you were looking after the kids earlier? Good of you.”

Athena, glamorous in a way that felt entirely at odds with the rustic setting, flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Yes, thank you," she said, her voice high and a little too smooth. Up close, the illusion of her beauty faltered—her breath heavy with garlic, teeth stained red from wine. Still, she moved with a certain grace, though it felt rehearsed.

A goat wandered through the courtyard, nibbling at the hem of one of the women’s skirts until Gorge darted over to shoo it away, tugging it toward the stables. The animal’s bleating mixed with the murmur of voices, the clinking of wine glasses, and the scrape of forks on plates. The scene was full of life, of movement, and Niko, for a fleeting moment, felt a deep sense of belonging, as though this was where he was supposed to be.

Yannis handed him a plate piled high with lamb skewered with rosemary, roasted peppers slick with olive oil, and bread still warm from the oven. The scents made his mouth water, the smoky sweetness of the lamb mixing with the earthy herbs. As he bit into the tender meat, the flavours exploded—juicy and rich, dripping down his chin. Niko wiped it away with the back of his hand, the oil and fat soaking into his skin.

But even as the food brought a sense of comfort, something in the air shifted. He noticed the way Christos and Athena watched him, as if assessing, and their conversation, flowing easily, began to take on a different tone. Niko tried to smile through it, feigning more ignorance than he actually had. They talked in Cretan, assuming he couldn’t follow along.

“He’s a conductor, you know, but who needs music here, eh?” Christos said, chuckling under his breath. Niko caught the glint in his eyes, sensing the underlying bitterness. Athena gave a nervous laugh, her wine-stained teeth flashing as she turned her attention to him. “And he looked after the kids. Surprised nothing happened to them,” she added, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Niko bit into his bread, pretending not to understand. “I’ll give him that,” Christos muttered, as he brushed away the goat, which had begun chewing on the edge of his jacket.

The table was a strange symphony of chatter, interrupted by Athena’s breath cutting through the air as she leaned closer to Yannis. “If he’s like his father, we should be careful,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward Niko as if he couldn’t see the accusation.

Niko’s fingers clenched his wine glass as the energy grew, becoming less jovial and more biting. The children ran past, wine spilled onto the tablecloth, the goat somehow had returned and was now nibbling at the hem of Elena’s dress. Niko caught the flash of Athena’s teeth again as she whispered something sharper this time, about family secrets, her voice carrying just enough to push him over the edge.

He put down his fork, wiped his hands on a napkin, and slowly stood, his movements deliberate, almost theatrical. Years of conducting had taught him how to command attention, how to hold a room in the palm of his hand. The conversation continued for a second longer, but as Niko slammed his fist on the table, the sound reverberated like a thunderclap.

Silence.

Everyone turned to him, startled, and he met their eyes, one by one, until the weight of his gaze settled the courtyard into a spellbound stillness.

“I know you all think I’m an outsider," he began in clear, well-pronounced Cretan, his voice low but filled with a controlled intensity. "You’ve been talking about me, about my father, thinking I don’t understand. But I do. I understand more than you think."

Yannis shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he avoided Niko’s stare. Athena leaned back, her smile faltering, a flicker of fear crossing her face. Even Christos looked uneasy, unsure whether to interrupt or stay silent.

Niko played them like an orchestra, knowing exactly when to pause, letting the tension build before continuing. "I’ve spent my whole life not knowing where I come from. Not knowing who my father really was. But here—" he gestured to the table, the food, the family gathered around, "—I’ve felt something I haven’t felt in years. A sense of belonging. A connection. I thought maybe this was my chance to understand, to finally be part of something bigger than myself."

He took a breath, the quiet around him almost suffocating now, the night air thick with anticipation.

"But instead, all I get are half-truths. Snide comments. Whispers behind my back. I’m done with it. If you have something to say about my father, say it. Don’t hide behind polite smiles and cryptic remarks. I deserve the truth."

Christos shifted, his mouth opening to speak, but Yannis raised a hand, silencing him. The older man’s face was hard, his eyes locked on Niko’s. He knew the time for secrets was over. The weight of the past, the blood that had been spilt, could no longer be ignored.

Yannis exhaled, slow and heavy, his gaze softening with something like regret. "Alright," he muttered, almost to himself. Then, louder, with a grim finality, "You want to know the truth? Fine." Yannis looked down at the table, his hand gripping the edge as if to anchor himself. The others remained silent, not daring to interrupt the moment that had been years—perhaps decades—in the making.

The courtyard, once buzzing with life, now seemed frozen, even the goat having been taken away, leaving only the faint rustle of olive leaves in the night air. Niko felt the intensity of the moment like the rise of a symphony’s crescendo—one he had orchestrated with precision, pulling each person’s strings in just the right way.

"I didn’t want this to happen tonight," Yannis said, his voice quieter now, almost weary. He leaned back in his chair, finally looking up at Niko with tired, bloodshot eyes. "Your father… he wasn’t the man you think he was. And he wasn’t the man we thought he was either."

Niko’s chest tightened as Yannis’ words began to flow, each one heavier than the last. He could feel the eyes of the family on him, and for the first time since arriving in Crete, he realised that whatever connection he had to this place—this family—it was going to be tested to its core.

Yannis looked toward Christos and Athena, almost seeking their approval before continuing, but they remained stiff, unmoving. Christos clenched his jaw, but stayed silent.

"Vassilis… your father," Yannis began again, "he came here just like you did, searching for something. But what he found…" He paused, his gaze drifting away into the past, as if the weight of what he was about to reveal was too much. "What he found was destruction. He made promises, lied to people, got involved with things he couldn’t control. And in the end—"

Yannis stopped, his hand trembling slightly as he rubbed his forehead. "In the end, he ran. Left behind debts, broken hearts, and death. When he left, it was as if a storm had ripped through this place. And we never saw him again. Until you."

Niko swallowed hard. His mind was racing, trying to piece together the fragments of a story he had never fully known. "What do you mean 'death'?" he asked, his voice tight, the word lingering in the air like a dark omen.

Yannis didn’t respond right away. He glanced at Athena, then at Christos, who sat rigid, unwilling to speak. Finally, Yannis leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. 

Yannis sighed deeply, as though the weight of the years was too much to carry any longer. “Your father, Vassilis, he was... complicated. He came here, full of charm, full of life, swept Helena off her feet. But there were other women. One, from a nearby village... she got pregnant.”

Niko felt his stomach drop. He’d suspected it, heard the whispers, but hearing it confirmed was like a knife twisting in his gut.

Yannis’ voice wavered. “Vassilis... he panicked. Helena didn’t know, no one did. And that woman... she disappeared. The last anyone saw of her, she was heading toward the caves.”

The caves. Niko’s blood ran cold.

“There were rumours,” Yannis continued, his voice thick with guilt. “Rumours that your father took her there, that he... that he got rid of her and the unborn child.”

Niko's breath caught in his throat. “You helped him leave,” he whispered, horror dawning on him. “You helped them escape before anyone knew.”

Yannis looked away, his jaw clenched, shame etched into every line on his weathered face. “I didn’t know, Niko. Not then. I swear to you, I didn’t know what he’d done. By the time I realised... it was too late.”

Silence fell, thick and oppressive. The air was heavy with the stench of lies, betrayal, and garlic. Niko’s mind raced. His father—charming, distant, unreachable—had been a murderer? And all this time, Niko had been chasing a ghost, trying to please a man who’d left a trail of destruction in his wake.

Niko stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stay here.

“I need to get out of here,” he muttered, stumbling back from the table, his world spinning.

“Niko—” Yannis started, but Niko cut him off with a look of raw pain.

“Let him go,” Yannis said, waving off the concerned murmurs from the family. “It’s too much. We all need time.”

Niko staggered away from the table, his feet carrying him through the darkened streets, past the familiar faces that now seemed so distant. He barely registered the trees, the cool mountain air, or the stars above. His entire life felt like it was crumbling around him. Was his father a murderer? Did he even know the man he’d spent years trying to live up to? Was his whole existence built on a lie?

He collapsed beneath a twisted olive tree on the edge of the village, staring out into the night as tears finally broke through. He cursed his father, cursed the man who had stolen so much from him without Niko even realising it. His head swirled with unanswered questions, grief, and betrayal. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Zoe’s voice echoed from her last message: “Orpheus...” She had always called him that, playfully, but now it felt like a cruel joke.

He didn’t know how long he sat there before sleep finally claimed him.