by Jen Printy
I jab an accusatory finger at him. “What the hell did you do?”
“Good morning to you, too.” He beams.
“You ass! You’re going to hurt that woman all over again. What are you trying to do? Get a matching scar?” I stare at him, exasperated.
“Haven’t you heard? Women like scars.” Artagan chuckles. His jovial mood only irritates me further. “You’re worried about me. That’s sweet, touching even, but don’t be. First off, Kemisi picked me up. And second, this morning she made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want this to become anything serious. Strictly friends. With benefits, I suppose.” Glancing toward the kitchen, he rubs the back of his neck, a strained expression rigid on his face.
“And you”—my brow furrows—“Mr. Manwhore, have a problem with that. Huh?”
Artagan purses his lips. “Manwhore? The word’s a bit uncharacteristic for you, don’t you think? Too modern.”
I scowl. “I picked it up from Leah. She used it the other day to describe one of the regulars at the coffee shop. She says he has a new girl on his arm every other day. The term fits you perfectly.”
He glares at me, and then his expression softens into one of resignation. “I swear if that woman came with an instruction manual, it would be easily several thousand pages, written in some obscure language like Sentinelese,” he grumbles, maintaining a low voice, so only I can hear. “Kemisi’s always been a bit maddening.”
“And yet?” I fight a smile. “Leah’s right. You do have a thing for her.”
He tilts his chin down, pinching his lips together. “No, I don’t.”
“You sure?” My smile grows wider. “Maybe the leopard can change his spots.”
“In the words of a boy who’s now looking to get his face pummeled, none of that is any of your business.” He turns and stalks toward the kitchen.
Some sense of morbid curiosity beckons me to follow.
When I enter the room, Artagan stands in the middle of the kitchen, drumming his fingers against his slacks as if he’s trying to decide whether it would be prudent to greet Kemisi good morning. With a deep intake of breath, he takes a tentative step toward her.
Feeling like an intruder, I find a seat at the table and force my attention away, my foot tapping absentmindedly.
Following a moment of awkward silence, Kemisi places a stack of steaming pita bread in the center of the table. “Ahlan wa sahlan, Jack.”
“Ahlan bīk,” I respond. “Did I pronounce that correctly?”
“Flawlessly.” Kemisi smiles. “I’m making ful medames, if you want to wake Leah. It’s an Egyptian delicacy, not to mention one of my favorite breakfast foods.” She returns to the counter to retrieve another bowl.
“Careful. She’s vegan,” Artagan mouths, rolling his eyes, as he takes the seat across the table from me.
Artagan leans back in his chair and props an ankle on his knee, jiggling his foot. A nervous tic, I assume. Now and again, he peers in Kemisi’s direction.
It’s as if I’ve stepped through the looking glass into some alternate dimension. Artagan’s always suave and collected, especially around the opposite sex. I’ve never seen him in such a flustered state. Kemisi, on the other hand, appears oblivious to Artagan’s condition, enthralled by her culinary creation, and that seems to frustrate Artagan further.
Methinks he doth protest too much. I push my thoughts into Artagan’s mind, parroting his words from the night before. Leah was right. You do have it bad.
Belt up! Or I swear… The rest of his words are incoherent.
I suppress a laugh. I have to admit this morning is turning out much more enjoyable than I thought it would when I found Leah’s note. Wait until I tell her. Snatching a pita from the plate, I glance in Kemisi’s direction. “Thanks for the offer. I’m sure Leah would love it,” I say, tearing the bread in two. “But she’s training this morning.”
Artagan’s head flinches back, his eyes narrowing. “No, she’s not. Thanatos requested time with her tonight. Other than that, her schedule is free.”
“But she left me this.” I fish the crumpled paper from my pocket and pass it to him, a knot forming in my gut.
Kemisi leans over Artagan’s shoulder to glance at the note. “There’s only one who would be that disrespectful.” She snorts in disgust. “Black-eyed devil.”
I feel the blood rushing to my face as I realize what she’s suggesting. “Wait, are you saying Leah’s with Muan? Alone? But surely Death wouldn’t allow him to hurt her, right?”
“Unfortunately, Death doesn’t control Muan as much as he wishes he could,” Kemisi says. “Muan and his brothers are capable of just about anything.”
I’m on my feet now, and Artagan rises to meet me. He stands still a moment, calculating, then turns to Kemisi with a decision. “I’ll get dressed. You call Otmar. The two of you can check out their usual haunts. We need to find her. Now!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I’ll make that perversion of a man suffer!” My voice, flat before, is suddenly animated, filled with fury.
“And I’ll help you,” Artagan says, a bit of acidity in his own tone. He ducks under the lintel as he steps into the coach house. “But first we need to figure out where the bastard took her. Kemisi’s correct. Muan is the only one who would disrespect the rules like this. It probably has something to do with last night. Maybe I should have let him win.”
I pause by the door and glance around, deeming nothing out of the ordinary. “It’s not your fault. It’s that bloody bastard’s. Obviously, Muan didn’t bring her to this place, so why are we here?”
Artagan comes to a stop in front of a stack of crates, and his attention shifts away as he gropes through one. “The problem is Leah’s thoughts are a tangled mess,” he continues. “I’m having difficulty deciphering them. That’s why I sent Kemisi and Otmar scouting, but it will do us no good to run off half-cocked before we know where he took her.”
Artagan’s hands emerge from a box, gripping two sheathed dirks. He holds out one of the knives. “Here.”
“What good are these going to do? The man doesn’t bleed,” I say, taking the sheath and fastening its belt around my waist.
Artagan does the same with his blade. “It will only slow him down, but that might be all we need.”
“What if he… hurts her? Before we can…” Heat burns behind my eyes. I clench my fists so tightly my fingernails cut into my palm. Icy tendrils spread from the base of my neck and shoot tingling coils down my spine, sending prickles up along the crown of my head.
“Quiet. Let me listen.” He looks away, closing his eyes.
Full of nervous energy, I pace, two fingers flicking against the hilt of my blade. Despite the frosty air, my palms are damp with sweat. As the panic takes a more substantial hold, the moisture spreads, breaking out across the back of my neck, and droplets of perspiration slither their way down my back between my shoulder blades.
After what feels like an eternity, Artagan says, “Good girl.” His eyes open, and he turns. “They’re still in the city. The Dogfish Bar and Lounge.”
“Dogfish? I know the place! It’s not far. Just over on Fore Street,” I add, making a move for the door.
Artagan steps to block my path. “I’ll need you to concentrate on the bar. On its tenor, remember?” Not waiting for an answer, he snatches me by the arm and hurls us toward a shadow.
I clear my mind of the cluttered emotions and do my best to visualize the seedy little hole-in-the-wall, focusing on remembering the exact clichéd stale-beer smell that permeated its walls.
The cobblestone street where we surface is dark and raw, the closely packed properties letting little of the rising sunshine into the cramped space. Our breaths puffing out in white vapors, I glance around, getting my bearings. It only takes a moment for me to realize my poor shadow-navigational skills have dumped us out a co
uple of blocks off course.
“This way,” I call, darting into a nearby passageway that cuts between two of the buildings.
We reemerge on a narrow backstreet, flanked on either side by the rear of the buildings. Lines of rusted fire escapes coil up the brick walls like iron snakes. The Dogfish is easy to spot. It has a large mural of a shark with a Labrador’s head painted over the bar’s rear entrance. Except for a light in a second-story window, the rest of the building lies in darkness. A muffled scream breaks through the bleak morning air, resonating between the brick-layered walls. Grabbing me by the arm, Artagan speeds for a shadow.
As the black whirling emptiness dissolves, dumping us into the dimly lit void, Artagan draws the dirk from his belt with a flourish. I take a firm grip on my own blade and follow suit. Artagan places a finger to his lips then gestures to wait. The fog evaporates, revealing a scene through the thin shroud.
Leah crouches over an unmoving form sprawled on the floor. She holds a little gold letter opener tightly in her shaking hand, aiming the blade straight at Muan, who stands about three feet in front of her. Two of his brothers, their faces painted blue with black streaks across their eyes and mouths, flank him. Even through the bands of color, the man to Muan’s right is recognizable as Izel, his bulging eyes a dead giveaway. The other man is a bit shorter than his brother, but with his thick biceps and barreled chest, he’s by no means sparse.
Muan dips his hand into a terra-cotta bowl and then smears a thick layer of blood across his neck and face. After handing the bowl off to the shorter one, Muan smiles, the white gleam of his teeth showing in stark contrast with the black-red staining his skin. At this, the three begin to chant.
The crumpled body at Leah’s feet stirs, rolling to its side, and reveals a man battered beyond recognition. His mouth moves as if he’s trying to speak, but no sound more than bubbling rasps passes through his cracked lips. He goes limp, and then spasms jerk through his body with involuntary contractions. Removing a long-bladed knife from a sheath strapped to his thigh, Muan steps forward.
Artagan gestures for me to follow, and he strides toward the veil. But instead of passing through as before, he rebounds. He attempts again but to no avail. A sudden alarm bursts into Artagan’s eyes, sending terror ripping through my chest. He presses his palms on the invisible barrier and runs his hands along it. I join him, the smooth, firm surface cold under my flushed palms. It’s soon apparent the shadow has solidified around us, entombing us in its bowels.
“They’ve locked us in here somehow. Look for anything that appears out of place,” Artagan says.
My eyes dart around the room. I hold my breath, praying we find what has blocked our entrance. A piece of pottery, sitting on a table at the far end of the room, catches my attention. The three-footed, bulbous jar—painted in brilliant brown, red, ivory, and black—seems out of place among the movie-related memorabilia cluttering the apartment. The head of an open-mouthed jaguar adorns the lid. I squint. A thin ribbon of faint purple smoke flows from the big cat’s mouth.
“There,” I say, pointing.
Artagan moves to my side and peers at the decorative jar. Accompanied by a quick bob of his head, his lips waver with the speed of a conversation—the silent rhythm impossible to decipher.
I look to Leah. Her expression brightens. She nods her head a fraction of an inch, taking a deep breath. Then with a burst of energy, she bolts in the direction of the jar.
Muan moves to block her path.
Leah swings the letter opener at him, aiming for his chest, but misses. Muan laughs. His meaty hand juts out. Leah ducks, but he catches her by the sleeve. With a hand full of fabric, Muan pulls Leah to him. She yelps, pulling away, but he jerks her closer.
Frantic, I thrust hard against the barrier, pushing to no avail. I’m forced to watch as Muan seizes Leah by the hair and bends her head backward with force. He then places the blade of his knife to her throat, nicking her skin. A single drop of crimson rolls down her exposed neck. Before the wound can heal, Muan leans in, and with a flick of his tongue, he licks it.
I feel as if I’m going mad. The prickle running the length of my spine spreads. From the tips of my fingers to the soles of my feet, my entire body turns cold like someone dipped me in ice water. I wind my hands into tight fists and accost the invisible barrier, striking it again and again, but only succeed in bloodying my knuckles.
Muan glances in the direction of our shadowy prison. He licks his lips as he pulls Leah closer still, pressing her against his chest. Shockingly, she curls into his embrace, but then, with a flash of gold, she sinks the letter opener deep into his thigh.
His black eyes widening, Muan clutches at his leg, and he stumbles back. I stare dumbfounded as blood as red as mine soaks through the fabric of his pants and around his fingers. No smoke. No ash. Only crimson.
I expect Izel and the other brother to assist Muan, but instead, they glide back, stunned, putting distance between themselves and their brother. Fear claims Muan’s features. Favoring his good leg, he follows his brothers’ lead, backing away from Leah.
Emboldened, Leah steps forward, blade lifted, readying for another strike.
The shorter brother mutters a measured chant low enough so only the rhythm, not the words, can be heard. His hand delves into a leather pouch dangling from his belt. With a lightning-fast movement, he brings a clenched hand to his mouth and blows a red powder into Leah’s face, blinding her. Izel slips the jar into a leather sack. After he pulls the bag’s drawstrings tight, sealing off the purple smoke, the three Soulless disappear into a shadow.
Freed from our imprisonment, Artagan and I rush into the room. The thick smell of salt and iron is overwhelming, blended with a fetid odor of earth and incense. Leah stands as still as a statue, her clothes splattered with drying blood. Half her hair hangs across her shoulder, pulled from the lackadaisical bun during the attack. Her body trembles, and her crimson-smeared hand still clasps the letter opener in an iron grip.
I sheathe my blade and step toward her. “Leah?” I say almost in a whisper. “They’re gone. You’re safe now.”
She gives no response. Her eyes are blank as if she doesn’t hear me. So I repeat myself. Again, I receive no response. At that moment, I fear the savagery she witnessed has stained her far deeper than her skin and clothes.
I take another step. This time, I outstretch my arms. “Love, it’s me. Jack.”
Her gaze shoots in my direction, crazed and unfocused. Her grip tightens on the handle of the opener. “Get away from me! Or I’ll cut you again!” she screams, swinging the blade.
“Hold her,” Artagan commands, snatching a water bottle from a side table by the couch.
Seizing Leah, I restrain her arms, pinning them to her side. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Just hold her!”
She fights, gnashing her teeth as if she’s mad, but I keep her still, not letting her move as Artagan pours the entire contents of the water bottle over her powder-coated face. Then, restraining her swirling head with one hand, he uses the other to wipe the residue from her eyes, nose, and mouth. She sputters and coughs. Artagan takes a stride back and motions for me to let her go.
As Leah wrenches away, I see recognition glint in the murky depths of her eyes. She blinks several times, a flurry of emotions in her expression. She releases the letter opener, the blade giving a muted thump as it hits the thick carpet. “Jack! I-I,” she stammers between breaths coming out in ragged bursts.
A sense of relief ripples through me, and I wrap an arm around her. “I’m here,” I breathe into her ear.
“Why did you go with them? Do you realize what they could have done to you?” Artagan shouts, baring his teeth.
“Enough,” I say to him, my body tensing. I want answers, too, but this isn’t the time or place.
Leah’s attention slips to Artagan. “You called me, told me to
meet you here.”
“I did not,” Artagan protests.
Leah shakes her head, making her freed locks fly. “I know it wasn’t you now, but it sounded like you. When I got here, and I found Muan and his brothers, I knew it was a trap. But by then it was too late. They said they needed my blood. When the man tried to protect me, they tortured him for it,” she says, looking at the crumpled figure. “They told him they were going to remove his heart. I couldn’t let them. Why would anyone want to do that?”
“Because they are an abomination,” I say, my voice a little uneven, and I stroke her hair.
“The man kept begging for God to help him.” Her hushed words come out slow with no inflection. “They just laughed and said no god could help him now. Nor would he want him to when they were done.”
“So when He didn’t show up,” Artagan says, picking the letter opener up off the floor, “you decided to fill his shoes.”
I shoot Artagan a stern glare.
Leah draws away from me just enough so she can see him. “I couldn’t let them hurt him anymore.”
His gaze drops back to the unmoving, bloodied figure. He sighs. “No, I suppose you couldn’t.”
Leah grows quiet, drifting into her own private thoughts.
My eyes settle on the bloody opener Artagan placed strategically in the man’s stiffening hand. “Is there any way this can be traced back to her?” I ask.
“Although flesh and bone, we’re much like phantoms. We don’t leave traceable fingerprints, or hair or skin samples. There’ll be no evidence we were ever here,” Artagan says. He walks to a desk and rummages through the drawers, tossing the contents across the floor. “With a few well-placed clues, the police will search for a robber-turned-killer they’ll never find.”
