Iblis’ Affliction

by Nero Seal

  The carpet beneath his feet morphed into the cold, polished marble of the staircase, as Slater descended to the first floor. He froze again. The muffled voices grew louder, coming from a small living room located in the farthest end of the south wing. Following the sound, he took a right, slapping barefoot down the corridor.

  “I don’t know...” Talha’s words, said in Turkish, slowed Slater’s steps. Halting in front of the door, he pressed his sweaty palms against the polished wood, unable to decide if he should walk in or leave.

  “Listen…” Ejder’s quiet voice, coming through the speakers, made Slater strain his ears. Talha’s brother rarely called, unless it was something important. “I think it’s time for you to let go, Abi[3]. What do you think will happen when you bring a woman in? What will happen when you have kids? You can’t control him. Not anymore. The time will come when he’ll slice your throat and move on. Why do you even keep him? Anyone can be Iblīs.”

  Slater’s eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth twitched, but Master’s voice, calm and quiet, engulfed him in the next second, warming him. “No. Slater is my power, my strength. No one can be Iblīs but him.”

  “What are you saying, Abi? It’s all in the past. He was your power, but you never use him, unless it’s to kill some weak fuck. Where was he last week when we had an incident with the Kılıç group? We lost five people. Where has he been? He could have done it all alone, yet he wasn't there. Five people died because he wasn’t there.” Pointy, accusing words echoed in the silence. Slater scowled, hearing about this for the first time. Last week had been boring and dull. He’d spent most of it in the basement, chained and gagged, because Master hadn’t had time for him. The fire of irritation licked his heart. Why didn’t Master use me? Why did Master lock me away?

  “I didn’t want him there,” Talha unwillingly admitted. Slater pressed his ear to the door to catch the small tale-telling vibrations in his master’s voice.

  “You didn’t want him there?” Ejder repeated, stretching the vowels. “Abi, he isn’t your lover. He is your weapon. And now five people died because you didn’t want him to get hurt? He is here to die for you, not the other way around.”

  Master didn’t want me to get hurt? Does Master think I’m weak? Does Master doubt me?

  “Slater isn’t cannon fodder. He’s an executioner, not a soldier.” Master’s calm voice provided a clear image of the warm glow of Talha’s amber eyes, his long limbs, stretched out in a relaxed posture, and his polished nails trailing the rough line of his dry lips. “I don't want him to kill too often unless it’s needed. Once he starts killing, it’s hard for him to stop. He enjoys it too much.”

  “Then don't make him stop. We have lots of enemies. Feed him.” Slater side-nodded, clicking the received information in place. If Master doesn’t want me to kill, why does he need Iblīs?

  “You don’t understand.” Talha brushed his brother off, and Slater wondered if he’d flicked his wrist in the air in a lazy, dismissive movement. “He is supposed to deliver a message, not drown everything in blood.”

  That made sense, but the messages he delivered had thinned to almost nothing. If there were no messages, and Master had enemies, Slater didn’t mind being a soldier. Anything was better than sitting in the basement and waiting for Master to return.

  “Oh, I think I understand.” Ejder’s tone picked up edgy notes. “You are scared that he will develop a taste for freedom and one day won’t return to you.”

  “You talk too much, Kardeşim[4].” Annoyance, seeping into the harsh reply, scratched Slater’s insides with a suspicion that Ejder had hit the truth.

  “You are wrong in the head. You sold your soul to the Devil.”

  Silence. Running out of patience, Slater placed his palm on the door handle, intending to walk in, when Talha chuckled, “That I did.”

  “Do you regret it?” Ejder’s question, as if heating all the metal objects around, seared Slater’s fingers, making him yank his hand away from the bronze handle. “I’ve always been curious.”

  Slater’s face hardened. The air felt trapped in his lungs as his heart rate dropped. Seconds ticked by, but Master didn’t reply. Does he? Slater shifted, one hand clasped the other, a thumb brushed over the burn. Pressing on the blister, he listened for the pain to rush up his bones, and diffuse in his heart, bringing him slight relief. No. Master wouldn’t.

  “Sometimes…”

  Slater flinched. The word seared him with freezing fire. He rubbed the burn harder until acute pain suffused his whole being, helping him to contain his emotions. The sticky surface tightened, bouncing under his thumb, then broke. Spilling some liquid, it revealed the reddish surface beneath, but he kept scraping the damaged area, welcoming the first flame of awakening anger that sparked in his stomach.

  “Why don’t you walk away then?” Ejder asked. Talha’s clear, rollicking laughter resounded in the night, messing with Slater’s head, confusing him further.

  “There is no walking away. If you deal with the Devil you have to be ready to pay with your life. I knew it from the first moment I saw him.” Talha’s residual chuckles diffused in the night. “But if things were repeated, I would do it all over again.”

  Slater let his hand fall. The rudiments of anger died out as the comforting words reached his ears. The urge to storm into the room and press his cheek to his master’s knee wiped clean his thoughts, but something stopped him from entering. Staring at the handle, he hesitated. Master is confusing…

  “You are sick, Abi. He poisoned your mind,” Ejder concluded. “You can’t control him. Chip him if you don’t want to get rid of him. We should at least know where he is.”

  “He isn’t a cow; he’s my Iblīs.” The proud notes, rebounding in Talha’s voice, lifted Slater’s chin. “I want him to be free. You can’t chip fire but you can choke it. There’s a reason why no one can control Iblīs unless he chooses his master. I want him to lick my hand, and for that, I’ll sell my soul over and over.”

  Something twitched in Slater’s chest as he listened for Master’s voice. The amount of received information, sinking in, formed a billion questions that swarmed in his skull, awakening a severe headache.

  “Okay… that I didn’t need to know.” Ejder brushed the topic away, jumping to another. “Have you told him about your wedding yet?”

  Wedding?

  “No… Not yet…” Talha groaned. “But Slater will understand?”

  The hopeful notes in Master’s voice brought a dissonance in Slater soul.

  “Will he also understand that you traded him to her?” Ejder’s barking laughter scratched Slater’s ears, but his words sank deep into his mind. “He will kill you.”

  Master did what? He couldn't believe his ears and shook his head. No… Master didn’t. Ejder knows nothing. Iblīs is not for trade. Master wouldn't.

  “I’m not an idiot. He doesn’t need to know.” The invisible fist of Talha’s words sledgehammered his solar plexus, pushing the air out of his lungs. “All he has to do is follow my orders, as always, and everything will be fine.”

  “He will kill you...”

  “What can I do? Camilla wants him. And I want London,” Talha stated. His heavy steps crossed the room, approaching. Slater shrunk back in the darkness, but the door didn’t open. Instead, the pure clanging of a thin glass reached his ears a second before the sound of trickling liquid.

  “You are such a good husband, Abi.” Ejder’s mocking words brought a foul taste into Slater’s mouth.

  Have you submitted to a pussy, Master? Traded me for London… How weak.

  His hesitant hand landed on the handle, recoiled, then twitched again. Slater wanted to push the door open and confront Master, but a deep-seated hesitation, scratching in the pit of his stomach, forced him to step into the darkness. Master will come to Slater. Then Master will have to explain. Slater will wait.

  SITTING ON THE RIM OF THE STONE BANISTER, Slater rocked his legs in the air. His fingers did a mechanical j
ob of sending one piece of rose locum after another into his mouth. His master had been missing since morning, and Slater had nothing to do. Staying alone in the basement had been boring, so despite the promised punishment, he unlocked his restraints and let himself out, but the dull grayness in his soul didn’t disperse. Quite the opposite, it darkened, thickened, and compressed into a stormy cloud.

  Master is getting married. This thought, returning to him over and over, almost stripped him of appetite. He wasn’t sure why it made him feel filthy, but every time it occurred, the acrid stench of disgust replaced the air in his lungs.

  Maids sneaked behind him every now and then. Their wary glares tickled his senses, but he didn’t pay attention. He needed to see Master, look him in the eye, and ask him why his chest burned.

  The suffocating memory of the hotel suite and the white hand resting over Talha’s torso replayed in his mind with torturous frequency, flooding him with a sticky loathing. Slater didn’t know why he harbored such a strong feeling, as he had never been this agitated by anyone’s existence before.

  His cheek flinched as a sour taste spoiled the tender rose flavor in his mouth. Wanting to spit, he looked around. His bored gaze wandered over the carved walls, jumped to the polished, white marble floor until it stumbled over a tall sculpture of Venus. Heavy marble folds, draping her hips, left her upper torso exposed. A gentle line of her stomach, with a slightly visible relief of her abdominal muscles, emphasized the swells of her small breasts and a long neck that supported a perfectly proportional head. The roughly cut stumps where her arms once were caught the light.

  Now, admiring Venus, Slater was sure, the hand didn’t belong… but he wasn’t able to finish his thought, as the heavy double doors of the main entrance flew open. Bright light flooded the cold marble hall. Golden arabesques, decorating walls, and the split staircase flared with colors. The sunlight trapped in the corridor of tall, heavily-framed mirrors, ricocheted all over the massive Moorish interior.

  Stricken with curiosity, Slater squirmed, watching a massive shadow eclipsing the lights. The bull neck, sitting on the broad shoulders, made the bodyguard’s head look small. Stomping in, Zaal faced the entrance and let six foreigners dressed in boring black suits into the mansion. Checking their surroundings, they tapped small devices connected to their ears with their fingers, constantly exchanging short messages with someone invisible.

  Slater hummed. Picking up another piece of locum, he placed it on his tongue, then licked his sugary fingers. Someone spared him a glance, but their attention quickly moved on as the people spread through the mansion. He decided that there was no immediate danger.

  “Pleaze, come on in,” Zaal said in rough English; his heavy accent scratched Slater’s ears. The light streaming through the opened door flickered, and the slender silhouette of a woman appeared. She took a step forward, her red shoe passing the threshold. Slater swallowed the warning growl vibrating in his throat. Hatred stormed in his chest as his body moved on its own. Jumping down from the rail, he landed on the first floor; his right knee touched the soft carpet, absorbing the impact. The box of locum that had lain on his knees smashed against the ground, dusting the fluffy pile with sugar powder. He took a moment to stabilize the powerful jolt that stormed up his chest, to his head.

  Swirling, Zaal put a hand on his gun. A warning flashed in his black eyes. “Geri çekil, köpek[5]!”

  Ignoring him, Slater straightened and moved toward the woman. An overwhelming flowery smell wafting in, spiraled nausea in his stomach, but step by step, he kept approaching. Their gazes interlinked and for the first time, he was able to study her small turned-up nose, soft chin, and big, bright eyes illuminating her marble-like face. So, this is what Master likes…

  “Who is that?” she asked in a tone that demanded an immediate answer. Her features curled up with curiosity, not fear.

  “No one,” Zaal said, fidgeting. The sour smell of his discomfort tickled Slater’s predatory instincts. “Just a dog. Ignore him, Hanımım[6].”

  “Just a do-o-og?” she repeated, her coral lips parting in a smile.

  Don’t call her Hanım; she isn’t your mistress! Slater suppressed a hiss. Irritation, bubbling in his stomach, rushed up his throat, urging him to make another small step, but Zaal’s large body rose in front of him, shielding the woman.

  “Defol[7]!” Zaal warned, switching to Turkish, and reinforced the ‘go away’ order with a hand gesture. Pulling his gun out, he held it close to his hip so the woman wouldn’t notice.

  Slater smirked as disdain corroded his blood. Zaal was only brave with a gun in his hand. Whatever… Pivoting, Slater stormed toward the bedroom, but Zaal’s bass stopped him in his tracks, syringing a new dose of abhorrence into his blood. “Not there, dog. Hanım is taking the master bedroom. You go to the basement.”

  The invisible spring in his body shrieked with tension, transmitting waves of annoyance throughout his nerves. He spun on his heel and gave Zaal the once-over.

  You think too much of yourself. The woman doesn’t belong. Not here. Granting the bodyguard a tight, promising smile, Slater decided that his patience with this man had reached its limit. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but you will pay for it… Master can’t protect you forever.

  Shaking the insult off, Slater strolled toward the rear door, wanting to slip into the garden, but the ringing voice of the woman stopped him in his tracks. “Wait.”

  The karambit burned the small of his back. With every second, the pull of the steel grew stronger, but Slater knew Master didn’t like his home messy. He spun, meeting her piercing gaze.

  “What’s your name?” The woman eyed him up and down, as if evaluating a property.

  Slater didn’t reply.

  “Hanımım, pleaze don’t talk to him. He only followz Reis[8]’s orderz.”

  “Really? Master’s only?” Her smile grew brighter as she drilled him with her tenacious eyes. She squared her shoulders, and her transparent white blouse stretched over her breasts. “Then you should serve me too. Bring the bags of your Mistress to the Master’s bedroom. I want to surprise Talha.”

  “Surprise Master?” Slater cocked his head and responded to her smile. The spring in his body vibrated with pressure, ready to burst. “Certainly, Mistress-s.”

  He stole a glance outside. Two men stood by the black jeep with darkened windows; a great number of suitcases gathered by the doors.

  Ignoring the surprise and confusion written all over Zaal’s face, Slater picked up the nearest suitcase. “Follow me, Mistress-s.”

  Two pairs of eyes burned the spot between his shoulder blades as he climbed the stairs. One—curious and impatient; the other—wary and full of mistrust.

  Turning left, he strolled to the farthest end of the corridor and jammed a carved, wooden door open. The intense smell of oils surrounded him, instantly calming him. Drenched in bitter almond and leather, with soft notes of nutmeg, the vast, dark bedroom smelled like home, like Master’s skin.

  “Why does it smell like cyanide here?” the woman whispered, following him in. Her gaze traveled up and down the tall carved columns that separated a shisha lounge from a sleeping area, then slowly grazed over the floor.

  Trying to ignore her remark, Slater placed the suitcase on the mahogany floor, but the burning in his chest aggravated. Something ugly twitched in his heart, spurting venom in his blood.

  This feeling was new. Slater had always killed for pleasure. The screams, the fear on his victims’ faces, the dying light in their eyes, everything gave him a thrill. He killed, obeying the law of the strongest, never thinking, never regretting. He chose Master for this reason. He despised many but never before had he loathed with such passion. Everything about this woman, from her shiny platinum hair to her long nails, troubled him.

  “It’s so dark in here,” she breathed, examining the golden walls, wooden arabesques, and Persian carpets. “This smell gives me a headache. Ask someone to open the windows, please.” Zaal nodded
; she continued, “Change the linens, and I want a roast turkey for dinner.”

  Her heels clattered against the floor as she ambled through the room, gawking but halted halfway, as the tip of her red, pointy shoe caught a Persian carpet. Vintage, as if beaten up with time, it had a grunge effect created by the nearly worn off red color.

  “You…” she called, and Slater froze; only the corner of his mouth twitched, wanting to stretch into a predatory smile. “What’s your name again?” Never receiving the answer, she heaved a sigh. “Help me to remove this hideous carpet, okay? It looks so old and dirty…”

  “That’s not dirt,” Slater corrected in a low voice. “That’s my blood…”

  “Huh?” She tilted her head and scrunched her nose. “Come on, help me!”

  Slater didn’t move. His memory trailed to the days when he’d started living with Master, but the carpet had already been there. He couldn’t imagine entering this bedroom and not seeing this carpet ever again. At nights, when he’d been bad and Master didn’t let him in the bed, Slater slept on this carpet. He wasn’t sure anymore if the red color was the original or painted with drops of his blood. He had kneeled and bled here so many times that he wouldn’t be able to count the occasions even if he tried.

  No, the woman doesn’t belong. He squeezed his eyes as the spring in his body constricted and combusted. Unwrapping, it shredded the orders Master instilled in his mind along with the shades of humanity.

  “You want to know my name?” He tilted his head, taking a small step in her direction. “It’s Iblīs.”

  She gasped. Slater’s smile grew bigger.

  “Let’s surprise Master, shall we?”

  A SINGLE THREAD OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS stretched from the hall, drowning in the darkness, and up the massive staircase that split the mansion into two even halves. Wrapping around white spindles, it twinkled with a mesmerizing golden light and disappeared in the right corridor.

  Talha frowned, holding his breath. The windows stood draped over. No sound disturbed the suffocating silence, as if the night had already swallowed the world, except it wasn’t even four.