Iblis’ Affliction

by Nero Seal

  “Eat what, Slater? Whatever you are cooking, this dish should be censored. There’s no way I’m trying...” Talha gave a suspicious look to the frying pan. “What on earth is it?”

  “Your chickens, Master. They are terribly underfed.”

  “My chickens?” Talha faced the reaper. “I don’t keep chickens.”

  “No, not anymore…”

  Blood left Talha’s face, as the realization hit him.

  “You motherfucker, did you slaughter the whole pigeon loft?” His hand, shooting up, squeezed Slater’s throat. Tripping the reaper’s foot, Talha arched him backward and smashed the back of his head against the white marble island. His free hand found a fork and brought it to Slater’s eye. The reaper didn’t blink. The reflection of the fork in his eye grew bigger, but his pupils didn’t dilate, and not a single muscle in his body tensed. “You’ve reached the limit, Slater. They were my messenger pigeons. Do you know how much they cost and how long it takes to train them properly? They were long-distance ones! Name me one reason why I shouldn’t put you down, you mad dog?”

  “Messenger pigeons? Hmm, too bad they are gone now,” Slater deadpanned, and Talha tightened the grip around his throat, as adrenaline hammered in his temples. Unlike his, Slater’s pulse was even and calm under Talha’s fingers as his glacial eyes stared back.

  He isn’t scared of me at all… Is he this confident of himself? Talha thought, collecting his thoughts. He wasn’t one to easily lose his calm, yet Slater somehow always managed to irritate him. I can’t believe he murdered my pigeons.

  Lifting his chin to the fork, Slater added, “If Master is hungry, Master should eat. Slater waited. Slater cooked for two.”

  Waited? For me? The words confused Talha and wiped clean his anger. Pushing a breath out, he removed the fork. “If you were hungry, why didn’t you go shopping?”

  “Slater hates shopping. Slater hates crowded places. When Slater is irritated, Slater wants to kill,” Slater hissed, his cheek twitched. Talha released his throat.

  “You should have ordered delivery.” Talha turned away, giving a sad look to his once beautiful birds.

  “Slater hates delivery, and Slater doesn’t have money.” When the reaper voiced his next question, his warm breath tickled Talha’s nape. “Slater hates cooking too. Can Master cook?”

  His tone never dropped the demanding notes and awakened another tornado of irritation in Talha’s chest.

  “You have some nerve… I’m considering killing you here. What on Earth makes you think I’m going to cook for you?” Talha swirled, linking their gazes.

  “Master sent people away. It’s Master’s fault we have no food. Master is cooking, right?” Without waiting for Talha’s reply, Slater drew out his karambit, hooked the nearest pigeon piece and placed it onto the plate he still held in his hand. “Slater cooked today. You cook tomorrow, right?”

  “I don’t want your cooking.” Talha choked, exasperated.

  “Too bad we have nothing else. If you don’t eat them, does it mean they died for nothing, Master?” Giving Talha an innocent look, Slater cocked his head, then handed the plate with the remains of a poor pigeon to Talha. “Eat.”

  Grabbing another plate, Slater snatched two more pieces of pigeon before strolling away.

  Unfuckingbelivable… Talha tried to remain mad, but couldn’t. For some reason, this childish behavior made Slater seem a little more human.

  Approaching the island, Slater took one of the tall stools. Using his karambit, he picked up a pigeon piece and sank his teeth into the caramelized meat.

  The question came unexpected, “Why was Master angry the other day?”

  Fuck… Talha winced. A part of his soul hoped that Slater would stay clear of the topic and the sharp moment would pass quietly.

  “Because I want to forget what happened that night. I would appreciate never talking about it again.”

  “Why?”

  Everything irritated. Grabbing a fork, Talha stabbed his pigeon piece with it then gave it a scornful look. “Because it was a mistake. It should never be repeated.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like pussy, not cock!”

  “Hmm… Master didn’t complain. Master touched Slater. Master licked Slater. Master was hard. Master felt good. Master came three times. Why is Master angry now?” Dropping a karambit on the plate, Slater snarled.

  “Because this isn’t what I want.” Tossing the plate on the counter, Talha turned off the stove and said, “You can have a second helping. Don’t come into my room.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so! I don’t care who you fuck, but it can’t be me! I can’t imagine myself getting involved in a relationship with a man!” Talha slammed his hand against the white marble kitchen counter. “Can you fucking respect this?”

  “Relationship?” Slater echoed and tugged at his left earlobe, then giggled. “Master is funny. So innocent... Slater doesn’t do relationships. Slater just wants to fuck.”

  Dropping his attention to his plate, Slater picked up his karambit again, flipped it around his fingers before stabbing a piece of pigeon with the edge.

  “Is that so?” Talha narrowed his eyes. “Then find yourself another object for your needs, and we will be good.”

  Putting the frying pan aside, Talha strolled to the door.

  “Oh, we will be good.” Slater grinned with his mouth full, but Talha suspected that Slater’s good was totally different from his.

  WALKING THROUGH THE DARK, empty mansion felt weird, creepy even. Never before had Talha noticed the vastness of his home. Too many rooms, too much space. Always surrounded by people, he had forgotten the meaning of solitude, and the knowledge that the only person in the mansion was a psycho didn’t ease his discomfort.

  If I don’t sort this shit out, we will drown in dirt and dust… I wonder if he even washed the dishes.

  The clock on the wall pointed to twelve, leaving Talha with nothing much to do. After Slater destroyed the remains of the Asani family, the streets quieted down and didn’t need much of his involvement. Delegating control over seizing the new territories to Ejder, he had to start developing a new business strategy to open a channel to Europe, but he was too lazy to think about it today. Grabbing a book, he shuffled into his bedroom. Getting comfortable in his bed, he flipped the pages of the autobiography of Mahatma Gandhi Ejder had jokingly gifted him on his birthday. He was about to close the book, when his eyes stumbled over the line, ‘Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.’

  Even though Talha knew it already, the line made him think. Any idiot could fire a gun and break bones. Fear, so often confused with respect, could never grant true power. The ones who follow out of fear were in a constant search for a way out. That thought, once again, brought him to Iblīs.

  Slater feared no human, no god. He didn’t look like death scared him either, then why had he served Behçet? Though Behçet was a dangerous man, he relied solely on physical force and cruelty. If so, what had he done to keep Slater under control for three years? What did Talha lack that Behçet had?

  Behçet had been a ruthless and greedy man. He’d never compromised to gain allies but slaughtered those who had the pride to reject his offers. Behçet constantly used Slater to eliminate everyone in his way. People were terrified to refuse him anything. Whenever he visited a restaurant, everything he’d ordered had always been on the house. The man, who built his Empire on fear, died at the hands of his own weapon.

  Why? Why did Behçet set a trap, rather than using Slater against me?

  Not sure what to think, Talha directed the course of his thoughts another way.

  He didn’t need to drown the world in blood to create an empire of fear. Unlike Behçet, he didn’t need people to fear him solely because he had Iblīs. He needed people to fear and respect him for who he was, for what he could do, and because Iblīs served him. Internal wars never brought prosperity and often wasted resources
and people without any result. Talha didn’t like them. He wanted people to cooperate, knowing they could earn more if they work for him or with him. He needed Iblīs to put down mad dogs who didn’t understand the voice of reason, not to butcher everyone who didn’t agree with him. Iblīs should be a message, not a weapon, only then would the name Talha Demir not dim in the overpowering reputation of Iblīs.

  Iblīs should strengthen him, not to make him look weaker, and for that, Slater needed to respect him. How do you make someone who has no moral compass at all respect, follow, and obey you? What does Slater value?

  After fighting with his thoughts for another hour and never finding answers, he flipped the book closed and switched the lights off.

  THE DEAFENING SILENCE accompanied him on his way to the kitchen, as his bare feet slapped over the carpet, then the cold marble floor. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and Talha regretted not ordering delivery.

  The bluish light of the full moon, sneaking into the window, lavished the marble island. The fork he’d used to threaten Slater still lay teeth up, glinting in the night. Falling into the trap the glint provided, his eyes refused to move, as his thoughts trailed to Slater and the slaughtered pigeon loft.

  First the head, then sex, now pigeons… What’s next? What does he want? The doubt scratched in his chest. How can I control him if I don’t understand him? Maybe I should kill him. He served his purpose. The Asani Cartel is a matter of past. The road to Europe is open. I don’t really need him.

  He shook himself out of the growing rigor, and blinked away from the eye trap. Even my house feels alien since he arrived. It’s not safe anymore.

  He wanted to turn the lights on to shake off the settling dread but didn’t. The mere thought that it might attract Slater made him cringe and confirmed his realization that Slater’s presence had rearranged his life-style and kicked him out of his comfort zone.

  I’m sneaking to my own kitchen like a fucking thief so I don’t have to bump into him. I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks, yet I had to give up so much to accommodate him. He is too high-maintenance to keep. I can’t afford this asset. It’s not smart. I should get rid of him.

  Heaving a sigh, Talha shuffled up to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. The bright light stabbed him in the eye. Blinking, he searched the empty shelves until his gaze stumbled over the frying pan Slater used today, a sticky note attached to it.

  ‘Ağam için.’ Slater’s handwriting, stretching over the note, resembled a bunch of squished bugs, as the note said, ‘for Agha’.

  “Agha[20]…” Talha tasted the old-fashioned honorific title of the Ottoman Empire and couldn’t help a chuckle as his mood lifted. “Who talks like this?”

  Did he really wait for me? Cook for me? He even left me a note… Talha granted a long, suspicious look at the frying pan before pulling it out and putting it on the stove. “God, I hope I don’t die from your hellish cooking…”

  THE CAWING OF A CROW reached Talha’s ears; he stretched and rolled to his other side. Slapping the cool linens with his palm, he yawned and pried one eye open. Playful beams of the waking sun, flooding his room, repainted the pale blue silk of his linens into silver and pink. The fresh air, carrying echoes of the night’s rain, washed the room in the distinctive smell of ozone and brought the loud chirping of morning birds.

  He opted to stay in bed for another twenty minutes, enjoying the cool silk wrapping around his overheated skin, but his gaze fell upon the immobile body laying on the floor. Red splatters marred everything around, and Talha’s consciousness, numbed after sleeping, immediately provided a recollection of the severed head of Bekir Asani.

  Talha jolted upright then blew out a strained sigh, as the familiar combat gear and messy mop of Slater’s black hair settled into the picture. The red stains, he mistakenly took for blood, appeared to be the distressed colors of his red and white carpet. Slater’s chest rhythmically rose and fell in deep, calm breathing; his hands rested under his cheek, legs tucked to his chest. He looked peaceful, young, and vulnerable.

  Does this count as a win or loss? Should I be happy he isn’t in my bed? Unable to find the answer, Talha grabbed a pillow and threw it at Slater. Making a few flips in the air, the pillow smacked against Slater’s back, making the younger man jerk. Sitting up, Slater gawked around. His cautious eyes flickered to Talha’s, then gradually switched their attention to the pillow. A wide smile stretched his lips.

  “Thank you, Master.” Squishing the pillow in his arms, he slumped to the carpet and wrapped his body around its fluffy softness.

  “What are you doing?” Feeling tired, Talha wished he hadn't woken up.

  “Sleeping.”

  “Why are you in my room again?”

  “Master shouldn’t worry. Slater won’t do anything. Slater will sleep.” Rubbing his cheek against the pillow in a child-like gesture, Slater closed his eyes.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “The house is stripped of security. In an attack, Master wouldn't be able to protect himself.”

  “Don’t fuck with me! I can protect myself. And how can you possibly protect me, if you missed a fucking pillow?”

  The corners of Slater’s lips curled up, bringing a satisfied expression. “Slater didn’t miss. Slater allowed Master to hit.”

  “Bullshit!” Talha argued.

  “Slater stays with Master,” Slater murmured and buried his face in the pillow.

  EVERY MORNING THE SCRIPT REPEATED ITSELF. Talha woke up with Slater sleeping on the floor by his bed. Annoyed, he kicked him out, but with every passing day, he felt more comfortable around the ripper. He even thought that maybe he could get used to Slater’s constant presence, as he got used to his bodyguards. Despite being troublesome, bratty, and needy, Slater didn’t act aggressively; at least he hadn’t attacked anyone yet. That thought gave Talha a small hope that he was moving in the right direction.

  The rumor that Talha possessed Iblīs had spread, delivering the first results. The recalcitrant groups of Kurds that had refused to acknowledge anyone’s authorities, one by one, joined the Demir Group. The ones who didn’t—cleared the streets and moved to the outskirts. The territories, he’d fought for with blood and fire, fell at his feet with a single name—Iblīs. The income from the drug and weapon distribution doubled within a week and kept growing. The business organizations that sought Asani’s protection now begged for his support, and for that alone, Talha was determined to try harder and keep Slater satisfied.

  Slater’s behavior, changing for the better, stirred in Talha’s head the first thoughts about bringing the staff back to the mansion. He was ready to give the order when one day the ripper missed dinner and came home clouded in the metallic smell of blood.

  Talha knew that something had happened even before his eyes located the dark spots covering Slater’s combat gear and the dried blood under his fingernails. Standing in the middle of the hall, Talha couldn’t miss the ripper dropping his chin as he passed by. Sparing Talha no glance, no greeting, he aimed for the stairs. Already knowing the answer to his question, Talha asked anyway, “What have you done?”

  Slater halted. His shoulders drew up as he brought his hands to his face, then clenched his fists in the air. His body twisted bending left then right as if he was fighting an urge that burned him from within.

  “A mess, Master.” Slater’s voice came out harsh, jittery, aggressive. He didn’t look back but rushed upstairs as if trying to escape Talha’s company as soon as possible. “Clean it, Master, or you are useless to me.”

  Talha’s hand, moving on its own, dug into his pants pocket and grabbed the phone. Unblocking the display, he dialed his informant. His mouth watered as word-by-word the police officer described the bloody picture of another slaughter. Seven people had been murdered in the Gazi Mahallesi neighborhood. All of them were gutted, their organs fed to a pack of stray dogs.

  He vaguely remembered going upstairs and looking around. Down the corridor, behin
d the glass door that led to the terrace, the black figure stood by the white balustrade. With his shoulders hunched forward, Slater looked down. Without thinking, Talha stomped toward the terrace. Shoving the door open, he stepped out and into the cigarette smoke swirling around the reaper. His left palm landing on Slater’s shoulder, and he clenched his right fist, ready to break Slater’s nose when a row of cigarette burns ulcerating Slater’s forearm captured his eyes. Some had crusted over, suggesting they were at least a few days old, the others were fresh. The white deep ones, where the burning tip had pressed into the skin over and over again looked like moon craters against his skin.

  His insides twisted, fingers slacked, as he scrutinized the burning cigarette in Slater’s hand. His determination weakened. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “None of your business, Master!” Sucking the air through his teeth, Slater hissed, “Fix the mess, Master, or you are useless.”

  Pointing a cigarette at his wrist Slater imprinted the burning tip into his skin. His chest contracting, pushing out a labored breath, but his face relaxed, softened.

  “Who paid you to do this?” Tearing the cigarette out of Slater’s fingers, Talha flicked it aside.

  “Paid me?” Slater laughed. “No one paid me, Master. Slater did it because Slater wanted to do it.”

  Snatching another cigarette out of the pack, Slater squeezed it between his lips, then stroked the lighter. Sucking a few deep breaths in, he waited until the end of the cigarette smoldered, then crushed it against his forearm.

  “Stop it!” Talha snapped, seizing his elbow, and Slater spun around. With one refined move of his free hand, he shook off Talha’s grip.

  “Slater is thirsty. Slater wants to kill. When Slater feels nothing, Slater is bored. Slater needs pain and pleasure to keep entertained. Master doesn’t want to entertain, so Master has to clean the mess. Give me more contracts, Master, or Slater will find other ways to keep himself amused.”