Iblis’ Affliction

by Nero Seal

  “Talha, it’s not what it looks like…” Salik paled, sweat beading on his narrow forehead. He gawked around, searching for support in the familiar faces, but met no sympathy. Only questions.

  “What’s going on?” someone asked. People drew to the small bower, and the warm night became stuffy.

  “Isn’t it?” Talha said without a smile. “I think it’s clear as a day. Dinçer, take him to the basement.”

  “No! No, Talha! We are friends, aren’t we? Listen to me!” Screams choked in the night as Dinçer dragged the man away, but no one paid any attention to the prisoner. All gazes were glued to Talha.

  “Gentlemen, I’ll be waiting for you in the Grand Hall in ten minutes to announce the Royal Game.”

  THE MANSION QUIETED DOWN as the events drained people of merriment and intoxication. Even Slater stopped smiling as he propped up against the wall of the Grand Hall. No one interrupted Talha’s long explanation about the betrayal and setup. No one said anything when Talha commemorated the names of those who died in the mosque. A few people requested to see the phone, but at the end of the meeting, everyone agreed that Talha had the right to invoke the Royal Game.

  Pressing his palms against the wooden table, Talha looked every man in the eye. “We need five people in the jury. Please, draw lots.”

  The transparent jar, containing black, glossy spheres stood at the farther end of the table, opposite to Talha.

  Approaching it, Güvenç tugged the first sphere out and screwed it open. Looking inside for long five seconds, he announced, “The walī [24]of the slain.”

  After Güvenç stepped aside, each man except Slater, Dinçer, and Talha took the remaining balls that divided them between the jury or the walī of the slain.

  When the jar emptied, Talha announced, “The day after tomorrow at seven PM, I expect you to join the Royal Game in the hunting lodge in the Yenice forest. The weapon is the Turkish bow. The game will last for three days. Those who miss the game will share Salik’s destiny.”

  With short nods, the men left his house. Listening for the distancing footfalls, Talha felt the weight of his promise landing on his shoulders. Trying to push the tension out of his body with a breath, he hung his head and closed his eyes. The polished wood under his palms warmed and moistened beneath his grip.

  “Say, Master…” Slater’s voice sounded sickening-sweet as he closed the Grand Hall doors, then slithered around the table, before freezing behind Talha’s back. Talha expected to receive a sex proposition or a touch on his body. Instead, Slater asked, “…what’s the Royal Game?”

  Talha wavered. Someone who came from the West couldn’t possibly understand the honor of blood-revenge, least of all someone like Slater. Still, he faced the reaper and tried to explain as best as he could.

  “If the blood of kin has been violated, a man has the right to seek blood-revenge from the man who caused harm. When the harm was done by one to many, we call the Royal Game to seek justice.” Slater’s expression didn’t change remaining questioning, so he continued, “The day after tomorrow, the male members of the families Salik wronged will gather in the hunting lodge in the Yenice forest to manhunt. We take horses and bows and give Salik two hours of headstart. If he can survive in the forest for three days, he is free to leave. No arrow can be directed to his head or vital organs. If an arrow hits the target, he must be given one more hour to escape. Then, the game resumes. The game lasts until he bleeds out or three days have passed.”

  “Why do you need a jury?” Slater inched closer; the warmth of his body seeping under Talha’s white shirt.

  “It’s a tradition,” Talha explained, trying to stay unaffected. “Five impartial people have to supervise the game to make sure no one kills Salik out of pity or, if he survives for three days, there is no vengeance to follow.”

  “What does walī mean?” Slater shifted, his arm brushing against Talha’s sleeve.

  Talha’s skin crawled from the discomfort. The hostage of his own word, he stood still, allowing the back of Slater’s hand to skid against his. “Walī is an Islamic term. It means a holy man, protector, or helper. If a grieving family has no male members left who are capable of wielding arms, they choose a man to execute their revenge. The avenger is called the walī of the slain. By accepting the honor of the blood revenge, he becomes the protector and guardian of the family.”

  “Why would your men want that, Master? Sounds troublesome.”

  Looking into the transparent eyes, Talha once again realized the insurmountable differences separating them. “What defines a man, Slater?”

  “Power?” Slater’s immediate reply made Talha hum.

  “No. Honor. Family. Responsibility. Men who join me are ready to give away their lives. They want to know that even if they die, their families will be taken care of, especially, if there are no male members left. Do you understand what I’m saying? They are loyal to me because they know I will take care of them without exception.”

  “Family is a weakness.” Slater’s sweet breath touched Talha’s face. “Slater doesn’t need family.”

  “You are still too young,” Talha said. “Everything could change.”

  “Does it mean Master will take care of Slater?”

  It took Talha all his will power not to look away from the lustful gaze. “Yes, if you are loyal.”

  “Like a godfather?”

  Despite the tense situation, Talha laughed. “Something like that.”

  “Slater wants to go hunting with Master.” Blue eyes flared with something dark, brutal.

  “You can’t.” Shrugging the reaper’s request off, Talha pushed away from the table and strode toward the double door of the Grand Hall.

  “Why not? Why master can and Slater can’t?” In a blink of an eye, Slater’s body blocked his path. His facial muscles strained, eyes narrowed, and teeth glinted from under the drawn-up lip.

  “Because it’s… honor killing to seek blood-revenge. Salik didn’t wrong you, so you have no right to steal revenge from the rightful claimers.”

  “I can be the walī of the slain,” Slater retorted. Talha chuckled, realizing that this confirmed his suspicion about Slater’s inability to understand their culture.

  “No, you can’t. It’s a tradition. You aren’t a Muslim man, you don’t believe in Allah, and you are a foreigner. You are an outsider, and most importantly, you won’t become the protector of a family. It’s a huge responsibility. No one will pick you, and even if someone does, I’ll never allow you to become a guardian of a family.” To make sure Slater took his words seriously, Talha added, “If you interrupt the Royal Game, you replace Salik.”

  “Huh? Sounds fun!” The maddened glint in the depth of the blue eyes intensified.

  Talha grabbed Slater’s shoulders. The thought that the reaper would hinder the Royal Game painted his world bright red. Too tired to deal with this shit, he roared, adding the clear message into his voice, “You won’t dishonor me like this. Is it clear?”

  Slater’s jaw tensed, and he hissed, “Crystal, Master…”

  “Good. Now go and check the mansion before you go to bed.” Pushing the reaper away, Talha marched out of the Grand Hall and headed for his bedroom.

  He showered, mentally preparing himself to keep his promise. To buy more time, he shaved. Running out of excuses to stay in the bathroom, he headed to bed. Since Slater wasn’t in the room, he killed the lights and, for half of the night, he lay awake, blinking at the ceiling. The reaper never came.

  PRESENT

  THICK FOG STUFFED TALHA’S HEAD, and he wasn’t sure if he could hear anything with his left ear. The drumming of the blood in his temples and his cut eyebrow set nagging pain in the depth of his skull. The tiny noise in his ear didn’t let him sleep. His joints hurt from immobility, his skin, increasingly sensitive, felt every little bump of the rough floor, as maddening thirst wrenched his muscles and stretched every second into an agonizing eternity.

  Lying on the floor and watching Slater’
s back, Talha tried to find a single positive trait in his reaper but failed. Selfish, demanding, cruel, needy, capricious, and short-tempered, Slater had nothing good in him, yet Talha had never been able to tear his gaze away from him. It started with awareness and caution, but soon morphed into a weird captivation he couldn’t find a reason for.

  A spider, landing on his face, thrust Talha out of his lethargy. Grinding his teeth, he shook his head. Hurt, annoyed, thirsty, he felt the growing need to take a leak brimming again, and that alone irritated every nerve in his body. Not willing to wait for Slater to decide his future, he kicked the reaper between his shoulder blades. Mentally preparing to face the angry outburst, he clenched his fists, but the younger man only shuffled to the wall, farther away from Talha.

  “Urght-ugh!” Talha growled, but the duct tape morphed Slater’s name into something unrecognizable.

  When minutes stretched and Slater didn’t spare him a glance, Talha wrapped his fingers around the ropes. Trying not to look at Camilla’s head on his right, he turned his body ninety degrees and pressed his feet against the wall at either side of the wall ring. Tugging and swaying the rope left and right, he used all his strength to loosen the stone and wrench the ring out of the wall. At some point, Slater raised his head. The gaze he granted Talha was heavy and muddy, but his attention didn’t stay on his prisoner for long. Unsteady on his feet, he got up and shuffled out of the room.

  Time stretched into eternity. The chill from the ground crawled into his marrow, making every bone hurt. His wrists, sore and raw from tugging the rope, forced Talha to stop the attempts to wrench out the wall ring. Panting into the darkness, he pressed his wrist to the ground and started rubbing, hoping that the uneven floor could eventually chafe through the rope.

  HE’D TAKEN NO PLEASURE in watching Master bleed. There was no cleansing pain when Slater had crashed his fists against the brick wall. He’d lain down. The comforting warmth, coming from Master’s body, managed to calm him, but the kick between his shoulder blades thrust him out of the serenity Master’s touch always provided. Now, he had nothing. Only the bone-deep chill that wasn’t caused by weather. The vacuum-like emptiness that reigned in his chest, the sluggishness of his mind, and the lack of desires.

  The stench of death, crawling under his skin, made him feel dead. The longer he stayed with Talha, the weaker he felt. Needing to get away, Slater ignored Master’s muffled outburst and stumbled out of the chamber, unsteady on his feet.

  Many times in his life, Slater had been close to dying, yet he had never felt this dead. Until now. His body was healthy, but he felt no more alive than Camilla’s dusty head.

  Maybe even more dead. At least she is still angry at Master. Still glaring. Slater isn’t even mad…

  “Why?” he mouthed. He had no reason to feel this empty. He should be celebrating his freedom as he had done with Behçet’s death.

  In a few days, Talha will die, and I will be free again. Then I’ll find a new master. New sensations. New contracts. New games. New hands to touch Slater. Slater should celebrate.

  Hurrying out of the dim catacombs, Slater tugged fresh air into his lungs, then strolled toward the Sultanahmet Square, blending with the night.

  SLATER ALWAYS FOUND JOY in food. If there was one thing he could never live without, it would be sweets. Eastern sweets were the best, and for this simple reason, Slater had ended up in Turkey. Nougat, pişmaniye, locum, baklava, tavuk göğsü, helva—everything he ever loved, everything that made him feel alive, now revolted him, making him feel sick instead.

  Why? Why does Slater feel this way? He thought as the air refused to fill his lungs. Slater must be broken. If Slater is broken but Master is fine… Does it mean Master won? Anger stirred in his chest as he remembered how Talha traded him to a woman. No, Master can’t win. Dead don’t win. If Slater is broken, Master has to break as well.

  The night sky, clear and bright with scatterings of stars only a moment ago, darkened with every step as he retreated from the well-illuminated square into the dark alley.

  He needed to kill. To pluck pulsing life from a living body. To stare into the fading light of frozen pupils. To sink his hands in hot blood of his victims. Then, maybe, he would bounce back to his old, calm self. Then, maybe, he would be able to kill Master.

  THICK AND GRAY, the clouds crashed against each other above his head, promising to throw the Earth into the sparkling madness of the storm any moment. Electricity charged the air. It was everywhere: in the rustle of the foliage; in the low, howling wind; in the dry, thirsty ground. Usually, it would absorb into his blood, spark under his skin, and recharge him with a familiar thirst for blood. His thumb mindlessly stroked over the top of his swollen hand, where Master’s last gift throbbed with pain. He felt nothing. No excitement, no needs, and even pain was rather dull, sickening.

  He looked around. Istanbul had become his home long ago. He loved it for the sole reason that at any time of day, he attracted attention. Here, he didn’t need to look for outlets for his frustration, as trouble followed him around. Here, he didn’t need to look for victims. Killing was so simple in Istanbul, and for this sole reason, he always felt like he belonged here. Just like now.

  Footfalls rebounded in the night. Predatory, quiet, approaching. He knew they tracked him for the last ten minutes, checking him out and waiting for the opportunity any dark street would provide. Slater didn’t bother to guess their motives. A European man, walking in the Anatolian side of the city at night, was a perfect target for robbery and mugging.

  He closed his eyes, listening. Five people? No, four. Slater didn’t need to look back. Two of them were lighter than the others. One had shorter legs, as his steps were almost twice as frequent. One was heavy and huffed every ten seconds. Slater sucked air into his lungs, but only the stench of garbage tamped his nostrils. He knew they would reach him in about ten seconds, so he slowed down and raised his eyes to the swirling gray clouds.

  Nine… He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

  Eight. A warm needle slipped into his palm and his fingers curled around it.

  Seven. He bent left, stretching his spine.

  Six. His skin crawled, as their hungry gazes licked his back.

  Five. The stone shifted under someone’s foot.

  Four. Slater opened his eyes, keeping his pace steady.

  Three. He exhaled, concentrating on a single spot in his chest, trying to stir the common thirst.

  Two. Hunching forward, Slater stepped back.

  “One.” He spun, ducking under the hand of the massively built, bald man. His needle swished through the air before sinking into the soft spot under his double chin. He jerked the needle away. Blood burst from the dark hole in the throat, spraying over Slater’s hand and the man’s dirty-white tank top. Warm and sticky, the sensation was familiar yet foreign. It didn’t excite him, but Slater had no time to think about it.

  The bald man huffed and clutched at his throat, as two tall men, packed in almost identical leather jackets, attacked him from two directions. Their knives glinted in the yellowish streetlight. Spinning the slacking body of the wounded, he shoved it toward the bigger one, using it as a shield. The needle slicked out of his hand and clanged against the asphalt; he snatched the karambit a second before a blade of the third, slender man swished toward his liver. Letting the weapon pass under his arm, Slater passed the karambit from his right hand to the left before shouldering the attacker in the chest. The metal claw dug in the man’s back; he yanked his hand toward himself, making sure the length stayed as deep as possible before he jumped back.

  Confusion flickered in the stranger’s green eyes as he dropped his gaze to the blood pooling on the asphalt.

  Giving the green-eyed man a kick to the stomach, he swirled, the blade caught the throat of the bald man who still somehow remained on his feet. One fast slash and cascades of blood rushed down on the asphalt and over the third, bigger man who didn’t seem to know what to do, attack Slater or help his
comrade.

  “You bastard,” someone yelled from behind, and Slater darted a glance back. Short legs, short arms, and a bigger head; the man was disproportionate and looked harmless.

  Can I kill him? Slater thought, cocking his head. Will Master get mad if I kill him? Is he untouchable like women and children?

  Someone bumped against his back. A hand reached from behind and stabbed him from the front. His stomach caught on fire. Slater blinked, watching the knife sink below his right rib. He blinked again, unable to believe his eyes. Slater had many scars. Many times a stray bullet hit him, but he had never been ashamed of any of them. Until now.

  How could I let this thug wound me? He didn’t know, and that exterminated the apathy out of his body, awakening uncontrollable rage.

  He laughed at himself. At his misery and weakness. At the stupid mistake he made in the fight.

  Everyone should pay for their mistakes. No exception. Ignoring the bigger man who carelessly left his knife in Slater’s body, he drove the blade into the dwarf’s eye and twisted it in the skull. Master made Slater weak. Master made Slater useless. Weak should die. It’s evolution.

  The roar of pure agony, tearing from the dwarf’s lips threw red frenzy over Slater’s eyes. Fishing out his second karambit, he turned to the remaining man. Bloody hands trembled as the man stared at him in shock. Without his knife, he didn’t dare to approach.

  “Now it’s your turn to die. Nothing personal. It’s evolution,” he said with a comforting nod. “Come, Iblīs will send you to hell.”

  THE RUSTLE OF FOLIAGE FILLED HIS EARS. In seconds, the already dark street blackened. The wind tossed sand into his face, swiping the streets of cigarette butts, plastic bags, and fallen leaves. The dust swirled around him and disappeared as a loud SHHHH joined the massive, oblique downpour. His clothes soaked through; blood washed off his hands. The bright flash blinded him and a rollicking BOOM shattered the world. He felt as if nature was trying to give him the answer, but he was too stupid to understand it.