by Nero Seal
“Fair enough.” Talha nodded his agreement. “Once, my brother said that any of you can be Iblīs. Is that true? Can you do what Slater does? Do you know how to use karambits?”
Savaş wrinkled his nose. His eyes dimmed, as his attention shattered, and he picked up an orange pill bottle. Without any interest, he shook it in his hand, popped the lid open, then smelled the drug. The reply sounded lazy. “Yeah, yeah, I can use his savage weapon... I can do what he does, don’t worry, Master.”
The title, Talha had grown used to hearing from Slater, sounded painfully wrong, cringe-worthy, coming from someone else.
“Don’t call me that.” Talha corrected. “Use my name, it’s fine. And give me your phone number, so I know how to find you if I need you.”
“I’m not staying with you?” Savaş’ eyes narrowed as he put the lid back on the bottle and tossed it on the bed before scrambling to his feet.
“No, you aren’t. You’ll stay with Dinçer, as always. We will have a solely business relationship.”
“Why?” A deep line cut his porcelain forehead but instantly cleared. “Ah, I see. You aren’t going to get rid of him, hmm? It’s a bad idea. You can’t have two rippers at once, Reis. It never works.”
“I’m not going to have two reapers at once,” Talha dodged. “And you should keep your mouth shut. I don’t want people to talk about this, clear? If this is settled, give me your number and go.”
The ripper laughed, picked up a pen from the white nightstand near the bed, then skidded to Talha. Fingers sizzling hot, he flipped Talha’s palm up, and a ballpoint slithered over his skin with a ticklish coolness.
“Here you go.” A warm gush of his breath washed Talha in a strong smell of oranges. “But you won’t need it. I’ll be around. You guard your assets, I guard mine. Now, wish well, Reis.”
Talha hummed, the familiar curiosity etching in his chest. Unlike Slater, Savaş didn’t look simple in his desires. That made him guess what kind of wishes a man like him harbored. What could he possibly want?
Pulling his hand out of the ripper’s grip, he plucked out a thin envelope from his back pocket. Folded twice, it was crumpled. “Go to my mansion, find his karambits, kill the target Iblīs-style. No witnesses. This is my first wish.”
“Count it granted, Master.” Ifrīt snapped his fingers in the air then ripped the envelope out of his hand.
The door closed behind Savaş. Talha stared at his hand, immediately wanting to wash off the ink. Pulling out his smartphone, he transferred the number, then froze, realizing it was the hand Slater had grabbed. He still could feel the icy touch of his shaking fingers beneath the thin, oscillated handwriting. Slater had looked vexed, afflicted. Never before had he acted this desperate unless he wanted to fuck.
What did you want to tell me? He directed his question at his palm, but no answer was written on it. The feverish distress splashing behind Slater’s eyes stood vivid in his memory, urging him to go see the ripper. He clenched his fist, trying to clear his head of unnecessary feelings, but it was harder than he’d imagined. “Fuck it!”
Storming out of the room, he barged into the doctor’s lounge. “Miraç, get me some paint.”
SLATER BLINKED INTO THE BRIGHT morning light that streamed from out of the naked window. The unbearable smell of drugs and antiseptic slamming into his nose, forced him upright, but as soon as his abdomen contracted, he cringed and cupped his right side with both palms. Dragging his gaze over the plastic wall down to the medical bed, he blinked again. A blue hospital gown loosely hugged his torso as linens of a darker hue covered his lower body. Jerking the cover away, he sat and rolled up the gown, but as soon as his gaze found the tight bandage that wound around his torso, his head snapped to the side. A rush of memories spun before his eyes.
The small, dark chamber… Camilla’s severed head… the revolting stench of death… the blood and murder that brought no relief… the stinging slap his master granted him.
Palm darting up, he fingered his cheek. Covered with a few days of stubble, it scraped his finger pad, but no pain pulsed under his touch.
“Was it a dream?” Slater scratched behind his ear, rummaging in his memory. He remembered his dreams, the hell full of demons, the music, then Master and Savaş. His whole being rebelled against the memory. “Master wouldn’t. It must be a nightmare. Master is still there, under the mosque… Slater needs to go.”
His feet slapped against the cold floor even before he realized he darted toward the door. His feet wobbly as his hand reached for the handle, but something on the floor captured his attention. He dropped his gaze as his foot stepped on a white line, painted in front of the door. He halted, then flinched back.
‘Do not cross this line,’ was written above in painfully familiar handwriting. Slater swallowed, inched forward, squinted, then recoiled, stung with the pain of betrayal. Gawking about the room, he searched for cameras but found none, his palm tightly pressed to his side.
“No. Master can’t do this.” He grounded his teeth, tilted his head to one side, then to another before placing his toes over the line. Still wet, the paint stuck to his skin, gluing his toe to the blue tile floor. Jerking his head away, he spun on his heels, letting out a guttural roar of dissatisfaction. Storming toward the window, he peeked out.
His heart sank.
The blinding sun lavished the dusty road that rolled out in three directions, about fifty feet beneath him. Yanking the window open, he scanned the wall on his left, then right, but found nothing to use to climb down. But even if there was anything to grip, Slater lost confidence in his strength. Sweat beaded on his forehead as the pain throbbed inside from merely getting out of bed.
“No. Master can’t!” He slammed his palm against the windowsill as anger flooded his heart. Storming through his veins, it demanded he escape. “Slater won’t stay in. This is stupid.”
He stumbled to the door but stalled as soon as his toes crossed the line. The pain beneath his right ribs grew stronger with every move he took, enraging him. With a roar, he grabbed the plastic chair that stood near his bed and smashed it against the wall, then lifted the bed, intending to flip it over, but gasped with suffocating pain.
“Could you please stop this act of vandalism?” The calm, familiar voice syringed a new dose of irritation into Slater’s system, making him spin and growl. “If you keep acting like this, you’ll scare the nurses, and they will refuse to bring you food. Lie down, please. Let me see your stitches, and don’t lift heavy objects unless you want to prolong your stay for a few weeks.”
Dumbfounded, Slater scrunched up his face, trying to remember the doctor’s name. Miraç?
Senses heightening, Slater tugged the air into his lungs, but the man didn’t reek of fear, in complete opposite, he smelled like security. Calm and confident, he picked up the chair and returned it to its place, taking a seat.
“Where is Master?” Slater hissed, his unsettled nerves demanded he kill.
“Left this morning.” Miraç straightened the bed and patted the covers. “Please, lie down. I can see you want to kill me, but you can do that after you’ve healed.”
Slater didn’t know why, but for the first time in his life, he obeyed someone who wasn’t his master. Crawling onto the bed, he nestled his broken body on a pillow, closing his eyes to collect the shards of his energy and pacify the tearing pain in his side.
Undoing the top lace of his gown, Miraç revealed the upper side of Slater’s body, then removed the bandage.
“You are lucky you’re alive. The knife scratched your liver.” His feather-light touch tickled Slater’s side, raising bumps all over his skin. Slater glanced down at the ugly, fresh scar. Black threads sticking out of the wound resembled bug legs. Ugly…
“When will Master be back?”
“You are healing well!” Miraç grinned, flashing with white teeth. Slater considered fisting his hair and slamming that smiling face against the nightstand to make the praying spot on his forehead bloody.
“Please, take it easy or the stitches won’t hold. Do you need to pee yet? The catheter was removed only an hour ago, so…”
“Slater asked, when Master will return.” Fighting pain, Slater brought his face forward, boring into the tranquil brown eyes. The lack of fear was insulting, and Slater wondered if he presented such a weak and miserable state that Miraç didn’t consider him a threat.
“He didn’t say. But he left something for you.” Two fingers dove into the chest pocket and tugged out a piece of paper. Slater snatched it before Miraç could offer it. With a neurotic movement, he unfolded the sheet and peered at the single line.
‘If you leave, don’t come back.’
“What does it mean?” Slater asked, his lips cold and unresponsive.
“Please, don’t kill anyone, okay?” Miraç leaned away in the chair, holding his palms up. “If you stay, one day he’ll come for you. He didn’t say, but if you wish to leave, no one will stop you.”
“No…” Slater shook his head, unable to accept his punishment. It was worse than the basement. At least, in the basement, he knew Master would be coming for him. In the basement, he could tug a safety bolt out and release himself at any moment, knowing he could go and see Master. Here, he felt buried alive. “Slater wants to see Master…”
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Miraç gave him a cautious smile. “The faster you heal, the sooner he’ll come for you. But after everything you’ve done, this may be your only chance.”
“My only chance?” Slater cocked his head, trying to understand those eyes, full of concern.
“To escape capital punishment. You don’t expect him to forgive you after everything you’ve done, do you? Talha is understanding, but no one is this tolerant. She was his bride, yet you are still alive. You must be special to him if he gives you this option. Don’t waste it—leave the country while you still can.”
Slater’s eyes refused to blink as the realization dawned upon him, coating him in chilling sweat.
Master will kill Slater? The thought ricocheted in his skull, never absorbing into his mind. It felt foreign as if it didn’t belong in his head, therefore he didn’t believe it. “No, Master won’t.”
If Master wanted to kill Slater, Master would have done it in the mosque…
“Anyway,” Miraç got up, his hands wrapping the fresh bandage around Slater’s chest. “I gotta go. Please, don’t kill anyone. Drink in small portions. The bathroom is behind that door. No showering. If you need assistance, press this button.”
The doctor exited, leaving behind the gagging smell of hand sanitizer. Floundering in the ocean of his disturbed thoughts, Slater stared ahead with unseeing eyes.
“Master wants to get rid of Slater…” He whispered, still unable to process the thought. It felt like a joke, because no matter what Slater had done, Master always forgave him, always took care of him. “Master won’t kill Slater, or he wouldn’t be kissing Slater. Miraç is wrong. Slater will wait for Master and ask.”
With that resolve, he slipped down on the linens until he sprawled on his back. His breathing short and shallow as jolts of pain surged beneath his ribs. The bedsheets absorbed his sweat in minutes and stuck to his skin, but he didn’t care.
“Slater will wait for an hour. Slater can wait. It’s okay. If Master doesn’t come, Slater will leave. Just one hour.”
Hours passed by, but Master didn’t come. His anger morphed into distress then despair. Sinking his nails into his stomach, below the bandage, Slater scratched his skin. Red lines darkened with effort, turning bloody and raw.
“Slater should leave. Master must have forgotten. Master is busy. Slater will come to Master. It’s okay.”
His fingers traveled up his neck and pressed to his mouth, where the elusive memory of a painful, bloody kiss still lingered. To reinforce it, he sank his canine tooth into his bottom lip. The skin broke, and blood flooded his mouth. Sucking on it, he tormented the cut more, to feel the pain. The one Master gave him.
“No.” He gulped down the coppery taste. “Slater should be good. Master didn’t abandon Slater. Master will come. Master left a message. Master kissed Slater. Master must be busy. Slater made him really busy…”
But with time, his resolution shattered. The first star crawled up into the dimming sky. Neighboring with the brightening moon, it reinforced his restlessness. The night called for him like it called a wolf. It stirred a growl at the back of his throat, making him want to howl his distress.
“Slater wants to see Master. Why isn’t Master coming? Slater needs to see Master. Does Master hate Slater now?”
Hugging his middle, Slater slumped to his side. His mind emptied as his eyes focused on the golden line of light, streaming from under the door. Every time a shadow cast over it, he held his breath, but shadows kept passing by, filling his soul with cold loneliness.
Talha didn’t come the next day. Like a caged animal, Slater paced his way up and down, until pain and fever forced him back to his bed. The broth, he was allowed to drink, didn’t fill his stomach, and there were no sweets to calm his nerves. Thrown to the lions of his memory, Slater wallowed in feverish delirium, remembering every small detail about Master. His smell, his touch, the small sounds he produced while sleeping. Those memories shredded his soul, making him want to break the order and go see Master.
Twice, while using the bathroom, Slater almost collapsed. Repulsed by his own weakness, he started understanding why Master wouldn’t come. No one needed a weak assassin. No one needed someone like Slater now. Miraç had said that Master would come when he healed. It made sense. Talha wouldn’t waste his time on someone weak and helpless. If Slater can’t heal, Master will move on.
The thought stabbed his brain with a vivid memory of Savaş’ smiling face.
“Did Master close the deal with Savaş?” The thought opened a vent of hatred. Black and sticky, it flooded his core, instilling the need to crush everything and everyone on his path, until he found Master. Still, the invisible wall stopped him from crossing the white line whenever he approached.
Succumbing to his agitation, he jumped Miraç, aiming to kill, but didn’t, fearing that Master would never come if he did.
With every day spent in the small room, he was losing his hopes and patience. Many times, he was ready to leave. Many times, he got angry and tossed things around, got dressed, determined to go and see Talha, but every time his foot touched the line, the handwritten words shackled him better than any leash.
What if Master doesn’t want Slater after all?
A WEEK PASSED SINCE Talha returned home. His nausea varied. At times it abated, leaving him energetic and clear-minded for hours, but it eventually slammed back into his guts with a violent coughing spasm when he least expected it.
The conflict with the Hale Family had resolved without his presence. After finding traces of Musa Kılıç’s sperm in Camilla’s mouth, the Hale Family went berserk on the Kılıç group. While Istanbul wallowed in a blood feud, Talha watched time drip from the tall IV stand and stream into his veins, stretching his days and filling his mind with thoughts of Slater.
Savaş’ work with the karambits completely removed the bullseye from Slater’s forehead, as Musa Kılıç was found dead, cut into pieces and fed to his guard dogs. His severed head was stuffed in a freezer with his chopped off genitals in his mouth. Despite Slater’s weapon and a similar style, the forensics report showed differences. Unlike Slater, who preferred to work on living victims, Savaş recreated Iblīs’ work on a dead body, after slitting Musa’s throat. Still, Talha didn’t complain. A small ‘donation’ altered the report, removing the traces of the copy-cat work from it. Very few were interested in digging into Musa’s death, and after the corrections, there was nothing anyone could find anyway, even if they looked.
His problems were melting, yet the reason for his main distress remained. Miraç’s constant updates didn’t help. On the contrary, they provided his bored mind with strong visuals of the ripper. He couldn’t help imagi
ning Slater flinching every time someone entered his room and how the light died in his eyes as he realized it wasn’t Master.
A tiny part of him missed Slater, but the other half of his soul was inhabited by pride and wounded dignity. That part craved to see Slater suffer, if not dead.
“Fuck it!” Rolling and tossing on a leather sofa, Talha growled, as his body refused to get comfortable in any pose. Muscles shrieking their protest against a horizontal position, he sighed and got to his feet, shuffling out of the library.
Dead and desolate, his mansion once again felt foreign to him. Not a single sound disturbed the oppressive silence, as not a single soul remained inside. Once again, he was alone in his mansion, fearing Slater’s outrage.
Maybe I should follow Ejder’s advice and sell it, after all. He thought, cutting the air with his hand to disturb the thin net of dust that hung in it. Swirling away from his hand, the particles glittered in the sunlight.
That was yet another reason for him to get rid of Slater. He knew that after what had happened here, he would never feel comfortable with people staying under the same roof with Slater. More than that, now he had Savaş. The boy was way more cooperative, and Talha often found himself thinking that he didn’t need two rippers.
Talha didn’t know how Dinçer had settled his accounts with Savaş, but whenever the ripper was mentioned his friend paled a fraction. Still, even knowing that with every step he was getting bogged down in a game he didn’t understand, Talha didn’t fear Savaş’ wish. He wasn’t scared to pay, except he couldn’t tell what he was paying for anymore, because he had decided that Slater should die long ago.
Ejder is right; I’m not right in my head.
