by Nero Seal
Climbing the marble stairs, he froze in front of the Grand Hall. Scanning the interior, he felt remorse scratching in his chest. Petty, at first, it clawed at his organs, pulling him inside. He had avoided this place for days, along with the decision, but now he thought that the hideous memories could help him shake off the nostalgia and see Slater for what he was, not what Talha wanted him to be.
His bare feet slapped against the marble floor as he advanced into the room. He stopped before Camilla’s portrait, looking into her eyes. But instead of her beautiful features, he saw the severed head, maimed with death and covered with greenish spots.
Hand, running over the top of the frame, removed the thin layer of dust. To distract himself from the memory, he glanced at the gray covering his tips, then rolled the dust between them until it formed a few tiny balls. Dropping them to the floor, he sighed.
This can’t go on… His eyes raking around the vastness as he mourned the potential this room once held. Now it was forever robbed of its purpose and would never be used to host special occasions again. It would forever remain a mausoleum and a reminder of his carelessness, crushed dreams, and abortive future.
A strong emotion ripped through his chest setting his skin on fire, but he held his breath, pocketing it, as he had no mental capacity to process it now. Getting mad would solve nothing anyway.
“The graveyard of my ruined toys?” He repeated Slater’s words, tasting them, dissecting them. Bitter and harsh, they slashed through his throat with a shard of accusation. At that moment, paranoia awoke at the back of his head, as every portrait seemed to be glaring at him.
Every cell in his body demanded he leave, but he kept looking at the serious faces, trying to memorize them, until his gaze connected with Zaal’s. They had never been friends, but for five years Zaal had been his constant companion. They didn’t have much in common, they rarely talked, but they ended up sharing one burden—Slater.
Looking into Zaal’s black eyes, he couldn’t help wondering, where the chain of his mistakes had started. Was it when he’d closed the deal with Iblīs? The way he had treated Slater? Or the moment he hired Zaal, wanting to delegate a part of his responsibilities to someone else? Talha didn’t know.
5 YEARS AGO
IT’D BEEN TWO MONTHS since Talha sent Ejder to Mardin. Two months of prosperity, where Slater’s single visit to Iran settled a problem with an independent military group, who had decided that they were big enough to fix a price all over the Golden Crescent[29]. Two months full of struggle, where every day started with Slater sleeping by his side. Trying every approach possible, Talha finally gave up, realizing that Slater spoke only one language—the language of violence and domination because as soon as Talha lowered his guard, Slater’s behavior would turn pushy, overwhelming, threatening.
Still, with every passing day, Talha was growing used to Slater’s constant presence. Like a dog, Slater followed him everywhere. Like a dog, he demanded a lot of attention, took no responsibilities, and had no shame or guilt. Soon enough, Talha realized that it was easier to treat Slater like a pet, rather than a lover; on some level, this realization allowed him to accept their sexual encounters. Slowly and reluctantly, Talha was growing used to Slater’s body, as his hand dared to explore new regions. But even though they had had sex many times, it had never been tender and didn’t include kisses. Still, Talha’s needs for female bodies thinned out.
“Stop eating sweets all the time, you will get diabetes before you’re forty,” Talha said, as soon as he entered his bedroom, his eyes examining the ripper’s frame with disapproval.
“Huh? Slater won’t live that long.” The ripper grinned. His half-naked, sinewy frame stretched over his bed, as he kept stuffing his face with locum, the sugar powder scattering over the dark-blue linens. The predatory glow settled behind his pupils as Slater stopped chewing for a moment. “Why? Could it be that Master is worried about Slater?”
“You are my asset. If you get sick, I’ll have to replace you. It’ll be a hassle.” Blowing the gush of irritation out, Talha marched to the bed and snatched the paper box out of Slater’s hands. “How many times did I tell you not to eat in my bed? Change the linens.”
In a split second, Slater jumped to his feet, swirled around Talha, and snatched the box back. His fingers dove in and reappeared with a transparent yellow cube, dusted in white powder. “Want some?”
“No.” Pushing the ripper away from his path, Talha came to the closet and fished out a clean, white shirt, underwear, and a new tie. Tossing it over his forearm, he strolled toward the bathroom.
Slater licked his fingers and put the box aside. Voice prickling with concern, he asked, “Where are you going?”
“I have a meeting tonight. A Syrian group that’s interested in recruiting Güvenç’s army,” Talha said, before closing the door behind him. The hurried footfalls boomed from behind, making Talha wince. The door swung open as Slater barged in.
“Slater is coming with you.”
“No. Slater is staying home.” Hanging the clothes on a hook, he faced the reaper.
“Slater wants to go.” The protest bared Slater’s teeth in an aggressive grimace.
“No. Not after the last time.” Tugging the tie off his neck, Talha tossed it aside; his shirt followed.
The reaper’s voice changed, turning velvety-soft. “Slater was wrong, Master. Slater won’t do that again.”
“I’ve heard it before. You aren’t going. This is an important meeting, and I don’t want you to fuck it up.” Turning away from the reaper, Talha kept undressing. “Go away.”
“Slater said, Slater was sorry.” The tone changed again, becoming aggressive. “Slater won’t do that again. Why is Master still mad?”
“Because you always break your word. You make people uncomfortable. You aren’t supposed to be present in meetings like this. Why do you even want to come? There is no reason for you to be there.” Reaching for the belt, Talha hesitated, not willing to strip and entertain the reaper.
“To protect Master.”
That means you are bored… Talha thought, but said, “From whom? No one is threatening me. And you are a reaper, not a bodyguard; I prefer it to stay this way. Moreover, there’ll be Güvenç’s people, so as you see, I don’t need your protection. Now, step out of the bathroom, I’d like to shower.”
To his surprise, Slater left, but ten minutes later, the fully dressed figure of the reaper waited for him in the parking lot.
“Slater is going, Master.” The reaper grinned, and Talha checked his watch. There was no time left for a fight, as Slater would follow anyway.
“Fine, but no weapon. Disarm, now.”
THE NIGHT SCATTERED colorful lights over the two-millennia-old city, outshining the barely recognizable Milky Way, and the slim crescent of the moon. Escorted by two jeeps, occupied with armed men, Talha didn’t bother looking around, as his attention was consumed by Slater. Unable to sit straight, the reaper kept squirming on his seat, obviously feeling naked without any weapons. Talha smiled as sparks of satisfaction warmed his chest. If he couldn’t leave Slater home, at least he could make him uncomfortable.
Dinçer kept stealing curious glances through the rear-view mirror, but Talha couldn’t voice the reason for his amusement.
They parked among military jeeps that belonged to Güvenç’s people, in front of a small bar with a roof terrace. Giving the soldiers a once over, Talha nodded his appreciation. Toned and disciplined, they scattered over the perimeter, securing the restaurant. Curiosity to see them in action gnawed at him, but deep down, he already knew that choosing Güvenç had been the right call.
Exchanging a few nods and handshakes, Talha directed his feet toward the entrance when he noticed three Land Rovers parked on the other side of the parking lot. Heavy, with solid tires, they looked enchanted, bullet-proof.
“I assume they have already arrived?” Talha shot a glance at the lit windows, then at Slater. The reaper swayed to and fro on his toes.
His eyes examined the armed men with a challenging look as if he was ready to fight anyone who wanted to contend him.
Like a fucking dog… Lips quivering in a smile, Talha palmed the reaper in his chest. “You stay here. If you go upstairs, I’m going to be very upset. Understand?”
“No, Slater goes with Master,” Slater gnashed out, made a first step toward the entrance, but a tall, wide shadow crossed his path.
“Haven’t you heard what Reis said? Back off!” A muscular, tall man, dressed in a black military uniform, confronted Slater. Stepping toward the reaper, the man jerked the muzzle of his automatic gun pointing Slater to a table on the first floor. “Sit there and wait, as Reis said.”
Interesting! It’s been a while since someone captured Talha’s attention. Usually, people instinctively avoided Slater, sensing the danger in him. This man looked fearlessly stupid, therefore captivating.
“What’s your name?” Talha found himself asking as he examined the stranger’s eyes. Immobile, black, with barely recognizable pupils, it was impossible to tell where they were looking.
“Zaal, Reis.”
“Zaal, huh. You aren’t Turkish, are you?”
“No, Reis. Georgian.” The low voice sounded cautious this time, as the wide mouth reduced to a slit.
“I’ll give you a thousand Euros if you manage to keep this one in check. He must not go upstairs.” With a careless lift of his chin, he pointed at Slater. “Can you do that?”
“Absolutely, Reis.” Zaal grinned, as his eyes and his muzzle fixed on Slater. “Don’t worry.”
THREE HOURS LATER, when the dinner was over, and the deal with the Syrian crime group was finalized, Talha stumbled down the stairs. To his surprise, Slater still sat on the assigned chair. Gun on the table, Zaal sat opposite to him. Their hard eyes fixed on each other, as vehement hatred, exuding from the pair, condensed the air.
No one had ever managed to make Slater sit for three hours in a row without chaining him. Watching the rare picture, Talha thought that he could use a bodyguard like Zaal, as well as with a baby-sitter for his psychopathic assassin.
“Did you have fun?” Approaching the reaper, Talha slapped Slater’s shoulder. Jumping to his feet, Slater glared, indignation splashing in his pale eyes. “Good. Get in the car.”
Turning to Zaal, he gave him a once over. Talha rarely misjudged people. The man looked impressive and serious. Yet, he gave out the vibe of a private person. Someone who wouldn’t run his mouth. “Do you have family, Zaal?”
Hands clasped behind his back, the man barked, “No, Reis.”
“Would you like to work for me? I need a bodyguard and someone to keep that guy in check.”
Wide mouth stretching in a huge smile, Zaal got up from his seat and drawled in his pointy accent, “At your servize, Reis.”
PRESENT
A WEAK SMILE CURLED the corners of his lips upon remembering Slater’s outrage. After storming through the house and tossing things against walls, he’d demanded a contract then disappeared for three days.
Looking back in time, Talha thought that it was a miracle that Slater hadn’t killed Zaal sooner, because he hated the man with his whole soul.
At that moment, a very arrogant thought stirred at the back of his head, making him feel a little bit happy: Was it because I told him not to?
The memory dispelled, leaving him eye to eye with the photo of Zaal. His black eyes, usually immobile, now forever frozen in an unseeing gaze forward.
A WEEK OF ANGER, where Slater itched to slaughter everyone, bled into a week of desperation. His wound had healed enough to walk without breaking into sweating and panting every five minutes, but his heart was bleeding out with the painful need to see his master. On the third week, he stopped using the bed. Lying on the floor by the line, he imagined himself sleeping by Master’s side. His fingers constantly trailed the white paint, as he remembered the feel of Talha’s skin. At the moments of anger outbursts, he furiously scratched the line with his nails as if it had some magical power to keep him locked in and as soon as the pictogram was ruined, he would be released. But even though the scratches appeared, the spell never broke.
With every day, the harrowing feeling that Master abandoned him settled deeper into his bones, stripping him of will. Deep down, he already knew what Talha was trying to achieve, but he had a hard time accepting it.
If Master closed the deal with Savaş, he doesn’t need Slater anymore. He must be so revolted with Slater that he doesn’t even want to come and kill me. The lazy thought wriggled its way into his mind, stirring fear. What if Master never comes? Will Slater die here? Is this what Master wants? For Slater to disappear? Or is Master scared to face Slater?
Remembering the stinging slap he’d received in the mosque and the offered karambit, Slater didn’t believe it.
No, Master isn’t scared, or he would have killed Slater long ago. Master didn’t even bother to put up guards. So careless… or smart?
Slater gulped down the bitter saltiness of his spittle, knowing that Miraç was right. Talha wanted him to leave. Talha didn’t want him anymore, and this was the last act of kindness Master granted him. Or was it cruelty? Slater couldn’t tell anymore.
No, Master. You are wrong. Slater won’t run. You’ll have to come and see Slater, because Slater is going nowhere. You will have to come and tell Slater to go away. This is low, Master. At least look Slater in the eye when you tell Slater you don’t want him anymore…
But despite his determination, the floor felt colder as time flew by.
TALHA’S EAR HAD HEALED so had his concussion. Even Camilla’s funeral, that had happened two days ago in London, felt distant as if months had passed. Falling back into his routine, Talha once again reassessed the damage Slater had done, as the gate to England shut in front of his nose. The Hale Family didn’t officially hold a grudge, yet they didn’t want anything to remind them of the tragedy that had happened to their beloved daughter. Talha saw through this bullshit, realizing that once Camilla was gone, the organization changed hands, which inevitably altered its goals.
Seeing no point in mourning the ruined opportunity, Talha concentrated on his country and his life, but even this didn’t hold his attention for long, as without the Kılıç group and Slater, things were running smoothly.
Savaş had stopped by a few times. He didn’t talk much, making it nearly impossible to understand his reasons. Taking a distant place, he could spend hours watching Talha go about his business. Talha didn’t care. Life with Slater stripped him of the ability to get shocked or surprised. Also, it didn’t look like the reaper had anything particular in mind, more like he was bored.
Keeping himself busy, Talha directed the course of his thoughts toward the future, wanting to abandon Slater to the past. Nevertheless, whenever exhaustion took over, his concentration slipped, weakening his self-control and small memories started flickering before his eyes, bringing forward unwanted thoughts about Slater.
Miraç’s regular updates didn’t help him forget the reaper either, as they painted in his mind a very satisfying picture of a suffering Slater. Part of Talha yearned to punish the reaper, to make him suffer even more. Another one wished for the reaper to disobey the order and disappear, so Talha would never have to deal with him again. But there was the third, tiny fraction of his soul that rejoiced, as Slater staying in the hospital room meant that Talha’s word wasn’t an empty sound to the reaper’s ears.
But the longer he avoided dealing with Slater, the more he understood that it couldn’t go on forever, as patience wasn’t Slater’s strongest quality. Sooner, rather than later, he would get tired of waiting and kill everyone in the hospital, as he wouldn’t be able to cope with his irritation and a growing need to kill.
One more week. I’ll wait for a week. If he won’t leave, I’ll kill him.
THE WORLD LOST ITS COLORS, turning his days into bleak nothingness. The hospital food, that had never appealed to Slater, now revolted him. He stopped eating.
Bored and disappointed, he was falling into the abyss of an emotional vacuum he’d tried to escape all his life. Without any information, without pleasure, Slater felt his soul turning into stone. Even the rare sweets Miraç sneaked into the hospital didn’t excite him anymore and tasted no better than cardboard.
The need to break the neck of the annoying nurse who kept bursting into the room and hitting him with the door grew stronger, but Master wouldn’t appreciate him making a mess. He didn’t train, barely slept, but kept shaving, showering, and dressing, hoping that one day Master would come. The arctic frost, settling into his bones, constantly reminded him of the warmth of his master’s body, instilling in his head a single question, ‘Did Master throw Slater away?’
However, even if he answered ‘yes’, he didn’t know what to do next. It wasn’t hard to find a master, but it was nearly impossible to find a good one who would satisfy all his needs. The one who would always take care of him, protect him, and clean his mess. Who would forgive him no matter what he did. Talha had been it. Talha had been everything Slater needed, up until now. Finding good master material and building up a new master would take years, and Slater didn’t want to bother. He loved Talha’s scent, the feeling of his large hands upon his body, and that consideration in Master’s eyes when Talha tried to understand him.
“I miss Master...” He breathed. Did Slater fuck this up?
He needed to ask Talha, so he kept waiting.
THE DOOR, OPENING, scraped his back. Pain enraged, Slater rolled away ready to kill the nurse. He lifted his upper body, looking at the door, and his heart leaped into his throat. His chest so tight that air stuck in his lungs, refusing to leave. He swallowed, reached forward, but his trembling fingers stopped an inch away from Talha’s beige linen pants.
“M-Master?” His voice broke, as he couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked, then again, but the vision didn’t disappear. Talha looked good. Dressed in the casual clothes and with his hair tossed to the side he looked younger. Refreshed and clean-shaved, he smelled like home. Slater inched further, but Talha stepped away, and his shaky fingers clasped in the air.
