“The vicar sent the Cubans you asked for.” Jolie stood beside him, looking down as he was but seeing different things. Noticing often latent style of people. Jolie was on his private security detail twelve hours a day. She’d notice if someone wasn’t acting Morrocan or regular enough, she’d notice if the shopkeeper selling sweets ten steps away was wiping his sweat frequently than normal. “Puerto Rican, Jolie. Not Cuban. Two different countries. Don’t let them hear you say it. But you’re right, the Vicar is indeed Cuban.” Slight admonishment she accepted with even slighter head bow. Jolie was never interested in countries, capitals or cities. It all looked the same to her, a jungle she had the aerial view of it, and thus was at more advantage being a predator. Nothing seemed to matter in fact. Her blonde-yellow ponytail tightly encased in a black rubber band. Still, the heat made the hair fuzzy so they assorted in childish curls at the nape of her neck. There were three things about
Sixty hours. Two and a half day. Summer dissipitating quicker than anticipated. Barely blossomed trees were shedding leaves, a cluster of them marked the entry gate at Noah Abel’s home. Which, if things stayed the way they were, would soon be a place crawling with trackers of all kind, changeling and wolves. Some hired rogues who’d kill for a quick buck. And the way tings were going, Vanessa was out of basement. Still under a watchful eye. She truly believed the half reason was becasue Noah was concerned, but the other half sininster enough to wash away any delusions she might have about him. There wasn’t much to think anyway. Evan was the only person who checked in on her, otherwise she was invisible. Who would have thought even her misfortunes would fail at making her famous, or infamous? The occasional cheek-chewof bitterness when a pang of heartache intruded, as is thier nature which she shoved aside and focused on day-to-day activities to keep her going. Aside from the cluster o
Noah tentatively touched her at the exact same spot. His fingers delicately tested the pressure to find the right spot where she’d been hurt. Noah on the other hand couldn’t decipher where and when to ravage this rage of his. Hell, even the light treated this girl differently. It moved around her, about her, to make more space. She made him feel like he was floating; and in return, all his presence bought was more hurt. This one struck like an incandescent vacuum punching a hole right in his center. A vortex to double him in. “Someone hurt you. Where?” His thumb brushed her knuckles ever so softly. There had to be a pit where desperation went to rot and never come back. This wasn’t one of them. He was desperate to spill some blood, break some bone, and she was desperate for some quiet and peace. Away from all this. Away from him. “Its just this shoulder. They shoved me and I fell.” Half truth. A white-washed lie. Noah’s eyes narrowed. She was lying and he knew it. “Who were they?”
It was hard to be glum in a place like this. Languages crowded the air like exotic birds: French, Hebrew, Arabic, Farsi, phrases in tribal native among food cart holders and pestering shopkeepers. The alleys were draped in silk, fresh carpets overflowing the narrow road between the shops. Men in safari dresses wearing tarboosh caps lingered in the doorway. The sun about to set, mother hurried their children home. The market was open for tourists in the evening and laughter trilled from all sides. It was indeed hard to be glum, thought Calvin. He visited the bustle of market, finding himself insignificant in the crowd. And like a palindrome he was reminded of his importance. His hands held tight to the cup of warm tea in his hand. The streets of Morroco were fairytales painted, without so much as lifting the brush, vivid and enchanting, straight from a child’s mind. There were snake charmers and dancers, barefoot carni fokls, hapless tourists tinkering with everything they found worth
"Why what?" Noah was being extra noisy. The safety kit cluttered on the table beside her. His hands expressively busy, and their soft hesitancy gone, unlike when he was touching her. "Dont play dumb. It doesn't suit you." Vanessa's lips pulled down in what looked like a sneer. But it could have been a grimace. His fingers felt like cardboard on her skin. It had gone numb with the bruises, swollen a postal stamp blue. There was no way it could heal anytime soon. "Oww." The bastard smirked at her small protest, and even smaller display of strength when she hit him."Why are you insisting on taking me away?" There conversations had to be more straight-forward than in the past. When he still didn't reply, she grabbed his collar."Your bullshit is getting too thick to see through." Noah didn't relent and kept on checking for more injuries. If his closeness was affecting her, she didn't show. "Someplace else. Away from here." The simplicity in curtness usually pricks. Like casualties, r
A pair of windows with carved shutters stood open to the night, their ledges three feet deep revealing the fortress thickness of the walls. Ceilings carved in Arabic honeycombs with tipped beaks biting at the sky. Calvin followed Issa with rampant interest. She showed him things up in the tomb, a secret lair of hers, hidden, away from the prying eyes. Things that he liked to see. They were a conundrum but they were his conundrum.“Last we talked, you said the transfusion works like resurrection.” There was sick awe in his voice. It also reflected in the old lady, who had given up on her spine and walked with a stick. He had also offered her to help with that but she refused. Self-service quacked at her ethics it seemed.“Yes. Yes. But not in the way you think.” She was right. They weren’t talking about dead people. Ever since he had learned to control the elemental part of any entity- quantum physics would call it an atom, at inter-atomic level, he started manipulating small things.
Their silence chased away residual hurt. It happened often between them. They were borne of ultimatums like curveballs life threw at them. Vanessa felt like she had to say this. It was the truth but the wish to keep things sohe could hurt a little more like she was hurting was hard to ignore. Last time, hurtinig him had brought not a moment of peace, onlymore bile with both her feet stuck in it, spinning her like pinwheel trying to make her reasons sound sane.“You are nothing like your father.” She knew he’d see it as an equivalent of extending an olive branch and shrug like it didn’t matter what she thought. It was abrasive the way he spoke nest.“You don’t know him.” Hands in his pocket, he let her pull heself together. Her lithe msucles moved as she scrunched her hair and he deliberately skidhis eyes to the floor. “I know you.” Was it a gamble? Speaking with false confidence and bravado. If it were, she was glad she made it. It anyhow felt like swimming through a swarm of uncerta
Crescent moon blades, all eight of them tucked safely in places his reflexes reached first were at best unnoticeable, and at worst a small dose of humiliation because anyone looking would think he had a boner in public and shift their eyes away. One advantage of being among a sexually shy crowd was this, and if the gaze lingered, they were either interested in spending the night with him or killing him, straitjacketing him weaponless. Leaving him defenseless. So when the tall blonde, relatively taller, he backtracked and took a different turn where the end of kasbah met, and a row of garbage cans lined up. It was the back of an apartment building. The southern heat beat on his back and he was damp with sweat in few minutes. Two days here, and his skin was already catching a dusty mellow gold tan. The wolf perked its ear up, there was a TV playing in the house left to him, some Arabic cooking show, the one next to it, someone was fighting loudly. Perfect. A perfect place to wait and