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.