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.
His wound oozed with hotness, and at some point, despite knowing better, he pulled the knife out of his stomach. The streets that never die stood desolate, just like the soul he never knew he possessed. He’d heard the words depression and apathy before, but he thought that people made them up, they seemed so unrealistic to him. Now he understood how dull and scary life was without desires.
Ozone suffused the air, and Slater felt the cool tongue of a strong breeze on his neck.
“Huh…” He tilted his head, tagging the freshness into his lungs. “That must be how death is. So cold. So lonely. And smells like ozone…”
His mind trailed to Camilla. She didn’t smell like ozone.
Maybe this is how smokeless fire smells in contact with water? Does water kill smokeless fire? Slater took in the stormy sky, his adrenaline dropped and his body shook. He knew he would collapse within half an hour, maybe sooner, if he didn’t treat the wound, yet he didn’t care. Water deluged his eyes and gushed down his neck, and at that moment, all the mosques started the Fajr prayer[25]. It’s sunrise already?
He searched the sky in vain for evidence of the sun.
Huh? Funny, as if the sun died. I hoped to see the color, the same as Master’s eyes. He cocked his head. I guess this is how Iblīs dies. He doesn’t deserve sun, because he’s weak. Will Iblīs be disintegrated now? Is it why it smells like ozone? Is it why Slater is so cold and empty? Is it what happens when Master wins?
His exhausted mind, never finding rest, jumped from one memory to another. He remembered how his attachment to Talha had grown. How he realized that his eyes had been following the powerful frame of his Master not out of boredom, but with curiosity and weird fascination. He’d enjoyed the sounds of Master’s calm voice, his battling expressions when Slater irritated him, and his detailed explanations of things Slater didn’t understand. Meaningless things that made Master look… borderline to weak, yet somehow strong. Captivating.
And the pivoting moment of Slater’s attraction had been the Royal Game.
5 YEARS AGO
CROUCHING ON THE MANSION’S roof, Slater couldn’t keep his fingers from curling in powerless fury. The heat, rising from the tile toasted under the vicious summer sun, assaulted his skin and his unblinking eyes. Yet, he never lowered his gaze, watching his master load his car, ready to leave for the Royal Game.
Talha’s words still echoed in his head, repeating over and over for him not to follow, not to kill, not to leave the house. Giving Slater the final instructions, Talha had warned him that the security was set to guard the perimeter with the permission to shoot Slater if he engaged. Looking Slater in the eye, Talha had asked if he needed to explain what would happen if one of his men died. Slater said nothing, and Master reminded him of the reason the Royal Game had been called, to begin with.
The cellphone chimed. Slater inched forward, fingers gripping the edge of the scorching roof in front of him. Freezing in a gargoyle pose, he turned all ears.
“Oh, Ejder, selamün aleyküm[26]. Where are you?” Talha’s face lit up as he put a C-shaped unstrung bow into the trunk. Slater’s eyes glued to the weapon as his fingers itched to touch it.
He had never seen a Turkish bow in real life, and he couldn’t wait to see what it would be like once ready; to caress the textures of horn, wood, and sinew; to draw a string and feel an arrow vibrate with pressure in his hand. One of the most efficient ‘cold’ weapons ever devised lay mere feet away from him, yet unreachable.
“Ready for some hunting?”
The sound of Talha’s voice hurled him out of his daydreaming, his cheek twitched. So, Slater is an outsider; Slater doesn’t understand; Slater isn’t good enough because Slater is a foreigner, but Ejder can? How is it fair?
“Yes, Ejder. Great, meet me at the farmhouse.”
Slater was loyal. Slater waited. Slater gave Master time, but Master doesn’t want to understand.
“No, Dinçer is taking him.”
Dinçer? He didn’t even have a scratch, yet he is going as well. Slater was in the mosque, like Dinçer. Slater has the right to be there. Slater wants to use the bow! Stupid Master...
Rage urged him to climb down the drainpipe. Snaking out of the bush, he froze behind Talha. So close, he could easily send a needle into the man’s nape, yet Talha never noticed.
So careless… You can’t even see me in the daylight, yet you refuse Iblīs’ protection…
“So long, Kardeşim.” Talha hung up.
“How many Royal Games were there, Master?”
Talha’s body tensed for a brief, dissatisfying moment, before the calm reply sounded, “I’m not sure. This is my second.” Slamming the trunk closed, he spun. “Why?”
Their eyes locked. Being sucked into the liquid amber, Slater thought that maybe Dinçer was right and Master would never accept him, would never treat him like his own, would never rely on him.
Maybe, if Master had no one, things would be different.
“No reason, Master. Have fun!” Raising his hands in surrender, Slater smiled, his anger draining as an idea formed in his head.
For a long moment, Talha examined his face with a furrow between his brows. “No matter what, don’t leave the house.”
“Don’t worry, Master. Slater will be good.” His grin widened, causing Talha’s frown to deepen.
Without saying another word, Talha got into his bulletproof Audi A7 and guided the car to the driveway. The cloud of dust, swirling in the air, grayed Slater’s black combat pants.