I struggle to sit up, kicking my blankets into a heap at the foot of my bed.
“It’s okay, Mina. You’re safe.” Baba helps me prop myself against the headboard. “How do you feel?”
I stare at Elias Talbot’s face for longer than anyone would consider polite. He doesn’t look much like his son—where Jesse’s hair falls in midnight waves of black, Mr. Talbot’s is a light brown. He’s shorter than I thought he would be, standing an inch below Baba. In his jeans and button-down, he looks more like an accountant than a mortician.
Except … he has Jesse’s eyes. The same dark, piercing stare cutting through me like an unsheathed knife.
“Baba, are you okay?” I search his head for wounds. “Where did she hit you?”
Baba’s brows furrow. “Where did who hit me?” He glances at Mr. Talbot worriedly.
“It’s normal to lose time after a head injury.” Mr. Talbot presses a thumb to my eyelid. “Look up, please. Good. Now try to look at your toes.”
He gives a few more instructions before I’m seemingly cleared. “My son found you and your father collapsed in the living room, Miss Mansour. We were hoping you could tell us what happened.”
Jesse found me?
“Where is—” My voice peters out before I can finish, too hoarse and weak. I clear my throat. “Where is he?”
“Right here, Sour Patch.”
Leaning against the doorframe, Jesse smiles wanly at me.
Elias Talbot’s lips thin. “Shouldn’t you be home?”
“I wanted to check on her.”
“You’ve checked. The mortuary sinks won’t sanitize themselves.”
“Is he in trouble?” I ask Mr. Talbot. “He shouldn’t be. He only came to check on me because he thought I was in danger.”
“In the middle of a storm,” Mr. Talbot points out.
Baba nods. “A Ward Wailer.”
Oh, great. They’ve teamed up.
“Can I talk to Jesse alone?”
Baba’s face darkens. A long, tense minute passes. Jesse eyes my dad nervously, but he doesn’t know Baba. This entire situation reeks of my father’s least favorite perfume: conflict. It’s too much trouble to argue with me, and most likely now that he knows I’m alive, he’ll get his laptop case and drive back to campus for the rest of the day.
Baba bursts into laughter, grabbing my dresser to steady himself.
Professor Mansour snorts—an actual snort—and doubles over while he struggles to catch his breath.
Straightening, Baba wipes the corners of his eyes, still chuckling softly. “Ala gusity, Yasmina Mansour.”
My jaw drops the rest of the way open. I can count on one hand the number of times Baba has spoken Arabic in front of strangers.
He’s angry. No, not just angry. For the first time I can remember, my father isfurious.
“Over his dead body,” Mr. Talbot translates for Jesse. When Baba and I glance at him in surprise, he shrugs. “I’m a mortician. Part of the gig includes knowing the different words for corpse.”
“Glad to see you’re well, Miss Mansour. We’ll come visit when you feel better,” Mr. Talbot says. He takes his son by the elbow, steering him out of the room. Jesse doesn’t resist, letting himself be led away without a single glance back.
It’s for the best. No need to irritate our fathers further, right? It would be stupid to feel hurt over him following the rules for once.
Later, we can figure out how I’m still alive. I was the last Haikal who could feed the curse, and I’d said no.
