Hasan studied the small sepia faces in his hand. Paranjay laughed in the center, effortlessly carefree. On his left, Hasan wasn’t looking at the camera?—what a waste of film he’d been?—but to the right, Zeyar stood unsmiling, his expression severe for a young boy, as though their grandfather’s words were a heavy mantle on his slim shoulders.
Slowly, he tore the priceless photo. He tucked the two-thirds of the picture with himself and Paranjay back into his wallet, and then laid the piece of photograph with Zeyar at the foot of the gods.
As he released it, he forced himself to loosen his grip on his anger.I will not exact my revenge on Zeyar. I forfeit this to the gods.“My veins are a vessel for the divine power of the gods,” he chanted. “If they find my sacrifice worthy, may I be filled with their cosmic energy.”
Though no breeze brushed through the underground room, goose bumps rose on his arms anyway. He rose to his feet, turning his back on Zeyar’s serious expression.
The gods had granted him the power he needed. And while he’d promised not to go after Zeyar, he had another brother to pursue.
Hasan packed cash and a spare set of clothes before borrowing his mother’s car keys. As he opened the door, her voice rang out.
“Where are you going?”
His ma stood at the top of the stairs, hands on her hips, brows knit together.
“I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago,” he said. “I’m going to get Paranjay. And then, I’m going to burn that police precinct to the ground.”
She lingered a moment longer at the top of the stairs, then came down to stand in front of Hasan. She put one hand on his cheek. “Go then,” she said, a reluctant blessing. “But promise me this: You will come home. Even if it’s without your brother.”
“Ma,” he protested, but she shook her head.
“I cannot lose three sons.” Her voice broke. “I would rather lose two than three. Promise me.”
He hesitated, recalling the last time he had made a promise to a family member. He would not be bound by any more oaths. Instead, he bent and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Have faith in me,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”
As Hasan drew back, his mother caught his eye. His words weren’t a promise, and she knew it. But she let him go anyway.
• • •
Hasan arrived in the city at sundown, taking the long way around. Though he’d been born in the countryside, he’d been raised on Marnapur’s streets, growing and changing alongside it. The city was as familiar to him as a brother. He knew its nature by heart, was familiar with all of its moods.
But as he entered Marnapur that evening, he found it in a crisis that he had never seen before. For one, his beloved city was perpetually noisy, day and night, a symphony with a range of instruments: the clamor of seagulls screaming and sailors shouting as they unloaded the ships at the docks, the clash and clanging of products being assembled at the factories, and the rumbling of car engines deeper in the throat of the city, punctuated by honking and the occasional squeal of tires. Under it all was the constant thrum ofpeople?—talking, haggling, begging, laughing.
Tonight, Marnapur was silent, save for the wail of sirens, illuminated by blue and red flashing lights that blinded him if he dared look directly. He had never seen the police assembled like this before, lining the streets and rooftops. And while some might see the golden badges and silver pistols as symbols of order, Hasan saw them for what they were: a sign that the city had fallen into chaos.
As he drove deeper into the city, he encountered a new checkpoint on the road ahead. Cars slowed ahead of him, lining up as the officers went to every window, checking identification and asking questions. He eased down on the brakes, mind racing.
From this side of the city, the checkpoint was the only way to go forward by car. There were a dozen other ways to go on foot, but then he’d lose the advantage of speed and the anonymity of tinted windows. For a moment, he considered fighting his way through the checkpoint, but he couldn’t afford to act rashly. If he fought the officers here, he would alert Montrose to his presence, and the police would certainly relocate Paranjay.
He turned off the main road, parking his mother’s car in an empty lot. This far on the edge of the city, where the poorest residents resided, the car would likely be stolen by the time he got back. But if the car was the price for Paranjay’s freedom, so be it.
In the blue light that preceded nightfall, he slipped into the streets, slinking into the city on foot, leaving the checkpoint?—and the car?—behind. He cut through the back alleys, careful to avoid major roads. Though muggers and pickpockets prowled the backstreets, Hasan was better equipped to deal with them than the police. But the lanes were empty, save for the occasional beggar. Even the street food stalls were deserted, rusty metal shutters pulled closed by vendors who had once been fixtures on this street.
He arrived at his first destination, Kaushal’s home. As he approached the single-level house, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The windows, though filthy, were intact, but what bothered him was that they were dark. Night had fallen, and with the curfew, Kaushal should have been home. Even if he had left the house, hecertainlywouldn’t have left his front door ajar.
Hasan pulled his knife from the waistband of his belt, holding it aloft as he pushed the door open with his free hand. He didn’t call for Kaushal?—not when he already knew his cousin wouldn’t answer, not when the advantage of surprise would be twice as useful as the knife in his hand against any would-be attacker.
He stepped forward. Something crunched under his shoe, sharp even through the thick sole. He flicked on the light, lifting his foot away to reveal the shards of a mug. His gaze followed the rivulets of dried coffee down to where the wooden table had been split in half, as though a heavy weight had been dropped?—or shoved?—onto it. The chairs lay overturned; one leg had been split off and lay discarded by the faded couch. Hasan bent down to examine it. Blood stained the edge.
He checked the bedroom next. Although it appeared to be ransacked?—dresser drawers open, sheets wrenched back?—the main struggle had taken place in the kitchen. He returned there, dragging his finger across the coffee stain on the floor. Thoroughly dried. Whoever had taken his cousin was long gone.
Montrose must have him.If it had been Virian burglars, not even the furniture would be left. Hasan growled, kicking the shards of the coffee mug, sending them skittering across the kitchen tile.
“Get it together,” he breathed, pressing his fingers to his head. Kaushal wasn’t the only fighter he knew. He would just have to find another man.
He found Jayendhra’s house intact on the outside, but completely bare on the inside. Hasan pulled out drawers and tore open closets, finding them devoid of all personal effects and clothing. Unlike Kaushal’s place, there were no signs of struggle. Jayendhra had clearly gone on the run, perhaps after having heard what had happened to Kaushal. He discovered a similar scene at Raman’s house?—empty cabinets left open, nonessentials left behind, as though he’d only had a minute’s notice before he’d fled.
“Iseveryonein this gang a traitor?” Hasan slammed one of the cabinet doors so hard it bounced back open. How was it that in a matter of weeks, everything he’d built his life upon had fallen apart? He’d put family first only to be betrayed by his eldest brother, the one who was supposed to watch out for the rest of them. He’d prioritized the needs of his gang, only for them to turn tail when things got difficult.
