The bird pauses its feasting. Slowly turns. And looks directly at her.
Unlike the squirrel, the bird speaks to her, reaching out first.
Why, hello there.She hears the slick voice inside her head, which feels strangely intrusive. But then, Shay doesn't have enough experience with her developing powers to say how it should feel.A pleasant surprise at an hour so late. What brings you to stand here at my gate?
Shay isn't sure why the bird is speaking in rhyme. Or why it claims ownership of the gate. But she knows she's starving, and if it's possible for a squirrel to remove a ring from her finger, it stands to reason a bird could deliver a few berries to her. If she can just eat enough to quiet the gnawing of her stomach, to regain some of her equilibrium, she can consider how to go about looking for Hind. Preferably without running into any monsters.
“I seem to find myself far from home, and in need of sustenance.” Shay doesn't feel particularly awkward talking to a bird. She talks to animals often enough. She's even been inclined to think they understand her, though perhaps not to this degree. “Would you be so kind as to carry some berries to me in your beak, seeing as I can't reach them on my own?”
The bird tilts its head.These berries? These would be poisonous to your kind. They're widowberries, you see. But I'm sure there's another way I can help you.
Shay doesn't understand how the bird, the sharp hook of its beak stained wine red, is apparently immune to the poison. She shakes her head. This isArd Al-Ghul, a place she knows little about other than to fear it. Mainly because not many people who make the journey ever return to Mekchaouen to tell the tale.
Surely, it can't be much longer until sunrise. Perhaps she should be asking the bird to help her find Hind, but her stomach is panging, and poisonous or not, those berries still smelldelicious. “What other way did you have in mind?”
I'm so glad you asked.
The bird rises from its perch. Its broad wings flap, slowly at first, then faster and faster, beating into a violet shimmer. Shadows elongate, mist mingles with feather, and the bird fades in and out of focus. Shay's eyes can't seem to linger on any single detail long enough to make sense of it. When the movement slows, the bird is gone, and a very different shape has solidified: a man standing next to the bush.
Shay doesn't know what to make of him. He's tall, dressed in a pressed navy tunic and matching trousers. A black scarf wraps around his head and loops loosely around his neck, an accessory more suited for desert sands, where protection from the elements is vital. His skin is pale and gray, and his eyes are as black as a touched one's are white. The hard lines and smooth contours of his face align with unnatural symmetry, as though carved upon his flesh with a chisel.
Bloodsucker.
The word floats into Shay's mind, but she's still not sure until the man—creature—walks up to the gate and smiles at her. His teeth gleam the ivory of snow, and his eyes dance with wickedness. He inhales like someone entering a kitchen where a fine meal has been left to simmer.
“As I was saying …” The bloodsucker chuckles, low and dangerous. The gate creaks open, though his hands never move from his sides. He steps onto the red clay. Shay rocks back on her heels. “If you come inside, I'm sure we can find some more suitable victuals for you to partake of. Tea, perhaps?”
He reaches a gloved hand toward Shay, who stumbles back. The fear that comes over her is less of a feeling at all and more of an extra sense, as acid as any taste. More thundering than any sound.
“I think …” She swallows, her throat aching with the effort of keeping her voice even. “I shall have to decline.”
“Come now,” the bloodsucker croons. His voice has a dull ring. A once-living thing, hollowed out, stuffed with feathers, and overlaid with silk. “Don't beshy, zine diali. Why, a moment ago, you were more than happy to ask what you assumed was a mere bird to steal the berries off my bushes for you. Now we can do this the pleasant way or the not-so-pleasant way, but I do hate to wrinkle a good ensemble.”
Shay scans the empty street with its rows of crooked buildings. Unlit alleys branch off at intervals. The mist blurs all the edges, making everything less than real. That red moon still radiates its eerie glow across the sky. The world below it, a mirror haze where shadows jump to life and the material seems to be an illusion.
Her heart taps an alarm, warning that her life depends on getting away. Unfortunately, even if she achieves that, there's nowhere to run except right back to Al-Ghaba Mayita. The stories she grew up hearing omitted one critical detail: what to do upon actually encountering a bloodsucker.
“I won't ask twice.” The bloodsucker's voice grows stern.
Shay has spent much of her life following directions. Avoiding conflict. Being undemanding. Her first instinct is always to please, but something tells her that if she accepts this invitation, it will be the last tea she ever drinks. Daring to meet the bloodsucker's eyes, she whispers, “What are you going to do to me, Sidi?”
The creature frowns, a gesture isolated to his lips. They tug down at the corners as if snared by hooks in a flat parody of emotion. “I don't want to hurt you, Lalla. No more than a bee wishes harm upon a flower.”
Though Shay doesn't believe him in the slightest, she suddenly cannot tear her gaze away. His eyes are a lightless beacon, drawing her deep into a center of stillness. A sweet nothing that promises eternal peace.
She nods, her neck behaving of its own volition. The bloodsucker takes her hand, and she flinches at the cold that bleeds through his gloves. But she doesn't pull back, even as he leads her toward the still-opened gate.
The bloodsucker pauses. He lays his other hand on her shoulder. “Glory to heaven, you're shaking like a leaf. Are you frightened of me?”
Shay's mind scrambles for a thread of conversation to delay their passage. She fears—knows—once this threshold is crossed, her fate will be sealed. “No,Sidi. I'm only worried about my mother. I lost her in the woods, and I don't know where she is.”
“That's terrible,” the bloodsucker says indulgently. “Perhaps you should leave your shoes in front of the gate. If your mother comes by and sees them, she will know where to find you. Would that make you feel better?” The gate rasps in sinister greeting as it swings farther inward, widening its arms so two can pass inside.
“It may be better to wait here a little longer?” Shay chatters nervously. She assesses the bloodsucker's grip on her wrist and wonders how much force it would take to break free. “I'm sure she'll be along soon. Andshewould want some tea as well. She loves tea. I mean, we both do. You know what they say about us Nezjarians: Tea runs in our veins.”
“Yes.” The bloodsucker's eyes zero in on her throat, and the tips of his incisors peek from between his thin lips. Keeping one hand on the gate, he yanks Shay close. She gags on the copper tang of his breath. “Speaking of your veins …”
Shay's survival instincts rush back. She stomps on the bloodsucker's foot and twists her wrist from his grasp, only for him to hook her waist and bind her tightly against his tall frame. Her skin tightens, a frigid chill pouring over her. Shay bucks her shoulders, pounds her fists against his hips and thighs, but her protests are of little use against his iron grip.
