“I think I shall have to postpone my meeting with your mother,” she finds the wherewithal to say.
“Of course.” Shadi folds his hands over his heart. “I understand how much you're hurting. And I wish I could go with you, if for no reason than to be present with you in your sorrow. Regrettably, duty obliges me to stay, and so, until we meet again, I leave you in the hands of our Creator. He is the best keeper of our trust.”
“Ameen,” Shay murmurs, touched even now by the kindness of this boy who has turned out to be funnier, cleverer, and more caring than she could have known when their paths first crossed.
Their surroundings make a dull impression as Khawla leads her back through Al-Ghaba Mayita. In a detached way, she notices the forest is quieter than before. No insects hum; no crickets chirp. The tree branches are unstirred by the flutter of wings, the undergrowth unburdened by the scamper of feet. Only a brittle wind rattles the dry leaves like a dying breath, as if the forest is expressing its condolences.
Her mind holds no thoughts beyond this until they reach the border of Ard Al-Ghul and morning light cracks the horizon. Its vivid glow is that of a slimy yolk seeping from a broken egg shell. The brothers will be home by now from their nightly activities and are apt to be displeased to learn she ignored their numerous warnings.
The kindling sun seems incompatible with the pall of darkness inside her, as if the sky itself should remain draped in black. The first thing Shay noticesas they near the bloodsucker's imposing house isn't the rattle of wheels or the thud of hooves down the clay street. It's the way Khawla, who's paying better attention, has already adopted an alert stance.
She tugs Shay so deep into the nearest hedge that wild thorns maul their backs through their attire. An approaching carriage appears and grinds to a stop in front of Tarik's gate. Billows of red dust settle around a team of ghastly skeleton horses. A bone-eater sits in the driver's seat. Though Shay has grown used to the brothers’ appearances, this slobbering, bug-eyed creature seems to belong in a different class. Behind him, a dome of dark fabric covers a long iron bed, hiding its cargo from view.
Shay shivers. She watches through a weave of thin branches as her neighbor's front door swings wide. Tarik ambles down the path to the gate, mist trailing after him in a vaporous cape. He nods in greeting to the bone-eater, the gesture wordlessly returned by the creature. Khawla tips two fingers to the side of Shay's chin, nudging her head gently away from whatever is about to occur, but Shay resists. She no longer wishes to hide from the truth of the world, no matter how ugly.
The bloodsucker whisks aside the canvas flap, allowing Shay a glimpse of the touched ones huddled inside. A dozen or so women, all bound and shackled. Their heads hang over bent knees, most beyond bothering to look up at the sudden influx of light. A brave few peek at Tarik through strips of dirty hair. And their eyes quiver.
Fear sours the air. It leaves Shay choking. Tarik sighs loudly. A woeful, put-upon sigh. He climbs wearily into the carriage and draws the flap closed behind him. Whatever Shay expects to happen next does not prepare her for the ensuing litany of muffled moans or their rapid crescendo to screams of pain.
Cuffing her hands to Khawla's shoulder, she hiss-whispers, “What is going on?”
“Al-Mukhtar has a truce with the bloodsuckers,” Khawla explains, disgust curdling her voice. “They don't come to Mekchaouen to prey on humans, and in return, our leaders provide them with an alternate source of sustenance.”
“Touched ones?” Shay feels faint.
Khawla nods gravely. “The ones who are already near to death and no longer able to tap into their Shawafa. If the touched ones either refuse or are unable to recruit new addicts to live in the kasbah, this is how Al-Mukhtar disposes of them.”
Nausea is a bonfire in Shay's stomach. How often does the carriage come? How did she live next door so long and never notice? No wonder Hind did the things Bushra accused her of. She had a choice, but not much of one. How much longer before this becomes her fate, too?
“We should go while he's occupied.” Khawla tugs Shay's sleeve.
“No. We have to do something.” Despite her brave words, Shay can only reel from the absolute horror. These women are being delivered like lambs to the slaughter, both aware of their fate and too weak from prolonged drug use to resist it. It wasn't enough for Al-Mukhtar to steal women's magic—the men have weaponized addiction. They use it to strip away the touched ones’ freedom and dignity, and then, as a final insult, they rob them down to their last drops of blood.
She keeps thinking that surely the bloodsucker's thirst must be quenched, but the noises go on and on. The slurping magnifies until it sounds like he's right next to her ear. Her chest tightens like she's stuffed in a dress several sizes too small, and she wants to peel off her own skin just to breathe.
Just when Shay thinks Khawla is right and they should run to the bone-eaters for help, she meets the glowing eyes of a horse. She doesn't try to communicate with the creature, at least not consciously, but it seems to sense her distress and rears back, whinnying. In a ripple effect, the other horses start snorting. Steam furls from their nostrils, and their hooves stomp in agitation. The bed of the carriage rocks precariously, and Shay doesn't know whether she should attempt to calm the horses or spur them on.
“Whoa.” The bone-eater heaves on the reins to no avail. “Easy now.”
Tarik stumbles from the carriage just before the horses take off. He looks around drunkenly as they gallop down the clay road, the front of his white tunic bearded with blood. He catches sight of Shay, who—surprising no one more than herself—has stepped out from her hiding spot to glare at him.
He barrels toward her, but Khawla steps in front, shoving Shay behind her.
“What are you doing, loitering in front of my property? Looking for more berries?” the bloodsucker seethes. Over Khawla's shoulder, his lightless eyes find Shay's, probing them as though seeking an entry point to penetrate her mind. She makes hers hard like glass, reflecting whatever venom he throws. “Don't think because I've already eaten, I don't have room for dessert.”
Khawla raises her chin. “We're merely walking home, Sidi. You're the one taking up the whole road with your revolting buffet on wheels.”
The bloodsucker snarls, baring his fangs. Then, unexpectedly, he dials back his aggressive posture and tilts his head. “Since when is the little dove allowed out of her cage, anyway? Where have you two been this early? Or, should I say, late?”
“Why are you so obsessed with my friend?” Khawla pokes her finger into the bloodsucker's chest, but all Shay hears is the wordfriend. It rings like a silver chime. She grins as Khawla continues. “Do you think I don't see you out here night after night, your beady little eyes always watching our cottage? No one trims their shrubs that much.”
“If you don't remove that finger, I'll gladly do it for you,” Tarik says with chilling calm.
Khawla's eyes widen. She looks at her finger with dismay, as if just noticing where she poked it. She snatches it back.
“Good choice.” The bloodsucker smiles slowly. “Because while I would gladly eat you out of principle, I'm sure you don't taste anywhere near as sweet as my little dove does.”
Shay balls her fists to resist touching her neck, despising the visibility of her scars. The way they wave like a white flag on her skin. But, she corrects herself, she should think of them as war stripes. A badge to honor the women who don't have the privilege of surviving to wear them.
