Page 61 of Raven

“Sir, this is a private matter,” one guy says like an excuse, but I’m not interested in him. Not even in Skiba.

It’s this guy that I see praying every other day who draws my attention.

“You three, leave,” I say coldly and cock my head at the prayer-master. “A word with you.”

I learned many things about war mingling with the guards in Port Mrei my first year here. One of them is that war never leaves you. War stays with you like a permanent disease, making home in your head. Like a shitty childhood, I suppose.

Many of these guys who keep Zion safe come from war. And occasionally they snap. The key is to ensure that they don’t snap at those they protect.

Is that why this guy prays so much?

The guards’ footsteps disappear in the distance as I stand face-to-face with him.

“Your name?” I ask.

“Full name or the American version?”

Cocky, alright. “Didn’t think it would be a hard question.”

“Ali. Sir,” he adds, though he’s off-duty. “And this is a private matter. No complaint will be filed. No crime was committed.”

“The man you just punched is one of my right-hand men, so I’m curious. But if you don’t feel like answering, it’s up to you.” I’ll find out anyway. “What did that guard do?”

Ali stands straight with his hands clasped behind him, contemplating, I guess, whether to tell me or not. Fighting with others outside Ayana is not a crime. But I could easily report him as a danger to the residents, and he could be expelled from this island. I won’t. But he knows I can.

“He made a crude joke about one of the residents.”

Interesting. There’s more, I’m sure.

Ali’s face is indifferent like he didn’t just carve a man’s chest. His face is a mask, with the shadows from the flies around the lantern flickering across it.

“He then made a derogatory comment about her religious beliefs and made jokes about ripping off her headscarf in public.”

So, it’s about a woman. Add to that religious and ethnic intolerance—obviously, the issue escalated. It must be one of the girls from the Center.

I nod. “What were you doing to the guy on the ground?”

His eyes flash with pride when he says, “I cut a word on his chest.”

I stifle a chuckle. I like this guy already. He knows his way with a knife.

“What word?” I press on.

His eyes narrow on me, and I feel he’s holding a triumphant smile. “Hijab.” The headscarf. “Backward,” he adds.

“Why backward?”

“So that when he looks in the mirror for the next several weeks while it’s healing, he can learn how to say it properly.”

Something about this guy draws me in. The discipline, the calm, and inner strength that he doesn’t flaunt. A flare for cutting.

“Harsh,” I say.

Without missing a beat, Ali says, “What would you do if he joked about stripping a woman you like in public?”

If he even so much as touched Maddy? I’d carve his own name on his ass and send him to jail on the mainland so that ass-lovers knew who they were tapping.

Even though I don’t answer, Ali knows he is right.

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