Page 80 of Iblis' Affliction
“Here you go.” A warm gush of his breath washed Talha in a strong smell of oranges. “But you won’t need it. I’ll be around. You guard your assets, I guard mine. Now, wish well, Reis.”
Talha hummed, the familiar curiosity etching in his chest. Unlike Slater, Savas didn’t look simple in his desires. That made him guess what kind of wishes a man like him harbored. What could he possibly want?
Pulling his hand out of the ripper’s grip, he plucked out a thin envelope from his back pocket. Folded twice, it was crumpled. “Go to my mansion, find his karambits, kill the target Iblis-style. No witnesses. This is my first wish.”
“Count it granted, Master.” Ifrit snapped his fingers in the air then ripped the envelope out of his hand.
The door closed behind Savas. Talha stared at his hand, immediately wanting to wash off the ink. Pulling out his smartphone, he transferred the number, then froze, realizing it was the hand Slater had grabbed. He still could feel the icy touch of his shaking fingers beneath the thin, oscillated handwriting. Slater had looked vexed, afflicted. Never before had he acted this desperate unless he wanted to fuck.
What did you want to tell me?He directed his question at his palm, but no answer was written on it. The feverish distress splashing behind Slater’s eyes stood vivid in his memory, urging him to go see the ripper. He clenched his fist, trying to clear his head of unnecessary feelings, but it was harder than he’d imagined. “Fuck it!”
Storming out of the room, he barged into the doctor’s lounge. “Miraç, get me some paint.”
SLATER BLINKED INTO THE BRIGHTmorning light that streamed from out of the naked window. The unbearable smell of drugs and antiseptic slamming into his nose, forced him upright, but as soon as his abdomen contracted, he cringed and cupped his right side with both palms. Dragging his gaze over the plastic wall down to the medical bed, he blinked again. A blue hospital gown loosely hugged his torso as linens of a darker hue covered his lower body. Jerking the cover away, he sat and rolled up the gown, but as soon as his gaze found the tight bandage that wound around his torso, his head snapped to the side. A rush of memories spun before his eyes.
The small, dark chamber… Camilla’s severed head… the revolting stench of death… the blood and murder that brought no relief… the stinging slap his master granted him.
Palm darting up, he fingered his cheek. Covered with a few days of stubble, it scraped his finger pad, but no pain pulsed under his touch.
“Was it a dream?” Slater scratched behind his ear, rummaging in his memory. He remembered his dreams, the hell full of demons, the music, then Master and Savas. His whole being rebelled against the memory. “Master wouldn’t. It must be a nightmare. Master is still there, under the mosque… Slater needs to go.”
His feet slapped against the cold floor even before he realized he darted toward the door. His feet wobbly as his hand reached for the handle, but something on the floor captured his attention. He dropped his gaze as his foot stepped on a white line, painted in front of the door. He halted, then flinched back.
‘Do not cross this line,’was written above in painfully familiar handwriting. Slater swallowed, inched forward, squinted, then recoiled, stung with the pain of betrayal. Gawking about the room, he searched for cameras but found none, his palm tightly pressed to his side.
“No. Master can’t do this.” He grounded his teeth, tilted his head to one side, then to another before placing his toes over the line. Still wet, the paint stuck to his skin, gluing his toe to the blue tile floor. Jerking his head away, he spun on his heels, letting out a guttural roar of dissatisfaction. Storming toward the window, he peeked out.
His heart sank.
The blinding sun lavished the dusty road that rolled out in three directions, about fifty feet beneath him. Yanking the window open, he scanned the wall on his left, then right, but found nothing to use to climb down. But even if there was anything to grip, Slater lost confidence in his strength. Sweat beaded on his forehead as the pain throbbed inside from merely getting out of bed.
“No. Master can’t!” He slammed his palm against the windowsill as anger flooded his heart. Storming through his veins, it demanded he escape. “Slater won’t stay in. This is stupid.”
He stumbled to the door but stalled as soon as his toes crossed the line. The pain beneath his right ribs grew stronger with every move he took, enraging him. With a roar, he grabbed the plastic chair that stood near his bed and smashed it against the wall, then lifted the bed, intending to flip it over, but gasped with suffocating pain.
“Could you please stop this act of vandalism?” The calm, familiar voice syringed a new dose of irritation into Slater’s system, making him spin and growl. “If you keep acting like this, you’ll scare the nurses, and they will refuse to bring you food. Lie down, please. Let me see your stitches, and don’t lift heavy objects unless you want to prolong your stay for a few weeks.”
Dumbfounded, Slater scrunched up his face, trying to remember the doctor’s name.Miraç?
Senses heightening, Slater tugged the air into his lungs, but the man didn’t reek of fear, in complete opposite, he smelled like security. Calm and confident, he picked up the chair and returned it to its place, taking a seat.
“Where is Master?” Slater hissed, his unsettled nerves demanded he kill.
“Left this morning.” Miraç straightened the bed and patted the covers. “Please, lie down. I can see you want to kill me, but you can do that after you’ve healed.”
Slater didn’t know why, but for the first time in his life, he obeyed someone who wasn’t his master. Crawling onto the bed, he nestled his broken body on a pillow, closing his eyes to collect the shards of his energy and pacify the tearing pain in his side.
Undoing the top lace of his gown, Miraç revealed the upper side of Slater’s body, then removed the bandage.
“You are lucky you’re alive. The knife scratched your liver.” His feather-light touch tickled Slater’s side, raising bumps all over his skin. Slater glanced down at the ugly, fresh scar. Black threads sticking out of the wound resembled bug legs.Ugly…
“When will Master be back?”
“You are healing well!” Miraç grinned, flashing with white teeth. Slater considered fisting his hair and slamming that smiling face against the nightstand to make the praying spot on his forehead bloody. “Please, take it easy or the stitches won’t hold. Do you need to pee yet? The catheter was removed only an hour ago, so…”
“Slater asked, when Master will return.” Fighting pain, Slater brought his face forward, boring into the tranquil brown eyes. The lack of fear was insulting, and Slater wondered if he presented such a weak and miserable state that Miraç didn’t consider him a threat.
“He didn’t say. But he left something for you.” Two fingers dove into the chest pocket and tugged out a piece of paper. Slater snatched it before Miraç could offer it. With a neurotic movement, he unfolded the sheet and peered at the single line.
