10. The Gift of Sympathy (Vaye)¶
The fog of sour breath that rolled out of Fihro’s mouth would have been enough to choke her even without Musab sitting on her chest. Vaye’s vision was blurred and distorted, as though she were looking up through a puddle, and her head felt about four times its normal size. She was unsure whether the sensations were due to the Gift or Musab’s bulk squeezing the breath out of her. She tried to buck him off with her hips, but he was too well-balanced. He and Fihro had clearly done this before.
“Look at her, Musab!” Fihro said. “I guess it’s true what they say about Anashi. She’s desperate for it.” He leaned down, grinning in her face.
She snarled and tried to headbutt him, but was too slow. A viscous coating of lethargy slowed her movements, as though her blood had grown too thick for her heart to pump. “Now, now, no need to be rude,” Fihro drawled. “Musab, remind her of her manners.” The big thug drew back his massive hand and casually slapped her, cracking the back of her head against the stone. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as twin rings of colored blotches spun across her vision.
“Speaking of nownow, I’ll be taking this back,” Fihro said, holding up the bag. “Can’t have you dying on me. Overdoses are bad for business, even if no one would mourn you.”
She turned her head away, but Fihro grabbed her by the jaw and forced her to face him. “As for the money, I’m sure you didn’t come by it honestly.” The volume of his voice faded out and then back in as he spoke, as though he were in motion. “You probably conned it out of someone, like you people always do. I’m taking that back as well, for the sake of the community. Most importantly, you disrespected me.” He leaned in again, close enough to whisper in her ear. “So now I have to teach you a lesson.”
Musab settled his weight on her torso. His shins were situated on her biceps, pinning her elbows to the stone and making her hands tingle. She twisted, trying to relieve the pressure, but he was just too heavy. As she struggled, her hand brushed against the broken shards of her pipe, which he had crushed with his knee. Something whispered in her mind, a dark shape crouching in her memory that she couldn’t quite resolve.
With the wild eyes of a sick dog, Fihro handed Musab his knife and took off his shirt. “If she moves, widen her smile,” he said. As Fihro stepped around him and began tugging at Vaye’s trousers, Musab brought the blade to her lips as though shushing her. She tried to kick, but Fihro secured her ankles under one arm, chuckling.
A stillness came over her, a sense that time itself was waiting for her. Something about the scene felt familiar, as though a part of her had been here before. Slowly, her fingers pinched one of the needle-like remnants of her pipe. Musab leaned forward, shifting his hips back and placing his free hand next to her head so he could press the knife to her face. As his tailbone came into range, her wrist flicked upward, stabbing the witchglass into a precise point at the base of his spine, simultaneously driving the sliver into the meat of her palm.
The big Cantereian stiffened. A strange warbling, pulsing sound arose from all directions at once, the moment stretching out like molten glass. She sensed tiny, spiral-shaped roots emerging from the witchglass and tangling themselves through the bundle of nerves in Musab’s spine. Similar threads unfurled into her hand, and a gossamer field of viriyeshet flickered into life between their bodies, connecting the Sacred Point between her eyebrows to each of Musab’s joints. The filaments almost felt tangible, like the strings of the marionettes in Daybreak Yard. Without warning, a wave of dull, animal panic washed over her, alien and invasive, and she realized that the emotion wasn’t hers. It was Musab’s.
All of this happened within the space of a single breath. Fihro, unable to see the viriyeshet, was still wrestling with her legs. For Vaye, manipulating the filaments felt as natural as moving her own limbs. She made Musab sit upright, puppeting his knife hand away from her face.
Fihro paused and glanced over his henchman’s shoulder, frowning. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you a lesson,” Vaye said. Then she used Musab’s arm to ram the knife through Fihro’s eye socket.
Musab’s sudden movement snapped the witchglass shard. He shrieked and fell sideways onto the dais, landing next to Fihro’s twitching body. Vaye pulled her trousers back up and scrambled upright as Musab gazed dumbfounded at his companion. His gaze traveled to the bloody knife in his hand, then back to Vaye, filling with malice as it went. In desperation, she looked around for a weapon. Her tzashim were on the edge of the dais where she’d left them, behind Musab and out of reach.
In malevolent silence, Musab took a step forward, raising the knife. Then the temple door opened behind him, bathing him in light. He turned just in time to see the ribbon of pure white that snipped his neck like a candle wick. His headless body slumped beside Fihro, as mute as he had ever been.
Belosveka shook the blood off her taspara, coiling it back around her waist as she crossed the room. “I followed you,” she said, answering Vaye’s question before she could ask. “Fortunately for you.” She took in Vaye’s state, the broken pipe, and the ball of nownow, which had rolled out of Fihro’s hand and was now soaking up his blood.
“I know how this looks,” Vaye said weakly.
“Do you? Because it looks like you lured some Cantereian drug dealers here and murdered them for their loot. The Sarmalans will execute you, if the Rilão Cartel doesn’t get to you first.” The Dzharian stepped over the bodies and stood looking down at Vaye. “Say goodbye to this place. You must never come back here again.”
Vaye tried to summon a protest, but Belosveka was right. This temple had sheltered her for the last time.
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