Bitten in Two

fingers ached to glide down that path, to slide under the col ar of his dark almond shirt and feel the muscles of his back move under my hands. He stil wore suspenders, which I found oddly charming, and tonight they held up a pair of gray pinstriped trousers that made it real y hard to look away from his ass. But I managed it when he shoved the paper into my face.

“The words look lovely, almost as if she painted them.

Tel me what they say.”

Tel me what they say.”

I tried to back up, but the bed got in my way, so I ended up bouncing on my butt a couple of times as he moved toward the bench. I watched him get comfortable. “You want me to… read it out loud?”

“Yes.”

“Won’t you be embarrassed?”

“Not unless you run out and tel everyone in the street what you have just read.” He stared me down, and I discovered a spectacular reserve of happiness saved just for this moment when I rejoiced not to have ever been one of his victims.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“That is what I thought.” He nodded. “Proceed.” I held up the paper, tried to ignore the pain behind my eye that signaled the beginning of a nasty headache, and began reading.

My Own Vasil,

Can you imagine how happy your letter made me? Before it came I was falling into the worst kind of despair. But now I have hope. Maybe heroes exist after all, and you are mine. But the way will not be easy. Because you cannot see me, my love. If I stood next to you and whispered, “I love you,” into your ear, you would not hear it. Some prisons are so hard to break free from that it seems nearly impossible to think that we could ever be together. But I believe in miracles, Vasil. So come if you can. Try your hardest to see me, and I believe you will.

Your own love,

Jasmine

I’d dropped my head into my hand at the last line.

Embarrassed to have to read it out loud, but also feeling every word to my core, I knew my knees just wouldn’t hold me anymore. When I looked up, Vayl was gone.

I scrambled to my trunk, puled out the Party Line, and stuck the pieces into place. “Bergman! Vayl’s gone! I mean, I don’t know where he is, but I’m assuming he went out to hunt or something. Have you got him?”

“Hang on.” I heard the tapping of keys. Bergman said,

“Yeah. Looks like he’s heading to the Djemaa el Fna.” I grabbed Grief, my holster, and the jacket that hid both.

“He’s headed to that Seer’s place. Find the address for me, then tel Cole and Sterling to meet me there.”

“Okay, but… okay.”

I weaponed up, threw on the jacket, and ran down the stairs. Each step felt like a nail in my skul . Ignoring the pain, I slammed out the doors, gasping a little at the change between the cool, air-conditioned riad and hot, dry Marrakech.

People fil ed the sidewalks, and as I moved toward the old city’s central square, I passed an equal number of gaping tourists, bright-eyed immigrants, and smiling natives. Some of the last bunch felt I couldn’t live another day without their services, but I turned them al down and, miraculously, they moved on, probably uninterested in keeping up with my pace, which was nearing a run.

Bergman said, “I just got done talking to Monique. She says Sister Hafeza Ghoumari lives just off the Rue El Koutoubia. I can guide you most of the way just watching Vayl’s blip. But when you need the right door, you’l be able to find it easily. She says it’s real y distinct, with dots like brown rivets in a flowery pattern at the top, and then more dots going down the front that are in more of a triangular pattern. Also the doorframe is set with a mosaic of white and yel ow tile.”

“Okay. I’m entering the Djemaa el Fna right now.

Where’s Vayl?”

“He’s on the north edge. Looks like he’s just leaving.

Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“He’s moving kind of slow. Like he does when he’s hunting. You’d better hurry, Jaz. I think he means to get a bite to eat before he visits the Sister.” Shit!

At night the Djemaa el Fna is like a city unto itself. And negotiating the crowds without getting your pocket picked or punching a butt-groper in the face was a feat unto itself. I skirted audiences gaping at the amazing feats of Tazeroualti acrobats and ordered myself not to get caught up in the wonder of their twisting, leaping tricks. I strode past circles of men roaring at the rambling tales of storytel ers whose nimble fingers mixed herbs and fire to make moving il ustrations in the air above their handwoven baskets. I shouldered past tourists bartering over silver jewelry or standing in line to have their fortunes told. And al the time I talked to the ring on my finger. Out loud. Like a crazy woman.

“Tel him,” I whispered. “Tel him I’m coming. He doesn’t need to do this. He doesn’t want to do this. Deep down, he knows it’s wrong. Don’t let him tear up his own soul… or…

whatever it is that makes him so… Vayl.”