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“Yes, that is good,” I say.
I keep one hand on his arms and gently stroke along the length of his forearm. He nods then purses his lips.
“Bad,” he mutters. “Gada.”
“Yeah, it’s bad,” I say, my stomach flipping yet again. “What do we do next?”
I ask the question both because I have literally no idea what to do with a body and the best I can do is to try and guide him towards thinking of solutions, which is where I need his brain at. He rubs the back of his head and sighs.
“I don’t know,” he says shaking his head. He purses his lips, blows raspberries, then a grin forms on his face. “Are you hungry?”
“What?” I am so incredibly confused by the question that the words don’t even make sense. I play them over again from memory before I can process them into what they actually are. I stare at him wondering if perhaps he’s lost his damn mind. “We just ate.”
“I know,” he says, “but cooking clears my head. It’s how I think.”
“Oh,” I say and it makes sense. I’ve noticed the joy he takes in food already. But cooking while there is a dead body sitting on the stairs is… weird at best. Psychopathic at the worst. I frown deeply. “Bhoja, I get it, but are you sure now is the time to be cooking? We need to do… something with that.”
I look over my shoulder at the Maulavi who is still lying there and still very much dead.
“Ah, yes,” Bhoja says. He walks past me and I can’t look because my stomach just won’t handle it but I hear him manhandling the body. He tugs and pulls then I hear him grunting. “There.”
I force myself to turn around no matter the protest of my belly which bounces between a tightly wound knot and a churning mess of acid. He has picked up the Maulavi and placed him on the couch like a piece of furniture. I stare in a mix of shock and surprise. He’s positioned him in such a manner that it looks like he has one arm thrown across the back of the furniture, one leg crossed onto the other, and for all the world as if he is relaxing and having a conversation.
I snort then laugh. I can’t help myself. The absolute absurdity of this situation is more than I can possibly comprehend. Bhoja smiles, almost beaming with pride at his actions.
“And this is a solution?” I ask.
“No?” he makes it a question. “Temporary. If someone comes to the door…”
He trails off looking between the body and me. I close my eyes for a moment then nod.
“Sure,” I agree. “I mean, it’s better than having him all…”
I motion at the stairs and gesture around to indicate the way he was lying there all clearly broken and very, very dead. Not that he deserved any better than he got. Not after what he threatened me with, but still. Bhoja nods looking serious now.
“Okay, good,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “This won’t last.”
“You think?” I ask, eyes widening in surprise. “Or maybe we could keep him here. Move him around, you know, make it look like he decided to move in with you and hang out.”
“That would never work,” Bhoja says. “A Maulavi would never choose to live with a guard.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
He stares at me not understanding and I realize that I used a Common word, not a Zmaj. Now that I think of it there is no Zmaj word for sarcasm. Which kind of makes sense, the Zmaj aren’t big on sarcasm. Pretty much a say what they mean kind of guys. He arches an eyebrow waiting for me to explain but I got nothing.
“Forget it,” I say at last waving a hand. “It’s not going to work for very long. What are going to do?”
“Help.”
“Help what?”
“No, not you.”
“Fine, but who then? Can you explain what we do next? Feeling more than a little lost here and let’s be honest, I don’t know about you but I’m terrified!”
He locks his eyes onto mine and then nods. He raises his arms, drops them, then pulls them up and holds them out. It’s an offer. I stare at his empty arms and want, with all my heart to run into them. I want to hide, to get away from the world and all that has gone wrong.
But I hesitate.
