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“I’m not lying,” I say.
My mouth is so dry I can barely talk. My throat hurts. Don’t look up. Don’t look around. Nothing that might give them any reason to go upstairs. Fear has me in a death grip. Literally. If they go upstairs it’s all over. Right now they don’t seem to know that the one they are looking for is here.
“We know he was coming here,” the newest one says. “Where is he?”
“I do not know,” I say. “Have you checked your mom’s bedroom?”
I don’t see the slap coming before my head is knocked to the side. I bite my tongue causing my mouth to fill with blood. Stars dance in my head and I can’t focus. Tears fill my eyes making everything blurry.
Damn that hurt. Really bad. It’s okay. I’m still here. They haven’t taken me away. And most importantly they haven’t gone upstairs. I turn back to face the one who slapped me just as he rotates out with the next one.
Is that why they do that? To keep from wearing their hands out? Jerks. Rather than antagonizing them I turn my head and spit out a mouthful of blood. That done I return my gaze to the floor and wait for the next question. Or blow.
“Where is Bhoja?” the new one asks.
I want to smart off again. I want them to leave.
I want to kill them.
The suddenness and darkness of that urge hits me so fast and so viscerally that it makes me pause. My stomach churns but the thought lingers. These Maulavi, they are evil. They’ve threatened me with every form of horror I could imagine and some I never would have thought of. And they will do it. Of that I have no doubt. There is something wrong with them.
I know that they’re aliens but that doesn’t matter. They have no sense of humanity. Bhoja does. Maulavi does. Every Zmaj I’ve ever met does. These guys, though, there is nothing. They are cold. When I look in their eyes all I see is emptiness. When they talk of torture, when they hurt me, if anything it seems to give them pleasure.
They’re sick and wrong. They need to be stopped and I truly don’t think they will ever stop. Not until their dead. Which brings me back to the thought. They’ve asked a dozen questions while I consider this. I’ve given answers that I only half pay attention to. Most of my concern is tied up with this idea that I’m changing.
I’ve never, in all my life, wanted to kill someone. All of us survivors have, or most likely have, killed. I have, but never with the intention of it. It’s always been a matter of life or death. Not coldly calculated and fully thought out in advance.
“Where is Bhoja?”
“I told you,” I mutter.
This time I see the hand coming. I move away from it but all that only lessens the impact a little and because I’m leaning away it causes the force of his hit to knock me and the chair I’m in over. I land with a crash on my side, cracking my head on the floor.
I must black out for a second or something. All I see are feet but they should be pointed towards me. They’re not, I’m looking at the back of their boots. Something else crashed too. What was it? What is happening?
“Let. Her. Go.”
Bhoja?
My heart leaps into my throat. I push off the floor into a sitting position but it makes my head spin and for a moment I’m sure I’m going to be sick. I stop moving and wait for it to pass. Blinking to clear my eyes I see him. The three Maulavi stand in a semi-circle facing him but though he’s outnumbered he dominates the space and the room. He dominates them.
His face is contorted with rage. His nostrils flare and his lips are pulled back into a snarl as he stares them down, looking at them one at a time.
“Is this what the Maulavi are? Is this how far our people have fallen?”
“We are here on the orders of the Shaman,” one of them says.
“Does the Shaman know you threaten a female? One at least two hands smaller than you and defenseless? One who was entrusted to my care?”
He is all but yelling. He pushes through the three of them and then he is kneeling in front of me. His strong hands grip my shoulders and he leans in close looking at my face. When he sees the blood trickling out of my mouth he growls. Slowly he rises to his feet, turning back to them. Anger comes off of him in waves.
“Which one?” he asks.
He doesn’t yell, which is almost scarier. It is certainly more dangerous.
“We are doing our duty,” someone says.
Bhoja shakes his head and takes another step towards them.
