Chapter 10
Aicha let a hiss slip past her lips as the final stitch was made in her arm. The sutures were done by her father as they sat in his study, surrounded by both Samira and Rachid. “You need to be more careful, shanewla.”
“It’s not as if I planned to get hurt,” she grumbled, her eyes squinting from the sunlight that streamed through his open window.
They had returned from their raid just as dawn broke, with Aicha’s arm tucked into her chest to prevent a trail of blood.
The pain had surfaced shortly after leaving the cistern, and the smoke that billowed from the fire they had started was visible all the way from their side of the citadel.
The explosion had ricocheted in her ears, almost dizzying her.
She was sure it could have been heard as far as Sale.
They left behind nothing but the ashes of crates and bunks that had once occupied the underground barracks.
Just as Aicha had predicted, it was gorgeous.
Samira hovered over Fouad, watching closely as he began to bind the wound carefully and tightly. “Yes, but you jumped into it without adequate thought or planning.”
“He could have killed you,” Rachid remarked, level and collected in a way he always appeared to be around Fouad. Yet there was a look of distress that lingered in his eyes, an anger that held no one in particular responsible. “It could have easily been your own neck he struck.”
“I was trying to save my sister,” Aicha shot back, though not unkindly.
When Fouad released her, she flexed her hand and tested the strength of her bindings by extending and bending her arm slowly.
A dull ache rested beneath the fabric, humming underneath the skin much like a headache would.
She found she could live with it, but it would limit her movement for the rest of the day.
“I am proud of you,” Fouad said, his smile broad and eyes bright, boasting a pride for his youngest she had not been subject to before. “Her first kill!”
He stood, placing a hand on her shoulder on the opposite side and patting it with just the slightest bit of force. This was something he always did after Samira and Rachid returned from a smuggling job, and Aicha felt a surge in her chest that made her feel buckets lighter.
The previous gnawing fear, over the depths of her own rage and what it might drive her to, temporarily receded into a quiet corner of her mind.
But it reared its head every time she thought of what could have befallen Samira had she been merely seconds late.
Aicha clenched her jaw, reminding herself to count back from ten as she dug her nails into her palm hard enough to break skin.
Stay in the moment. As if Samira knew where her mind was, she took their baba’s spot, smiling quickly.
It was a subtle yet confident gesture, like Samira herself. Aicha squeezed Samira’s hand back.
“I am grateful for your help,” Samira said, “but I am supposed to protect you.”
“No.” Aicha shook her head. “We protect each other.”
The elder Sanhaji sister rolled her eyes, though she failed to voice disagreement.
That feigned irritation gave way to something more tender, and Samira reached for Aicha’s good hand, squeezing it softly.
Fouad interrupted the moment, coming to nudge Samira’s shoulder in a bid to get her up. “As your sister must rest, you can do her chores today. I need a set of scythes delivered to Abdulhakim at the docks.”
“That was why she was so reckless; to get out of chores,” Samira joked as she stood without further protest, giving Aicha’s hand one last squeeze before she moved past her. “Get some rest.”
Once Samira and their baba had left, the curtain that separated Fouad’s study from the hallway fell back down, awarding Aicha and Rachid their first moment of privacy.
A soft sigh escaped him as he moved slowly, lowering until his knees hit the tiled floor in front of Aicha, his head resting in her lap.
She felt his breath warming the fabric on her thigh as he gripped onto her with a hold that was just a notch below tight, and tenderness burst within her chest. It was the most vulnerable he had ever allowed himself to be in front of Aicha; because every other time he had feared for her safety, that same fear was hidden behind a veneer of frustration.
Slowly and silently, she ran her fingers through his hair, just as she often did when he returned from a long trip.
When she just wanted to hold him, and feel that he was there; real and unscathed. Alive.
“Watching my heart walk around without protection is becoming tiresome,” he mumbled, and Aicha couldn’t help but laugh softly.
There was nothing either could say. Rachid would not ask her to step away from the danger they all willingly put themselves in, and neither would she do so if he did. But she knew at that moment all Rachid needed was to savour her safety, uninterrupted.
He rose soon enough, the heaviness that appeared to weigh down his shoulders had eased. His hand reached out to trail across Aicha’s cheek, and she noted the way in which he examined her face, registering her exhaustion.
“You should rest,” he said, voice low and knuckles lingering on her cheekbones. “You need to regain your strength for the coming days.”
Leaning into his touch, and closing her eyes, she asked one thing of him. “Will you stay?”
“Always.”
She had fallen asleep to the sound of scribbling on parchment paper: Rachid had been true to his word and remained in the study pouring over maps and plans—as if he had not done so thousands of times prior—while Aicha had slept on the single, short sidari that was situated in the furthest corner of the room.
Aicha knew she was dreaming when she found herself in Ilham’s quarters again.
The brightness that had once existed in the extravagant sidaris and djilabas folded in the corner was now dull.
The intricately carved table no longer shone with the gold paintings that surrounded each diamond and swirl. It was rotten.
It meant something. Being there meant something.
Her heart stuttered, fear wrapping around it and squeezing tightly as she looked for the same creature that haunted her footsteps in her nightmares. Who, until her last one, had only lurked at a distance, far enough for her to be forgotten.
Its movement was sudden and barely a flicker in the corner of Aicha’s vision.
She turned, finding it crouched in the corner, and her eyes found the same deep, endless black that tormented her.
The same one who screamed as if nothing in the world could provide a reprieve from its pain.
Aicha blinked, and found that it was gone.
As if it had not been there in the first place.
“Wake up!” she pleaded, rubbing her fists into her eyes as if that would free her from her slumber. “Please wake up!”
The pain was sudden, exploding from her chest and echoing towards her abdomen and up her shoulders. Aicha heard the cracking of her ribs as she felt something claw its way through her flesh and lungs.
She screamed, collapsing onto her knees and hunching over. “Stop!”
There was a familiarity in the pain, reminiscent of her waking moments when the dark tendrils of rage inside her begged for release. But this was violent, visceral, as she felt those same tendrils burst from inside.
“Stop!” she begged. “Please stop!”
Release me.
She rolled onto her back, eyes wide in terror, as the tearing continued, until blood pooled on her tunic at her chest. Her scream died in her throat as her chest burst open. Blood splattered the floor and Ilham’s fine fabrics as a hand clawed its way out of her chest—
The sound of her screaming accompanied Aicha into the world of the living, and she shot up, disoriented and dazed as the sleep dissipated. The room was dark, save for a lantern that illuminated the table, where Rachid no longer sat.
“Rachid?” she called out, voice raw and trembling, hoping she would find him there, to hold her and soothe her.
To ground her and disperse the nightmare.
Shouts came from the window, several voices overlapping, and distinct screaming.
Alarm seeped into her bones, adrenalin spiking in her veins.
It forced her out of bed, then she put on her boots and sprinted out of the door.
Crowds of people had spilled out onto the streets directly in front of Fouad’s front door, obstructing Aicha’s view as she pushed through neighbours.
There were gasps and screams, and the sound of solid objects being thrown against walls.
She heard the distinct shout of her own baba, as well as Rachid and her khals.
Alarm pulsed again beneath her skin, forceful and overbearing.
She cut through the crowd and gasped. A soldier tossed her father’s tools directly at him.
Fouad yelled profanity as he was held back by two of Duarte’s men.
Samira, in a similar position a few paces away, was watching as they ransacked the smithy.
The sounds of it being destroyed from the inside echoed loudly as Duarte’s enraged screams came from inside.
His juniors took turns carrying crates of weapons and equipment outside, emptying them as if they would find something that did not belong to Fouad.
“Where is it?” Duarte shoved his own men aside as he exited the smithy, stalking towards Fouad and punching him. “Where is everything you and your rats stole?”
He failed to wait for a response as he punched Fouad once more.
Aicha sprang forward, fists clenched. The dull ache that had become familiar in her right arm had disappeared, as if whatever dark force inside her—temporarily subdued since the cistern—had eradicated it.
She only felt the heated curls of fury that burned inside her chest, lashing at her sides in a bid to be heard.
“Aicha, no!”
Rachid’s arms wrapped around her from behind, keeping her rooted in place.
“Aaagghh!” Her scream of frustration was guttural and came from deep within.
She fought against him, forcing him to loosen his hold ever so slightly as they stumbled to their knees. Despite his strength, Aicha managed to inch forward, her nails scratching at his forearms and breaking skin.
“Let me go!” she screamed.
“He’ll kill you!” Rachid shouted, arms locking into place around her shoulders and waist. “You must stay calm!”
“Baba!” Aicha screamed, over and over, until her throat became raw. She watched as Duarte gripped Fouad’s collar, yanking him upwards so that his face was level with his own.
She would kill him, she thought. She would kill him.
With Rachid’s grip constricting her, she was left with no release for that darkness that filled her chest. Like a predator, it had lingered beneath the surface of the water, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
It became stronger, louder, until Aicha was left overwhelmed by its demands.
It boomed in her head, building pressure beneath her eyes in the same way a migraine would.
Its voice became clearer, a demanding tone that no longer felt like it was any part of her and repeating the same words.
Let me out let me out let me out!
The cacophony of screaming and carnage surrounding Aicha became muted as she fought against the rage.
She flailed, trying to shove it down as if she could do so with her own bare hands, but it only became louder.
A lump lodged in her throat and she fought the urge to sob.
Tears stung the corner of her eyes, but she could no longer tell for what reason.
As Duarte delivered another blow to Fouad’s cheek, a scream ripped from Aicha’s throat. She tasted the madness that built inside her in her mouth, like ash had collected beneath her tongue and she was forced to keep it there out of fear of what she would spew should she free it.
Let me out!
“Aicha, listen to me.”
We will rip out his heart and tongue!
Rachid’s voice called to her, like a flicker of light in the dark. It was calming, gentle like the lull of the ocean in the night. Caressing her skin like cool water on the hottest day.
Let me rip him open!
“Aicha, please.” Rachid’s voice wavered, his chin burrowing into the crook of her neck as he spoke in her ear quietly.
“Breathe with me. Count,” he pleaded, and Aicha could almost taste the desperation. “Ten, nine…”
She felt the rise of his chest on her back, his breathing steady and not at all startled by the carnage they both bore witness to.
The sensation of fire surging beneath her skin had begun to recede, her hand coming to grip his wrist as she closed her eyes and simply felt his breathing. Forcing her to count within her mind.
Eight, seven, six…
“Five, four, three…” His soft words were somehow louder than the voice that had taken residence within her, until it no longer felt as if it had been there at all. As if it had all been her imagination.
Two, one.
“It will be all right,” he said, a certainty in his voice that she could not understand. Repeating it as if he needed to be told himself while they watched Duarte beat her father.
For something that was her fault.