(Thank you to Unfettered)
October, 2016
Una prowled the ledge of a two-story tenement situated between the Night Market fronting the harbor and a parallel alleyway that was its own sort of harbor: darkness like a disease and oil-slicked as the water nearby ate through the meager panacea of lamplight. Overcome, the lamps sputtered and died.
There was little hurry in her steps, so lightly treading the physical juxtaposition of boisterous life on one side and lifeless quiet on the other. It was a line Una walked sure-footed. To her left, the Market had come to life with the ebb of twilight. So very different than the Market in the daytime when the sunlight was quicker to reveal bad dealings and ill-advised trades. Not so in the Night Market. Everything bought, sold and traded was enchanted or bedeviled and came at a cost most humans couldn?t afford?nor could they appreciate the value in the trade.
Only the most reckless or stupid chanced it, and it still happened quite often.
Bins of blood oranges allured with the subtle flowering of their summer-warm scent, but the juice inside them had a distinctly copper tang and would stain the mouth, the fingertips, and clothing. Trinkets and baubles arranged in a bin guarded by a wizened crone glittered in a kaleidoscope of curses and blessings?a game of chance for those brave enough or desperate enough to play. A weaver beat dust from carpets threaded with gold, silver, and the cobweb silk of dreams. The rugs that were deeper in hue, piled thick upon each other in a back corner, were stitched with nightmares perfect for lending an air of gravitas to the drawing rooms of demons. Even the sugar floss of cotton candy was spun with an aural magic that enhanced the mood in accordance with its flavoring. When it melted on the tongue of a human, it rocketed them into the stratosphere on a high so swift and intense that the first hallucination alone could cause permanent madness.
The scent of the Market was as familiar as his mother's hair, the sound like his brother's laugh, intertwined with the fibers of memory that ran through his heart. The Night Market had been a place for a creature like him to cut his teeth, learn from his elders how to hunt for those naive dreamers who longed to wish upon a star. This one wasn't the same as the one where Mus'ad had grown up, but was similar enough that an indulgent smile hovered at one corner of his mouth.
Standing across the alleyway, a halo of lamplight illuminated the tailored linen suit, the crisp crease of a white collar that perfectly contrasted skin the color of sand dunes under a full moon.
Mus?ad held a cellphone to his ear while he watched the people weave back and forth in an unconscious dance around each other that was punctuated by loud laughter and strident voices arguing in foreign languages and exotic accents. In his other hand, he rolled a clear marble between his thumb and middle finger, the small planet revolving around the pad of his thumb until he finished the call. Hanging up, Mus?ad slid the phone into an interior jacket pocket and adjusted the river of copper silk hanging loose and disheveled around his neck. Stepping off the curb, he prowled across the alley to plunge into the torrid waters of shadowy dealings.
Linen wasn?t an unusual sight, especially given the location and the fact that the weather had been on the cusp lately. It was the tailoring, the crisp lines that perfectly gloved the man's body that caught the dark fathoms of Una's gaze first. Secondary was the bronzed skin and features that struck Una as a unique amalgam of European and Middle Eastern. She lingered the longest on the shape of his eyes as he gave his attention to the passers-by.
A soundless drop from her bird?s-eye vantage point delivered Una effortlessly into the sea of life below where she welcomed the anemone-like brush of bare arms against her own and threaded herself among the sightseers and seekers like a native. Her sleeveless black dress was simple and unremarkable unless one was cognizant of tailoring, and then they would notice that the shift fluted and cinched in precisely the right places, neither modest nor brazen.
In spite of the vibrancy of her surroundings, Una's attention remained sharply pinned to the man. In particular: the object he rolled between his fingers. Just before he stepped from the curb, she situated herself between the colorful flutter of vegetable-dyed silk scarves clothes-pinned in display some distance ahead of him. Her positioning was both covert and revealing at the same time, depending on the perspective.
There she waited to see what the man would do next.
There wasn?t a single wrinkle in the linen Mus?ad wore, not even at the small of his back or along the crease that hugged his hamstrings and calves. Perhaps the threads were charmed to stay perfectly smooth at all times. A buzz at his chest caught his attention, though the motion of the marble in his fingers never paused or stuttered. Mus?ad?s brow arched when the screen lit his features and made pale ghosts of his green eyes as they scanned the information. A hard squint later, he returned the device to his jacket while he scanned the crowd.
With the ease of someone raised in a crowded city, he moved with the slow current of bodies that kept a constant flow back and forth between the stalls. Passing by the bins of blood oranges, he paused to look them over, fingertips caressing before one was plucked from the pile and held to his nose. A few quick words and coins were exchanged, the hawker peeling the blood orange for him and wrapping the slices in a bit of cheesecloth. Inclining his head, Mus'ad turned and continued down the line of street vendors, spying a finely boned and delicate face among handwoven scarves.
He lingered there, lifting the orange slices to his nose to inhale deeply, a secret smile playing over his mouth while he took a step closer to his destination. Pausing just a few feet away from her, green eyes fixed upon Una while he extended the sweetly bleeding crescents. "Would you like to share?" His voice was smooth, the accent lilting and reminiscent of arid nights spent on wide balconies in an oasis of luxury above a thriving slum.
Curiosity foiled Una?s plans to make a game of the man's foray into the market. Where she intended to relocate once he'd reached the bin of oranges, she remained transfixed, watching the exchange between the hawker and the stranger with a discerning tilt of her head. When she righted the angle and took a step forward, the wings of her bob settled gently against her cheek like two perfect pencil points. Una Cristea seemed a composition of curves that tapered to sharp points: eyes, lips, teeth. The latter, though, remained hidden for the moment.
Mus?ad?s approach was afforded the same deep scrutiny she?d given the exchange with the blood orange vendor, and it, unlike her clothing, was decidedly bold. Una's ilk enjoyed pretty things, though the aesthetics didn?t adhere to any particular code, and it had equally as much to do with appearance as it did feeling. The man approaching her was like fine white sand through her fingers. The five digits closed against her palm to capture the sensation as the bleeding orange filled her vision, as tempting as the accent that accompanied the offering. But Una also knew that her favor these days was as good as a noose around the neck. The smile she gave him in return was that of a hostess: gracious, reserved, and impermeable as china. "There is a saying about taking gifts from strangers. Are you a stranger?"
Patience had never been a virtue of Mus?ad?s; he preferred vice. Pride and Wrath honed his impatience to a fine edge, ready to cut through any obstacle to obtain his desire. The breeding that he oozed wouldn?t allow him to show it, though, merely incline his chin to her as if that were an answer all its own. "Beware your enemy once, your friend a thousand times. I would rather be your friend than your enemy but as for strangers--my name is Mus'ad Boustani." The mere exchanging of names could turn a stranger into an acquaintance, depending upon local custom.
The oranges still hovered between them but Mus?ad folded the white fabric around them. It darkened with the blood of the fruit, like the rag of a consumption patient. He then presented the marble to her in the middle of his other palm. It was clear but for a solid ribbon of pale green that replicated the color of his eyes but lacked the fire that drove him. An undulation of his fingers rolled the marble along the ridges of tendon and bone and with a deft turn of his wrist, he flipped his hand over while maintaining contact with the orb. Light cast dancing reflections upon his dusky skin through the glass as it rolled smoothly over his knuckles.
"Mus'ad Boustani," Una?s echo of the syllables was as redolent and perfectly accented as he presented it to her. Languages were of great interest to Una, and there were few she hadn?t mastered adeptly enough to trick even the most fine-tuned ear. What few discrepancies remained were usually easily resolved by charm. There was no need for her to layer it here, however. It would only be needless competition. And there was still the matter of the marble, besides.
She watched the tricks he made the little glass orb perform, the deft skill in his hands that streaked a ribbon of lambent green over fingers and knuckles. For a sliver of a second, her smile slipped genuine with enchantment before correcting itself, and she was glad to know she could still be charmed?even if only for seconds. "You already know who I am, then." Una extended her hand, pale palm upturned. She didn?t specify whether she was waiting for the orange, the marble, or even his own hand, but seemed more interested in his choice of offering, as if that in itself might be telling. "Are we making a social acquaintance or is there some other business at hand?" Dark eyes rose to meet his. They held no light, not even a reflection of the moon; the blackness of them was simply too ravenous.
The inky darkness that swallowed all light was enchanting, reminding Mus?ad of the desert at night. Yes, there was the light of a million stars but something about the vast, empty expanse and the stark reality of your aloneness was brought to mind by those empty eyes. It made Mus?ad long for home with a pang he did his best to ignore. The two slices of orange that he nestled within Una?s hand were cool despite being cradled in the heat of his palm. The burgundy juice funneled down the grooves of her palm toward her wrist in bloody rivulets.
"I had a hope for your identity, now it is confirmed," he said, inclining his head to her again. The marble was palmed, that hand tucked against his side where he rolled it between fingers once more. "Were it any other night in any other city, I would wish merely to make the acquaintance of someone with such a charming smile." One corner of his mouth tilted to acknowledge that he?d caught that moment before she schooled her expression into something banal and polite. "But unfortunately, this night in this city has led me to you for another reason. I seek your brother."
Una tilted her laden palm to her mouth, catching the flesh of the fruit at her wrist where the juices ran garishly red over blue veins beneath. She swallowed with an indulgent shuttering of dark lashes. "Were it any other night," she said as the flavor of the orange lit up her senses and raced through her body, "in any other city, I would make sure to give you the least forgettable of my smiles." Her eyes, when they opened again and drifted over his face, carried a dull fire?though whether it was for his comment or the fruit?s spice hitting the back of her throat was hard to say.
She didn't play coy at his acknowledgment, however, merely met the temperament of his half smile with her own before turning a look over the market. "He's not here yet, though I imagine he will be soon. He has a hard time staying away from temptation for long." The empty palm of her hand pulled slowly across her thigh as she took one step to the side, a turn imminent. "I'll tell him you're looking for him if he doesn't find you first." With little more than a pirouette and graceful half step, the night market drew her back into its arms.
Her mouth was wide and sensual, the only soft thing between angled cheekbones and a sharp, pointed chin, but Mus?ad watched as she ate the orange and enjoyed it before spinning away from him. He remained silent. With a sidestep and turn of his own, he took up the empty space she'd been occupying between the stalls, gazing in the direction she moved for some time. Pensive, he ate the remainder of the orange with slow motions, sucking the juice from his fingers before he disappeared in the shadows of the market.
October, 2016
Una prowled the ledge of a two-story tenement situated between the Night Market fronting the harbor and a parallel alleyway that was its own sort of harbor: darkness like a disease and oil-slicked as the water nearby ate through the meager panacea of lamplight. Overcome, the lamps sputtered and died.
There was little hurry in her steps, so lightly treading the physical juxtaposition of boisterous life on one side and lifeless quiet on the other. It was a line Una walked sure-footed. To her left, the Market had come to life with the ebb of twilight. So very different than the Market in the daytime when the sunlight was quicker to reveal bad dealings and ill-advised trades. Not so in the Night Market. Everything bought, sold and traded was enchanted or bedeviled and came at a cost most humans couldn?t afford?nor could they appreciate the value in the trade.
Only the most reckless or stupid chanced it, and it still happened quite often.
Bins of blood oranges allured with the subtle flowering of their summer-warm scent, but the juice inside them had a distinctly copper tang and would stain the mouth, the fingertips, and clothing. Trinkets and baubles arranged in a bin guarded by a wizened crone glittered in a kaleidoscope of curses and blessings?a game of chance for those brave enough or desperate enough to play. A weaver beat dust from carpets threaded with gold, silver, and the cobweb silk of dreams. The rugs that were deeper in hue, piled thick upon each other in a back corner, were stitched with nightmares perfect for lending an air of gravitas to the drawing rooms of demons. Even the sugar floss of cotton candy was spun with an aural magic that enhanced the mood in accordance with its flavoring. When it melted on the tongue of a human, it rocketed them into the stratosphere on a high so swift and intense that the first hallucination alone could cause permanent madness.
The scent of the Market was as familiar as his mother's hair, the sound like his brother's laugh, intertwined with the fibers of memory that ran through his heart. The Night Market had been a place for a creature like him to cut his teeth, learn from his elders how to hunt for those naive dreamers who longed to wish upon a star. This one wasn't the same as the one where Mus'ad had grown up, but was similar enough that an indulgent smile hovered at one corner of his mouth.
Standing across the alleyway, a halo of lamplight illuminated the tailored linen suit, the crisp crease of a white collar that perfectly contrasted skin the color of sand dunes under a full moon.
Mus?ad held a cellphone to his ear while he watched the people weave back and forth in an unconscious dance around each other that was punctuated by loud laughter and strident voices arguing in foreign languages and exotic accents. In his other hand, he rolled a clear marble between his thumb and middle finger, the small planet revolving around the pad of his thumb until he finished the call. Hanging up, Mus?ad slid the phone into an interior jacket pocket and adjusted the river of copper silk hanging loose and disheveled around his neck. Stepping off the curb, he prowled across the alley to plunge into the torrid waters of shadowy dealings.
Linen wasn?t an unusual sight, especially given the location and the fact that the weather had been on the cusp lately. It was the tailoring, the crisp lines that perfectly gloved the man's body that caught the dark fathoms of Una's gaze first. Secondary was the bronzed skin and features that struck Una as a unique amalgam of European and Middle Eastern. She lingered the longest on the shape of his eyes as he gave his attention to the passers-by.
A soundless drop from her bird?s-eye vantage point delivered Una effortlessly into the sea of life below where she welcomed the anemone-like brush of bare arms against her own and threaded herself among the sightseers and seekers like a native. Her sleeveless black dress was simple and unremarkable unless one was cognizant of tailoring, and then they would notice that the shift fluted and cinched in precisely the right places, neither modest nor brazen.
In spite of the vibrancy of her surroundings, Una's attention remained sharply pinned to the man. In particular: the object he rolled between his fingers. Just before he stepped from the curb, she situated herself between the colorful flutter of vegetable-dyed silk scarves clothes-pinned in display some distance ahead of him. Her positioning was both covert and revealing at the same time, depending on the perspective.
There she waited to see what the man would do next.
There wasn?t a single wrinkle in the linen Mus?ad wore, not even at the small of his back or along the crease that hugged his hamstrings and calves. Perhaps the threads were charmed to stay perfectly smooth at all times. A buzz at his chest caught his attention, though the motion of the marble in his fingers never paused or stuttered. Mus?ad?s brow arched when the screen lit his features and made pale ghosts of his green eyes as they scanned the information. A hard squint later, he returned the device to his jacket while he scanned the crowd.
With the ease of someone raised in a crowded city, he moved with the slow current of bodies that kept a constant flow back and forth between the stalls. Passing by the bins of blood oranges, he paused to look them over, fingertips caressing before one was plucked from the pile and held to his nose. A few quick words and coins were exchanged, the hawker peeling the blood orange for him and wrapping the slices in a bit of cheesecloth. Inclining his head, Mus'ad turned and continued down the line of street vendors, spying a finely boned and delicate face among handwoven scarves.
He lingered there, lifting the orange slices to his nose to inhale deeply, a secret smile playing over his mouth while he took a step closer to his destination. Pausing just a few feet away from her, green eyes fixed upon Una while he extended the sweetly bleeding crescents. "Would you like to share?" His voice was smooth, the accent lilting and reminiscent of arid nights spent on wide balconies in an oasis of luxury above a thriving slum.
Curiosity foiled Una?s plans to make a game of the man's foray into the market. Where she intended to relocate once he'd reached the bin of oranges, she remained transfixed, watching the exchange between the hawker and the stranger with a discerning tilt of her head. When she righted the angle and took a step forward, the wings of her bob settled gently against her cheek like two perfect pencil points. Una Cristea seemed a composition of curves that tapered to sharp points: eyes, lips, teeth. The latter, though, remained hidden for the moment.
Mus?ad?s approach was afforded the same deep scrutiny she?d given the exchange with the blood orange vendor, and it, unlike her clothing, was decidedly bold. Una's ilk enjoyed pretty things, though the aesthetics didn?t adhere to any particular code, and it had equally as much to do with appearance as it did feeling. The man approaching her was like fine white sand through her fingers. The five digits closed against her palm to capture the sensation as the bleeding orange filled her vision, as tempting as the accent that accompanied the offering. But Una also knew that her favor these days was as good as a noose around the neck. The smile she gave him in return was that of a hostess: gracious, reserved, and impermeable as china. "There is a saying about taking gifts from strangers. Are you a stranger?"
Patience had never been a virtue of Mus?ad?s; he preferred vice. Pride and Wrath honed his impatience to a fine edge, ready to cut through any obstacle to obtain his desire. The breeding that he oozed wouldn?t allow him to show it, though, merely incline his chin to her as if that were an answer all its own. "Beware your enemy once, your friend a thousand times. I would rather be your friend than your enemy but as for strangers--my name is Mus'ad Boustani." The mere exchanging of names could turn a stranger into an acquaintance, depending upon local custom.
The oranges still hovered between them but Mus?ad folded the white fabric around them. It darkened with the blood of the fruit, like the rag of a consumption patient. He then presented the marble to her in the middle of his other palm. It was clear but for a solid ribbon of pale green that replicated the color of his eyes but lacked the fire that drove him. An undulation of his fingers rolled the marble along the ridges of tendon and bone and with a deft turn of his wrist, he flipped his hand over while maintaining contact with the orb. Light cast dancing reflections upon his dusky skin through the glass as it rolled smoothly over his knuckles.
"Mus'ad Boustani," Una?s echo of the syllables was as redolent and perfectly accented as he presented it to her. Languages were of great interest to Una, and there were few she hadn?t mastered adeptly enough to trick even the most fine-tuned ear. What few discrepancies remained were usually easily resolved by charm. There was no need for her to layer it here, however. It would only be needless competition. And there was still the matter of the marble, besides.
She watched the tricks he made the little glass orb perform, the deft skill in his hands that streaked a ribbon of lambent green over fingers and knuckles. For a sliver of a second, her smile slipped genuine with enchantment before correcting itself, and she was glad to know she could still be charmed?even if only for seconds. "You already know who I am, then." Una extended her hand, pale palm upturned. She didn?t specify whether she was waiting for the orange, the marble, or even his own hand, but seemed more interested in his choice of offering, as if that in itself might be telling. "Are we making a social acquaintance or is there some other business at hand?" Dark eyes rose to meet his. They held no light, not even a reflection of the moon; the blackness of them was simply too ravenous.
The inky darkness that swallowed all light was enchanting, reminding Mus?ad of the desert at night. Yes, there was the light of a million stars but something about the vast, empty expanse and the stark reality of your aloneness was brought to mind by those empty eyes. It made Mus?ad long for home with a pang he did his best to ignore. The two slices of orange that he nestled within Una?s hand were cool despite being cradled in the heat of his palm. The burgundy juice funneled down the grooves of her palm toward her wrist in bloody rivulets.
"I had a hope for your identity, now it is confirmed," he said, inclining his head to her again. The marble was palmed, that hand tucked against his side where he rolled it between fingers once more. "Were it any other night in any other city, I would wish merely to make the acquaintance of someone with such a charming smile." One corner of his mouth tilted to acknowledge that he?d caught that moment before she schooled her expression into something banal and polite. "But unfortunately, this night in this city has led me to you for another reason. I seek your brother."
Una tilted her laden palm to her mouth, catching the flesh of the fruit at her wrist where the juices ran garishly red over blue veins beneath. She swallowed with an indulgent shuttering of dark lashes. "Were it any other night," she said as the flavor of the orange lit up her senses and raced through her body, "in any other city, I would make sure to give you the least forgettable of my smiles." Her eyes, when they opened again and drifted over his face, carried a dull fire?though whether it was for his comment or the fruit?s spice hitting the back of her throat was hard to say.
She didn't play coy at his acknowledgment, however, merely met the temperament of his half smile with her own before turning a look over the market. "He's not here yet, though I imagine he will be soon. He has a hard time staying away from temptation for long." The empty palm of her hand pulled slowly across her thigh as she took one step to the side, a turn imminent. "I'll tell him you're looking for him if he doesn't find you first." With little more than a pirouette and graceful half step, the night market drew her back into its arms.
Her mouth was wide and sensual, the only soft thing between angled cheekbones and a sharp, pointed chin, but Mus?ad watched as she ate the orange and enjoyed it before spinning away from him. He remained silent. With a sidestep and turn of his own, he took up the empty space she'd been occupying between the stalls, gazing in the direction she moved for some time. Pensive, he ate the remainder of the orange with slow motions, sucking the juice from his fingers before he disappeared in the shadows of the market.