As he swung the door open, his breath caught. What stood before him defied explanation; the guttersnipe he’d held captive had shed her cocoon, revealing a butterfly of unparalleled beauty. Her ebony locks cascaded like a waterfall of midnight, framing features sculpted by angels’ hands. Porcelain skin, as delicate as a snowflake, contrasted with eyes that sparkled in the verdant hues of a forbidden forest…and lips like ripe pomegranates beckoned with promises unspoken. Wrapped in the hotel’s robe, she emanated an otherworldly grace. And as her slender foot peeked from beneath the fabric, he couldn’t help but feel that here was a goddess come to earth.
Her gaze narrowed. “Forget yourself, assassin, and I’ll show you where else I can stick the fork.”
Placing the food on the table, he favored her with a look. “Eat.”
She thought about resisting, then didn’t.
Tonight’s culinary adventure promised the dubious delight of “butter chicken,” a claim more suspect than a politician’s promise. Accompanying this gastronomic gamble were onion bhajis of questionable origin and samosas that looked more like grenades waiting to detonate in his stomach. None of it would’ve passed his lips under normal circumstances, but desperate times called for desperate measures. If the chicken had seen more radiation than a war zone, well, at least they’d have a thrilling end to an otherwise mundane meal. After all, who said dining in a dystopian wasteland couldn’t be an adventure?
He’d expected her to throw herself on what, to her, had to be a feast but all she did was stare at it. Suspicion warred with desire, her flawless features betraying the silent debate. Cheap tricks weren’t his style, he felt like snapping; seven forms of combat training were wasted on tormenting the famished. Exasperated, he grabbed a plate. “The food at Poppadum Palace might taste like tires dipped in sour milk but I assure you, it’s not an implement of torture.”
“No,” she agreed equably. “Samosas don’t have sharp enough edges.”
He put the plate down in front of her, piled high with some of everything.
Her hunger overriding caution, she tentatively took a bite…and her face transformed. It was a raw, unfiltered moment and it caught him off guard. He couldn’t quite grasp his own response; her genuine delight was infectious. “If we’re going to share a meal and possibly some wardrobe malfunctions,” he quipped, with a nod at her robe, “I should really know your name.”
Blushing with uncharacteristic embarrassment, she averted her gaze. “Udit,” she murmured, as if confessing a secret. “It means dawn.”
“I’m aware,” he replied, more caustically than he’d intended. He wondered if he should explain that the women on Brontes wore far less without shame; he couldn’t see anything beneath the swaths of fabric, except in his imagination. He preferred women who were agreeable, compliant, and discreet and who accepted payment without moralizing about deities. Udit’s indifference to her appearance, however, and what he might think of it proved strangely captivating.
Ethereal was the best word to describe her, he decided, but a subtle allure hinted at the promise of feminine curves. He couldn’t help but envision those curves blossoming, if she ever made eating a habit. Nevertheless, as his departure loomed, he couldn’t shake the thought of her future. Their time together would be brief, however it ended, and their paths would diverge; he shouldn’t care—and for so many reasons. Women were interchangeable entities, as were all individuals. His ultimate goal, after all, was killing the uncle who’d usurped his father’s throne and in so doing make himself even more of an orphan. He couldn’t afford to wonder about life in Dharavi after he left, although some small part of him hoped that Udit’s got better.
Nibbling on a samosa, she eyed him warily.
She likely assumed that offering her food was some cunning ruse to earn her trust, but he wasn’t that subtle. His initial plan had involved less wining and dining and more…persuading, with a number of sharp implements. Not harming civilians was a rule, but Udit wasn’t some naïve maiden duped by Dharun’s charming façade. She was knowingly—and quite effectively—shielding a monster while preaching about virtue. If she wasn’t one of Dharun’s bedfellows or possibly even one of his partners in crime, then what was she?
Her delicate fingers wrapped around her glass, bringing it to her lips as she took a sip. He observed the act with an intensity that bordered on obsession; her every movement, every gesture seemed to stir something primal within him. He couldn’t help but imagine his own hands tracing the contours of her throat, her body yielding to his touch. The mere thought left him parched, his own throat feeling like a desert. As she set the vessel down with the utmost care, he cursed himself for not ordering something stronger than this bland off-world mineral water. A stiff drink or two might, if nothing else, help him regain his composure.
“Are you going to kill me?” She sounded interested.
He made an irritated noise. “I told you, I don’t hurt dumpster goblins.”
She nodded. “Yes, but you didn’t say for how long.”
He tapped his fingers on the table; she had him there.
As she savored the last bite of her meal, he scrutinized her in silence.
“You are one of them,” she said, putting down her fork. “A Brother of the Dragon.”
It wasn’t a question, but he indicated his assent.
“Like him.” Her voice was rich with disapproval.
Not responding, he replenished her plate. She was flawless until she spoke, morphing into a sanctimonious schoolmarm. He owed her no justification, not for Dharun’s demise nor for anything else. Taking a bite of his samosa, he winced; the cuisine on this wretched planet truly was abysmal.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“You talk like you’re on some sacred quest,” she remarked. “Like this is something you have to do, but it isn’t.” Wiping up the final remnants of sauce with a torn piece of naan, she locked eyes with him. “You could release Dharun. Leave here, go home, tell the rest of your order that he’s dead. No one would ever know the truth, how could they?”
“I’d know,” he said grimly. And he’d have to confess his crimes to the head of his order, leaving him next in line for retribution. “This isn’t about enforcing rules for the sake of it,” he continued, “but about addressing a fundamental flaw in the system.” He searched for an explanation that she might understand, for words complex enough to fit this situation. “When a man undergoes a particular…conditioning, and that conditioning goes bad, he becomes a threat.”
She reclined in her chair, her gaze piercing through him. “So the rumors are true. Both you and Dharun were programmed, somehow, but he dared to question it and now he’s paying the price.”
He crossed his arms, feeling oddly defensive. “I can think for myself.”
Her countenance faltered, revealing her disagreement before she sought refuge behind her hands. “This man is utterly wretched, hardly deserving of….” Her voice trailed off as she struggled to articulate her thoughts. “I understand your point, I do. Trained killers pose a threat. But in dire circumstances, anyone can become a danger!” Sniffing, held back tears. “Even the most timid creatures will defend their lives, and homes,” she finished, “when given no other choice.”
“You’re an idealist.” And he desperately wanted that drink.
“The self-proclaimed redeemer,” she retorted, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “Ever considered that chasing after men like Dharun is what turns them into the monsters you fear?”
“It’s the cruelest irony, isn’t it?” His gaze drifted back to the dimming horizon, where scattered lights struggled against the encroaching night’s embrace. “We venture forth into the unknown, unaware of the burdens we’ll bear until we’re shouldering them. Dharun, like all of us, made his choice in the darkness of ignorance—only to face the harsh light of reality later.” He sighed heavily. “Consequences, both those we anticipate and those that blindside us, still come.”
“You’ve undergone the same indoctrination,” she insisted. “You’re in control. He’s not a threat to anyone!”
His hand slammed onto the table, jolting her upright. “He’s already harmed someone! Just because you’re not aware of it, Ms. Know-It-All, doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened! I’m not gutting you with this spoon, because I am still in control.” He took a deep breath, letting his heart rate return to normal before he continued. “Earlier today, I had to put down a rabid dog. Right before we crossed paths. Maybe it was just unlucky or maybe it’d chased a cat into a corner, who knows. Dogs don’t understand the concept of rabies, let alone how to avoid it.” He got up and walked to the window, as she cowered from him across the table. “Does that mean I should’ve spared the creature?” he asked, his hands on the worn sill. “I could’ve left what happened next up to fate, deciding that justice was someone else’s concern.”
“You were in danger,” she ventured.
“I wasn’t.” Outside, beggars were fighting over an orange. “Perhaps it would’ve wandered back into its alley,” he added eventually, “finding solace in its familiar filth for one last night. But to what end? Whatever comfort it found would’ve been fleeting, death was inevitable.” Turning, his eyes bored into hers. “How many others would it have infected, before facing that reality?”
She was shaking like a leaf. “You really believe this.”
“Dharun is no better off than that dog. And in his shoes….” His gaze drifted downward, fixing on the worn and threadbare rug. Doubt plagued him; that dog, in its prime, likely never harbored intensions of harm. “Someone Dharun loved died. Was slain,” he clarified, “and not by our hands.” Knowledge of the Brotherhood’s inner workings was forbidden to outsiders, and he remained loyal, but the incident had circulated throughout Brontes. “He opted to dismiss the account we provided.” He looked up, his eyes once again meeting hers. “The account I provided.”
She digested this statement. “Was it the truth?”
“I might mislead,” he replied. “But I never lie.” He couldn’t, in point of fact, but Dharun could. Now. Sitting down again, he rested an elbow on the table. “Allow me to speculate: this unfortunate, pursued individual has taken refuge among the dregs of Dharavi, seeking naught but to eke out his days as—what? A humble laborer? Pursuing a noble and benign existence?”
Her expression was all the answer he needed.
“But behold this nefarious cabal,” he continued, “dedicated to the art of death, hot on his heels for the sole crime of wanting to be himself. This diabolical syndicate of brainwashed automatons, as he’s likely told anyone who’d buy him a pint, who when we aren’t killing innocents are doing worse.” Another soft chuckle escaped his lips, at the absurdity of it all. “Unspeakable rituals, mind-altering substances, debauched revelries, am I missing anything?”
“He doesn’t want to do those things,” she shot back. “He shouldn’t be forced to.”
“A hapless saint, detesting how depraved we are and resisting our coercive antics.” He snorted in disgust. “It’s an act.”
“But don’t you do those things?” she asked, curious in spite of herself. “I’ve grown up hearing the rumors, Dharun is hardly sharing anything that I—or anyone around here—hasn’t heard before.”
He studied her, mirroring her own interest. An impulsive urge prompted him to ask the next question, despite his bafflement as to his own concern. “You were locked in a room with a strange man, who might’ve been about to shoot you—or worse. Why’d you bother taking a shower?”
“Because I’d never had one,” she said slowly. “Or even seen one. I wanted to, before I died.”
She spoke those simple words with such poignant grace; the calm acceptance she displayed in the face of death stirred something new deep within him. Surviving, let alone thriving, amidst such hardship demanded courage and resilience that even with his background he could scarcely imagine. The notion that she’d never experienced even the simple comfort of a warm shower filled him with a profound sadness that was also new, that he’d never allowed himself to feel for his own plight. Suppressing the urge to ask her more, he made his choice. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice tinged with sympathy. “But I also can’t let you go.”
“I know.” Her voice was quiet. “The problem, though, is that if I don’t come home my parents will start searching—and more more attention is the last thing you need. Let me see them, and reassure them that I’m alright and I promise to return tomorrow morning.” She hesitated. “You’re not the only one who takes his vows seriously, and I have no doubt that someone with your expertise could easily find me no matter where I went. You’ve hunted Dharun across the quadrant, keeping tabs on a girl who’s never left Dharavi can’t present too much of a challenge.”
A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth; she was right, naturally.