“You’re still upset about Ivory,” he said.
I didn’t reply. Now wasn’t the time. My stomach queasy, my palms sticky with sweat, reality hit me at the core: Charles’ parents were in real danger, and we were flying toward a trap. I needed to get ready for the horrors that lay ahead.
“Why is the Maltorim in Damascus?” I asked in a whisper, hoping the sound of Charles’ voice would soothe my tattered nerves.
Charles allowed the change in subject.
“Damascus is the oldest city,” he said, gently taking my hand. “The Cruor have inhabited the outskirts since about 4000 BC. During the Tel Ramad excavations, the Maltorim was almost discovered. No one has returned to dig at the location since, but the Maltorim have made modifications to accommodate for such an event.”
I leaned against him and inhaled, taking in the hint of sandalwood on his shirt. Already my tension was relaxing away.
“Could you keep talking,” I asked, “even if I fall asleep?”
I knew the request was weird—maybe even rude on the surface—but Charles smiled, his thoughts confirming he understood, and he continued with his stories about the history of his world.
***
THE FLIGHT LANDED six hours later, shortly after eight p.m., Eastern European Summer Time. We hurried through the airport, and Adrian hailed a cab.
As the driver whisked toward the city, cobblestone roads and Gothic revival buildings blotted out my fear. I stared with wonder at the angles and arches, pondering how daylight might illuminate this new world.
Charles squeezed my hand, looking to Adrian. “Sophia and I should stop for food while you pick up supplies.”
Adrian nodded. The pair seemed resigned to the plan, but I was fighting off surges of hot and cold and a fluttering nausea.
The driver dropped us off in the heart of the old city, close to the Umayyad mosque. The ferocity of the whispers in my mind confirmed the presence of a large elemental community, but my mind kept going back to the same thought: how did Adrian know so much about the inner workings of the Maltorim? I had tried several times to listen to his thoughts but heard nothing he hadn’t already spoken aloud.
Once Adrian went his way, Charles and I headed to the shops. Hints of jasmine, saffron, cumin, and nutmeg infused the air, each scent lingering on my taste buds and igniting my hunger.
I slowed, taking in the columned architecture and polished marble courtyard of the nearby mosque. People inside chatted amongst themselves—Muslims, Christians, and Jews, all worshipping together on this night, a subdued sense of piety emanating from the courtyard.
Around the mosque’s outer walls lay a marketplace—a series of broken cobblestone paths crisscrossing in what appeared to be no particular order. We passed vendors garbed in red and black threads, some of them packing their spices, nuts, and dried fruits into horse-driven carts.
One booth caught my eye. A young woman with dark hair and a Marilyn Monroe mole was turning tarot cards onto a table.
First, the Fool, inverted—a bad decision. I knew this from when Ivory had done readings at a party in college. She’d taught me all about them, asked me if I wanted to do a reading to channel my past lives. I told her no, that I just wanted to make it through this one.
Now I knew why she’d asked.
When the lady turned the next card, my neck hairs prickled, and a shiver flashed down my spine, causing a small tremble in one of my hands.
Death.
But the death card was not literal.
Not always.
The reader stared right at me, tsking and shaking her head. I quickly looked away. The spread wasn’t for me. She’d been sitting with a customer. Still, I had to stop myself from speculating what the next card would have been.
Charles spoke in Arabic with a man a few tables down while I admired a display of Persian rugs, Russian teapots, and age-blackened Greek tableware. Then he pulled me away by my elbow, telling me the man said there was a small shop around the corner that sold falafel wraps and freshly-squeezed mulberry juice for fifty American cents.
The shop owner—a darkly tanned, older man with friendly eyes—sat in a woven lawn chair, a Bengal cat in his lap, his back to a simple wooden door. He invited us in and offered a sample of the food: hummus, tahini, and pita with a hint of lemon, and a tangy mulberry juice reminiscent of grapefruit. We ordered several falafels and a carton of the juice with some Styrofoam cups.
Aside from the interactions with the vendors, Charles hadn’t said anything, and I didn’t press him for conversation. We arrived back at the main square to meet Adrian, who arrived moments later with a large bag in hand.
“What’s your sign?” Adrian asked.
“Sign?”
“Zodiac. You’re a Sagittarius, right?”
“I am, why?”
“Come with me.” Adrian led us around the corner and into a narrow alley. He crouched down, and Charles and I sat across from him. “You said lifting things was draining, correct?”