I glanced at Kope, whose gaze darted around the walls of our apartment. It seemed like he was going to great efforts not to look at the picture.
I turned the first picture over and flipped the next one, which was slightly more revealing. This one was Zania from behind, still standing in the high heels, but the burka was lifted in both hands to the back of her thighs, her head and face coverings had been removed, and she was leaning backward. Her long ebony hair flowed seductively down her arched back. Her eyes were closed, and even though the top half of her face showed, it was not enough to give away her identity.
I saw more skin than that at my school on a normal basis, but there was something incredibly sexy about the small amount of skin she showed, and the way she posed, knowing it was a culture that valued modesty and sexual purity. I pushed the picture toward Kope, who glanced at it and nodded. I watched him for a moment, wondering if the pictures offended him, but he gave nothing away. Until he once again caught me staring. His light eyes seemed to dance with heat as they gripped mine. A blush crept up my neck into my cheeks until he lowered his lids back to the map. The pictures made him feel something, all right. Underneath all that self-control, Kope was still just a guy.
“There’s something else you should know about her,” Dad said, pulling out another photo. I took a drink, hoping to cool myself of the embarrassment. “You can’t see it in the pictures, just like badges can’t be captured on film, but Zania is an alcoholic. It seems she’s barely trying to control it. This is a month ago at a nightclub in Damascus.”
I leaned in at the picture of her sitting at a bar, wearing designer jeans and a tasteful short-sleeved blouse with her hair down. In the next picture the photographer had zoomed in and brightened the part that showed her pouring a bottle of something from her purse into her drink on the sly. My heart quickened, and I inspected the picture more closely.
“She’s not wearing a headscarf,” I pointed out.
Dad said, “Not all the women in Damascus wear them.”
“She’s supposed to be promoting hate?” Patti asked.
“Yep,” Dad answered. “Sonellion, her father, uses her to help further the cause of violence and hatred against women. Misogyny’s one of his favorites, but it’s more and more of a challenge these days.”
Patti tsk-tsked and shook her head.
“Anyhow, the girl was beaten and arrested for drunkenness in Saudi Arabia, which led to linking her to the photographs.” Dad leaned back in the chair, making it creak, and crossed his arms against his husky chest. “Sonellion managed to get her out of there, but trust me when I say he spares no love for her. She’s an asset and an amusement. When she stops being those, he’ll get rid of her.”
“She’s given up, hasn’t she?” I asked, and he nodded, solemn. I looked back down at the bar picture. She needed hope. She needed to know about the prophecy. Determination revved inside me.
“Duke Sonellion is traveling to central Africa to try and expand interest in a certain archaic act against women, one he hopes to bring into greater popularity in the Middle East if he can get them to embrace it for religious purposes.”
He put a hand up when I opened my mouth to ask about it. “Don’t ask,” he said gruffly. “He left yesterday and he plans to be gone three to four weeks.”
“So, when do we leave?” I asked.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you there’s a lot of danger in the Middle East, Anna,” he said. I nodded.
“Do you know any Arabic?” he asked Kope.
“Yes, sir. My father often spoke it, and we frequented the Middle East in our travels.”
Dad looked at me. “I’ve considered asking Kopano to do this one solo.”
I sucked in a shocked breath and sat up straighter as a burst of angry indignance lashed through me.
“Don’t even think about it! I am so going.”
“It’s not what you’re used to,” he replied.
I bit back a retort of “Well, duh.” I needed to state my case without turning it into a battle of wills. I’d point out that it was his idea to have me scouting the world for Neph in the first place. Now, faced with a dangerous situation, he wanted to become a protective dad and throw Kope to the wolves all by himself.
“Look.” I spoke calmly. “I’ll research the culture before I go. I’ll dress however the women there dress. Plus, Kope will be looking out for me.” I looked across at Kope and he nodded, deciding to finally speak up.
“Damascus is liberal, as far as Arab cities are concerned, is it not?” He faced my father, who cleared his throat, realizing he was losing ground.