"What is your purpose, Ian?" A hoarse, deep voice echoed.
The place was damp and dark. The moon's silver rays found their way into the cavern and onto the surface of a foul-smelling puddle, making it glitter as if covered in faerie dust. He felt relieved; at least there was light. He heard water drip, but didn't feel it touch him. His feet were cold. He looked down at them and found them bare—his toenails were almost purple and his toes white. His pants were short and his shirt sheer, his hands trembled and his knuckles felt sore.
The pale, hairless beast emerged from the dark, but stayed out of the silver rays. His sunken aqua eyes stared Ian down for an uninterrupted while. He stroked his long, thin chin and said, "You are not even a nip close to achieving your goal. Time is flying and you need that blood," he paused then continued, "You don't want Garrick to kill you again, do you?"
Ian bent his head in indignation. He stared at his feet, his mind blank and his sight disrupted by his dark curls.
"Stay focused," the beast said, "I gave you the gift of a second chance so you can get your revenge, kill your friend and find peace."
"I don't have friends," Ian said, his voice bitter and his gaze still lowered to the ground, "I'm a lone wolf."
"I made a mistake," the beast spoke callously and slowly, "throughout your sorry life, you were distracted from your true purpose and vocation by chasing your cravings—never satisfied, never settling."
Ian turned to walk out of the cavern toward the source of the moon rays, but the beast blocked his way and cupped his chin in his hand like he would a child. Ian looked into his eyes. The blackness surrounding his aqua irises seemed to suck his awareness into a world of emptiness and distress.
"You shall not be distracted this time because this is the only reason you're alive," he said, now running his long, pointed index finger down Ian's throat, he added, "Know, my child, that you shall not find peace until you drink the fluid of life from your rival's throat. Only then will you fulfill your life and pass over to a better place. Don't drink his blood and you shall forever be stuck in darkness, bitterness and bereavement."
***
"If you want them alive, you need to keep them in the warm room," Abo Ayham said to his son. He was an old man with an extremely wrinkled dark face that depicted a lifetime of labor in harsh weathers.
"We won't keep them long; just until we secure a good deal. I know someone looking for wealthy people to abduct," Ayham said.
"Nevertheless, I say you keep them warm and well-fed," Abo Ayham, Ayham's father, said in a stern and concerned voice, "we are not murderers—no matter what. Maybe I am forced to let you go on with your disgusting plan, but I cannot allow a human to die under my watch."
Ayham, a twenty-five-year-old young man from Quneitra, had fled his home in Al-Hajar Al-Aswad—a Syrian city four kilometers south of the center of Damascus in the Darayya District—with his family and his uncle's family as soon as the violence erupted there in 2012. They lost their Taxi car, their three-story building and their little grocery store. He was married to his twenty-year-old cousin, with whom he had two toddlers and an infant. He had a dark, rough complexion and a heart hardened by his ill circumstances and losses.
***
Ian opened his eyes but could not see a thing—he wondered if he'd lost his sight. With both hands tied behind his back, he tried to feel the wall on which his back leaned. It wasn't a wall, but a mass of hay. The ground beneath him was dry and rough, but there were bits of grass. Surprisingly, he wasn't a tad scared or grim... nor was he content. He was indifferent.
He swallowed hard; his throat was so dry and sore. The place was chilly enough to make his nose run, but not to make his teeth chatter. It was not a good time for a runny nose, but it was getting on his nerves he had to deal with it before it drove him mad. He struggled to rub it with his shoulder, in vain. His ankles were tied together, but he could pull his knees close to his face and finally rub his nose dry. He realized he was only wearing socks on his feet.
A blinding bright light made him shut his eyes immediately. He squinted until his sight gradually adapted to the light—hopefully, he wasn't blind. There was a skinny silhouette in front of him—probably that of a man, mumbling in Arabic. The silhouette drew closer and jerked him by the shoulder to his feet, but Ian fell to his side as soon as he was close to being on his feet. He finally saw the silhouette's face as he squatted to cut the rope binding his ankles with a pocketknife. It was an anemic, dark face with high cheekbones and thick brown lips.
After the man was done cutting the rope, he pulled Ian by the arm to his feet. He felt nauseous and groggy. He tried to recall a previous event, but the images that flashed in his memory were ones of Ada's face—nothing else. Where was she? Was she even someone he knew? Was she real?
Outside the dark place, he figured he was kept in a tiny shed full of hay and dirt. The man pulled him by the arm. His legs were wobbly he didn't know for how long he could stand. He looked around. There were goats, chicken, trees and a very small shack. He was dragged into a room, where a very old lady sat knitting by the side of a blazing fireplace while two little girls played with dolls not much prettier than Tiffany, Chucky's bride. The room wasn't very spacious, but it was empty. Ragged, old cushions were lined up along the four walls, and the floor was covered with rough mats. There were no sofas, no armchairs and not even a small wooden stool.
The old lady spoke in a gentle tone, but he didn't know what she was saying. She patted the floor close to where she sat, and the man dragging him now shoved him, throwing him to his knees. The old woman scolded the man who pushed Ian and most likely ordered him to cut the rope binding his wrists.
Ian rubbed his now-free wrists. They were sore and red. His hands were so dirty like a miner's. His nails were surrounded with a black color it reminded him of when he played in the dirt with his cousins as a child and got his ear pulled by Aunt Aditi because he usually ended up covered in dirt.
The old woman approached him, held his hand and gently pulled him closer to the fire then motioned for him to sit, and so he did.
***
When Ada regained consciousness, her mouth was half-open and dry like cotton. She closed it and swallowed hard. Her throat ached of lack of moisture. Confused by the blackness surrounding her, she blinked repeatedly, but still couldn't see a thing. She told herself the power would be back soon or the sun will rise and she'll find herself in Somar's shack with her things probably stolen.
The ground felt different. It wasn't made of wood, stone or tile like in Somar's shack. It wasn't even snow, grass or dirt. It was rough fabric and smelled of dust. Finding no other solution but to wait in her place until there was light, she slowly crawled, feeling the ground with her palms. A sudden light shone in her face, making her shut her eyes so tight.
"Ta'ali, (come here)" a male voice said.
She opened her eyes and saw two white doors, opened, and a bony man's silhouette in the middle. She was inside what seemed to be a van. Slowly and cautiously, she crawled towards the man who was calling her. She pictured herself smacking him and running as fast as she could, but she didn't have the strength for it. Her head ached so badly, every muscle in her body felt faint and she needed to find out where Ian was. As soon as she landed on her feet outside the van, she lost her balance and fell. Her legs were wobbly and her head felt as if she'd been on a long roller-coaster ride.
The man tried to help her back to her feet by holding her arm, but she violently pulled her arm, freeing it from his bony grip, and snapped, "Don't touch me!" Staring at him with fierce eyes that were full of disgust.
He let her go and told her to walk toward the shack and not even think about running. She knew she couldn't outrun him in her confused condition, so she did as he said, not daring to think of what could be lying ahead. Her clothes were dirty and she was wearing only socks on her cold feet. Her turban was a mess and she knew small locks of her hair had escaped it.
The man opened the shack's rusty, squeaky wood door and asked her to go inside. Her eyes immediately saw a very weary Ian sitting at an end, close to the fire, staring at it with eyes succumbing to helplessness. A rush of unannounced energy warmed her extremities. She scurried to him and sat facing him. Suppressing an overwhelming urge to touch him all over and make sure he was fine.
In a frenzied voice, she asked: "You alright?"
Ian slowly turned to look at her. His face beamed and creased into a weak boyish smile complimented by a pair of eyes that twinkled at the sight of her.
"Ada," he said, his voice hoarse.
She looked around and saw an old lady sitting nearby. She smiled at her and the old lady smiled back. She had small green eyes surrounded by no eyebrows and no eyelashes, yet her face, which was flushed with warmth, was comforting and easy on the eye. She wore a black headscarf which she tied to the back.
"Where can I find water, please?" Ada asked in Arabic.
"I will ask my daughter-in-law to bring you some," the old woman replied, "you can call me Khala Umm Ayham." She got up to the door and called for a woman called Fatin to bring some water and food before she went back to sit and mind her knitting. The two girls ran outside.
Ian leaned forward and whispered to Ada, "What the fuck is going on?"
"I think we got kidnapped by some not-very-bad people," Ada replied, her voice a pinch louder than a whisper, "and you need not whisper because I believe none of them knows one English word."
"I cannot recall how this happened," he said, "One minute, I'm having cumin and lemon in your house and the next... bam... I'm in a shithole with my hands tied to my back and my feet tied together like a crazed circus monkey."
"We were not having cumin and lemon in my house, Ian," she said, "we were in Somar's little house in a snowy mountain."
Ian pulled his trademark face, "W—what?"
"Say excuse me, not what," she coolly corrected him, "yes, we were attacked at night. That night you drank like a stinky loser and slept like the dead."
He covered his face with his palms then slowly pulled them down, stretching his eyebrows, eyelids, cheeks and mouth in the process.
"Don't put those dirty hands on your eyes and mouth!" Ada grimaced, "It'll all come rolling back."
A pleasant-looking woman in a long yellow dress and a black knit jacket walked into the room and placed a tray of two steamy bowls, a jug of water and two empty glasses on the floor. "Tfaddalo (Please, help yourselves)," she said. She, too wore a headscarf tied to the back, allowing a thick braid of red hair to hang behind. Her pale, freckly face was glowing with youth.
Ada poured some water in a glass and offered it to Ian, who did not even think about extending a hand to hold the glass himself, but placed his lips on its brim and began drinking heartily, not minding that some water escaped his lips and dripped over his neck and legs. She then got herself some water before she handed Ian a bowl of lentil soup. He didn't have the appetite for it, but was desperate to feel stronger.
"We're so going to fart the night away," he announced abruptly.
Ada wrinkled her nose then giggled, feeling the life that was drained from her face return in a warm rush, "A natural way of keeping a room warm." She moved to sit next to him on a pathetic, worn-out cushion.
"For how long have you been married?" Umm Ayham asked Ada.
Ada smiled, "Not long. Less than a month."
"You two are a beautiful couple."
Ada grinned uneasily.
"Is she telling you what they're gonna do to us?" Ian asked.
"No, and I'd rather not know."
"Worst case scenario?"
"If you have a Stephen King imagination, feel free to use it," she replied, her tone casual as if the matter did not concern her, "the sky is your limit."
"So maybe they'll chop me into lentil-sized pieces?"
"Not very likely, but maybe they'll harvest a kidney. Anything you have in pairs would be interesting... actually every organ in you could be of interest to them."
"But I need my organs!"
"You got me there."
The discussion now started to aggravate into a low-voiced quarrel.
"I thought you were a vampire!" Ada challenged, "why didn't you use your vampire superpowers when we got attacked? And how about you use them now to get us out of here?"
"I don't know how to use them; I'm an unskilled vampire... I suppose."
She rolled her eyes. "That's a new species of supernatural."
"Ugh," he grunted, "you're hateful!"
"And you're not even a bat... let alone a mighty vampire!" She spoke loudly as she said the word 'vampire.'
"Fuck you!" Ian pulled his trademark face.
"You wish!" Ada's eyes were wide with irritation.
The old lady chuckled. "I think I've envied you two," she said, Ada grinned again.
"What did she say," Ian asked, speaking as if he'd smelled burned feathers.
"She said you'll go first."
"Go where?"
"They're harvesting your organs first."
"Fuck you!"
"Shush! You're rude!" She scowled.
"And you're what? A chocolate cake?"
"How about you try and get our asses outta here?"
"Not today."
"Why?"
"Because in a couple of hours our asses will be busy farting," he snorted with laughter at his own joke, and Ada suppressed a giggle.
***
Thank you so much for reading Chapter 14!
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Chapter 15 will be available on Monday.