The poor guy quivered in his faded, filthy kaftan. The little urchin was caught between the men chasing him and the invisible thing that had halted his escape. I stepped slightly to the side and hoped he'd make a run for it, but he stood frozen in place, with his attackers bearing down on him.
There was nothing else to do.
I slipped behind him and gave him a swift shove in the middle of his back. The momentum got him moving. He shuddered, throwing one last terrified glance over his shoulder before he turned tail and sped off. I envied his ability to weave in between the throng of people in the street.
Raucous shouts sounded close behind me, and I turned to see two mean faces, dark with anger, bearing down on me. I didn't stop to think. Just reacted.
Stepping aside, I waited. Just as they passed me by, I stuck my foot out. The first man went sprawling into the dusty road, colorful robes flying, followed closely by the second, who got a mouthful of souk dust for his efforts. The men yelled, their faces streaked with sweat and dust and livid fury. They spared no time for confusion, just got back to their feet and ran.
And I grinned again, knowing they'd never find the boy now.
I threaded my way back to the rest of the team, pausing to allow a loud pot-bellied tourist to pass without knocking me out with his wildly gesticulating hands. Beside me, a chicken squawked, flapping her reddish brown wings and bobbing her little feathered head. She jumped, trying to avoid the grasping fingers of her master, who held a gleaming, chillingly sharp knife in one hand.
I sympathized with the poor bird. Her end drew near, and she screeched and fluttered about, throwing tiny feathers into the air, bemoaning the inevitable. Both the doomed chicken and I had less than zero chance of changing the way things were meant to be.
Chapter 14
Behind me the chicken squawked again. She managed to choke off one last rebellious cry before the thunk of a knife silenced her. I sighed.
We maneuvered through the raucous throng, admiring the persistence of the sellers, the intensity of the bargaining. A stall filled with little pyramids of spices drew my eye—every color displayed, from deep reds to the brightest yellow of turmeric. Before the multihued table, a woman, covered in black from head to toe, yelled at the stall-owner. She pierced him with lively green and furious eyes, while blasting him with words I'm sure weren't flattering or kind.
The old man barked back, baring the few remaining teeth within his aged gums. He waved his hands and shouted, upset with the woman, who poked a very long and pointed finger at the man's chest, unfazed by his anger. Possibly she'd insulted his wares. Who knew?
Their spat meant bad news for me, though. The man swung his hand out, gesturing wildly. He hit me hard on my arm with the back of his hand. I stepped away and held my breath. Just behind me, the rest of the team halted and watched in silence. Joshua and Aimee exchanged worried looks, and Joshua raised his eyebrows at me, in a "What do we do now?" wiggle.
The old man's olive skin faded to a sickly pallor. His gnarled fingers trembled slightly, but he still held them out, frowning and seeking the mysterious thing he'd struck. His irate customer chided him again, her green eyes glittering, strident voice only increasing in volume, but he'd lost all interest in her. His head swiveled; his eyes darted up and down the street, staring into the bustling crowd. Then his pale eyes stopped, and he gazed right at me.
Though I knew I remained safely invisible, I shivered, both fear and fascination holding me in place. A frown wrinkled the folds of his ancient skin. He reached a hand out toward my face, as if seeing a ghost and trying to touch it to see if it were corporeal. I backed away, suddenly very afraid that despite the glamor this old man had still seen me.
Mika slipped past me toward the man's spice-laden tables.
A crash reverberated from the stall, and red and yellow powder surged out and engulfed us. The old man shrieked and turned his horrified attention back to his wasted spices. The woman who'd fought with him stepped back, covered in spice-dust, and launched into a sneezing fit. Between multiple violent sneezes, she screamed more obscenities at him, her eyes obscured by a film of tears as her nose protested over and over again.
The poor man ignored her and just wailed at the mess and the loss of his wares. Mika snuck out of the stall and tugged me away.
"You didn't have to do that."
She shrugged. "Did you wish me to allow him to touch you? To know that something strange was happening in the souk?"
"No, but you could have found some other way to distract him," I said. As Mika manhandled me away, I glanced back over my shoulder. The spice vendor's shoulders slumped as he stared at his ruined stall. "You've destroyed his livelihood."
"Ha. That was one tiny bit of his wares, Bryn. It was just half a dozen bowls of spices, not his entire warehouse." Mika shook her head. "For a Midgardian you are very naive."
I jerked my sleeve from her grasp and glared at her. What the hell did she mean by calling me naïve? But before I could confront her, we ran into Fen.
"What's the problem?" he asked, his forehead a field of furrows.
"Some guy bumped into me," I snapped. I heard the belligerent tone in my voice. Too late to retract it. "Mika had to create a distraction."
"It is fine now. The man is otherwise occupied," said Mika.
"Yeah. Otherwise occupied with the destruction of his property." I glared at her.
Fen watched the interplay, saying nothing. He glanced beyond us at the stall, where the disturbance had drawn a small crowd.
"Let us go. We do not have the time to waste." He turned on his heel, and we had no choice but to move fast and follow him.
Fen led us up two steps into a small alleyway, still lined with hawkers. He took the stone steps in a single stride. As I climbed the step, I noted the crumbling edges and the erosion, aware and slightly awed that this place went back into history; we walked the same road as the ancient Egyptians, our feet sharing the same dust and the heat as the sweat-ridden pyramid builders, the harried slaves of the long-dead Pharaohs and fervent worshippers of mighty gods like Ra and Isis. I may have been a real living breathing Valkyrie, but I still reveled in the wonder and amazement of what the world—Midgard—had to offer.
I inhaled the richness of grilled meats and the warm freshness of mint tea as Fen threaded his way through the busy little street, and I tried to keep up.
Good thing I didn't blink.
Fen made a sudden, sharp left into a small shop, identical at first glance to every other little stand on the street, except for the product they offered. The stall was heavy with carpets. Rugs hung from the ceiling above us and covered the walls around us, displaying a multitude of designs in rich gold and deep reds. A skinny, cramped passage snaked between piles of rugs and mats stacked in towers and little heaps, some neat and tidy, others threatening to tip over if you so much as breathed beside them.
The stall seemed way too tiny for the whole team to fit within its confines, but we all managed to edge inside. Fen approached a thin, tall man encased in a long, white, traditional kaftan, bent low over a stack of Hessian-wrapped carpets, coarse black curls sticking up around his fez. We lurked close to the entrance as Fen and the man spoke, the grumble of their words low and unintelligible. We remained alert, our eyes flitting from passersby to the carpet-seller, ready for anything.
When the two men ended their conversation, Fen beckoned us with a swift flick of his fingers. I glanced at the team behind me, at Joshua and Aimee, who stood, arms linked, the epitome of a tourist couple, inspecting the thread count of a colorful rug at the entrance of the stall.
Fen pointed at the back of the stall, slowly edging further inside. The carpet-seller nodded vigorously and followed him. Joshua scowled as they passed, clearly not enjoying the whole tourist act. Poor guy. Guess it wasn't fun being visible when the rest of us were safely glamored.
I shuffled toward Fen—who surprised me by disappearing between a flap of parted carpets.
Well, who would've thought? The whole bank of shop fronts gave the impression of backing onto solid walls, but it was an illusion. I pulled the carpet aside and found a blue painted door, propped open by a rickety wooden stool.
We snuck through, one at a time, the last Ulfr dropping the carpet closed and hesitating, as if unsure if he were meant to close the door behind him.
"Leave it!" I whispered. Fen hadn't even paused to check if we followed. No lights lit our way; I didn't want to lose sight of him.
Fen led us through the dark, shuttered house to another door, which opened into a deserted alley. An old truck idled outside; the engine coughed and sputtered as if the warm and dusty Cairo air was slowly choking the life out of it. The bed of the truck lay bare except for a stack of loose boards and clumps of grubby chicken feathers, which reminded me of the poor, now-dead bird I'd seen in the souk.
"Aimee and Joshua, please sit in the front with the driver." Fen withdrew two passports from his satchel and handed them over, along with a stack of papers. "These are papers you will need to get through the checkpoints. There are clothes on the front seat that will allow you to blend in with the people of this country. It is safer for you to travel as natives rather than tourists, hence the need for the native garments."
I smiled. Fen had a funny way of saying things sometimes. He opened each passport, rubbed his thumb over the photographs and handed one to each of the waiting Warriors. Joshua pocketed his passport and smashed a fez onto his head. He frowned as he straightened it, clearly unhappy with having to play dress-up. Aimee giggled beside him as a black robe engulfed her; once done up, it hid her entire face except for her eyes.