Sweet Peril

Since it was past the dinner hour, the seating area was dimly lit and had the atmosphere of a lounge or nightclub. It was not crowded yet, but there were enough people to keep us out of sight. I motioned Kope to follow me inside, and we went to a small table at the back of the room. For one paranoid moment I wondered if sitting with Kope was going to gain us unwanted attention, but nobody gave us a second glance.

A waitress came over and we both ordered cups of the city’s famous hot tea, though my body longed for something stronger. When she walked away, I moved the table’s flower arrangement and standing drink menus to the end of the table to block us. Kope sat at an angle so Zania could not see his face. I dipped my head down when she turned in our direction. She was eyeing a table of men on the other side of the lounge from her.

The room was quickly filling with cigarette smoke that tickled my lungs and burned my eyes. I had to tighten my vision into focus. What I noticed was unsettling. The four men at the table were not like the others in the room. Most of the men in the bar and lounge were sort of slick, GQ-looking guys with their hair heavily gelled, facial hair trimmed and shaved into neat lines around their jaws. Those types were talking and laughing, dancing and drinking, with colorful auras. But not the four men Zania chose to watch.

They wore traditional, black tunic shirts and had full beards. They were not drinking, and they seemed to be having a serious discussion. One in particular took notice of Zania’s attention, and his aura immediately muddied. She smiled coyly, moving her hair and looking away as if she were embarrassed to be caught watching. He looked back down, shifted in his seat, and then looked up at her again. She was running her fingers softly up and down her neck. Zania was an expert at taking small, seemingly innocent gestures and packing them full of meaning.

The man’s emotions went into overdrive, swirling around him, dangerously dark with zaps of red as Zania bit the pad of her thumb. The dude was scary. Of all the men in that place, he was the one I’d steer clearest of. His eyes darted around with unease. Zania didn’t seem afraid in the slightest.

Every few minutes Kope would shift just enough to glance at the scene. There must have been something in the look on my face just then, because he turned abruptly to see what was going on. After a moment he pivoted back toward me and we looked at each other, mutual in our worry. Zania was a good worker. She’d chosen the one man in the room who probably prided himself on being chaste. If she had anything to do with it, his morals would be smashed to pieces that night, and his opinion of women would hit an all-time low.

The man had given up on trying not to look at her. He now stared with open lust and hatred, lost in a red and gray haze. His companions finally made the connection, looking from him to Zania, who’d looked away to finish her drink. The men spoke low in Arabic, with heated passion. Kope pulled out his phone and began typing, then passed it to me.

He calls her devil woman. They agree she must be taught a lesson.

Frightened for her, I held my breath to see what would happen. With one last sultry look in the seething man’s direction, Zania slid off the chair and sauntered through the crowd of dancers toward the exit. The man stood to follow. I’d like to think she was sprinting home at this moment, but something told me Zania allowed herself to be taught lessons on a regular basis. Well, whatever usually happened, it sure as heck wasn’t going to happen tonight. By the hard look on Kope’s face, he was in agreement. He threw some money on the table and we got up to follow them.

Outside the nightclub, one way led to crowds of people and hopping nightlife. In the other direction were the outskirts of town, quiet and dark. It was from that direction we heard a muffled female cry of pain. We moved quickly, trying not to draw attention toward the alleyway where we headed. We turned the dark corner just in time to see the man open palm Zania on the side of her face. Twice.

A shot like that to the temple would have sent anyone sprawling, but he had a hold of her ripped shirt, which hung open to reveal a bloody spot at the top of her white bra. Was that . . . had he bitten her? When he ripped open the button of her black pants, I gasped.

Everything happened quickly then. Kope burst forward, grabbed the guy, and slammed his face into the wall with a crack. Zania fell and I ran to her side, crouching to lift her head into my lap. Her eyes fluttered.

“You’re okay,” I told her. Alcohol fumes wafted up at me as I smoothed back her hair, and my insides clenched with a greedy need. I did my best to ignore it and was careful not to touch the bloody welt growing on her cheekbone.

Kope had the guy’s arm cranked behind his back and they were conversing none too friendly in Arabic. The man looked to be pleading his case, but Kopano wasn’t having any of it.

“No man of God sheds the blood of a woman for tempting him,” Kope growled in English. There was a fury in his stance that made me pause and watch, wondering if he’d be able to rein in the temptation to bring down his wrath on this guy.

The man barked a hate-filled response and spat bloody saliva down the wall.

“He knows English?” I asked.

“Yes,” Kope answered.

Good. I needed to get rid of this guy immediately before Kope’s wrath could escalate. I spoke sharply.

“You are going to leave us, right now, and not attempt to follow us or harm us in any way.” I pressed the meaning of my words toward him, using the persuasive power of influence that I’d gained through my double-angel parentage. I didn’t know if it would work on this strong-willed man, but thankfully his mind was weaker than it had seemed.