Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1) by P.K. Tyler
Authors: P.K. Tyler
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mesmerized but unable to turn away.
"He was there. He didn't recognize me, but I knew him. The scar on his cheek was fresh and raw when I first met him, and the hue of his beard is easy to recognize."
"Laa ela-ha el-lal-la," she prayed softly to herself, closing her eyes and shaking her head.
"Last night he was one of them…" Hasad continued.
"When we found him in the alley, he was not one of them."
"No. I don't imagine he ever will be."
"Siktir lan," he swore, spitting out thick, dried blood that had mixed with the sand in his mouth.
The pain in Isik Mosafir's head was rivaled only by the intense throbbing of his leg. Looking down, he half expected it to be gone; amputation being the only thing he was able to think of that could cause so much pain.
"Who was that got veren mother-fucker?"
Reaching out, Isik grabbed the edge of a dumpster and pulled himself up. His knee couldn't bear weight, but he was determined to get back home before anyone found him here. The last thing he needed was to be questioned by the RTK.
He'd left them a few years back and had been able to stay under the radar thanks to the friends he still had in the ranks. He also spent most of his time doing errands for the right people, people he knew by being kin to some of those same right people. But now his clothes were saturated with blood and he could barely walk; no way he'd get away without having to answer some questions.
What is your name?
Who is your family?
Isik snorted. Who, indeed?
Blood had dried on the ground around him into the remnants of last night's sandstorm. The oozing red congealed with dry particles to create a gory landscape. Isik wondered how much had come from his body. Overhead the sky was dark and threatening, the air thick as a rainstorm moved in.
The rain would keep the sand down for now. Rain after a kum firtinasi was a mixed blessing. Isik needed to get inside before the silt under his feet turned to sludge and made walking even more treacherous.
Carefully, Isik placed one foot in front of the other, leaning against the dumpster and then the wall for support. He noticed the bloodstain on the cement where he had thrown his attacker from last night, and the empty spot where Sabiha's body should have been.
The memory was too confusing. He couldn't wrap his mind around what had happened. It didn't make any sense. Who would have come after him like that over some whore walking at night alone? Who would care enough to take him on? And, most concerning, who would be strong enough to have beaten him this severely?
He'd only been carrying out his order—to make the sister of RTK officer Fahri Kaya pay for his offense against Darya the night before. That's the way it was. Women paid for everything; they were the evil at the core of a rotten apple.
His whole life, Isik had fought for everything he had. Son of a Turk whose family had disowned him for marrying a Jewish woman; he was the dirty little secret of his extended family, but he made sure they would never brush him under the rug like they had his father. Once he was old enough to walk he started studying Karakucak, the Turkish form of wrestling, and he would grapple with the neighborhood boys. When they were old enough to learn they shouldn't be friends with a Jew, especially one whose father died and whose mother lived alone, he was already bigger and stronger than they were and he made sure they knew it. He fought to stay alive, he fought to defend his father, and he fought to prove who he was. He was still fighting.
Today, he fought against the nausea threatening to take over as he hobbled to the end of the alley where he had hidden his car.
The concrete floor was cold. Below ground the temperature is the same everywhere—an even 10 degrees Celsius—even in Elih, where the sun beats down with a relentless heat. A shiver shot up Recai's spine, shaking him awake. He was slow to open his eyes, his mind still blurry.
Where am I? What…
He
"He was there. He didn't recognize me, but I knew him. The scar on his cheek was fresh and raw when I first met him, and the hue of his beard is easy to recognize."
"Laa ela-ha el-lal-la," she prayed softly to herself, closing her eyes and shaking her head.
"Last night he was one of them…" Hasad continued.
"When we found him in the alley, he was not one of them."
"No. I don't imagine he ever will be."
"Siktir lan," he swore, spitting out thick, dried blood that had mixed with the sand in his mouth.
The pain in Isik Mosafir's head was rivaled only by the intense throbbing of his leg. Looking down, he half expected it to be gone; amputation being the only thing he was able to think of that could cause so much pain.
"Who was that got veren mother-fucker?"
Reaching out, Isik grabbed the edge of a dumpster and pulled himself up. His knee couldn't bear weight, but he was determined to get back home before anyone found him here. The last thing he needed was to be questioned by the RTK.
He'd left them a few years back and had been able to stay under the radar thanks to the friends he still had in the ranks. He also spent most of his time doing errands for the right people, people he knew by being kin to some of those same right people. But now his clothes were saturated with blood and he could barely walk; no way he'd get away without having to answer some questions.
What is your name?
Who is your family?
Isik snorted. Who, indeed?
Blood had dried on the ground around him into the remnants of last night's sandstorm. The oozing red congealed with dry particles to create a gory landscape. Isik wondered how much had come from his body. Overhead the sky was dark and threatening, the air thick as a rainstorm moved in.
The rain would keep the sand down for now. Rain after a kum firtinasi was a mixed blessing. Isik needed to get inside before the silt under his feet turned to sludge and made walking even more treacherous.
Carefully, Isik placed one foot in front of the other, leaning against the dumpster and then the wall for support. He noticed the bloodstain on the cement where he had thrown his attacker from last night, and the empty spot where Sabiha's body should have been.
The memory was too confusing. He couldn't wrap his mind around what had happened. It didn't make any sense. Who would have come after him like that over some whore walking at night alone? Who would care enough to take him on? And, most concerning, who would be strong enough to have beaten him this severely?
He'd only been carrying out his order—to make the sister of RTK officer Fahri Kaya pay for his offense against Darya the night before. That's the way it was. Women paid for everything; they were the evil at the core of a rotten apple.
His whole life, Isik had fought for everything he had. Son of a Turk whose family had disowned him for marrying a Jewish woman; he was the dirty little secret of his extended family, but he made sure they would never brush him under the rug like they had his father. Once he was old enough to walk he started studying Karakucak, the Turkish form of wrestling, and he would grapple with the neighborhood boys. When they were old enough to learn they shouldn't be friends with a Jew, especially one whose father died and whose mother lived alone, he was already bigger and stronger than they were and he made sure they knew it. He fought to stay alive, he fought to defend his father, and he fought to prove who he was. He was still fighting.
Today, he fought against the nausea threatening to take over as he hobbled to the end of the alley where he had hidden his car.
The concrete floor was cold. Below ground the temperature is the same everywhere—an even 10 degrees Celsius—even in Elih, where the sun beats down with a relentless heat. A shiver shot up Recai's spine, shaking him awake. He was slow to open his eyes, his mind still blurry.
Where am I? What…
He
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