Dead Embers (11 page)

Gunfire popped in the distance, and I tensed, throwing a
questioning look at Fen, who stood beside a white marble fountain. A thin
stream trickled out of the fountain, forming a shallow pond, shaded by a
cluster of thirsty palms.

"These people live in troubled times," Fen said.
"The gunfire would be the army who now control most of the city."

"Where are we, exactly?" I asked, blinking at the
fountain, with its tiny blue-and-white tiles fitting together in an elegant
mosaic, seeming so incongruously beautiful in a city at war. He'd mentioned
North Africa in our meeting, but I hadn't heard any specifics.

"Cairo, Egypt," Fen answered. "Let's get
going."

"Won't someone notice us?" asked Aimee. "It's
not exactly like we blend in, you know."

Fen glared at her, clearly impatient, and I could tell he
was thinking,
Weren't you paying attention during all those training
sessions in Asgard?
But her question was valid. Our pre-mission briefing
had been all about scout group issues and how we would be assisting a North
African team with a crucial new Retrieval. Fen had totally missed out on the
finer
details
.

Sigrun stepped forward to save her. "Not all of
us," Sigrun said. "The Valkyries and Ulfr will use their glamor. The
Warriors will be the only ones that humans can see."

Aimee's mouth formed a small 'o'. "Glamor? Oh, you make
yourself invisible? So people here will only see Joshua and me?"

Sigrun nodded.

I hid a smile. Aimee's face said exactly what I was
thinking:
So not fair
. I felt for her, but seriously, we could only lend
our glamor to simple things like clothing and weapons. Not a whole other
person. And seeing as we were all kitted out in Glasir-enhanced, modern-styled
garment, the warriors didn't need our help there.

"Let's go," Fen grunted.

He walked to a whitewashed wooden door, which sat right
smack in the middle of the high courtyard wall. He listened for a moment, then
opened the door and slipped outside. After a second's hesitation, we followed.
Joshua sneaked a few peeks at my Ulfr partner, and I schooled my features to
hide a smile, and to also temper a frown. I'd never seen him so entranced by a
girl. I guess I should have been happy for him.

I stepped toward Fen, eager to get moving. "Remember,
we only have thirty minutes to get to the Khan el-Khalili souk," he
snapped. "Pick up the pace." He seemed to know where he was going.
Had Fen been here before? The surly wolf-man didn't look like he fit in with
the hot, dusty streets.

Sounds of the souk filtered toward us as we meandered
through empty streets. And then we arrived, greeted by the bustle of shoppers
and cries of merchants selling every kind of item possible.

The heat closed in on us, and so did the crush of bodies.
Fen barged into the crowd, unconcerned that he couldn't be seen. I followed as
best as I could, not keen to be left behind. I scowled. How would we get
through this crowd? Our glamor caused a few problems, too.

We had to maneuver ourselves between bodies, to dodge and
weave to avoid collisions. It was no simple task. At least the press of people,
busy with daily shopping or touristy sightseeing, made it a little easier to
avoid detection. But suddenly I recognized Aimee's envy as misplaced. I would
have preferred being visible right then; being an invisible ghost in a crowd
was no picnic.

I grinned, imagining random shoppers shrieking about spirits
or djinn in the souk if we so much as bumped into them. My grin disappeared as
something small bumped soundlessly into me, my feathers taking the noise and
the force of the impact.

I turned slowly to face a little boy, black hair mussed and
sticking up in all angles, each hand filled with a pile of flatbreads, both
eyes large as he stared at my abdomen. Shouts along the path made him look over
his shoulder, and fear spasmed through his skinny body.

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.

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.