Nazirah thanks him and walks through the open door, trying to breathe. She follows Olag for a minute or two, her mind distant. He stops in front of an unremarkable door. “Here?” she asks and he nods.
Nazirah is not ready, not ready, not ready.
She must be ready.
She stares at the door, willing her body to move. Olag stands patiently by her side, giving her all the time she needs. Nazirah closes her eyes, takes a shaky breath. In a strange moment of clarity, she unwinds the headscarf, letting her hair fall freely down her back in its natural waves. She hands the long ribbon of fabric to Olag, who looks at her questioningly.
“I want him to recognize me.”
Chapter Four
The first thing Nazirah notices as she shuts the door behind her is the room, which is small and windowless. The walls and floor are matte gray stone, cracked and grooved from years of abuse. There’s a draft coming from somewhere. Nazirah feels goose bumps forming on her arms, even though she’s in the middle of the desert. She sees the blinking security camera in one corner of the ceiling and knows that Solomon is watching. It doesn’t reassure her.
At the center of the room is a wooden table with two adjacent folding chairs … one of which is currently occupied. The sitting man has his back turned to her. He is wearing a traditional black prison jumpsuit and his hands are resting on the table. Nazirah can see from the door that he is handcuffed at the wrists. His posture is straight, but restrained. He must have heard her come in. Yet he remains still, staring straight ahead.
Nazirah doesn’t know what she has been expecting. Maybe for him to be dirty, covered in his own filth, bloody, chained to a wall, or sobbing in a corner. Certainly not this calm and collected person before her. Her heart races as she walks around the table. Palms sweating, Nazirah takes her seat, finally facing him.
Remember to breathe.
Nazirah cannot look him in the eyes. Her attention focuses immediately on his hands, as she wrings her own in her lap. His are large and calloused, with bruised knuckles. Small black scratch marks cover the backs of them. Nazirah knows from the newspapers that these tattoos tally his number of kills. He wears them like badges of honor, she thinks, revolted. She feels sick, reminded that two of those miniature lines are Riva and Kasimir.
Nazirah forces her gaze upwards to his arms, which for the most part are covered by the jumpsuit. The silence is deafening as Nazirah’s eyes skirt over the muscles outlining his upper torso, honed from years of killing and torturing. She focuses on the pulse in his neck, the pulse that beats life into him. Nazirah wishes she could wrap her hands around his throat until she feels that pulse slow, and then stop completely. Wishes it so badly that she has to sit on her hands, afraid she might attack him and ruin everything.
Her gaze travels further up. Past the neck, past the slight stubble that shadows a defined jaw, past the split lip – which Nazirah notes with satisfaction; it seems Adamek Morgen has not had the most pleasant stay in prison – past the purple bruise on his cheek which mars otherwise smooth, ivory skin. Medi skin. And still further up, past the aristocratic nose, the dark arched eyebrows and black hair.
Finally, finally, she looks him in the eyes.
They are blindingly green.
If he is surprised to see her, he doesn’t show it. He stares at her expressionlessly. Nazirah realizes in embarrassment that he has probably been watching her all along, waiting for her to finish assessing him. Waiting for her to be ready.
She is startled by how young he looks. Shouldn’t murderers be gruesome and scarred and … older? She searches for the guilt and torment that should have aged his face. She finds none of it. All she sees is a boy her age, maybe a few years older.
Not just any boy.
Every emotion flickers across Nazirah’s face. Fear, embarrassment, hate, guilt, loathing … she feels it all and it all shows. But Adamek’s face is a mask, undecipherable, impenetrable. She has never seen someone so controlled in her life. Nazirah, who has never been particularly good at hiding particularly anything, feels completely uncomfortable. She breaks eye contact with him, breathing through her nose. She needs to get out of here, fast. All of her feelings are rapidly being overtaken by one consuming emotion … rage.
What is Niko talking about? This is not the face of a reformed man! This is a monster, who obviously feels no remorse at all. And she hopes he sees it written all over her face. Adamek may fool Nikolaus, but he is not fooling her.
Nazirah pulls the amnesty pendant and a folded piece of paper, stamped with the rebellion’s wax seal, from her pocket. She admired the pendant on the train ride to Rubiyat. It is simple, just a gold ring on a chain, with Nikolaus and Adamek’s names inscribed into it. Nazirah knows Adamek will have to wear it for the rest of his life. It saddens her that something so beautiful will forever be a part of someone so ugly.
Nazirah feels his stare, but she will not look up again. She is not sure she can handle it, and feels ashamed that her one chance to confront him is slipping through her trembling fingers. Right now, all she wants to do is leave. She wants to run – like usual, Nazirah is letting everyone she loves down. She hates him for it, but she hates herself more.
Nazirah sets the chain down on the table, within Adamek’s reach. Give him the chain, read the short contract, get him to sign on the line. Niko had made her repeat the steps several times over before the train left the station in Krush. Nazirah recites the short list in her head, finding that the set directions calm her nerves. She deftly breaks the seal, opens the contract, and begins to speak.
“Adamek Morgen,” she reads, “son of Gabirel and Victoria Morgen, you have entered into a binding amnesty agreement on this day, at your own behest, willingly and honorably.” Nazirah resists the urge to snort. Sarcasm is unfortunately not on Niko’s checklist. “The terms of this contract have been previously negotiated and agreed upon and I, Nikolaus Nation, son of” – Nazirah’s voice cracks – “Kasimir and Riva Martel Nation, pledge to you that I will honor our conditions from this day, until my last day, should you agree. In trust, let there be truth.”
Nazirah finishes reading the short paragraph, which is followed by the date and Nikolaus’s signature in red ink. There is a blank line under Nikolaus’s name, indicating where Adamek should sign. Nazirah sets the contract down on the table, realizing that she doesn’t have a pen for him to use. Flustered, she searches her pockets. She feels his eyes trained on her the whole time, almost amused. Nazirah is about to go ask Olag to bring her one from the control room when Adamek speaks for the first time, halting her thoughts in their tracks.
“That’s not how this works.”
Nazirah looks at him in surprise and confusion. His tone is clipped, but there is something else there as well. Curiosity. And as Adamek stares at her, Nazirah comes to the unnerving realization that he is curious about her. Like she is some puzzle he can’t quite solve. Nazirah watches as Adamek grabs the chain and finds the small point in the ring that Nazirah had thought was only for design.
Without hesitating, he stabs himself in the back of the hand with it. Nazirah’s jaw drops open and she doesn’t even try to hide her shock. Adamek dips the point into the blood that is now flowing from his small wound. With some difficulty, because he is still handcuffed, he writes his name on the contract. Nikolaus had not signed in red ink after all.
Nazirah thinks she might pass out. Niko should have warned her that this was going to happen! He should have prepared her! Just get him to sign his name, he said. That’s it, he said. Nazirah is going to give Niko a well-deserved kick in the groin the next time she sees him.
Adamek finishes signing the contract and slides it to her, the blood on his hand already coagulating. He pulls the chain over his head and tucks it under his jumpsuit.