Mizrah's Ladder Ch. 08

You knew better. Stathis was one of those people who used the threat of homelessness against others to control them, since the safety net in The City was essentially nonexistent...and you were pretty sure, given how this man sounded, that it was he who compromised his own firm's security. Sold whatever data had gotten Isabel fired.

In your view - long since altered by this violent life of struggle - there was little difference between devouring a man's flesh and usurping his livelihood. Besides, you were helping a woman you cared about to right a grudge and sustain herself, so that made it okay within the bubble existence creatures like you inhabit, that realm beneath and above human notice; The Jungle, as other Turnskins called it.

Besides...she mostly led the charge. She was the one who used old emails, chat logs she'd saved (fastidious woman!) and even broke into his social media and online dating accounts by manipulating probability to 'guess his passwords'. You narrowed down, fairly easily, his watering holes...his favorite bars, restaurants where he left reviews...all within the Red Light District, of course.

The strategy, as the two of you discussed it, was simple.

Stathis had approached her once before and she'd rejected him - Isabel had always found the man subtly repulsive despite his good looks - and it wouldn't be difficult for her to reel him in...not when she was dressed like that. Not immediately showy or demanding attention, but the exposed line of her midriff, the shapely vertical carve of her back...incredibly hard to ignore. Those gray jeans emphasized an already callipygian ass - you weren't normally a butt guy but Isabel had hips and glutes that would make Anahit green with envy, and that hair...she was like a movie star.

When she'd hooked him, convinced him to take you back to his place with the both of you (who could say no to that?) then...well, she'd show you what she had in mind. Isabel's smile had shown little mirth; the anticipation of vengeance, of hot meat made her blood rush in her veins. Obviously, you couldn't kill and devour a man in either of your homes, but in his...? She'd make him an offer he couldn't refuse.

Thrilling, the thought of the prey taking you back to his territory, eager to have what was denied him...questions filled your head - how would he feel about your presence there? How would he challenge you, as he inevitably would? Just how much of herself would your nascent packmate allow him to have, or would she simply take from him?

It's been some time since you enjoyed watching one of your own on the Hunt.

Longer, still, since you tasted the flesh of Man. You'd promised that she could ask her questions after sating herself, and you knew that for this to work out, you'd have to be honest with her about a lot of things...the man-eating. The piercings. Lena, and the way you betrayed her for everything she'd done to you.

Those complications were for later...for now, you could focus on caring for and providing for this woman who, if you played your cards right, might be the one to save you.

The Hashemite Cabaret. You don't exactly know how you feel about crashing a place like this, since it technically isn't your crowd, but you could fit in better here than Isabel on looks alone, and because you could, in fact, understand the Persian and Arabic murmuring through the crowd. A curious collision of high-class and trashy, you'd been to places like this with your cousin Rasoul back when you first lived with him in Chicago. Finding Stathis here would be something of a surprise, since the Hashemite Cabaret was where the sons and daughters of Persian Gulf wealth debauched away from the judgmental eyes of their fathers.

Maybe he did accounts for the Qatari aristos who made their homes up in Cerulean Heights? Regardless.

The two of you trail through the tall, gold painted doors into a low-ceilinged, brightly-lit hookah bar; bright compared to the dark warehouses and goth nightclubs you usually Hunted in. Her arm is loosely slung through yours, an index finger hooked through your belt loop, and you know that the two of you look *good* even if you're underdressed.

Fuck 'em.

See the dark-eyed stares from oil sheikhs' daughters, hear their whispers of disdain masking their envy and flickering, poorly hidden lust.

See the hookah pipes hover near gold-pierced lips, smoke trailing draconically around white silk wrapped heads as they peer from behind dangling beaded curtains.

See the Prey. You find him.

The both of you had taken a lot of time looking at pictures of Stathis on social media. You're not interested in men, but you can see how those who are would find him attractive - Gregory Stathis looks as good as his money can buy. He's wearing a silver blazer tonight on his broad shoulders...he's a tall man, maybe an inch over where you stand. Gregory's hair is a neat brown combover, the sides buzzed; his face is long and his mouth pushed forward just a bit in a feral pout. You hate his tie; it's bright orange and makes you want to bite his throat.

Her fingers clench; her nails grow and sharpen, pricking your skin below the cloth of your jeans and you touch her fingers gently. Her Rage is visceral, even if her face is cool and calm like the surface of a stream, and you whisper to her:

"Find your calm. It's okay, think of something that makes you feel safe."

Her hand reaches up and find yours, and she tears her barbed gaze from Gregory to direct it your way; you watch as the chaotic flashes of indigo at the corner of her gaze recede and you know she's thinking of you. It warms your heart, and your other hand gives her perfectly shaped thigh a gentle squeeze.

"I think you know what to do...go work your magic baby, I'll be within eyeshot to let him know he's surrounded. "

She bites her lower lip, and as she walks past, you feel her fingers drift tantalizingly over your package, her eyes hot and hungry and leaving you growing hard as she makes her move. Rapidly becoming indecent, you stride toward the bar and keep down your wretching disgust at the sight of it. You recognize gold-leaf, treated plating, geometric designs recalling the edgework of masjids in Esfahan's old city, and a pair of tall, ornate hookah pipes sat on either end of the bar, where trios of trendy young millionaires talked about...

...what the hell did rich people talk about anyway? Stock trading? How many people they'd metaphorically eaten today? Which new yacht, entertainment center or politician they'd bought?

Old, human-era hatreds began to rise to the surface...jealousies and envy that you'd sooner deny - why couldn't you have had a charmed, easy life like those Soft Prey? You can tell yourself that the hardships you went through were because your parents refused to sell out and you could admire dad for that at least (mom was immaculate, of course)...but there's still a part of you that wonders:

What if I'd been rich? Would my life be better? Would I be this Thing?

Then you crane your head and look at her. You watch Isabel.

Even freshly changed, the young Behexxed is...music in motion. Her every movement is tuned to subtly grab attention without being coquettish or easy, and while the hot, sultry gleam has never left her dark eyes, she distinguishes herself from all the other women you've ever met by their razor-sharp edge of intelligence. Amazing how she simply slips in next to the Prey, how the light reflects with a flash off her teeth; she inflicts her Predator's Aura upon the shark-smirking Gregory and you watch as colorless sparks explode before his eyes, confounding and Addling him.

He's putty in her hands as she leans forward and gently jabs a finger into his chest - Stathis whimpers audibly and leans into it, and you can't help but focus your enhanced hearing upon her words:

" - made a big mistake fucking me over Gregory, but...I might be willing to forgive you, and maybe I'll even give you want you want as long as you eat right out of my palm..."

Long have you ached for someone like her to fill the void in your existence, this woman you Saw with your Foresight, whom you Changed with your Bite. The bartender, a slip of a man with short spiky bleached hair, pushes an overpriced can of some local craft brew into your hand, taking the bill and watching with some quiet judgment as you lift it to your lips and sip.

You don't care, you've never cared, your attention is still so firmly on the way Isabel menaces her Prey that you don't even notice the serpentine shadow that slides into the stool next to you until she's rhythmically tapping her gold-and-sapphire-and-ruby bedecked fingers on the obnoxious countertop. On instinct your senses flare, and you tear your gaze from your mate to take her in.

You smell...black currant and coconut, flowers and fitna, the barest hint of venomous peroxide.

You hear...sibilant breathing, a slow heartbeat, the slither of gold necklaces and bracelets, the click of scales.

You see a woman you don't recognize, but she's looking at you as if she already knows you. She's beautiful in the way Emirati princesses are - her hair is black like Isabel's but so dark it was almost blue, pin-straight and worn in a complex braid shimmering down her back. Her heart-shaped face is dark of complexion, similar to your own, and her murky green eyes stare at you with obviously slitted pupils.

Neither of you say a word to the other as you contemplate your bad luck and poor planning, recognizing the woman next to you in her immaculately white, pressed pant suit for another Accursed Being; a Dahaka, or Naga depending on whom you asked...a Snake, in any other terms. You're either in her territory or on what she considers her feeding grounds as a forked tongue flickers out, over her shiny, purple painted lips, taking in your scent. She wrinkles her nose in some strange combination of disgust and intrigue.

"Hmmmm...a fish out of water, a wolf out of the woods, or a poor *ghulam* sticking out amongst his betters?" she asked.

"None of those," came a voice from behind before you could respond - your spine shivers and almost grows extra vertebrae as you fight down the Change-reflex, which would be disastrous here. Instead you play it cool like always, crinkle your can and lift it back to your lips to look over your right shoulder. "He is little more than a beast."

Sure enough, there is a man standing by the bar. His hair is carefully coifed, giving you the impression of black acrylic, with a long, leering face. He's lighter than you are, the prince to the other Dahaka's princess, with all the regal bearing of the kind of people you hate. He's wearing a clean, white silk shirt over a frame that is about ten kilos sparer than yours, tucked into pinstripe suit pants; you can smell the small, steel knife somewhere on his person.

Not that he'd need it. Poison and venom, drugs and disease generally meant nothing to your kind. Dahaka spit, on the other hand?

Still. You entertain punching her in the face for calling you a ghulam...ugly word. The fact that she was a female Dahaka didn't make her any less punchable than her compatriot, whom you also considered punching in the face. You set your beer can down, fingers clenching with an audible crackling sound as you span the precipice of keeping your shit together and doing what feels right and natural - throwing down, establishing dominance, devouring this fucking cobra. That, of course, would be foolish - it wasn't an even fight between wolf and nagah, but a well-placed bite would mean the end of you, and the end of Isabel. Worse, there would be witnesses, and those would have to be dealt with - not a prospect you'd ever cared for, but one that was utterly necessary, one way or another.

"He's a beast who's minding his own business." You turn a menacing glare at the cobra prince, who stares back fearlessly. "For now. We're not hunting legless prey, so you're safe." Your head cranes back around to the white-clad noble, who has barely shifted from where she sat...it's eerie.

"For now."

You drive the point home by picking your beer can back up, staring defiantly at her as you take another sip - you can read her disgust at such haram behavior; it still rankles you when people make assumptions about you based on the way you look, but these are Lessers - fearsome yes, but belly-crawling, bickering, spiteful things, driven to little but building courts and politicking.

Still, you can't help but feel like this is unusually bad luck - Dahaka weren't even supposed to be in this part of town.

"Your mother raised you poorly," she states, and yet again you have to avoid the temptation to deck her.

"My mother raised me to not take shit, or let people get away with shit talking my mother," you answer smoothly, despite the anger rising in the back of your throat like heartburn - still, your nails grow sharp and pop through the aluminum can in your grasp. Craft IPA dribbles out on the countertop, only adding to insult.

"You're making an even worse mess...Sesham, give me leave to deal with this dirty dog and remove him from your sight," the well-dressed, slender man threatens he slinks closer. You rise easily to your feet, cresting the other man and looking down at him with a cool, easy smile.

In reality the whole world is falling into deadly crimson focus as the hint of a challenge from another Accursed Beast activates deep-seated instincts and desires; you are particularly responsive to Challenges, and from a Prey-creature? Intolerable.

...but aren't here for that.

You are here to help Isabel. This is about her...her Hunt, her hunger and yours. Besides, there is a moderate-to-decent chance that one of the Dahaka would get a bite in and...that could get messy. You had no pack; and even the one in whose Kiss you'd sought refuge and love was taken from you. Alone again, you'd picked up some imprecations...spells, more or less, of a Turnskin nature. Some of the reality-warping energy that flows through your supernatural form burns and blazes, and the low, thrumming note that echoes beneath the perceptions of mortals becomes a hypnotic, suggestive rhythm for another Shapechanger.

"I know what this is about...it's always about some power play your clans are making against each other. Shhh, shh...don't talk, there's two more of us outside." The lie is smooth, and its arcane timbre and mystical thrum makes his slitted eyes glaze over. Suggestable and weak-willed.

They need to believe that this invasion of their grounds is the bold move of a proud predator - not the desperate act of a lonely man, struggling to put it all back together.

'Don't break eye-contact Yusuf,' you chant in your own mind as you stare down the other man. 'Don't look at her. Don't be Orpheus. You'll give yourself away, and violence will explode outward, and you'll humiliate yourself in front of your packmate who needs to think you are perfect.'

The well-dressed, slender man is engaged in a similar contest of wills, to not break your dread gaze and look to the female, obviously his...alpha, perhaps. There's always a chance she could simply dig her fangs into your shoulder from behind and render you helpless, but that wasn't likely from what you knew of these creatures' behavior...hierarchical, sticking to their station. This princess wouldn't see fit to sully herself with an attack, not when her little bodyguard was there so...it all comes down to the well dressed man's courage.

...not to mention your ability to control your anxiety. Isabel's voice is constantly at the edge of your hearing; you hope she doesn't hear what's happening.

You're growing impatient. You reveal your teeth, let him watch as they sharpen.

"We'll kill every single person here before we even bother with you...and that'll be on your skinny shoulders. Wanna risk it? All that blood between the floorboards of your family name? Easy thing to avoid. Leave us alone, you'll live another night, and so will everyone here."

You're considering the best course of movement for when they both make their move against you, but...he tips his coiffed head forward slightly.

When they clear out, give you your space, seething and hissing and threatening one last time, you sit back down at the bar and look mournfully at your drink, pretty well drained across the countertop as the bartender keeps his head down and cleans it up. He looks terrified enough to have some idea of what's going on here.

You feel bad. You weren't really going to kill any of these people, so you take a few $20s from your wallet and leave them on the bartop.

It's the least you can do.

Your timing is good too - you catch Isabel's dark, doe-eyed gaze and feel your heart shudder in your chest...you know you're a handsome guy, you know women want you, but god *damn*, the fact that *she* wants you is unbelievable at times...even though you worked literal magic to get her. Her victim seems to be looking for something on his person, patting his body in confusion. Hopefully she has no idea what just went down with those Dahaka - it's your turn now, as you'd planned.

"Hello Yusuf," Isabel croons gently to you with the kind of smile shared between lovers, the tone of people who shared a bed and much more. You glide over to her, walking with confident, slow grace; the metal on your body clinks quietly and she definitely isn't faking the way she looks upon you with hunger and admiration...it inflames your passions, steels your will to feel her eyes start at your shoulders, work down over your chest, your stomach, to your hips. She's had you so many times recently, but you know she's hungry for more. You're also desperate to return to her arms, but she has to eat.

"Hey beautiful..." you make no pretenses as Gregory looks up with confused, blinkered eyes that seem to flicker in the center with static. He mouths in confusion as you fiercely kiss Isabel, gently pushing her back against the bartop from where you stand and drawing a gentle sound of excitement from the dark haired Greek girl as she runs a hand up your arm. "Who's this joker?" you ask with obvious, stabbing disdain.

"This little man is my ex-boss, who really wants to fuck me. Don't you Greggy." Isabel is a creature of interesting contradictions...at once modest in her own way, she also has an incredible confidence over her dryad-like figure; she does this thing where she presses her thighs together on the barstool (it makes you throb after that shower), swiveling her hips toward the man with the bright orange tie; his throat reminds you of a spit of gyro meat, and you long for a bite.

"Oh yeah, does he? Doesn't look so little to me...looks like he's easily a mouthful," you threaten, your tone inherently mocking and unfriendly. Greg's jaw works uselessly; he's insulted as he should be, but he's confused and torn between his heightened desire for your mate and the disconnection from reality he's experiencing under her Predator's Aura.

"He's little where it counts," your mate stabs easily as she glances downward between his legs with disdain. Hooking her fingers in your belt loop, she leans forward with a shark's smile at Gregory, whispering sibilantly. "Listen, Stathis...I might let you put your cock in me tonight, but Yusuf gets to have me first, and you have to watch." Her fingers alight easily on his kneecap, and he freezes, his jaw shuddering. Poor, pathetic, helpless fucking Prey.

One thing was for certain...you didn't want to give Isabel a reason to have a grudge.

"He gets to have you second? Awfully generous of you," you tease as you come around to his other side and sit behind him, snatching his rum and coke, taking a sniff before pushing it back his way. "Here, drink up you soft-bellied man...need some confidence, don't wanna embarrass yourself when your life's on the line."