Page 23 of Runes To Rain
As I get nearer, I can pick out specific voices. Malam’s guttural, deep tones, Fem’s voice a rich, dark sound, Lent soft and mid, Reem’s throaty and light, and finally the most unfamiliar, which must be Dio. His voice is a low, rich tone, at odds with the way he sang.
As I hear him speaking, I feel my shoulders tighten at the memory of the way he looked at me after he auditioned. I pull myself away from that feeling and focus on the words they are speaking.
Malam’s voice says, “You will tell me why there is a fourth.” His voice is a low hiss.
Reem says, “Dio auditioned and is part of the band.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t explain why he’s here.”
Fem begins to say, “He?—”
Malam cuts him off. “He’ll speak for himself.”
There is silence for a moment, and then Dio says, “I’ve been against the government and all their policies since I was?—”
“With who your parents are, I find that highly unlikely.” Malam’s voice is stony, and as I risk a glance through the crack in the door, I see his back. The boys stand beyond him, facing him and the door I stand behind. His whole body is tense as though he’s nearly ready to turn and leave the room.
I prepare to hide, noting a small cubby alongside the stairs.
As I risk another glance, I see Dio move closer to Malam, his eyes on Malam’s face. Even from here, I can almost feel the clash of their gazes like blades in a silent swordfight.
“You don’t need to believe me for it to be true,demon,” Dio says.
I step back, careful to be quiet, ready for Malam to come through the door at any moment. There is a lengthy pause in the room, and I stay still, my heart pounding, listening for movement.
Then Dio’s voice, a deep growl, says, “Who my parents are is immaterial to this discussion. Just because they were aligned with our political leaders doesn’t mean I follow in their footsteps. Early on, I was able to think for myself and felt strongly that what they were doing wasn’t right. All that money doesn’t come from something good. When they died and deeded me their estate, I accepted it and began investing and involving myself in anti-government actions.”
Dio pauses, and there is silence in the room. After a few minutes, he continues. “Starting many years ago, I learned about dark magic from a friend, and since then, I’ve been a solo practitioner. I was introduced to your ethos several years ago by those I met in my practice of magic. The guys from the bandsaw my tattoos and thought to ask. When I explained my background, they invited me here.”
Another pause, then Dio says, “I’ll learn from you if you’ll allow it, but if not, I’ll continue as I have.”
Silence falls over the room again.
Finally, I hear Malam’s voice say, “Let’s see them then.”
I hear a quiet rustle and again peer through the crack in the door in time to see Dio finish unbuttoning his shirt. He removes it carefully, folding it over one arm.
Tattoos twist around his torso, arms, and up his neck in shapes I can’t untangle. Every part of his abdomen and upper arms is covered in ink. It’s not just tattoos, though. From what I can see, there are also multiple scars cutting across skin that covers corded muscles. By his build and neat, controlled movements, I am again confident he’s either skilled at fighting or dancing, perhaps both.
Malam steps forward and runs his fingers over the twisted shape of a tattoo that travels from Dio’s collarbone to the bottom of his ribs on his left side. I wouldn’t have noticed that shape amongst the other twisting lines. Malam, though, has clearly identified it as something specific. As his fingers near Dio’s last rib, he pauses. From his body language, I can tell he looks back up, meeting Dio’s eyes.
They both remain there, still for a moment, and then Malam steps back and, in a quieter voice, says, “Put your shirt back on. We will begin.”
With that, Malam moves deeper into the room beyond what I can see from the door, and the boys follow him. Dio pulls his shirt back on and begins to button it as he joins the others.
I step back from the door, trying to process what I just watched. When I close my eyes, the shape that Malam traced on Dio’s chest is visible as though it's been burnt into my memory.
As I think through everything I just saw, breathing as quietly as I can, something catches my attention. A low murmurincreases in sound until I can hear chanting. I clench my hands in fists, unable to see what’s going on because of the placement of the narrow crack in the door.
Finally, unable to remain patient any longer, I push at the door trying to widen the crack so I can see more of the room. For a moment, I think I might succeed at my goal. Then the traitorous hinges let out the slightest, high creak of the ungreased. I freeze in the darkness, holding my breath. Moments pass, and the chanting continues, low and guttural from the other room, and I let out my breath.
I am not unwise, however, and having already nearly given away my presence, I know better than to tempt fate again. Instead, I turn and head back up the stairs, moving carefully to avoid any further incident. I pass through the door at the top of the stairs and push it closed.
My heart rate is returning to normal, and the door is nearly latched when resistance meets my palm. I’m pushed back roughly into the room as Dio steps out from behind it. There is a wild storm of emotion across his face. I smell a coppery tang clinging to him.
He looks at me as he gets through the door, and his expression darkens. “I knew I heard something,” he grinds out through a clenched jaw.
I’m trembling slightly, my hands in fists and chest heaving.
