41. Courtship

It had been over forty minutes since Warshon pushed open the door and asked Guiliana to come with him. 

He didn't even bother to come in when he whisked her away. 

Mira fidgeted on the couch, her eyes glued to the words on the pages, her mind on the other side of the door. 

"Well, I'm glad I came in handy as a tool to make your girlfriend jealous," she puffed out her cheeks. Sore from sitting, she got to her feet and preceded over to the window overlooking the heart of Konstinbul. From there, she could see the Tuscon River ten blocks away, winding around the glass-and-steel towers like a silvery band, on which the palette of city lights skimmed, and whose shifting hues frisked upon the night sky. She withdrew her eyes to the Phoenix Square. Fifty-six floors beneath sprawled the labyrinth of the world's largest underground station she remembered admiring on her last visit with Mom while Dad stayed at a meeting. They spent hours standing before those mural walls and gazed upon the pillars carved in bas-relief with all the gods ever known to mankind. Between each pillar under every dome embellished with gold fittings stood a pedestal on which a book from the past was displayed, with a gratis code anyone could scan and download. She got them all that day. 

A smile hinted in her reflection caught on the glass. 

"Can we talk, Mom?" She raised her head to the sky, her hand reaching up. "How did you and Dad stay together for this long? Do you think it'd change later when you aged? Would you say that death has rendered your love eternal?" Tears fell unbidden. "And why do I feel I've lost something that was never mine?" 

The door clicked. She jolted, rubbing off the evidence of her weakness, her nose sniffling. 

Clad in his black shirt, he emerged under the pale yellow pendant light. He kept his head low, a smile thawing from his onyx gaze upon landing on her. 

"It wouldn't be smart if you're considering that window for your escape," he crooned, tilting to the side, his cheek bruised and scraped, with an open wound drawing up from his lips. The door closed behind him. 

"You're hurt." 

He raised his brows at first, "Oh, that," he chuckled, his thumb grazing his cheek. "I almost forgot."

She scurried toward him without much thought and gripped his sleeve as she stood on tiptoe. "And you just left it like that?"

His smile grew broader. "Only a scratch."

"A scratch?" 

Angling his head, he lowered his face to hers. "Does it count as you worrying about me?" 

She stumbled back a step, her eyes blinking at the LED screen fronting the window. "I'm worrying about the patients. Who'd want a thug to be their doctor? And if you go out of business, who's going to feed me, the parasite?" 

A laugh bobbed his larynx. "First off," he edged toward her, eyes narrowing. "I had a mask on while I was with the patients. But it was really uncomfortable after six hours, so I took it off when the last one left. And two," he took an amused pause. "Does the parasite want to make herself a little useful?"

"What, um, what do you want from me?" she gulped her words, her heels against the back of the couch. 

A dangerous smirk frolicked on his lips. He towed her by the hand to his desk and pulled out a drawer. 

"Everything you need," he said, plopping in a large swivel chair of glossy leather. "Tend to my wound."

She batted her eyes. "You waited the whole afternoon for me to do that?"

"I wouldn't have let Zahid punch me in the first place if I had to do it myself." 

"Ask your girlfriend." 

He grabbed her wrist, tugging her toward his knees before she could turn away. "I'm asking her now."

She snapped her head away. Tucking her cheek to the shoulder, she tried not to meet the gleam from the thin eyes deep in the sockets. "Guiliana won't be happy about it. Weren't you using me to make her jealous? Well, she isn't here now so knock it off."

"Why would I do that?"

"I'm not a fool," she gave him a side-eye, one brow jutting over the other while she tried and failed again to pull away. "Who else has the passcode to this door if she isn't your girlfriend?"

He shut his eyes with a long sigh and got to his feet. Shifting on those long legs, he went up to the door and typed on the keypad. "It wasn't just a retort when I said I was lazy," he said, throwing a languid glance over his shoulder. "Twenty-eight zero nine, now you have it."

"Huh?"

"Everyone tried to test my patience on September twenty-eight," he said while making his way back to her, his voice unhurried. "And just when I thought I was at the end of my rope, someone dropped into my arms." He put his hands on her waist as he sat in his chair again. 

A peal of warning tolled. Mira gulped the air too dense with heat. But as if she were in quicksand, the more she struggled to get out, the faster she sank. 

"You don't have to do it," He dropped his gaze after waiting for a response that didn't come after a long while. "It's really no big deal," pausing with a chuckle, he cocked a brow. "We can go ho–" he cut himself short, his tongue clucking. "Look," he raised his head again. "I am courting you. But I just realized that I was also cornering you. It appears that you're stuck with me not because you want to but because you have nowhere to go. Ergo, the answer I'm expecting will come under duress, so to speak. So, you take it slow. But I'm not going anywhere." He let go of her and leaned to the drawer. His hand delved in and out with a bottle of antiseptics. Rising to his feet, he headed to the bathroom. 

Not exactly knowing why or what the consequences were bound to follow, Mira groped at his sleeve, tugging him back to her while she snatched the bottle from his hand. 

He skewed around, his face masked by a quizzical smirk. Without a word, he obeyed and sat, his eyes scorching her skin. 

She willed her focus on the wounds, her hands shaky when the touch of salve made him wince. The room fell quiet, too dangerously quiet. "Aren't you afraid I'll give you pneumonia by breathing in your face?" she blurted. 

"Thought you had pneumonia enough times to know yours is caused by complications, not infectious agents. Or, are you so desperate to shut me out that you forgot I'm a doctor?"

While she mumbled a cuss at herself, Warshon leaned close to her ear, "You may spit in my mouth and I'll still be fine." 

She scowled. "Why would I do that? And don't move, you're making it difficult."

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckled, boring into her eyes. "Relax, you've seen far worse."

Mira didn't have the nerve to confess that it was the exquisite arch of his brow above the too perfect a nose that wobbled her knees and made her breath hitch.

Focus! She composed herself, imagining him in fifty years when he'd be as shriveled as every other man that age. A giggle she failed to strangle in time fled her throat. 

He reclined, his dark gaze narrowing. "What's amusing?"

She shook her head with force. 

"Tell me," he ran a hand up her arm. 

"Defense magic. Thank all the gods that ever blessed the world you can't see into my head." 

He swooped her up to his lap. "No," he breathed. "But I have time, and I'll find out eventually." 

"Smug." 

A smile folded a dimple on his cheek. Mira shied away, summoning the face of a grandpa patched with liver spots. 

"You've been crying before I came in," he said, not a question. "What's wrong?" A demand. 

"You're tripping." 

"Keep it from me all you want, but again, I will find out."

"Go ahead."

He loosed a laugh. "Well, thank you, Mira, for taking care of me." He took her hand, his lips brushing her skin. 

The world spun, and Mira felt giddy. Say something, she thought, anything! "Looks like the DEA commander is skilled," she blurted the first thing that came to her mind. "He made quite a scene on your face but didn't damage any bones. Did he scratch you on purpose for the theatrics?"

"Is there anything I can't keep away from you?" He scraped her nose with a crooked forefinger. "Being the DEA commander, he had a special keyring made for the exact purpose. And you're right, he could very well have broken my nose or jaw and punched out a few teeth."

"I'm more concerned about the wound in your back." Her eyes roamed over his shoulder and fled upon catching the dangerous smirk. 

"I told you before, if you want to see me naked, you can just ask."

Mira scrambled to flee. But the arms around her waist fastened her to his lap, and the force threw her to his chest. She blushed at his heartbeat to which she was listening in, her eyes staring wide. 

"I asked Guiliana what you were laughing about when I first came back," he said, laced with an atavistic yearning, his voice caressing the back of her ear and nape. "She told me you were teaching her how to see the body as an atlas, and each channel a road, a river, passing through the points."

"She told you?"

"I can't wait for you to travel on me." Growling, he paused to tease before adding, "With needles when you're ready for your practical class." Upon seeing her gawking at a loss, he shook with a laugh. 

Outside the window, on the large LED screen from the opposing tower that aired breaking news all day and night, the last debate between the Republican candidates for Premier had begun. 

Mira gingerly turned her head. The queasy feeling returned when she was once again looking into Mustafa's face on the large screen. Other than a few silvery strands in his hair, the man barely aged. 

"Do you want to watch the debate?" Warshon asked, sizing up the expression that must have betrayed her. 

She snuck a glance up at him. "Here?"

"Why do you think I have this office?" Lending out an arm as he put her down, Warshon got up from the chair and led her back to the couch facing the big screen. He gave her an earpiece and tuned into the debate on his watch.

"You have quite a cinema," she hissed, her head shaking. 

He only shrugged, his head low, brow contracting. Something else got on his mind. Mira could feel it. The Qusbecqs were Conservatives, that was how much she knew. But she doubted Warshon ever had the choice he had allowed her. Then again, does it matter to which party he should cast his vote? Power to the people indeed, yet truth was seldom in the hands of the masses. She lifted her eyes at Mustafa on the big screen, her hands coiling around her ankles. 

The police couldn't find proof to suggest that the crash twelve years ago was anything but an accident. But the want of proofs never dispelled Mira's suspicion of its tie to the dashing middle-aged man who now spoke with much fervor, and whose hazel green eyes betrayed nothing. Innocent until proven guilty – it isolated truths in a tenuous existence in the dark and consecrated lies with abounding evidence under the light. 

"Can I ask you something?" she asked. 

He looked over the shoulder, his lips curling up. "Shoot."

"Is your father the reason you're the Phantom Lord?" A shudder coursed through her. Drawing her knees to her chest, she huddled into herself. "You don't have to answer," she added. 

"Yes and no," he said, shifting toward her as he propped an elbow on the backrest, his eyes brooding. "It was music to my ear when you said that every pawn wants to cross the board and declare itself a queen. But what must a pawn do in order to reach the other side?"

"You're proving yourself useful to the players." She nipped her lip, her voice a hum. 

"Go on," he crooned, his head leaning languidly on the back of his hand. "I want to hear your theory. It helps me clear my head."

Mira considered the chance of it being a test of how much she shouldn't know. "The more you can do for their gain," she ventured, "the closer you come to the truth, and the more perilous becomes the road ahead because the players fear for the day a pawn should sit among them, on their opposing side. But," she paused, stifling a tremor as she met his dark gaze that seeped under her skin. Her eyes fled, her head ducking. "The Phantom Lord has long been qualified for a player. You can throw down the gauntlet anytime. That's why your father had you under his surveillance. It's just…" Her voice trailed off. 

"Just what?"

"He is your father, right?"

"If you're thinking that he wouldn't like to see me harmed, Lord Qusbecq isn't that kind of a father," he said, his voice measured and flat. 

She pursed her lips. "Nah, I was just thinking, if not even your father could trust you in this game you all play, what would his partner, or partners, do? They wouldn't be as gentle as just having you watched, would they?" Mustering up all her guts, she snuck a peek at him. 

His eyes frosted, his face drawn, his striking features even colder and unsparing like the allure of a faraway snow-mantled sierra. 

"No," he mused. "They certainly wouldn't."

"I think Lord Qusbecq will try to bind your loyalty to him through Guiliana, which he hopes will send a message to those who share his interest that they shouldn't worry about you as a threat. But I doubt they'd be persuaded easily. The fear of losing one's power always has a better sway. And likely, they would impugn Lord Qusbecq for not taking a more aggressive approach. Does anyone else know you're who you are?" 

"My stepbrother."

"Serhat Qusbecq?"

Locking his eyes on her, he confirmed with a nod.

"Is he… I know trust is a stupid word here, but do you trust him?"

"No." A point-blank reply. "But I certainly owe him a thank you," he added with a chortle. "Had it not been for him, it'd take me longer to find you." 

"Huh?"

Warson angled his head, his voice ridden with disdain, "He's the reason I nearly got shot." 

Mira gripped his hand drooping from the backrest. "And you took the opportunity to prove you aren't the Phantom Lord, that the allegation was nonsense."

"Thank you for giving me the credit." His eyes softened. A smile breathed into them like a zephyr heralding the spring. "To convince the world that doesn't know better, perhaps, but didn't you also say that the fear of losing one's power always has a better sway? Behind closed doors, I'm afraid it's no longer a secret who the Phantom Lord is now." Pausing with an aloof smile, he turned his wrist and reached for her hand, their fingers interlocking. "But I'll take care of it. Don't worry." 

Mira skipped a breath, her heart in her throat, her hand shaky in his. While a battle was fought between two opposing sides, a war was where all parties of interest wrangled to make the most of the chaos. Warshon must know this, being his lord father's ally and nemesis. Perhaps a dance with the dragon who dwelled in the tenebrous underworld was her best chance. Or perhaps long before she knew it, she had intertwined with him in darkness, where she had seen the gleam of truth banished by the light, and now she could no longer look away.

In the earpieces, Mustafa initiated an ad hominem attack on Kieren Zaman. "You were a Globalist in your younger years, Mr. Zaman. When you were in your twenties, you wanted a world that thrived in collaboration and peace. But now you're older, you're robbing the young of their rights, as well as their duty, to envision a better future for all mankind?" 

Mira turned her head to the screen. The camera stopped on Kieren Zaman, a bearded man in his early forties with a square face and piercing blue eyes the color of sapphire. Sporting a faded undercut carefully pomaded, he wore his sleeves up to the elbows. Nipping a mouthful from the glass next to the microphone, he braced his palms on the podium. 

"I was a Globalist, many years ago. I have no intention to hide my past, and I can tell you why," he said to the camera before turning to his opponent. "I'm of the generation who grew up with conservative values in a conservative household, and like many of my peers, I witnessed how families crumbled. I grew up seeing my parents fight, and when they were done fighting, they either ignored each other or were out cheating. To be honest, I was scared of marriage, of family, and of everything deemed fit by tradition, and I couldn't understand why anyone should want a piece of hell like that. I thought Globalism was the future, a promise of more freedom and self-reliance. But then, the inevitable happened: I've aged, and I've seen. Nobody is self-reliant without the community. We support each other. And more isn't always better. More freedom is a surefire way to chaos. The Revolution that befell the Commonwealth is a good case in point. It became clear to me that while society needs progress, we shouldn't give away everything that has been known to us for the sake of generating a movement, which is often a mirage of progress. That's why I joined the Conservative, to make it better, and this time, we'll make it work."

"Quite a confession," Warshon snorted. Still holding her hand, he tilted back his head, his smirk a riddle. 

"You think?" Mira puffed out her cheeks. She didn't need to know Kieren Zaman to know that everything coming out the mouth of a public figure was the tip of the iceberg that only the eye could see. 

"You think it's a bad move?" he crooned, keeping her under his gaze. 

"I like what he said," Mira offered a shrug. "But engaging in ad hominem with honesty is also risky. While he might turn some heads from the other side, he risks angering loyal voters who dislike change."

"What would you do?"

"Borrow strength. Work up the crowd with what already held their conviction and put it in direct conflict with my opponent. Let the crowd go up in arms and roar in my stead." 

A quizzical smile glowed in his eyes. "I can see you aren't new at borrowing strength."

No, she thought, chewing on the seam of her lips as she ventured another glance at him. As every youth her age, she had flouted destiny until it unfolded before her eyes and brought her to her knees. The clever doctor she had anticipated to expose the vaccine scandal in her stead also saved her and kept her alive. By holding the conference she later saw on the news, Warshon managed to antagonize the voters against the Commonwealth government, the first step to her long way of vengeance. Even though he didn't do it for her, it triggered exactly what she needed. 

"Thank you," she hummed, a quaver laced in her voice. 

"Hmph, so you've borrowed mine," he mused, his brows elavating. "I know you were trying to make use of the explosion to help you escape at the port had I not stopped you. Anything else?"

"Aren't you confident you'll figure everything out eventually?" She made a moue as she nudged away, her eyes escaping his. 

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her back, "One minute, I felt I was talking to a wise old sage, and the next, it's like I'm bickering with a twelve-year-old. You sure you're twenty-one?"

"Twenty-two."

"Next month."

"The same," Mira coughed, sinking into him despite herself, her lungs toiling for air. She had used up more than she could give for the day. 

"Here," Placing a cushion under her, he skipped the what's wrong as he went to get her medication and a glass of water he poured at a tasteful liquor cabinet between the bookshelves. Gathering her up in his chest, he let her nibble up the pills from his palm and put the glass to her lips. "I should have left you rest at home with Nonna."

"I've rested enough. Thank you for dumping it all on me." She looked to the tome left on the coffee table. "Quite a challenge, I like it." 

He chuckled, his firm chest heaving against her cheek. "That's the spirit."

Abandoned by all reasons and wits, she snuggled up to him, giving in to the alluring scent of cedar. "Shouldn't you eat?" she purred, her voice nearly drowned out by the back and forth of bickering that kept coming from the earpieces. 

"Are you hungry?" 

She shook her head. "But you must be. You haven't had the time to eat anything. Doctors aren't supposed to be self-destructive." 

As if he were stumped but in no rush to conceal his fluster, Warshon took a moment of pause that lasted a few heartbeats. He pressed his lips to the side of her head. "Worry about yourself," crooning by her ear, he eased her to a supine position. "Let's do another needling treatment. Tell me what you want to eat when you feel a little better, and I'll order it here."

But when he rose to leave, she tugged his sleeve. 

"What's wrong?" He turned and sat on his heels. "You don't want me to leave?" A smile warmed in his cold gaze. "I need to get the needles from the other room. It'll only take a minute."

She mewled, averting her eyes to the floor. Growing up under Reynold's care, she had seen far too many women come and go, and none kept his interest for more than weeks. "I was thinking about what Zaman said," she mumbled under her wheezing breath. 

Warshon tipped back his head and chuckled, "Your mind sure works in a curious way."

"How can two people not eventually get bored of each other?"

His gaze narrowed while he pursed those burgundy red lips. "Perhaps they don't see each other as a person."

Intrigued by the exact opposite to what she thought, Mira glanced up, their eyes locking. 

"Let's say, if for any worth of me that I could be a painting, you're art. Or should I qualify for being a chord, you're music. And if I were a verse, you're poetry." he said, his gravelly voice unhurried. In his eyes a ripple of hope and despair entwined, ineffable and yet genuine. "The why to my what, that's how I see you."