I went for the foot stomp. His pained grunt showed he hadn’t been expecting it, and he widened his stance to protect his feet. I threw my head back, but his face was turned to the side so I only caught the side of his jaw. He chuckled low at my failed attempts.
I leaned forward, using my hips to throw him off balance, and it worked. He sort of crashed into my back and had to drop his arms to steady himself, grasping my waist. I froze at the intimate contact and sound of his breath in my ear. Yikes. Playtime over.
It was at that inopportune moment that a male voice with a Southern twang rang out near us.
“Hey! Get your hands off her!”
Kopano’s hands flew out to his sides and he backed away. Two guys in their early twenties stood there with angry expressions. Kope eyed them evenly.
“It’s okay,” I told the guys, still breathing hard. “He’s . . . my friend.”
They narrowed their eyes as if searching for a trick.
“We were just playing around,” I assured them.
“Yes,” Kope said in his rich accent. “We enjoy wrestling.”
We enjoy wrestling? It was a bad time to laugh, but a tiny cackle escaped from the back of my throat and I bent over at the waist, unable to help myself. The guys’ eyes widened at Kope’s obvious foreignness and my sudden burst of laughter. I tried to talk, but only managed to babble and wave a hand around. The guys shook their heads like we were crazy.
“Whatever.” One of the guys waved us off with a flick of his wrist. “Freaks.”
They left us there and Kope let out a laugh of his own now.
I pointed to him and said, “Freak.”
“What did I say?” He put up his hands. “I was enjoying the wrestling.”
“Stop!” I sputtered and laughed harder. “You’re crazy. And I was seriously about to take you down before they showed up.”
“Maybe next time,” he said as he walked to the driver’s door and opened it for me.
Climbing in, I shook my head and he shut my door with an uncontrollable grin. I was still giggling after I dropped him at his hotel and headed home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAMASCUS
After a great deal of cultural research, Kope and I decided to act as if we were strangers on our trip, though we’d stay in the same hotel. Parts of Damascus might cater to tourists, but I planned to err on the side of caution.
As I waited outside the Damascus airport for Kope to get through customs, I reached up to make sure the hijab was staying in place around my head. Patti had purchased the pretty black head scarf with ivory flowers, and together we learned how to wrap it and tuck it into the collar of my shirt so that only my face showed.
I held my bag close, relieved that it’d made it through the customs search. I dared not travel without the hilt, which was currently nestled in the middle of a big bag of individually wrapped candies. We’d even taped candies all around it, and superglued the bag so it looked unopened. What a humiliating disguise for such a powerful artifact.
Like the Atlanta airport, this one was bustling with people—some wearing turbans and robes, others wearing chic, designer clothes. Auras were a mix of oranges and grays, a flourish of travel anxieties. The scent of spicy foods carried along the air combined with fuel exhaust. Unfamiliar Arabic writing hung on banners up and down the walkway.
Kope would be in charge of changing money for us the next morning. When I knew he was safely through customs, I hailed a cab.
We’d chosen a middle-of-the-road hotel near the old city, within walking distance of where Duke Sonellion and his daughter Zania lived. Once in my room, I dropped my bag and slumped deliriously on the bed. I took a moment to run my fingers over its plush red headboard and golden comforter before stretching my supernatural hearing to the other corner of the hotel where Kope had been sent. I knew he would be listening for me with his extended hearing as well.
“Kope?”
“I am here,” came the quiet rumble of his voice.
“What time should we leave in the morning?”
“Let us meet at nine thirty in the hotel courtyard.”
“Okay, I’ll see y—Oh crap!” I pressed a hand over my mouth and fell back on the bed, banging my head against the wooden edge of the headboard. A demon had soared into the room and now hovered in my face. A prick of fear stabbed my chest. The spirit was dark and eerie with frightening feline features. I kept my mouth shut and breathed hard through my nose.
Appearing too afraid could make me seem guilty, so I jutted out my chin and met his beady eyes. “What do you want?”
Staring at it, waiting for some sort of attack or haunting message, I realized it looked familiar. All I could think was that we’d been caught before we’d even started the mission. The spirit’s mouth lifted at the corners, revealing pointy teeth, but if it was attempting a rabid snarl, something was off. This was more like . . . a really unpracticed smile. I recognized it now—Azael—an ally. I hadn’t seen it in six months.
“I will alert Belial that you have arrived safely.” Just as quickly as his scratchy message seeped into my mind, he was gone, flying swiftly through the wall into the heart of the hotel.
I shuddered. Couldn’t Dad somehow teach them to knock? Anything less jarring than dive-bombing toward my face unexpectedly.
I sat back up, remembering that the conversation with Kope had been severed during my momentary freak-out. When I nudged my senses around the space of his room and called to him, there was no response. I sent my hearing to the hall and found him outside my door. I leaped off the bed and let him in. His wide eyes made a quick inspection of the room before raking me up and down.