Intermix Nation by M.P. Attardo Read Free Book Online

but he is
fiercely loyal. He will be in the room with you the entire time.
And I,” he taps a video monitor emphatically, “will be watching to
make sure you have no … difficulties.” He clears his throat.
    “Got it,” Nazirah says queasily. “Thank you,
Solomon, but I would rather see him alone.”
    Solomon is clearly intrigued and says
something to Olag in Deathlandic. Olag nods and opens the door
beside him, this time holding it for Nazirah. “You are much more
like your brother than you let on,” Solomon says. “Olag will take
you to see Mr. Morgen now, and will wait for you outside of the
room. The rest is up to you. Good luck.”
    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