My phone buzzed again.

  I closed my eyes and bit my lip, focusing on deep, steady breaths. Trying to ignore the sharp fingers digging into my right shoulder, now completely numb.

  “Who are the snake charmers?” hissed the shortest of the three separatists, leaning in until we were nearly nose to nose. “What do they want with you? Are they the ones who sent you here?”

  She was a woman.

  She jabbed a finger into the soft crook between my neck and shoulder. I flinched.

  She hadn’t removed her black face covering, but she no longer bothered modifying her voice to sound like a man. As she had been doing back at the construction site.

  Raw fury blazed in her big, expressive eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. Careful to keep my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I really don’t. Why wouldn’t I tell you if I did?”

  We were speeding through dense, pitch-black forests, the SUV’s headlights the only source of illumination. The man who’d used the pellet gun was driving. While the other two, the woman and the tall man, sat across from me in the back, pummeling me with questions.

  None of them had uncovered their faces. But up close, I could make out some details.

  Going solely by the sound of her voice, the woman was young, probably late twenties or early thirties.

  The man beside her seemed younger still, judging by the way he moved: twitchy, erratic. Impulsive and lacking the composure that usually came with age. He was tall and lanky, with what looked like curly, short-cropped hair. At least from the little I could glimpse beneath his cloth mask.

  “They’re calling you over and over again,” he said, voice low and menacing. “Their numbers are saved on your phone, with cryptic codenames. Every time we try to answer, the line disconnects. And you have the audacity to tell me you don’t know who they are?”

  I shrugged, offering no response. What could I say? My story sounded absurd, even to me. But I hadn’t planned on getting abducted tonight, so hadn’t had the chance to come up with something more plausible.

  And to tell the truth was utterly out of the question.

  His hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me closer. “One more lie,” he growled, fingers twisting tighter. “And I swear, you’ll regret it.”

  The SUV lurched, throwing him slightly off balance. Pain flared across my scalp, my eyes stinging with tears.

  I bit my tongue viciously to keep myself from crying out.

  Showing them they were getting to me would only make things worse. So why give them the satisfaction?

  We bumped and jostled through the dense forest for over an hour, the interrogation never letting up. I repeated what little I could: that I was in Zilan to audit JalVayu’s work, investigate the rumors of smuggling and corruption surrounding the Minjal Stadium.

  They didn’t believe me. I hadn’t expected them to.

  Eventually, the trees thinned, giving way to the dim outline of a village. The SUV rattled down a narrow, uneven path, bordered on one side by wide fields and on the other by shuttered shops and weather-beaten dwellings.

  After some time, we screeched to a halt beside a hulking red-brick building.

  Both men jumped out. And the next thing I knew, I was being yanked out after them. Surrounded on all sides, so I couldn’t even think about making an escape.

  As if there would be any point.

  Where would I go, at this time of night? Even the separatists’ hospitality was preferable to being mauled by some wild animal, alone in the pitch-black forest.

  They locked the car and marched me toward the front of the building, the driver jabbing his pellet gun into my back with every step.

  I forced myself to breathe, shallow and steady. Trying to avoid any sudden movements that might set my captors off. The gun might not kill me, but I wasn’t eager to collect any more cuts and bruises, after the day I’d had.

  Somewhere nearby, an animal bleated. A goat? Or maybe a sheep? My city-bred ears couldn’t tell the difference.

  Up close, the building looked like some kind of repair shop. In the dark, I could just about make out the sign above the entrance. No Central script. And while I could read Zilani, it wasn’t my first language – and I was definitely out of practice.

  I squinted, tilting my head for a better look just as I was shoved through the door. Barik Farm Repairs.

  A jolt, sharp and sudden. The name slammed into me like a slab of concrete to the chest. Barik. Why did that word make my stomach clench with unease? Where had I heard it before?

  I couldn’t remember.

  Inside, the place smelled like oil and rust, pieces of farm machinery scattered everywhere. Gears, sprockets, and rusted tools littered the floor, while dismantled equipment in varying stages of repair crowded every available surface. An engine lay exposed on a worktable. A massive tiller leaned against one wall, its blades missing. And wires curled out like metallic vines from open panels.

  A powerful tubelight affixed to the ceiling provided illumination.

  Everything looked like it’d been meticulously cleaned, except the floor, which was smeared with shoeprints and streaks of oil. The acrid scent of burnt rubber lingered in the air.

  They half-dragged, half-shoved me deeper into the workshop, the gun still pressed into the small of my back. After what felt like an eternity, they forced me up against the rear wall – well away from any stray piece of equipment – and shackled me to a thick metal chain bolted into an iron ring.

  The cuffs bit into my wrists, hard and cold. The chain was long enough to allow me some range of motion, but not nearly enough to reach anything that might help me escape.

  Not that escape was a real possibility. Even if I somehow managed to slip out of this shop, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to get back to civilization.

  I wasn’t the best driver on city roads, never mind the dense jungle we’d just battled through to get here.

  And unless my kidnappers had miraculously left the keys in the ignition, it didn’t matter anyway. Because hotwiring a car? Not exactly in my skillset.

  So all these precautions were quite unnecessary.

  Though I supposed the separatists had no way of knowing how incompetent an operative the internal security minister had tossed into their stronghold.

  Perhaps they’d expected someone more…up to the task of infiltrating a smuggling ring or separatist cell. Or whatever the hell was going on at that construction site. Whatever the hell was going on in Zilan, period.

  The woman pressed a plastic bottle to my parched lips.

  Perhaps it was poisoned. But if they wanted me dead, why go about it in such a convoluted way? Especially now, when I was completely at their mercy?

  So I drank, letting the water soothe my dry, aching throat.

  A few moments later, I turned my head slightly to signal I’d had enough. Without a word, she pulled the bottle away. On the wall beside me was a massive…corkboard? It was covered in grainy photographs, faded maps, and scribbled notes in indecipherable, handwritten Zilani.

  I squinted.

  A few of the photos looked familiar, mostly from newspapers and TV news bulletins. Suspected separatists, either recently arrested or killed in shootouts with the police.

  The biggest photo, front and center, was that of Shaukat Awan.

  No surprise there. But there were plenty of other faces I didn’t recognize.

  The woman followed my gaze to the corkboard, then turned back to me – large eyes once again ablaze with that simmering, barely-contained fury.

  Before I could so much as blink, her hand shot out, striking me hard across the face. With a dull thud, my head slammed into the wall behind me.

  She raised her hand again, but hesitated.

  Then, without a word, she spun on her heel and walked away. Fingers trailing lightly across Shaukat Awan’s photo as she passed it by.

  She disappeared through the doorway without a backward glance.

  The man with the gun strode out after her, his steps quick and fretful. Leaving me alone in the brightly-lit repair shop, with only the tall, lanky one for company.

  The latter paid me no mind as he leaned against the wall by the door. All his attention was fixed on my phone, which he’d confiscated during the ride here. He stood tinkering with it, occasionally letting out small sounds of frustration or delight.

  I prayed that Leena or Ammi wouldn’t call again tonight, despite knowing that was a near impossibility. And selfish as it was, a part of me wanted them to keep calling.

  I needed them to worry about me. To look for me.

  Because if no one came looking, I was as good as dead.

  And I didn’t want this greasy workshop to be the last place I ever saw, the last air I ever breathed.

  I shifted slightly, sliding down the wall until I sat on the less-than-clean floor. My cheek flared with pain. The woman must’ve been wearing a ring, because her slap had torn the skin. I could feel a warm trickle working its way down to my jaw.

  I turned away from the corkboard to glance at the opposite wall, where the shop’s only window sat. Huge and covered completely with thick iron grills.

  For a second, I wondered if they’d been installed especially for me, in anticipation of my arrival. But they looked too old, faintly rusted. They’d probably been there all along.

  Beyond, soft moonlight cast shadows across the handful of trees on the other side of the street. A small shack stood some distance away, its silhouette barely visible.

  Somewhere far off, a dog barked. An owl hooted in response as it flew past the window.

  In the darkness, I couldn’t make out much else.

  Until, a few minutes later, the faint outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man took shape in the gloom, heading straight for the shop.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Before I’d had a chance to brace myself, the man’s shadow preceded him through the door.

  My pulse spiked, though I couldn’t have said why. I’d already been threatened, slapped, dragged through a jungle, and chained to a wall by armed separatists. How much worse could it get?

  Inside my head, a voice that sounded uncannily like Ammi hissed in alarm: Don’t jinx it!

  The man who entered the shop was as tall as the lanky one still fiddling with my phone. But his frame was significantly broader, heavier.

  He looked to be at least fifty, maybe older. Balding slightly, with a bit of a paunch. But there was strength in the way he carried himself, an unmistakable air of authority. The relaxed yet powerful set of his shoulders spoke of a formidable physical presence in his prime.

  The lanky young separatist straightened, giving him a respectful nod. Then jerked his chin in my direction.

  The older man turned to look at me, his expression grim.

  Maintaining a cautious distance between us, he positioned himself directly in front of me, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Lekh Naag,” he said, tone unhurried. “Welcome back to Zilan.”

  He stood directly beneath the harsh glare of the tubelight. Allowing me, at long last, to clearly see his face.

  And it was at this moment that everything clicked into place.

  The name on the shop sign outside, Barik Farm Repairs. Of course it’d sent a chill down my spine!

  Because the man standing before me – presumably the owner of this little establishment – was notorious separatist leader Virat Barik.

  Mahrang’s husband.

  My heart pounded harder, almost painfully, as another horrifying thought struck me. That this man gazing down at me with deceptively calm eyes…was Aranyak’s father.

  Which meant… My panicked gaze snapped to the lanky youth by the door, who was still clutching my phone.

  The older man followed my gaze, then gave a curt nod. The youth stepped forward at once. Slowly, deliberately, he peeled off his black face covering, layer by layer, as if removing a bandage.

  Finally, he stepped into the harsh light beside the older man, face fully revealed.

  The family resemblance was unmistakable. The same wide forehead, angular jawline, and bulbous nose. The two were definitely related.

  But to my immense relief, this young man was not Aranyak. He wasn’t old enough.

  Aranyak had been fourteen when his mother was executed, so he had to be thirty-two by now. This boy didn’t look a day older than twenty. Maybe twenty-two at most.

  Had Mahrang had another child? A younger one? There had been rumors... But then, there always were.

  I frowned. A child that young? Surely not.

  Surely, even Papa wouldn’t have been that ruthless. To hang a woman who had a toddler waiting for her at home.

  But then, I’d been only five when Maa…

  He hadn’t killed her. Had he?

  I didn’t think so.

  But even if he hadn’t done it himself, there could be no denying that he was tired of her, by then.

  Maybe he hadn’t gone so far as to kill her. But if he’d had the chance to save her that night, would he have taken it?

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that he would.

  The older man’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and demanding. “Why have you returned to Zilan? What do you want from us this time?” he scoffed. “What does your father want?”

  The lanky young man spoke before I could answer, his voice taut with emotion. “The last time you were here – you and your father – you destroyed my family. You killed my mother.” His eyes burned with hatred. “What do you want this time? Why have you come back?”

  The other man turned to him sharply. A single, wordless glare was all it took. The youth froze. After a moment, he bit his lip, lowered his head, and said no more.

  “Please,” Virat Barik said mildly. “Forgive my son’s outburst. He’s young.” He shot him another glance. “Impudent. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  He took a small step closer. My stomach clenched with fear.

  “But really, I must ask you,” he continued. “Why have you returned to Zilan? Now, of all times? When the entire state is in turmoil over Shaukat Awan’s unlawful arrest. Feels almost like déjà vu, doesn’t it?” His voice dropped, turning oddly intimate. “You may not have expected…this.” He gestured to the shop, to the chains, to the red-brick walls around us. “But surely, you knew the welcome you’d receive would be…less than warm. You knew the risks. So why come?” He sounded merely curious, nothing more. “Why risk your life, knowingly? What’s the end goal? That’s all I want to know.”

  As Virat Barik spoke, memories flooded my mind. Eighteen years ago, the last time I’d seen this man speak.

  Not like this, not face-to-face.

  During that entire ordeal, only once had I met him and Aranyak in person.

  But back then, his face had been everywhere – on TV, in the newspapers. Pleading with journalists and lawmakers and anyone who’d listen. Fighting desperately for his wife.

  Giving testimony one day, impassioned speeches the next, trying everything to secure Mahrang’s release. And then – when it became apparent that would be impossible – just to preserve her life, to keep her from the noose.

  In the end, he had failed.

  But that face – etched with rage, pain, and a fierce resolve barely masking its desperation – had been branded into my memory.

  Now, that desperation was gone. He was composed. Controlled. His every gesture measured and deliberate.

  No longer a cornered animal, snarling for survival.

  Now, he was something else entirely.

  A predator at ease, circling its helpless prey. In no hurry to strike. With all the time in the world to taunt and play.

  The contrast was unsettling.

  But also, oddly comforting.

  It was illogical, insane. But even through the terror, some twisted part of me felt a dark, vindictive kind of relief seeing him like this.

  Unbroken. Unyielding.

  Refusing to bow to fate or the forces that’d tried to crush him.

  Because if he could do it – rise defiantly from the ashes, stronger than before – then maybe it was possible, after all.

  A shadow darted across my vision.

  Then, the world exploded into white-hot agony as a hard, leather-clad foot slammed into my chest.

  My breath fled in a ragged gasp. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth.

  Soundlessly, I folded forward. Then crumpled against the chain yanking taut behind me.

  A sharp, burning throb pulsed through my sternum.

  Through the haze of pain and confusion, I lifted my head just in time to see the younger man being hauled back by his father. He thrashed in the latter’s grip, eyes blazing.

  “Answer the question, you bastard!” he shouted, spit spraying from his mouth. “Why have you come back here? Why now, of all times?”

  “That’s enough!” Virat Barik snapped, voice cracking like a whip.

  His son ignored him, struggling harder. “You’re here for Shaukat, aren’t you?” he spat. “Just like you came for my mother, eighteen years ago. Don’t lie! Grow a spine and tell us the truth, just this once. He’s your next scapegoat, isn’t he?”

  A laugh rose unbidden. I forced it down with the last tattered scraps of my self-preservation instinct.

  Your mother was hardly a scapegoat.

  I didn’t say it out loud. Wasn’t that far gone, yet.

  It was the truth, though.

  Opinions varied on whether or not Mahrang had deserved the death penalty. But nobody – not even her family – had ever denied that she was, in fact, a separatist combatant. That she had led the attack on that police convoy, in a bid to free her captured comrades.

  I’d a feeling she wouldn’t be too happy if she could hear her son right now, calling all her achievements into question.

  Still, I kept my mouth shut. Swallowed down the pain and the blood, along with the wholly inappropriate laughter.

  Instead, I offered up the only answer I had. “I’m here to investigate JalVayu,” I said, my voice cracking. “Financial irregularities in the Minjal Stadium project.”

  That was all I could tell them. Because, truth be told, it was all I knew. All Papa had told me.

  I suspected, privately, that Papa had sent me to Zilan hoping I’d get myself killed. That, for once, the Zilani separatists would be predictable, useful. Would extract their vengeance in the way everyone expected them to.

  It would give him an excuse to crack down on Zilan. Something he’d been itching to do for half a decade, at this point.

  And three years from now, he could ride that sympathy wave right into the prime minister’s office.

  But that was all speculation. I had no proof to back any of it up.

  And even if I did have proof, I’d hardly share it with the separatists. The only reason I was still breathing was because they thought they could leverage my life to force Papa into making some concessions. The moment that illusion was shattered...

  “You’re a seer,” Virat Barik said flatly. “A seer so powerful, you were able to thwart an operation planned and led by some of our most seasoned comrades, at the time. Back when you were barely seven years old.” He finally subdued his son, who stalked off to sulk by the door. Leaving the older man free to pin me with the full force of his attention. “And now, you’ve returned. After all these years, seemingly uncaring of your own life and safety.

  “Just as the state erupts over Shaukat Awan. Just as history begins to repeat itself.” He took a single step closer. Instinctively, I shrank back. “Under circumstances eerily similar to those that led up to my wife’s arrest and execution, the last time you’d graced us with your presence.” He continued. “And you expect us to believe it’s all coincidence? That you haven’t been sent to weaponize your sight against us, against the Zilani people, just as you did eighteen years ago?”

  He advanced again, voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “You were spared then, only because you were a child.” He dropped to one knee, bringing his sharp, red-rimmed eyes level with mine. “But you’re not a child anymore. And your precious, bloodthirsty Papa isn’t here to protect you, this time.”

  At last, I let the laughter escape, raw and ragged, from my torn throat.

  “He may not be here,” I rasped, still chuckling. “But he is where it matters most. In Darvika. And what do you think happens if I die here, under your tender ministrations? You’ll hand him the one thing he’s desperately looking for. An excuse to crack down on Zilan; to flatten the separatist movement once and for all.”

  My chains clinked as I leaned forward. We were practically nose to nose, his breath warming my face.

  “What happened eighteen years ago? The raids, the executions? Mahrang’s hanging? It’ll all seem like a walk in the park, by comparison. A mildly unpleasant dream.” I stifled a cough, then continued. “You think the Frontline Force is brutal? He’ll impose president’s rule, unleash the full might of the army on Zilan.

  “Separatists? Civilians? You think he’ll discriminate?” I paused for breath. “It’ll be a bloodbath; you know that as well as I do. And in three years’ time, that blood will pave his way to the prime minister’s office.” I let my voice take on a cold edge. “And at that point, there’ll be no one left who can stop him. By the time he’s through with Zilan, there’ll be nothing left here but starving widows and orphans. Scrambling for food in the rubble.”

  A moment later, I met his gaze. “So tell me, am I really worth that much to you? That you’d sacrifice every other man and woman in this beautiful state of yours, just to see me dead?” A smile ghosted over my cracked lips. “Because if that’s the case, I don’t know whether to be terrified or deeply, disturbingly flattered.”

  At my words, Virat Barik drew back. Just a fraction, but I saw it.

  And no wonder.

  The threats he’d been tossing around carried little weight.

  The separatists knew the potential consequences of killing Darpan Naag’s only son. If they didn’t, I’d already be a corpse.

  Maybe they didn’t grasp the full extent of my father’s ruthlessness. But they’d had more than a taste in the five years he ruled Zilan as chief minister. Riding high on the success of Mahrang’s capture and execution.

  The younger generation might have forgotten. But veterans like Virat Barik?

  They remembered.

  So, the separatists didn’t want me dead. Not really. I was leverage. My value lay in my continued existence. A chip with which to trade with the central government. Possibly to negotiate Shaukat Awan’s release, in exchange for my safe return.

  But even if Awan hadn’t been accused of plotting to bomb the Zhyn airport, Papa had little incentive to agree to such an exchange.

  And so long as the separatists didn’t figure that out? I was safe.

  Or, well, as safe as anyone could be, shackled to a wall in a separatist stronghold camouflaged as a repair shop.

  Fortunately, I was spared any further discussion on the matter, because two things happened at once.

  The tubelight overhead flickered, then died.

  And my phone vibrated once again in the young man’s hand, snapping him out of his sulk by the door.

  In a flash, he was back at my side, crouching beside his father. “Who are they?” he snarled, eyes blazing. He shoved the lit-up screen at my face, before turning to show it to his father. “Who the hell are the snake charmers? And why do they keep calling you?”

  He lunged, likely aiming to grab my collar.

  I heard a sharp rustle of movement, as Virat caught his arm and yanked him back. In the dark, I could just make out their silhouettes as Virat took the phone from his son, murmuring quietly.

  The rest of the room had vanished into shadows, the phone screen the only light left.

  I glanced down at it.

  The words ‘New Snake Charmer’ blinked on the screen. In the background was a cartoon image of an attractive young woman, charming a cobra with a reed pipe.

  Silently, I thanked every deity I could think of, that I hadn’t saved a photo with that contact.

  Because the snake charmers? Merely a long-running inside joke in the family.

  It was just pure luck that I hadn’t attached real names or photos to either of those numbers.

  A light breeze blew in through the window, cooling my overheated skin. I closed my eyes, tuning out the world just long enough to draw in a deep, calming breath.

  What followed was a few more minutes of intense questioning, led almost entirely by the younger man.

  Who, I came to learn, was called Vinayak Barik.

  Vinayak, son of Virat. Younger brother to the infamous Aranyak.

  Under different circumstances, I might have better appreciated the lyrical symmetry of those names.

  But Virat himself had clearly lost interest. His focus was now fixed on my phone, which he held like it might offer the answers I refused to impart.

  In the dark, the phone’s light carved strange hollows into his cheeks, giving his eyes a peculiar, ghostly shine.

  He let his son lead the questioning while he fiddled with the device, asking me for the passcode. Which I readily gave, because I didn’t fancy another beating.

  Satisfied, he went back to his fiddling.

  For another half hour, Vinayak’s questions came sharp and relentless. But eventually, even he began to wane under the weight of it all – the heat, the darkness. The sheer exhaustion of what had presumably been a rather hectic day, not just for me but also my kidnappers.

  Virat Barik rose to his feet, slipping my phone into his pocket. He motioned for his son to get up.

  After a moment of hesitation, Vinayak obeyed. And Virat murmured something into his ear.

  Vinayak nodded once, then took off at a run.

  He returned a few minutes later, carrying a worn-out mattress, rolled tight under one arm, and an equally ratty pillow under the other.

  With barely a glance in my direction, he tossed me the pillow and spread the mattress out near the wall. Perfectly positioned to allow me to lie down without straining my shackles.

  Saying no more, the two of them left.

  The shop door closed. I heard the unmistakable sounds of locks clicking and a bolt sliding into place on the outside.

  At long last, I was alone. Alone in the dark, muggy confines of the workshop, surrounded by disemboweled machinery and the lingering odor of oil and burnt rubber.

  Through the thick iron grills, I glanced out the window at the moonlit clearing beyond. At the vague outlines of trees swaying in the breeze, and the distant shack crouching in the dark. As if it, too, was waiting for something to happen.

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