Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1) (8 page)

Osman Enterprises had been the backbone of Elih. Recai's family had overseen the creation of foundations and interest-free banks for those who had never qualified in the past. Baris Osman never doubted his ability to change the system and help the people he loved achieve more. Recai had been young when his father disappeared, but he never doubted that Baris was a hero. The shadow of the father lost still haunted Recai, heading off any ambition of his own.

At one time, money had flowed in from the Turkish government. And what the government didn't provide, Osman Enterprises did. Recai's mother was a vision of humility and inner strength, the perfect combination of Muslim modesty and Kurdish wisdom. Their marriage was controversial. A Turk and a Kurd—it was unthinkable, especially in the circles in which they ran. But love somehow finds a way. Recai's birth symbolized unity to the people and his existence came to mean more than any of his accomplishments.

Ethnic divisions were ignored and the feuds of generations past forgotten. Prosperity has a way of bringing even the more ardent enemies together. Schools were built in the border towns, and water was clean and plentiful. Anything was possible with only the willingness to work hard and a dream under your belt.

Osman Enterprises' wealth and generosity gave entrepreneurs the opportunity to explore their dreams while it provided help to those in need. Turkey had allowed Elih to run itself, diverting government funds to other cities that did not have such generous benefactors, forgetting about the insular eastern city. The Osmans gave generously, saying Allah had given them the mission of caring for his people, and their reward in Heaven and on Earth would outshine any loss their company incurred. The company pulled profits every year, despite the outpouring of funds.

The night tragedy and shame fell upon the Osman family, Recai had been frightened. His parents never fought and his mother certainly never raised her voice. He had laid in bed, listening as their angry words filtered though the cabin, muted so that he could not make out their meaning. Once they stopped and he heard his father slam the door to his quarters, Recai crawled out of bed to investigate. On deck he found his mother, dressed in blue, standing on the helm of the boat. He watched as she held out her arms, embracing the ancient Kurdish god. Her people knew loss, they knew oblivion and abandonment, but Recai had never seen his mother look so empty.

There was no discernible shift in her body or change in the direction of the wind. There was nothing to indicate that suddenly everything would change. Recai screamed as his mother stepped off the edge into the open sea, its ebony abyss swallowing her before he even reached the railing.

Baris disappeared under suspicion of foul play. Recai watched the media declare his father a murderer and a coward. He knew his mother had jumped, but he was too young to speak out and defend his father's reputation. And, in truth, some part of him wondered if perhaps his father wasn't to blame. Alone with his questions and fears his heart turned away from the warmth of his community.

The suspicion was enough to give Yilmaz the ammunition he needed to declare that Elih needed a ruler who would follow Shariah law. He campaigned against the absent Baris because the only one he really needed to defeat was the icon of a savior.

Recai watched as Yilmaz abused and inflated the teachings of Islam, but he was unable to protest. Over the years his own faith faded, unable to keep its spark under the assault of lies from the RTK. He had money but no power. He had knowledge but no wisdom. Recai's grief over the loss of his mother had dulled over the years. While he never understood her reasons, he believed his mother loved him despite taking her own life. But he'd never moved past the loss of his father.

Recai inherited the business after his father left. In the face of all of the controversy surrounding Pinar's death, the money stopped flowing. Corporate leaders ran their businesses tightly, ceasing the abundant loans and demanding repayment on strict terms. People who had been promised help with their businesses were abandoned to their own means, and Recai grew up surrounded by his parents' wealth as family after family fell into poverty.

Schools decayed and sat deserted as the lofty aspirations of social services were forgotten. The city had no choice but to close everything down. Embittered and angry, the people of the city needed a new hero. Recai was barely a teenager when the community turned to the stricter interpretations of their religion. They rigidly held on to the only thing they believed could save them from the spreading decimation of the city. Fear and desperation drove the city straight into the ambitious arms of Mahmet Yilmaz.

And now Mayor Mahmet Yilmaz's sixteenth unopposed term as mayor was beginning. When elected into power, the city had fallen from its prime. The loose morals and divided priorities of a people lost opened the door for corruption. Crumbling under its own weight, the city needed a savior, and Yilmaz had made sure to be the one to stand as Atlas.

In the streets of Elih, no one dared speak a word against him. His draconian tactics stifled the people's voices and minds. The slow spread of oppression had gone unnoticed until it was too late. And now Recai found himself standing in a room among the worst offenders.

Darya squeezed Recai's arm gently, bringing him back from his meandering thoughts.

"A bit overwhelming isn't it?" she breathed.

"I haven't spent much time around crowds recently. I've been…traveling."

Recai's voice had a scratched timbre, as if it had gone too long unused.

"Well, I never get to be in crowds," she offered, smiling. "So we must keep each other safe."

"I find it difficult to believe a mere crowd would intimidate the likes of you."

"Intimidate, no. But the unfamiliar is always worthy of skepticism."

Darya demurely raised her chin as she looked up at him.

"Yes," Recai smiled in return, unable to resist her infectious enthusiasm. "I guess we will brave the unknown together. It appears I am your escort after all."

With another squeeze of his arm, Darya led the mysterious man away from the main door and into the crowd. They entered the celebration arm in arm. Numerous eyes focused on them, forcing Darya to swallow a lump of anticipation in her throat. Whispers trailed behind them, but she had to strain her ears to make out the words.

"Gossiping old berbat kimse." Darya's eyes sparkled with delight. That she was here at all was news, and her handsome escort—who may or may not be the ghost of a son returned—only added to the mystery.

"Is there intrigue afoot?" Recai teased.

"There is always intrigue afoot, is there not? This is the den of traitors, and all here are out for their thirty pieces of silver," Darya whispered.

Recai laughed—a loud, unrestrained sound that for a moment drowned out his pain.

"Yes. Yes, I guess that's so."

The air was lighter with his laughter suspended around them, blocking the curious looks. As they bantered, a waiter walked past with sparkling flutes of champagne.

"Champagne…."

Darya watched the waiter longingly, having never tasted the infamous drink. Recai called impulsively after the man, who turned, head bowed, and offered them a glass.

"Darya, may I offer you a glass of champagne?" Recai gestured with a flourish of his hand.

Flirting came easily to her, a means to an end. She had always approached men with a focused determination, interested only in what would be gained or accomplished with each entanglement. But this strange man made an unfamiliar feeling bubble up inside of her she wasn't entirely sure she liked. Recai took two glasses before dismissing the waiter.

"A drink will help soothe the frayed nerves of an anxious guest," he said, handing her one of the glasses.

As she took the flute, her fingers brushed against his. Only the lightest of touches, but it reached deep into her. Darya's smile quirked to the side and a tingle ran down her spine, catching her off guard. Cautiously she sipped the carbonated wine, and the bubbles tickled her tongue as she swallowed.

"I've never had anything like this before," she admitted.

"No?"

"I'm afraid you might think me quite sheltered."

"We should all be so lucky."

Recai's voice was dark, as if a storm brewed just beneath the surface of his words. Darya did not shrink away from the ugly things in this world, but she did not like the color of his eyes as he spoke.

"I'm sorry," Recai closed his eyes before looking at her again. When he did, it was with a cloaking calm. "Are you hungry? Or perhaps there is someone you are meeting here?"

"No, no one," she admitted. "I would like to speak with plenty of them, but the music is loud and the night is full of unexpected surprises."

"Indeed it is."

"I'd much prefer to know more about you, Bey Osman. But first, please excuse me a moment. I need to make a brief phone call."

"Of course, I'm sorry for monopolizing you."

"I'll only be a moment."

Darya turned away and rushed to the outskirts of the crowd eager to make the call that would teach the guard Fahri Kaya the error he had made in threatening her. Her power may exist behind a veil, but its ramifications could be felt in the heart of her enemies. Pulling a small cell phone from her purse she quickly dialed the number she knew so well. On the other end of the line a gruff voice answered. It was the voice of the only person who knew who she really was.

When her call was complete and she was satisfied, she returned to the side of Recai Osman.

Darya wrapped her hand around his arm, allowing her fingers to grip him tightly as she came to stand closer. Recai was unlike anyone she had met before. She sensed a strength and violence warring beneath his façade.
What would he be if he let go?
She leaned against his strong frame and a tingle of anticipation spread out from her spine.

Standing here with Darya, his thoughts meandered back to his years in the desert. His years alone after he lost he lost Rebekah, after he lost everything. Recai felt confident in his decision to return home: revenge, justification. The desert had stilled his heart but the press of bodies and sounds within the ballroom made him feel nervous and unprepared. He never attended these functions when his position within the Osman Empire called for; he was always too young or too disinterested.

He had been near death when Kurdish nomads found him, burned and alone. Someone had dragged his body deep into the desert and left him with nothing but a canteen. He'd awoken to their voices, calling him back from oblivion. They spoke his mother's language and offered him understanding without ever asking why he was lying in the sand wearing nothing but blood-soaked sleeping pants.