I turn to run away, when—with a clap—he lays a hand on my wrist. I yank it away, but can’t escape him

In his fury, Kabir is much faster than me. Getting out of his den, he overtakes me before I can get back to Karishma. 

Meanwhile, a resounding din arises from the kitchen. She must have thrown some plates at the floor to draw his attention away from me. The distraction works, for a moment. He runs over to her and with a hard fist, knocks her out. There’s a faint thump as her body hits the floor.  

I turn to run away, when—with a clap—he lays a hand on my wrist. 

I yank it away, but can’t escape him. With another step, Kabir locks me in his arms. His breath is at the back of my neck, fuming. 

Then, for just a bit, he seems to soften. I detest the feel of his lips on me, nibbling at my earlobe, exploring. 

With waning strength, I wiggle left and right to get away from the hateful touch. But despite my resistance, his tongue comes at me, pressing, pushing, licking around—until, at last, it finds my wound.

That’s when Kabir starts talking, between bouts of insane laughter. “Ash, I saved your life! Every cell in your body is breathing thanks to me. You know that, right?”

I struggle to release myself, to no avail.

“Oh,” he grumbles, “what an ingrate you are! That surveillance device served a medical purpose. It allowed me to monitor your progress, for your sake and for science! Stupid woman, how dare you cut out what I put in? And you thought I wouldn’t find out?”

In utter distress, I resort to pretense. “Please, Dr. Patel. How could I even guess it was you who put it there?” 

His grip tightens.

So I cry, “Come on, Neil! Had I known, I wouldn’t have taken it out!”

He grabs the flask of wine from the dining table in one hand and drags me away with the other, back into his den and then, through a small door, to the exam room. 

I loop my fingers around the doorpost, clasping, grasping at anything to sink my nails into so as to slow him down as he carries me off. But other than a long scratch across this wall and the next one, all this flailing about amounts to nothing. He does with me as he pleases. It’s more than horrific. It’s humbling.

Kabir sets me up on top of the exam table, where the familiar roll of paper starts rustling maddeningly under me. 

I’m living a nightmare.

“Let’s have a little toast, shall we?” His tone is sinister. “To a fun evening ahead of us!”

Ash Suspense Thrillers: Trilogy

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There’s a crazy beat pounding ‘cause oh, just for you I pine

Love was in the air. I sensed it all around me. A record was spinning around on the gramophone, releasing one touching note after another, making me ache with desire. 

Dark or light, deep in this heart of mine

There’s a crazy beat pounding ‘cause oh, just for you I pine

And its agony won’t be through

Till you let me give myself, give all of me to you

I pine for you, dark or light

At the far end, the elevator doors opened. I thought of dashing over there to surprise Natasha. Instead I ended up taking a step back, because out came her Mama. 

Mrs. Horowitz locked eyes with me at once, and it took all my concentration not to take another step back. 

She clomped in my direction, then plonked herself down on the oversized couch that stood on one side of the elegant rug. Waving her hand at me in a commanding gesture, she pointed at the matching couch that stood on the opposite side. 

“You,” she said. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

“Where’s Natasha?” I asked.

“She’ll be down shortly,” said her Ma. “Now sit.” 

I did.

Narrowing her eyes, she leaned over to ask, “What’s that thing you’re holding?”

I rose to my feet and passed the box to her. Wrapped in beautiful paper, it was an artwork in its own right, designed to look like a miniature chest of drawers, in which sweets were stored. 

The women licked her colorless, wrinkled lips, and turned the thing over and over, examining it carefully under the lights of the huge chandelier. At last she returned the box to me, somewhat unwillingly, as if she hated to part with it.

“So,” she said. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you.”

I looked at her in surprise. 

“Really, Mrs. Horowitz?”

“I said, Maybe.”

“Never mind about me. Have you given any thought to my offer? Natasha has told you about it, hasn’t she?”

“She has, but I’d like to hear it directly from you.”

“Take it as an invitation: the two of you can move into my father’s apartment, as soon as you like, and at no expense to you, make it your new home.”

Leaning forward on her elbow and cupping all three of her chins in her hand, the old woman studied me at great length. At last she said, “It’s more generous than anyone can imagine, to the point that it makes me wonder.”

“About what?”

“About your wisdom, naturally! Because if you’re clever then I must worry about your intentions, and if you’re not, then I must worry why Natasha would fall in love with such a nincompoop. Either way I must protect her.”

“Protect her you must, and the best way to do it is by making sure she is in a safe place.” 

She kept looking at me searchingly over the rim of her glasses, as if she could not put full trust in the optical lenses when it came to studying an unusual scientific specimen such as me. 

Growing tired of it I said. “Well? Don’t make me beg. Will you accept my offer?”

“Maybe,” she said a third time, still reluctant to commit. 

“I see,” said I. “This is a definite possibility.”

“What I can say at this point is this: I‘m somewhat more willing than before to get to know you, young man, not only because of this chocolate box, and not only because of your offer, but most of all because—contrary to all expectations—you keep coming back, time and again.”

“So you respect how persistent I am?”

“More precisely, I hate it.”

To which I said, simply, “Mrs. Horowitz, I love your daughter.”

She raised an eyebrow, but avoided the temptation to poke fun at a poor suitor. Instead she turned her attention to practical matters. 

“So now, let me understand in more detail,” she said. “The rent is paid?”

“For six months.”

“And the place is ready?”

“Yes. This morning I threw the old mattress away. It was the last thing there. And I painted the place. It’s clean and fresh.”

In a flash, I imagined the fancy, carved furniture Mrs. Horowitz would acquire anew to bring in, all those Russian accents and the gilded frames and knickknacks, all of which would create a mini-palace of sorts. At the thought of it, a smile escaped my lips.

In turn, she gave me a severe look. 

“One thing must be clear between us,” she said, wagging a finger at me. “This is not to be treated as a handout. If we take you on your offer, it’s going to be nothing more than a business arrangement.”

“Of course, Mrs. Horowitz.” 

“I’m going to pay you back every penny, and that’s a promise you can take to the bank.”

“No need for formalities, Mrs. Horowitz.”

“We’re going to treat this not as a favor, but as a loan. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes. We do.”

“When will you vacate the premises?”

“I already did. And I’ve brought the key with me, Mrs. Horowitz. You can have it.”

I fumbled in my pocket, took out the key, and presented it to her. She took it. And as it exchanged hands, Natasha came out of the elevator. She was wearing a scarlet sweater blouse with a soft bow at the neck, and a black skirt that played out her delicate curves. 

At once, the conversation changed its tone.

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The Music of Us

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"Don Warrick is simply amazing. I loved his voice for the main character, Lenny, which was perfect for whatever age the character spoke from, whether middle aged or young. The other characters were amazingly portrayed and consistent throughout the story... If you are aching for a lyrical listen, for something above and beyond the usual offerings in the field of fiction, I highly recommend you pick up a copy of Uvi Poznansky’s The Music of Us."

~Aaron P. Lazar, Author and Audiobook Listener

I see a woman, an achingly beautiful woman bathing on a close-by roof

 One evening I awaken to the sound of birds, chirping. I get up from my bed and walk around on the roof of the palace, where a red-rumped swallow is trying out its skill in a courtship song. It is springtime. The hills around my city roll in and out of green. The trees beacon me from afar, bearing their blossoms.

Through the decorative lattice that marks the edge of my roof I see a woman, an achingly beautiful woman bathing on a close-by roof. She has just wrapped herself with something translucent, so her body is hidden from sight—all but a distant impression of her foot. 

The first time I saw Bathsheba, back in Hebron, happened seven years ago. Luckily, at that time I had no historians in my employ, which is why that incident has gone unnoticed, and unrecorded in the scrolls. It remains known to me alone, and to her. 

At the time I doubted she had caught sound of my footfalls. I edged closer, advancing stealthily along the shadow, a seemingly endless shadow cast across the flat surface of her roof. Never once did I stop to remind myself that such behavior is unbecoming of a king.

And who could blame me? In her presence I was reduced to a boy.

I brought my crown along, simply to impress her, even though it sat somewhat uncomfortably on my head. It was a bit too large for me, and too loose, too, because it had been fashioned to fit the skull of my predecessor, Saul.

On my way I leapt across a staircase, leading down from the roof. On a railing, there in front of me, was a large Egyptian towel, laying there as if to mark a barrier. I told myself, This isn’t right. I should stop, stop right here and whatever happens I should cover my eyes, avoid taking a peep at her.

Should I turn back? 

And immediately I answered by asking, What? Stopping midway is nothing short of a sin. You would never forgive yourself.

To which I replied, stop talking to yourself already! Are you out of your mind?

 

Alas, now things are much more complex. For one thing, I have more wives, each one of whom keeps an eye on me. For another, Nathan tails me wherever I go. His goat-like beard is like a second shadow behind me. 

With him around, there is no way I can pay her a visit. And bringing her to my chamber would be just as impossible. 

Unless...

I send him out on some unnecessary, highly urgent errand, and call in my chief bodyguard, Benaiah, a man whom I have hand picked for this job because of his valiant feats on the battlefield, which require a mind endowed with a special brand of stupidity. 

This time I need him not for his courage but for his discreteness.

I point in the direction of her roof, intending to ask him something, but for a spell another vision washes over me, and I recall how alluring she looked back then, at a much closer range. 

In the patches between the soapsuds, her skin seemed to glow. The rays of the setting sun were playing all over her creamy flesh, kissing one nipple, then the other. They were touching here, caressing there, sliding around her waist, poking her in her belly button, where she was chubbier than I had expected, and where the shadow sank a tad deeper. 

I remember handing her the towel, which forced me to adjust the crown, because it was dancing on my head. 

In profile, her lashes hung over her cheek, and the shadow fluttered. Bathsheba brought her hand to her lips and ever so gently, blew off a bubble. It came off the palm of her hand, then swirled around in the evening breeze, becoming more iridescent until its glassy membrane thinned out, and then—pop! Nothing was left but thin air. 

Now, despite being an illustrious king, I am nothing to her. Perhaps, thin air is all she remembers of me. Perhaps I alone cling on to that moment, unable to forget it.

From this distance I can barely see her. Wrapped in a long robe, which is made of some shimmering fabric, the only flesh visible to me is her little foot. 

From afar I must look too small to her. Perhaps all she can see is a flash, a sudden spark from the corner of my roof as a ray of sun catches my crown. Perhaps she spots a dark shadow slanting into a window in a distant tower, one among many windows, many towers, and to her it seems still, which is why she ignores me, and goes about the business of smelling one piece of soap after another, and rubbing them on her skin.

I glance sideways at Benaiah. 

“Tell me,” I demand, as if I have spotted her now for the first time, “who is that woman?”

He squints, the better to see her, and says, “Oh yes! She is Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite.”

“Go knock at her door,” I tell him, “and give her this note.”

A Peek at Bathsheba

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"In this second book of the David Chronicles, King David, now firmly ensconced on his throne, finally has everything he wanted, but things don't go exactly as he had imagined and, by the end of the book, he is older, wiser and much sadder than he was at the beginning. 
Told in Poznansky's distinctive style, the story is a lyrical delight..."

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Uvi Poznansky "I paint with my pen and write with my paintbrush.” @UviPoznansky Blog Art Site Facebook BookBub
A.L. Butcher “A. L. Butcher is an award-winning author of alchemical dark fantasy, historical fantasy, short stories and twisted verses.” @libraryoferana Facebook Website BookBub
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