Free Gorgon: An Alex Hunter Novel by Greig Beck Page A

the dog. She might not like it, but it was the only thing keeping the foxes away from the chickens.
    Yarni looked toward the curtains; it was dark and cold outside. She’s not that stupid , he thought. He got slowly to his feet and stretched his back, then rolled down his sleeves. His forearms were massively muscled, attesting to a life of hard work. Dinner wouldn’t cook itself – he’d see what was keeping her. He pulled his shirt down over a paunch that caused his belt to strain on its very last notch, and lumbered toward the door. He looked briefly at his jacket, but shrugged – he’d only be a few minutes.
    He left the door ajar and stood on the porch, scanning the dark front yard. There was no sign of his wife.
    ‘Zayda. Zayda! ’ He stepped down into the yard and called again. He stopped to listen. It was unusually silent – there should have at least been the hoot of an owl, or the rustle of creatures starting their night-time forage. Not to mention the dog.
    He squinted at a shape beside the shed. It could be Boushkin, lying flat on his side, legs stiff like he was already frozen solid. But it’s not that cold , he thought, and then, The old witch really killed him .
    ‘Zayda, you can bury the dog,’ he called out, walking toward the body. Maybe she’d gone to finish off the fox as well, or at least check on her chickens. As he kneeled he raised his head to yell again. ‘And you can watch the chickens now – you get Boushkin’s job.’
    He put his hand on the dog. The body was cold and hard – even his fur was stiff spikes. His white eyes were wide, and his tongue protruded from his open mouth, stretched wide in terror or madness.
    There was a small sound from behind him, like weeping , he thought. He half-turned. ‘Stupid woman. I said, you can watch the –’
    A figure moved in front of him, and he looked up. A feeling like a thousand razor blades welled up from his gut. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came. A small dot of pain in the center of his head grew to a stuffy inferno that pressed his eyes and ears from the inside. It was if something was blooming deep inside his brain.
    His eyes began to cloud over, and he fell beside the dog. As he looked into Boushkin’s cold, mute face, he seemed to say: I tried to warn you .
    *

Guyve, Sakarya Province
    The streets were narrow and empty. Many of the rooftops were newly tiled, or domed and rebuilt a hundred times over the centuries. The crowded architecture made Guyve look like a concrete scab on the green surrounding countryside. Smoke from fireplaces too numerous to count lifted from chimney tops, but struggled to rise more than a dozen feet in the still air before falling into the laneways to create a mist that reeked of pine wood, garlic, and roasting meat.
    Gökhan and Maluk Demit walked home slowly, their backs sore and their boots muddy, after spending the last twelve hours pitching hay and mucking out barns on the town’s outskirts. Both men were in their forties, had never married, and probably never would unless they sought a wife in one of the larger towns further up or down the main road.
    Gökhan, the elder of the two, carried a parcel of goat meat. He reached out to slap his brother on the shoulder. ‘This Sunday we’ll go to Ulu Camii Mosque – the Great One.’
    Maluk groaned. ‘Again? I think you go to pay homage to the widows afterwards more than to worship inside on your knees.’
    Gökhan laughed. ‘I pray for love every time – is that such a bad thing? So far, all I have in return for my prayers is you.’
    Maluk laughed. ‘And my curse is worse – I ended up with you.’
    Gökhan shoved his younger brother, and shifted the meat to his other arm. He jerked to a stop. ‘Oh, oh, looks like we have a late traveler … and sounds like he’s sad. Do you hear that crying?’
    Maluk followed his brother’s gaze. ‘What’s that on his head?’
    The figure was just coming out of the mist. As soon Maluk’s eyes