A Guide to Charming Royals

Chapter Thirteen: LEILA

I hold sleep very dear to me. So, when I wake up to insistent taps against my window, I am ready to kill whoever stands below. No, death would be too easy. No, torture would be too simple. I will break them, one bone at a time, hearing the twist, their cries... I reach for the blinds, pulling them away from the window—

"Holy shit!" I shout, stumbling back and collapsing to the ground, the carpet oftening my fall. I press a hand to my beating chest, staring at the grinning face that glances back at me, as if everything is okay. What is this bloody nightmare?

Somewhere down the hallway, I hear someone vaguely call my name, asking if I'm okay. Hastily, I answer, convincing myself everything really is okay.

She taps on the window again, lips plastered in a grin so bright like the sun, I can't stand most of the time. Still, like a puppet moving to her command, I pull the window open, glad for the screen that separates us, because I'm afraid she's not real. Instead, she's a ghost, and she'll pull me to my death.

Or perhaps, this is a hallucination. I'm losing my mind, because I am, in fact, obsessed with her. Why the heck am I seeing her in the middle of the night when she's meant to be visiting her family in Riyadh?

"Ariah?"

"Leila, dear! Why'd you fall back? Are you okay?"

Mutely, I nod, before finding enough of my voice to ask, "Why are you here?"

"Well, we called, but you didn't answer." Oh, so earlier when I woke up from my sleep, cursing at whoever was calling, it had been her. Well, I decided to ignore my calls and turn off my phone. I don't regret my decision. "We–I need to discuss something important with you."

"I don't even know what time it is," I say, yawning as I move away from the window. She mirrors my yawn. "Why do you make that mistake? Saying 'we' instead of 'I' like a normal person? Goodness, Ariah, what is wrong with you? Did you run away from Riyadh?" I approach the window again, not being able to find my phone, and glance down. Down at her feet, at the ladder she clutches, and a flashlight looped around her neck by a string. "And where'd you get the ladder from?"

She smiles, shadows dancing over her features, pulling her in, as if she belongs in the dark. She's a serial killer. A serial killer. A serial killer. A serial– "If you come with me, I'll answer all your questions. And I saw all your texts about Mr. Salar! Hello, we have a lot to talk about!"

"Go away, Ariah."

"I'll buy you your baja blast."

I should say no, I would have if I wasn't sleep deprived. But seeing her now, in physical form, having returned a week earlier, has me unstable, especially when she's luring me with the promise of one of my favourite drinks. "Fine," I grumble. "Let me grab a jacket."

"Don't worry about driving. I have a car."

My eyes snap toward her. "Since when?"

She continues smiling. "Just follow me, and you'll understand."

#

I slurp my drink loudly, like a child trying to annoy their parent, as Ariah leads me past the open gates of the graveyard, screeching with each howl the wind throws their way. I linger between following her in, and straying back to her car–the car she'd supposedly always owned, but never used because she enjoys me driving her around.

"I don't think I want to follow you in again," I say, clutching my drink to my chest. "This is far enough. Why are we here again? Is there another band you're supporting today?"

Ariah turns, half-surprised, as if she had expected me to follow in silence. "I like quiet places."

Light swirl of snowflakes kiss the top of her hijab, marking the ground around her. It had stopped snowing weeks ago. The past couple of days had felt like the first touch of spring, even summer, but now with her here, Calgary has returned to its brutal winter, it seems.