The guesthouse perched on the edge of Abkhazia’s emerald mountains was a weathered beauty, its timber frame groaning under the weight of time and secrets. Ancient walnut trees encircled it like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches casting dappled shadows over the path that led to the Black Sea’s distant shimmer. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged wood and simmering spices, the walls draped in faded tapestries that whispered of forgotten stories. Heavy wooden furniture dominated the dining room, its surfaces scarred from years of raucous feasts and spilled wine.
Amanda and Ruslan, a pair of silver-haired Russians with the kind of energy that could outpace a storm, stepped through the creaking door, their boots scuffing against the uneven floorboards. Amanda, a woman whose sharp tongue could slice through steel, adjusted her scarf with a flick of her wrist, her piercing gray eyes scanning the room like a hawk sizing up prey. Ruslan, quieter but no less biting, trailed behind her, his wiry frame hunched slightly from a lifetime of carrying her fiery spirit. His lips twitched with a smirk as he muttered under his breath, “This place looks like it’s one sneeze away from collapsing.”
Before either could say more, a booming laugh erupted from the far end of the room, rattling the dusty chandelier above. Ahmet, the guesthouse owner, emerged from the kitchen like a bear bursting from hibernation. His bald head gleamed under the flickering lamplight, and his robust frame strained against a stained apron tied haphazardly around his waist. His grin was wide—too wide, Amanda noted with a raised brow—and his dark eyes twinkled with something she couldn’t quite place.
“Welcome, welcome, my dear friends!” Ahmet bellowed, spreading his arms as if he were embracing the entire mountain range. “You’ve traveled far to grace my humble home. Tonight, we feast like kings and queens of old Abkhazia!”
Amanda crossed her arms, her lips curling into a smirk as she sized him up. “Humble, you say? With a voice like that, I’m surprised the sea hasn’t rolled up to beg for quiet. And what’s with the grin, big man? You look like you’re selling something other than supper.”
Ahmet’s laugh roared again, undeterred, as he clapped a meaty hand on Ruslan’s shoulder, nearly toppling the slighter man. “Ahh, a woman with fire! I like that. And you, old fox, what do you think of my little paradise?”
Ruslan adjusted his glasses, peering at Ahmet over the rims with a dry smirk. “Paradise? Looks more like a den. And with that bear-like belly of yours, I’m guessing you’re the beast that guards it.”
Ahmet threw his head back, his laughter shaking the very walls. “Bear-like, eh? I’ll take that as a compliment! Come, sit, sit! Let me spoil you with the best this land has to offer. Wine, khachapuri, lamb so tender it’ll melt in your mouth!”
Amanda slid into a chair at the long wooden table, her posture ramrod straight, exuding the kind of authority that made even the sturdiest of men second-guess themselves. “Spoil us, will you? I’ve heard that line before, Ahmet. Usually from men who overcook their charm as much as their meat. Let’s see if your food fares better than your flattery.”
“Oh, you wound me, madam!” Ahmet pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, though his grin never wavered. “But I’ll prove myself yet. First, a toast!” He produced a clay jug from seemingly nowhere, pouring a deep crimson liquid into three chipped goblets. The wine glowed like blood in the dim light, its sharp, earthy scent curling through the air.
Ruslan lifted his glass, squinting at the contents with mock suspicion. “Homemade, you say? Smells like it could strip paint. Or at least strip us of our senses.”
Amanda snorted, clinking her goblet against his. “If it does, I’ll hold you responsible, Ahmet. I don’t take kindly to being dulled, even by a pretty vintage. To trickery, then—may we always see it coming!”
Ahmet’s eyes gleamed as he raised his own glass, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “To trickery, indeed. May it always be… delicious.”
The trio drank, the wine biting at their tongues with a strange, lingering heat. Plates of steaming food soon followed—golden khachapuri oozing cheese, lamb skewers glistening with fat, and bowls of spicy adjika that made Ruslan’s eyes water. Amanda tore into the fare with gusto, but her gaze never left Ahmet, as if she could peel back his jovial mask with sheer will alone.
“You’re staring, my dear,” Ahmet teased, leaning back in his chair with a creak of protesting wood. “Am I that handsome, or are you plotting to steal my recipes?”
Amanda’s laugh was sharp, a blade wrapped in silk. “Handsome? I’ve seen better faces on a potato. No, I’m just wondering how a man with such a generous spread can afford to give it away for free. What’s your game, Ahmet? Out with it.”
He waved a dismissive hand, though a flicker of something—amusement? unease?—crossed his face. “Game? No game! I live to serve, to share the bounty of my land. Another toast, to hospitality!” He poured again, his movements quick, almost too quick, as the wine sloshed into their glasses.
Ruslan, already feeling the first glass’s warmth spreading through his limbs, muttered, “Hospitality, or a ploy to keep us drinking ‘til we can’t walk straight. I’m onto you, bear-man.”
Amanda elbowed her husband lightly, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Oh, let him have his fun, darling. If he wants to drown us in wine, I’ll make sure he’s the one mopping up the mess. Cheers, Ahmet. Keep pouring—I dare you.”
The night wore on, the room growing hazier with each round of toasts, each barbed exchange. Amanda’s tongue remained as sharp as ever, her laughter ringing out as she prodded Ahmet with questions about his past, his trade, his suspiciously empty guesthouse. Ruslan’s quips grew slower, softer, his eyelids drooping as he leaned against the table. Ahmet watched them both, his smile tightening at the edges, a predator’s patience seeping into his demeanor.
“You’re wilting, old man,” Amanda teased Ruslan, though her own words slurred ever so slightly. “Can’t keep up with me and the bear, can you?”
Ruslan chuckled, a low, sleepy sound. “I’m just… pacing myself. You’re the one who’ll be snoring first, mark my… words…”
Ahmet’s gaze darted between them, his fingers drumming lightly on the table as he poured one final round. “One more, my friends. To sweet dreams.”
Amanda raised her glass, her vision swimming but her smirk defiant. “Sweet dreams, eh? Better not be a euphemism, Ahmet, or I’ll haunt you from the grave. Bottoms up!”
They drank, the wine heavier now, coating their throats like syrup. Within moments, Ruslan’s head dropped to the table with a soft thud, a faint snore escaping him. Amanda fought it longer, her iron will battling the creeping fog, but even she couldn’t resist. Her glass slipped from her fingers, rolling across the wood as her body slumped forward, her last conscious breath a muttered, “Bastard…”
Ahmet’s laughter was quieter now, a dark, satisfied rumble as he stood, casting a long shadow over the unconscious couple. He wiped his hands on his apron, his grin twisting into something far less hospitable. “Sweet dreams, indeed,” he murmured, stepping toward the kitchen door. “Maga! Get in here. It’s time.”
From the shadows, a wiry young man appeared, his eyes glinting with anticipation. Ahmet clapped him on the back, his voice a low growl. “Prepare the room downstairs. We’ve got work to do before dawn.”
As the guesthouse fell silent, save for the crackle of the dying fire, the mountains outside stood witness to the trickery that had only just begun.
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