Exquisite Captive (15 page)

Freya nodded, her Djan jade eyes sliding to her right to indicate the room beyond. “She’s inside already. Surrounded by her usual admirers, of course.”

Nalia snorted. “Of course.”

She cast a quick glance through the beaded curtains that led into the lounge, then leaned toward Freya, her voice pitched low. “How good are you at recognizing Ifrit when they’re glamoured?”

Glamours only served to disguise the physical body—there were still many ways to discover a jinni’s true identity. Any number of things could reveal: distinctive accents, the wrong answer to a few specific questions, even a certain way of evanescing.

Freya raised her eyebrows. “Why? Are you expecting visitors?”

Nalia nodded, her face grim. “I’ve heard some rumors.”

“They don’t put me in the front just to look pretty, Nalia.” Green
chiaan
sparked from her fingertips.

“Of course, Freya. I’m not doubting you.”

Freya smiled. “I promise I’ll screen every unfamiliar face.” She put her hand on Nalia’s arm. “They’re not all bad, you know.”

Habibi catered to every jinn caste and refused to exclude anyone because of their race. There were quite a few Ifrit who had come to Earth, seeking asylum from their deranged Empress Calar. Still, it was hard for Nalia to see them as anything but murderous bastards.

Nalia nodded. “Maybe so. Anyway,
shundai
.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Nalia pushed past the glittering beaded curtain and walked into the thick haze of fragrant hookah smoke that blanketed the room. The scent of rose, melon, and apple seeped into her clothes as she scanned the low-ceilinged den, her golden eyes alert. She had no idea what her potential assassins looked like, but she’d know a killer when she saw one, if only because she would recognize herself in them. The tense bodies, sharp eyes, and strategic placement of those trained in the deadly arts were as good as calling cards. Her hand longed to hold the jade knife hidden in the soft leather of her knee-high boots, but it would only draw attention. She always made a point to blend in with the shadows at Habibi, fearful of someone from her past recognizing her, even though she looked nothing like the rosy-cheeked girl who’d worn the cloak and leathers of the Ghan Aisouri. Nalia’s eyes sought out the shadows now, but the only jinn in them were lovers caught in one another’s arms. Her face warmed and she pulled her thin sweater over the bruises around her wrists.

The familiar lilt of Kada surrounded her, flooding Nalia’s heart with memories of her realm. In the beautiful tongue of her homeland, each word sounded like a lover’s sigh; whole sentences evoked the poetry of stars before dawn. In Arjinna, she’d never realized that language could stitch dreams and paint fantasies, but after hearing human words, she no longer took anything from her culture for granted. As she looked at the jinn around her, she thought of what Raif had reminded her of last night. According to Arjinna’s ancient law, Nalia was the empress. If she wanted to, she could hold the lives of these jinn—or at least the ones they’d left behind on Arjinnan soil—in her hands. She suddenly felt the weight of that responsibility, as though thousands of little pebbles rested on her skin. It didn’t matter whether or not she ruled from the palace high in the Qaf Mountains; Nalia would carry the burden of Arjinna on her for the rest of her life.

She shook her head—that was more than she could deal with today. Nalia took a breath and allowed her eyes to drink in the sight before her: jinn of every race sat on thick silk pillows that surrounded low tables crowded with elaborate hookah pipes, bowls of dates, and delicate glasses of mint tea. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, depicting the history of the jinn, alongside framed black-and-white photographs of Los Angeles. Her stomach growled as the tangy scent of spiced lamb wafted out from the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten anything since the popcorn Malek had commanded her to try.

Green, blue, and gold wisps of
chiaan
littered the air as the jinn stole magic out of the world around them. Two Marid were drawing on the water in a nearby fountain to create elaborate liquid sculptures: tigers that roared and coquettish mermaids that shook their hips. A Djan manifested flowers from a plain bowl of earth, flicking his finger so that each glowing blossom landed behind the ears of the jinn at his table. A Shaitan sitting near the air conditioner played the breeze that blew around him like a flute, drawing a cobra out of a tall reed basket at his feet. The snake swayed from side to side in a hypnotic dance of death, its tongue licking the air.

Magic for the pleasure of it.
How novel,
Nalia thought.

In a corner, a small band of musicians played old Arjinnan songs on tabla, sitar, and flute. The Shaitan singer’s voice rose and fell, her husky notes threading through the din. She caught Nalia’s eye and cast a conspiratorial smile, from one Shaitan to another. There were so few Shaitan jinn on Earth, nearly all of them artists or intellectuals who had opposed the Ghan Aisouri regime. They kept to themselves, whether a result of being shunned by the other castes or a lingering sense of superiority, Nalia could never be sure. She avoided them as much as possible, terrified that they would find fault with her carefully crafted story and realize her golden eyes were an illusion. Nalia flashed the singer a quick, polite smile, then glanced toward the bar.

“Nalia!”

Leilan waved to her, then threw a bottle in the air, catching it neatly before pouring a drink for her customer. Rather than stir the beverage, as a human bartender would do, Leilan used her influence with water to will the contents of the shaker into the air, twirling the red and orange liquids with a lazy motion of her index finger before directing the concoction into the martini glass that sat on the bar. As Nalia drew closer, she shook her head at the beautiful jinn that surrounded Leilan, gazing up at her in admiration as they waited for their drinks. Her hazelnut skin glowed in the soft candlelight, the fire picking up the wine-red tones of her long, flowing hair—a perfect frame for the come-hither smile that never left her face. Who would her friend take to bed that night: the Djan girl with the high, tinkling laugh or the Marid boy with brooding turquoise eyes that matched Leilan’s own?

As Nalia neared the bar, the candle flames jumped, sensing the fire within her. She swallowed, hoping the patrons absorbed in Leilan’s display hadn’t noticed. It would be impossible for a Shaitan, who could only control air, to have such an effect on fire. Her ability to work several elements would mark her as a Ghan Aisouri at once. She stared at the flames, willing them to stand down.

“Nalia, you know Yasfa and Prahnesh, right?” Leilan asked, indicating first the boy and then the girl.

Nalia nodded, then leaned across the bar, whispering in her friend’s ear. “I have to talk to you.”

Leilan turned to her admirers. “Next drink’s on me,” she said. “Be right back.”

She stood and signaled to the other jinni at the bar that she was taking her break, then followed Nalia into a dim corner where they would be partially shielded by an elaborately carved screen.

“What did he do this time?” Leilan asked, her eyes already flashing. She was well aware of Nalia’s tumultuous relationship with Malek.

Relief flowed through Nalia, hot and fast. She hadn’t realized how alone she’d felt for the past twenty-four hours.

“Gods, Lei. I don’t even know where to start. Last night he kissed me, then today he took me to this movie theater and all this stuff happened and he lost his mind—I could barely keep him from . . . from taking advantage of me. And now he’s apologetic and I feel so . . . so . . .”

Nalia threw up her hands in frustration. She’d never been this close to telling Leilan who she really was. How could she get advice when the most important part of the story was a secret? But she’d only been able to escape Calar’s wrath so long because everyone believed Nalia was a Shaitan, the daughter of an unimportant overlord. Nalia trusted Leilan with her life, but she didn’t have the right to gamble her brother’s as well. If the Ifrit found out he was related to a Ghan Aisouri, they’d kill him without a second thought—not because he had extra powers, but to eliminate any connections to Nalia’s race. He might not be an Aisouri, but his mother had been, and her royal blood ran in his veins.

“Can’t you put him off somehow?” Leilan asked. “Maybe tell him you’re seeing someone?”

Nalia laughed—a sharp, bitter bark. “Are you serious? The guy would be dead before sunrise.”

“True.”

There were plenty of unscrupulous people who owed Malek a favor and would be more than happy to pay their debts with a well-aimed gun.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Leilan asked, her voice soft.

“Not really,” Nalia said. “The whole thing feels . . . inevitable.” She stared at the pointed toes of her boots. “Malek always gets what he wants.”

“That’s only true
if
he doesn’t make a third wish. Or die somehow. Maybe he’s like a vampire—let’s just cut off his head and see what happens.” Leilan flashed a wicked smile. “The kitchen has a great knife selection.”

Nalia shook her head. “I granted him Draega’s Amulet, remember? He can only die by choice or of his own hand.”

When he’d asked for it by name, she’d been surprised. Now she knew that whoever his Ifrit father had been, the jinni had shared some of Arjinna’s secrets with his human lover. What else had Malek’s mother told him of the jinn?

“And,” she continued, “I finally solved the mystery about why he wasn’t aging—he’s a
pardjinn
.”

“Fire and blood,” Leilan growled. “Are you serious?”

Nalia nodded. “And of course his father was an Ifrit. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before.”

Leilan cast a longing glance at the bar. “I think we need a drink.”

Nalia shook her head. “I need a lot more than that.”

“So that’s why he’s so crazy—all that Ifrit blood in him. It makes sense, how one minute he’s normal and the next he’s a raging beast.”

“Right. Maybe all I needed to do these past few years was keep him from lighting so many candles.”

“You could put him in an icy cave and he’d still have Ifrit blood. There’s nothing you could have done.” Leilan reached out and held the pendant around Nalia’s neck up to the light.
“Gods,”
she breathed. “Where’d you get this?”

Nalia flushed. She’d forgotten she was still wearing it. “Malek,” she muttered. She felt a twinge in her chest as she remembered his delight when she’d opened the box. “His father must have talked about our mountains. I never tell him anything about Arjinna unless he makes me.”

Even then, she’d hated the thought of her beautiful land in his slave owner’s mind.

Leilan rubbed her thumb across the polished lapis lazuli, her eyes far away. “When I was a little girl, my father and I used to practice manifesting on a cliff that overlooked the sea. He called it the end of the world because the mountains and the sea and the sky were all the same color—like you really could touch the place where the gods stopped making things.” She shook her head, letting the pendant fall back against Nalia’s skin. “Gods, I miss him.”

Nalia couldn’t look at her—it was the Ghan Aisouri’s fault he was dead. So many had been lost in the uprisings, when Raif’s father had called for the serfs to attack their Shaitan masters. Most days, it felt like Nalia would never be able to atone for the sins of her race. Now she was the only one left who could answer for the Ghan Aisouri’s crimes.
They said it was justice. Peace. Security.

She knew better now.

Nalia opened her mouth to say I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but what came out was, “Maybe we can go there together someday. When this is all over.”

Leilan raised her perfect eyebrows. “This?”

Nalia shrugged. “Malek. The Ifrit. The rebellion. It’s got to be better by the time we’ve had nine hundred summers, don’t you think?”

Nalia didn’t expect to live out her jinn lifespan, but it was nice to imagine it.

Leilan sighed. “I don’t even know if there’s anything left to go back to.”

Every new refugee told the same story: the land torn apart by war, death around every corner. The sky blackened with the smoke of Ifrit fire.

“I know what you mean,” Nalia whispered. If it weren’t for Bashil, would she even
want
to go back?

Leilan looked at Nalia’s lapis lazuli again. “That’s some gift to give a jinni you just want to screw.”

“I know,” Nalia whispered. “In his own warped, insane way, Malek thinks he actually cares about me.”

She couldn’t tell Leilan how it had felt, those first moments in Malek’s arms after he’d pulled her onto his lap. Because it would sound as if she’d
liked
it. And she hadn’t. She
couldn’t.

Leilan cocked her head to the side, thoughtful. “I wonder if fighting him is worth it.”

“What?”

Leilan rushed to explain. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s a bastard and deserves to be fed to a seriously nasty ghoul.”

Nalia laughed. “I’m not sure which is worse—the real Malek or a ghoul that looks like him,” she said. At least the ghoul couldn’t mess with her emotions.

“Okay, I completely understand why you don’t want to be . . . romantic . . . with Malek. I do. I’m just trying to be practical here,” Leilan said. “If he truly never intends to make a third wish
and
his being half jinn gives him a jinni’s lifespan—which obviously we don’t know if it will or not . . .” She sighed. “I’m just saying that ten centuries is a long time to keep telling your master
no
.”

Nalia looked out at the jinn around her. Some of them had the same haunted eyes she saw in the mirror every day. Others seemed like they’d made their peace with Earth. Whether they wore shackles on their wrists or not, each one had found a way to survive. Still. This wasn’t the advice she’d expected to receive from Leilan.

She turned to her friend. “Would you do it—let him have you if he were your master?”

Leilan leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. “How do you think I got to Earth in the first place?”

Nalia stared. “I thought you escaped.”