Exquisite Captive

  Someone in the crowd raises a hand and waves. The Shaitan shades her eyes and waves back as she recognizes the Djan jinni she met near the snake charmer that morning. A few minutes later, the Djan joins her on the roof, dangerously lovely. She still wears the leather gloves that are much too warm for the Indian heat, but the Shaitan likes this peculiarity. The Djan’s shimmering pearl hair whips across her face as the breeze picks up.

  “Jahal’alund,” she says, placing a leather-gloved hand on her heart.

  The Shaitan smiles. “Jahal’alund,” she says, suddenly shy. Could the girl see the want in the Shaitan’s eyes, the loneliness she needs to chase away?

  “Would the little monkey like to have some fun?” the Djan asks, with a mischievous upturn of her blood-red lips.

  The Shaitan giggles. “Yes. My master is drunk and won’t wake for many more hours. It’s so good to see another jinni. There haven’t been any around here for a long time.”

  As the sun sets, the Djan jinni plies the Shaitan with liquor and questions her about her life in Arjinna before she was sold onto the dark caravan. Where did she live? Who was her overlord master? Each question brings their bodies closer together until the Shaitan is dizzy with want.

  The Djan reaches out and strokes the dark patch of skin that begins on the Shaitan’s cheek and bleeds into her neck. “Tell me about this,” she whispers.

  “I’ve had it all my life,” the Shaitan says, blushing.

  The Djan smiles. In the gloaming, her teeth look needle sharp. The Shaitan shivers, but she doesn’t move away.

  The moon rises over the town. The Shaitan and the Djan are lying on a thin mattress they manifested hours ago, their limbs becoming more tangled as the bottle of sweet liquor empties. A rancid stench has settled over the rooftop, but the Shaitan ignores it—in India, this is not so unusual. Finally, the stranger the Shaitan met across a circle of dancing cobras brings her lips to her neck.

  The Djan groans softly. “The little monkey is delicious.”

  The Shaitan shivers, surprised at the heat this jinni gives off. The Djan’s tongue burns as it travels down the length of the Shaitan’s neck.

  “The tiger is going to eat the little monkey,” the Djan whispers. She places her nose against the Shaitan’s collarbone and breathes deeply. “Her flesh is sweet and fresh.”

  The Shaitan arches an eyebrow. “Is that a promise?”

  She gasps as the Djan’s fingers reach under her sari. “Yes.”

  Her moans of pleasure become cries of pain until there is only mute stillness.

  Down below, the festivities continue long into the night and the air is filled with music and laughter and the faint scent of fresh blood.

  9

  THERE WOULDN’T BE ANOTHER CHANCE AT THE BOTTLE tonight.

  Even if Malek hadn’t locked himself away in his study as soon as they got home to drown himself in absinthe, Nalia wouldn’t have been able to bear his presence a moment longer. Something had broken inside her at the theater. Not her innocence. Her life as a Ghan Aisouri had deprived her of that long before she ever came to Earth. Something deeper, more intangible than an idea or rite of passage—it was as if the very essence of her being had dissolved in the face of who she had to become to buy her freedom. Nalia’s accidental part in the coup’s success had been bad enough. She could never take back the mercy she had extended to the young Ifrit prisoner who went on to betray her. It was a secret she kept close. Nalia deserved to die for it, she knew, but she couldn’t face the judgment of the Arjinnan people until she had saved her brother. Then she would tell the truth and accept whatever punishment the realm felt she deserved. Nalia expected death, would welcome it—once Bashil was safe. Yet even the horror of bringing such ruin to the jinn or the certainty of the public’s justice hadn’t broken her, not entirely.

  Being on the dark caravan, with the threat of the bottle and Malek’s violence looming over her—that had nearly pushed Nalia to the edge of her sanity. But on her worst days, when all she wanted to do was give up, there was Bashil, always Bashil, waiting for her to save him. And now that she was so close to returning to her homeland to make at least that one thing right, she’d begun to realize that the further she went with Malek down his twisted road, the closer she came to losing herself entirely. Right and wrong had become so thoroughly mixed up that all she was left with was a haze of gray confusion. Even if she got the bottle and somehow managed to rescue her brother, there’d be nothing left of her for Bashil to cling to. Not just because of what she’d have to do to get the bottle. Her difficult life as a Ghan Aisouri had at least given her a sense of purpose. Who would Nalia be once the shackles came off and she was once again free to make her own choices? What had she become since the night the palace had cried tears of blood?

  Nalia had thought of this all through the short drive back to the mansion, with Malek brooding beside her, no hint left of the carefree man he’d been when they’d started their date. As soon as Malek had shut the door to his study to search for whatever it was he was always looking for in his books and maps, she’d rushed past the servants and jumped into her car, trying to put as much distance between herself and Malek as possible. There was only one place she could go, one person she could talk to.

  After driving for less than twenty minutes, Nalia parked the Maserati in the tiny, cramped lot behind Canter’s, the twenty-four-hour Jewish deli on Fairfax that served as a front for the all-night jinn club below. Even though it was a Monday, the club would be packed. Habibi was a safe haven for slaves on the dark caravan, serfs running from their Shaitan masters, refugees from the recent coup, and exiled political activists and artists. Before Earth, Nalia had never seen anything like it. Public gatherings where castes mingled had long been outlawed by the Ghan Aisouri. Though the palace maintained that the royal mandate against intermingling was for every jinni’s protection, Nalia now saw the law for what it was: fear of widespread rebellion. By separating the castes, the Ghan Aisouri had been able to maintain control of the uprising, stomping out the flames of revolution as easily as snuffing out a candle. How many raids had Nalia gone on with the Aisouri, storming underground cafés just like the one she now frequented several times a week? Habibi, like so many things on Earth, had shown Nalia more than anything else how misguided her sisters-in-arms had been.

  Nalia waited while a group of humans fumbled around in the parking lot, looking for their car, then their keys. After they drove off, she stepped out of her Maserati, smiling faintly at the friendly chirp it made when she locked it. She could have just evanesced from Malek’s house, but she’d needed time to clear her head, and the drive had done her good. The sting of the past few hours was already fading, if only a little bit. After a furtive glance over her shoulder to make certain the parking lot was deserted, Nalia evanesced, coaxing the familiar swirls of golden smoke around her body. Seconds later, she was standing in Habibi’s candlelit entryway.

  Usually she couldn’t help but feel deliciously disobedient each time she arrived at the club, as though at any moment one of the elder Ghan Aisouri might catch Nalia and send her to the gryphons for a good flogging. Tonight, though, Nalia felt none of the thrill that accompanied her clandestine trips to Habibi. Calar’s assassins were after her and the popular club would be one of the first places they looked. Even though her glamour had been enough to fool the jinn Nalia had come to know, the Ifrit weren’t above using dark magic to peel back the layers of illusion—or the skin—that protected the jinn they were interrogating. It was stupid to leave the seclusion of Malek’s house and she knew it. But Nalia wasn’t going to let a bunch of Ifrit beasts keep her from the only place on Earth that gave her a taste of home. Besides, her chances of surviving might be better if other jinn were around—no matter what caste they were from, no one liked the Ifrit who served Calar.

  A Djan jinni lounged behind a marble counter at the club’s entrance. She gave Nalia a small welcoming bow. “Jahal’alund, Nalia,” she said.

 
Nalia returned the Arjinnan greeting. “Jahal’alund, Freya. Is Leilan at the bar?”

  When her closest friend wasn’t painting in her studio or cavorting with surfers and impressing them with her Marid water tricks, Leilan was bartending at Habibi, using human ingredients to re-create Arjinnan favorites to varying degrees of success. It was Leilan who had first brought Nalia to the club, after they’d discovered one another at the Venice Beach boardwalk. Nalia often said it was Grathali, goddess of the wind, who had brought them together: the silk scarf Nalia had been wearing blew off in a sudden gust of wind, landing on top of one of the paintings Leilan was selling.

  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.”

  “I promise I’ll screen every unfamiliar face.” She smiled. “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 she were buried under thousands of pebbles. Still able to breathe, but just barely. 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. Raif’s passion for Arjinna had woken her from a stupor; now she couldn’t ignore her duty if she tried.

  Nalia shook her head—that was more than she could deal with today. She 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. The Shaitan kept to themselves—whether a result of being shunned by the other castes or a lingering sense of superiority, Nalia could never be sure. They were mostly artists or intellectuals who had opposed the Ghan Aisouri regime. 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 jinn who 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 Nalia 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 conquests. “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 a 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 too
k 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?