Exquisite Captive

  “Give me a minute. I need to grab some clothes.”

  Nalia stood, rubbing her neck. Despite her Sha’a Rho, her body felt stiff. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed. The scent of yerba maté floated toward her as she wandered over to the kitchen. Its rich, earthy fragrance was as close to Arjinnan tea as you could get on Earth.

  Zanari poked her head through the doorway and handed Nalia a steaming mug. “You look like you need this, sister.”

  Nalia smiled. “Thanks.”

  She sipped the tea, leaning against the doorway, while Zanari prepared a cup for herself.

  “I know how hard this must be for you,” Zanari said. “Raif told me you made a vow to the gods.”

  Nalia nodded.

  “I’m sorry for that.” Zanari looked like she really meant it. “You’ve been gone from Arjinna since the coup, so it might be hard to imagine what it’s like over there right now. We can’t hold on much longer. Raif and I wouldn’t be here if that weren’t the case.”

  Nalia set her mug down on the counter. “Why are you being nice to me?”

  She thought that Raif’s sister would be just as prejudiced as he was, but the jinni had been nothing but kind to Nalia since she’d walked through the door.

  Zanari shrugged. “My brother sees things as very black and white. But for me, it’s all shades of gray.” Her eyes flitted to Nalia’s wrists. In her haste to leave the mansion, Nalia had forgotten her sweater and the bruises looked ugly in the kitchen’s bright light. “As far as I’m concerned, the gods have paid you back for any suffering you might have caused. You were just a kid, anyway. We all were.”

  Nalia nodded, but she’d never be able to absolve herself that easily. Zanari didn’t know what she’d done to the revolutionary boy. Or that her sympathy for an Ifrit prisoner had caused the coup.

  She took another sip of her tea. “How exactly does your gift work?”

  “Well, it’s not always accurate—we serfs don’t get much training in anything magic related, you know. And I had to keep my powers a secret from the Ghan—well, from your people. And now from the Ifrit. Basically, my voiqhif allows me to learn more about people or places through sensory images that come to me in flashes. It’s sort of like when you see a phoenix fly over a clear lake. You can see the image, but it’s indistinct, blurry. More like a memory than anything else. I try to interpret what I see, and sometimes it’s of use.”

  “Is that how you’re trying to find Haran?”

  Zanari nodded. “I tie my desire to find him to the earth and bind my intention to chiaan. Then I wait and see what floats up to me. Earth is so big, though. It takes a long time to find him. Sometimes I can’t, other times, it’s just a flash. Earlier tonight I saw stone faces. Moonlight. It wasn’t much to go on, I’m afraid.”

  “What did you see when you searched for me?” Nalia asked.

  “First, your face. Then this city—the Hollywood sign, the palm trees. Luckily we have a few runners in the resistance—jinn who go back and forth between Earth and Arjinna, helping refugees escape. We told them what I’d seen—not about you, of course—and they said this was the city to go to. I went to Habibi and asked around. Then I was able to get more specific in my search for you, and I found your master’s house.”

  “What about mind reading?” Nalia asked quietly. She’d spent so much time since the coup working on shielding her mind that she was fairly certain Zanari wouldn’t be able to see inside it. Still, she had to be on her guard.

  Zanari shook her head. “No, my voiqhif doesn’t work that way. Gods, a power like that would be a curse.” She pointed to Nalia’s pendant. “That’s really pretty. Did you bring it from Arjinna?”

  Blood crept into Nalia’s face and she clutched at the necklace. “My master gave it to me. It reminds me of home, so that’s why I—”

  “It’s okay. It’s beautiful.” She reached out her hand. “May I?”

  Nalia hesitated. “No offense, but I can’t let a psychic touch something belonging to me.”

  Zanari laughed. “You’re a smart jinni. But I don’t read objects.”

  “I’d hate to learn the hard way that you’re lying. You’re nice, Zanari, but I’m a Ghan Aisouri and you’re a Djan’Urbi. Oil and water.”

  “You know, that’s exactly what my brother would say.” She smiled. “But I’m warning you, sister, I prove him wrong all the time.”

  There was a slight cough behind her and when Nalia turned around, Raif was standing in the doorway, his hands on his waist. His eyes fell on her necklace, and Nalia covered it with her hand, instinctively. She wondered how long he’d been standing there.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Raif wore the thick cotton laborer’s pants and matching tunic of the Djan serfs. The fabric was olive green, plain but for the widr tree emblazoned over his heart—the symbol of the god Tirgan and the Djan. The familiarity of the clothing, the Arjinnaness of it, sent a wave of longing crashing over Nalia so that, for a moment, she just stared at him. She wanted to bury her nose in the cloth and see if she could smell the sharp scent of the Forest of Sighs. It was said that the ghosts of the first jinn still spoke in the forest’s shadowy depths to tell the story of how they were made by the gods from smokeless fire at the beginning of time, when the land’s moons, the Three Widows, were still drinking their mother’s milk.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” Nalia finally said. She turned to Zanari and managed a small smile. “Thanks for the tea.”

  “Anytime.”

  Nalia followed Raif out the door, down the hallway, and up a flight of metal stairs. She wished she could trust Zanari. Had they met under different circumstances, they might have been friends.

  “By the way,” Raif said, “Zanari doesn’t prove me wrong all the time.” He grinned. The smile changed his whole face—Nalia felt like she was getting a glimpse of who Raif was when he didn’t have to be the stone-cold revolutionary his tavrai wanted. “Just most of the time.”

  “Good to know.”

  Raif pushed open another door, and she followed him onto the roof. The sky had turned a soft lavender to welcome the approaching dawn, but it was still dark enough to see the city’s lights.

  Nalia shook her head and laughed softly. She’d been awake for twenty-four hours—the beach, the Silent Movie Theatre, Habibi, and now Jordif’s loft. Who knew what today would bring?

  “Did I miss something?” Raif asked.

  “No. It’s just been a really long day.” She turned to him. “So, why couldn’t we talk downstairs?”

  “Jordif is home and I’d prefer it if nobody but you, me, and Zanari knew about the sigil.”

  “So now’s the time when you tell me how you found out about it.”

  Raif walked over to the edge of the building and looked out at the dusky hills to the north. Faint patches of peach dusted the sky, harbingers of dawn.

  Raif looked back at her. “I’d heard the stories as a kid, of course. But a few years ago—just before the coup—one of my informants said a Ghan Aisouri had told him about the sigil, how the Aisouri were its protectors.”

  Nalia shook her head. “I can’t imagine one of us would ever tell anyone, much less a—”

  She stopped herself, wincing, and Raif gave her a cold glance.

  “Much less a serf?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . It’s just that the penalty for telling anyone is death.” She frowned. “Was death.”

  “My informant was this Aisouri’s lover. For years. She bore his child. Trusted him. He played his part well, but he was in the palace during the coup and . . .” Raif held up his hands. “You can guess the rest. But I’m telling you the truth.”

  What did it matter how Raif knew? She was lucky he did—otherwise, he would have left her here to be murdered by Haran. And yet the part of the story that interested Nalia the most wasn’t something Raif could tell her. Who had been this Aisouri? Was her lover just a companion, like Nalia’s father had been for he
r mother, or had this mystery Aisouri actually loved her serf? She must have if she’d told him the realm’s greatest secret. And, gods, he betrayed her. For most of her childhood, Nalia had hoped there could be a way for her to remain true to herself and still be a Ghan Aisouri. But her mother hadn’t thought so. Maybe she was right. Look what love has cost us. Now peasants know about the ring, and my love for Bashil is why they’re going to have it. Fire and blood, can it get any worse?

  “If I do this,” Nalia said, “I need some guarantees.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, what’s to stop you from trying to harm me once you get the sigil?”

  “That’d be pretty hard, considering you’re four times more powerful than me.”

  “That’s the whole point of the sigil—whoever wears it can control all jinn in the realm where it’s worn, remember?”

  “I told you, I’m not going to wear it.”

  “So you say,” Nalia said. She crossed her arms and fixed him with a hard stare. “I don’t think you’re above killing me in my sleep.”

  “I don’t think you’re above killing me in my sleep.”

  Nalia sighed. This could go on all night. She’d already decided that her brother was more important than the consequences. She just had to make sure she lived long enough to rescue him.

  “If you give me my freedom, I’ll get you to the sigil. But I need to know you’re not going to stab me in the back once I’ve fulfilled my obligation to you. I have . . . things I need to do when I get home.”

  Raif smiled. “Don’t trust me?”

  “No,” Nalia said, her voice flat. “I don’t. The only way we can guarantee that we’re protected from one another is if one of us wishes it.”

  “You want to bind yourself to me in a promise?” He looked at her, incredulous. “After three years of slavery?”

  “And you to me,” she reminded him. “The manifestation of the promise would work both ways. You can’t ever use the sigil on me, and we can’t kill one another.”

  Raif snorted. “So, I walk through the portal and you beat me to a pulp—but don’t kill me—and then take off with the sigil? I don’t think so.”

  “Well then, what do you propose?”

  Raif laced his fingers behind his head and gazed up at the fading stars. “How about we promise not to kill each other—on Earth or Arjinna—and you promise never to take the sigil from me.”

  Godsdammit. She should have risked him killing her in her sleep.

  “And you can never control me or anyone under my protection with the ring. Ever.”

  Raif gave her a brisk nod. “Agreed.”

  “I guess that settles it,” she said. “Of the two of us, I’m the only one who can perform this manifestation, so you make the wish.”

  Magic of this power was a closely guarded secret, and knowledge of it was forbidden to serfs. Only the Ghan Aisouri and the Shaitan had been allowed to learn it.

  “You love this, don’t you?” Raif sneered. “Lording your power over me, like your kind has for centuries.”

  “Raif. I’m just stating the obvious, okay? I’m sorry serf magic was restricted. That wasn’t my choice. But I don’t think we can go through with any of this if we don’t know the other jinni is going to hold up their end of the bargain.”

  The magic Nalia wanted to perform depended on complete consent of both parties. Thus, the jinni manifesting the promise could only do so if the jinni entering into the promise wished for it. These manifestations were particularly difficult because it went beyond knowing the essence of a thing—a car, a house, a tree. It meant understanding the essence of jinn nature, of what a vow meant.

  “Fine.” Raif stepped closer to her and Nalia forced herself to hold his unflinching gaze. “I wish you to take me to the location of Solomon’s sigil as soon as I have freed you from your enslavement to Malek Alzahabi.” He chose each word carefully, knowing that Nalia would only be under an obligation to grant exactly what he wished for. “I wish that we will never kill one another—no matter how godsdamn annoying you get—”

  Nalia snorted.

  “—and I wish that you will never take the sigil away from me. I also wish that I will never be able to control you with the sigil.”

  “Or anyone under my protection,” she reminded him.

  “Or anyone under your protection.”

  “Would you like fries with that?” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “Human thing. Never mind.”

  Nalia held out her hands and Raif hesitated for just a moment before placing his palms against her own. She bit her lip as his chiaan nudged her skin. She’d spent so much of this night touching Raif Djan’Urbi, and now she was about to bind herself to him. What was she thinking?

  “I’m not helping you with your revolution,” she said. “Once you have the sigil, we go our separate ways.”

  “Agreed.”

  Nalia closed her eyes and let his chiaan flow into her. It was frightening, like she was losing bits of herself. She had to grit her teeth to keep from pulling her hand away.

  She let the words of his wish sink into her consciousness, knitting together the twin strands of hope and anxiety she and Raif shared. In order to manifest the wish, she had to reach the essence of what it was. Trust.

  The granting felt like falling a great distance and being caught just before she plummeted to the ground. It was a promise greater than any she had conceived of, and it took every ounce of her energy to hold his wish together and marry it to her own. She whispered the ancient binding words and then opened her eyes as the magic took hold. Gold and emerald vines of shimmering light curled around their hands, a surprising warmth that encircled her. Nalia could feel Raif’s chiaan mixing with hers, and she was no longer alone. For the smallest sliver of time, she forgot every single worry she had and let the magic take her. The world fell away. She felt Raif’s hand tighten on her own, strong and safe, and she knew he wouldn’t let go. The stars above them seemed to fall like sparkling rain, and she saw, in the folds of the magic, the sigil ring itself, glowing on an altar in the middle of a rocky fortress.

  Finally, the chiaan faded, leaving a small crescent scar on the insides of their wrists. If placed side by side, they would form the perfect circle of the sigil ring.

  Nalia was the first to let go. Cold air rushed against her palms and she shivered, stepping away. That wasn’t how the binding was supposed to be. It should have been excruciating as all bindings were, but it had been . . . wonderful.

  “I have to get back,” Nalia said. She could hear the slight tremor in her voice, and her face flushed.

  Raif stared at her for a moment, then blinked as though he were waking from a dream.

  “Right.” He ran his hand through his hair and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Come straight here when you have the bottle.”

  She nodded as golden smoke began to swirl around her.

  “Nalia.”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you glamour that?” He pointed to her birthmark.

  “Why? Does it offend you?” Her eyes glinted, and she thought of every disappointed glance Malek had given the mark on her face. Nalia had always relished those looks; the mark had felt like a piece of armor to protect her from his advances. She wanted her master to see a flaw when he looked at her. But it bothered Nalia that when Raif looked at her, he didn’t see a face blessed by the gods: he saw a blemish that marred an otherwise perfect canvas.

  Raif looked taken aback. “What? No. It’s just . . . identifying. It could be used as a way for Haran to find you.”

  “If he’s already that close to me, we have bigger problems to worry about than my birthmark. Besides, the gods have enough reason to be displeased with me. I won’t give them another one.”

  “But—”

  Nalia evanesced before she heard the rest of his sentence.

  14

  NALIA HAD ONLY BEEN ASLEEP FOR A FEW HOURS WHEN a soft knock sounded at her bedroom
door. She turned over and mumbled a sleepy “come in,” expecting it to be one of the maids with a breakfast tray. There were always three or so in the house, ghosts that flitted from room to room, working their domestic magic.

  She heard the door open, then felt the mattress sag as someone sat on her bed. She opened her eyes, blinking against the late-morning sun. Malek was looking down at her, his eyes full of concern. He was impeccably dressed, as usual. He made money in his sleep, but even so, he rose early every morning to begin his endless wheeling and dealing.

  “Are you ill?” he asked.

  He ran a finger across her jaw and she endured his touch with the patient suffering of a martyr.

  Nalia shook her head. “Just tired.”

  His eyes traveled across her face and she forced a smile. “What?” she said.

  “I want to make last night up to you. There’s a benefit at the Getty this evening. Will you allow me to escort you? I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

  The Getty was one of the city’s most popular museums, high in the hills on the west side. She’d gone to benefits with Malek before, and they were all the same: rich people who clung to him while Nalia stayed by his side, a plastic smile glued to her face. But she couldn’t refuse him. Maybe she’d even have the bottle by the end of the night.

  She nodded. “That sounds nice.”

  His answering smile disappeared as he caught sight of her bruised wrists. He stared at them for a long moment.

  “I’m a monster,” he whispered.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Too late, she remembered she was supposed to be seducing him. But instead of snapping at her, like she expected, Malek didn’t do anything. Just stared at her skin with a horrified expression on his face. Nalia sat up and brought her lips to his ear. She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, a sweet pine scent, so undeniably masculine. Nalia was suddenly aware that they were alone in her room, on her bed.

  Bashil. She chanted her brother’s name like a prayer to the gods. Bashil.

  “But I forgive you,” she whispered, placing one hand on his thigh.

  His breath caught at her touch—she could feel how much he wanted to believe that she could forgive him. That she could want him, after everything he’d done to her. Malek turned his face so that their noses were touching. His heat burned into her skin until all she could focus on was the closing distance between his lips and hers.