Djinn and Tonic (27 page)

“I see,” I say, my blood running cold as I begin to grasp the true shape of his plan.
 

“Are you familiar with the most ancient rules concerning duels, Detective Hale?”
 

“No, not really,” I admit. I’m curious as to what exactly Ibrahim is suggesting, since by all accounts if I challenge Hassan I’m guaranteed to lose.

“Well, you don’t need to know the rules of seconds and all that, because it wouldn’t be that kind of duel. What you need to know is that the one who is challenged always picks the weapons and the terms for the duel. So if one was to provoke Hassan into challenging him to a duel, he would be able to choose terms that would be most beneficial to him. For example, one could specify the use of fists only, preventing Hassan from using his natural advantages. Do you see?”

I nod. If I can get Hassan to challenge me to a duel, then I might be able to make sure I can fight Hassan on more equal terms. Take away Hassan’s elemental powers, force him to fight me man to man, and I might just have a decent chance at winning.

“I get it,” I say. “But if I win, then what? That doesn’t void the contract, or get me Leila. I’m not sure I can just kill him like that.”

“No, you certainly could not. You might win the fight, but I doubt you could kill him, and I wouldn’t suggest trying. If Hassan was to be incapacitated, however, Miss Nasri could perform a certain bit of magic that banishes the victim to the elemental realm. That is when the marriage Sealing would occur.” Ibrahim fixes me with a penetrating look. “You understand, by agreeing to this Sealing, this marriage, assuming you win and all works out as planned, you would be then bound to me and my clan by the same terms as Hassan was. The Sealing itself is simple, needing only the verbal repetition of the oaths by the bride and groom.”

I shrug. “I don’t bring much to the table besides myself, Mr. Najafi. I don’t have any family. I’m just a cop.”

“Which in itself presents certain problems, but we can figure that out at another time. A human and an officer of the law at that…no one would stand for you inheriting the patriarchy. Such a thing is unthinkable. But you present me with an opportunity to avoid handing my daughter—my only child—to a monster like Hassan. I still owe Farouk a rather large sum of money, but that can be worked out some other way, and is not your concern. Not yet, at least. It might become your concern, should you succeed at his, and
 
you must know there would be far-reaching repercussions should if you succeed at banishing Hassan and circumventing the alliance. I would have an heir—technically, but the clans would be mightily unhappy at exactly whom—and
what
—my heir would be. And war between the djinn and ifrits is still possible, even after all of this is done with, regardless of the outcome.”

I nod, pointing at Nadira. “Yeah, her aunt made that pretty clear,” I say.

“Ah, you spoke to Noura?” Ibrahim seems amused. “I don’t expect that went too well for you, did it?”

“Not exactly. She suggested I let Leila marry Hassan, and then I just hook up with her on the side, like a…what’s the word…a consort? Is that right? I might have gotten a little pissed off. How do you know her, anyway? I thought djinn and ifrits were enemies?”

“Enemies…yes,” Ibrahim says, “although we haven’t been at risk of outright violence in many centuries. In recent decades, however, we’ve slid inexorably toward war, and we are closer now than ever before. There are many, many factors at play here, but if you are determined to do this, then we cannot worry about what we cannot control.”

“You didn’t say how you knew Noura.”
 

“No, I didn’t. It’s complicated, and ancient history. The short of it is Noura is married to an ifrit from Hassan’s clan. Her husband and I have had some dealings in the past, so I have met Noura on several occasions. She is…a unique individual.”

Nadira laughs, a harsh bark. “Yeah, you can say that again. I wasn’t sure who else I could talk to. I was kind of desperate.”

Ibrahim and Nadira exchange a weighted glance, one that I can’t decipher. Nadira has secrets, that much is clear, but I can’t spend time thinking about that right now.

“Desperate is right,” I say, rising to my feet. “This whole thing is desperate, but I don’t see another way. I can’t just sit around and let it happen. So…let’s do this.”

Ibrahim shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. You need to time this exactly right. Hassan is sequestered with his groomsmen and friends. They would simply rip you to shreds and burn the remains. You have to make your appearance when all the crowd is watching.”

I slump down into my chair, cursing. I hate waiting.
 

I focus on breathing, bringing Leila’s face to mind, picturing myself marrying her, saying “I do,” feeling the magic bind us together. It’s scaring me shitless, but it also seems right somehow.

I can sense her somewhere close, and I know that she’s afraid, which is enough to remove any remaining doubts.
 

I’m here
,
Leila. I’m here.

Chapter 18: The Wedding March

Leila

Carson’s here, somewhere. He’s so close I can feel his presence on my skin, almost hear his breathing in my ear. My door is heavily guarded, and I cannot leave or even look out into the passageway.
 

There’s a deep, boiling rage in my gut, anger building inside me that these people would do this, would force me to marry at gunpoint. If the only one to suffer was me, I would loose all my rage and take the consequences. But it’s not just me. They’ve made sure of that, they’ve arranged everything so I have no choice, and that helplessness is what makes the anger flicker to life, morphing from mere emotional response into a howling typhoon of barely-contained hatred. I cannot let the winds free, not yet. But soon. Oh yes, very soon they will all know the mistake they’ve made.
 

But god, Carson. I know he’s here, but I don’t know why, or how, or what he’s planning. I can’t get out of this room, I can’t communicate with him. I can’t tell him to flee, to run, to forget me.
 

So all I can do is sit on this stool, sweltering and sweating, this heavy dress belled around me, an explosion of ruching and lace with a long veil and hijab, long-sleeved to cover me to the wrist, beautiful and traditional and lacking any sensuality. I will walk down the aisle at my father’s side, and I will speak the words of Sealing to bind myself to Hassan, and I will die inside with every footstep, every word.
 

I may say the words, but I will never belong to him. I will not allow him the pleasure of consummation. He will kill me first; I will make sure of that.
 

Father has not come to see me. He hasn’t shown his face even once. I am tempted to think he is ashamed, feeling guilty that he allowed this to come to pass. He should be. I will never, ever forgive him for this.
 

The first time I will have seen him in more than a year will be when he takes my arm to walk me down the aisle in the backyard of the home where I grew up. There is a window—sealed shut to prevent escape—and through it I can see a clear blue sky dotted with shreds of cotton clouds, a sparrow wheeling in the bright air, free and chirruping joyfully. It’s maddening torture to see a bird so free and happy to merely be, to fly and wing and soar, when here I sit, alone and trapped and forced to complete the Marriage Sealing to a monster, all so my father will have a male heir, because I am nothing but an irrelevant woman, a possession, a thing to be bought and sold, traded, given away.
 

Tendrils of air stretch out from me, seeking gaps in the walls, cracks under doors, anywhere that I might fade and filter and fly away. They’ve done their job well though, blocking every avenue of escape. This room is airtight, air-conditioned and cool, but escape-proof, even for an air elemental like me.
 

 
I am tempted yet again to send the winds to bash and batter at the door and window, to fall into a screaming tantrum. But it won’t do any good, I know. It’s best to wait, to bide my time and conserve my strength, hoard my anger and let its potency mount.

Soon, now. I can feel it. The moment is nearing. They will open the door, level black muzzled assault rifles at me, their eyes flat and dead, power held ready and thrumming and far more dangerous than their guns.
 

Yes, here they are. The door is unlocked and pulled open. Four hard-faced guards enter the room, followed by Aida.

“It’s time, dear.” Her voice is sickly-sweet, grating on my nerves.
 

She takes my arm, and I snatch it away. She reaches for it again, and I cannot help my reaction. I blast her with a ball of wind, sending her flying through the open doorway and into the opposite wall.

The guards rush to me, rifles pointed at my head, all four surrounding me like an inward-pointing star of death. Aida emerges from the rubble of the crumbled wall, dusty and bleeding, her face a rictus of hatred. She stomps back into the room, fists balled at her sides.

“Touch me again, and I’ll kill you,” I hiss at her. “I have nothing to lose. Your little dogs here can shoot me if they want. They’d be doing me a favor.” I want her to touch me. I want a reason to rip her foul little body apart with gusts of wind sharp as knives.
 

She trembles, eyes hating and sparking fire, but she keeps her distance. One of the guards shoulders his rifle and reaches for my arm as well, and I step away from him.
 

“Keep your filthy hands off me,” I snarl.
 

He lowers his hand slowly. Perhaps he recognizes the glare in my eyes, the look that says I won’t hesitate to shred him like paper. A vortex of wind blows around me, tousling my hair and plucking at the hem of my dress. I know my eyes have turned white, the edges of my body fading and reappearing. I silently dare him to touch me again.
 

His lip curls into a snarl, but he keeps his hand to himself, gesturing at the open door. I force the winds back within, lifting the hem of my dress off the ground and walk with all the dignity I can summon.
 

They lead me, Aida in front, two guards behind her, then me, then the other two guards. We pass doorway after doorway, turning down one hallway after another, and I realize once again how mammoth my father’s house is. It’s excessive and exorbitant to have this much house. We descend the wide, curving staircase to emerge in the foyer, my heels echoing off the high ceilings and marble floors. To the right of the front doors is my father’s study, the doors pulled closed. I can see straight through the house to the backyard, and now my nerves begin to jangle. There are easily five hundred people seated on white folding chairs. A white carpet stretches like a wide ribbon through the green grass, coming to an end at a high, lily-wreathed archway. Hassan stands to the right of the dais with six groomsmen, his cousins and best friends lined up behind him. To the left of the podium are the bridesmaids, three of my distant cousins, none of whom I’ve spoken to in at least five years, and the other three are Hassan’s sister, her friend, and another girl I’ve never seen before. The officiant of the wedding, the Sealer, is an ancient man, liver-spots on his bare scalp, back bent and knuckles trembling. He holds a thick book in both hands, and I can see his eyes flashing fire as he struggles to retain his form and stay upright.
 

The doors to my father’s study open and he emerges, tailored tuxedo perfect and creased just so. He looks at my entourage and waves for Aida to leave, and she does, after a moment of hesitation. The guards remain until Father barks a command in Arabic. Their expressions pale and they scurry to follow Aida.
 

He stands inches away from me, eyes for once gentle and showing his emotion. “I’m sorry, Leila.” It’s all he says.
 

You should be
, I think, but the words don’t come out.
 

He flourishes his hands and a magnificent bouquet of flowers appears, which he hands to me. They are all white roses, wrapped in pale blue silk. I take them in my trembling hands and grip them tightly, as if they could provide strength somehow.
 

He glances at the guards standing by the door, then back to the study. He hasn’t shut the study door all the way, as he normally does. I see a flash of a body through the crack in the door, a brief glimpse of brown hair and blue eyes. Carson. He’s in there, mere feet away. Father steps into my line of sight, meeting my eyes and shaking his head, a slight movement that I almost miss. I feel a twinge of hope. Perhaps they have a plan. All I can do is carry on as if I’ve seen nothing, despite wanting to burst into the study and wrap my arms around him, bury my face in his shoulder and let him kiss me, let him take me away from here.
 

I take a deep breath, hold it, let it out slowly, and ready myself. I nod to Father, and he takes my arm. We begin the slow, measured pace, unpracticed but automatic. I want to drag this out, hoping the walk to the altar will take a lifetime, hoping some miracle will happen between here and there.
 

I ignore the eyes on me, stare at my feet and refuse to look at Hassan. My father’s arm is all that steadies me as I finally approach the dais. I know I’m near to fainting, so hard is my heart beating, so violently is my stomach heaving. I don’t quite stumble, but almost. One step, two steps up, and then I’m facing the officiant, the aged ancestor from a neutral clan. He takes my hand in his parchment paper palm, turns me to face Hassan, and places my hand in Hassan’s. I jerk my hand free, and the fear drains away, replaced by rage.
 

Everyone present knows this is a farce, knows this is a forced wedding, and they all understand the reasons behind it. I see no reason to play along with these stupid games of pretend.
 

Hassan reaches for my hand, and I pull free. The flowers held in one hand are nearly blown away by the sudden gust of wind, and Hassan’s eyes flash.