Exquisite Captive (14 page)

“You scared me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Nalia reached up a hand and felt the bump on the back of her head. She could feel his misery at the pain he’d caused her; the energy in the room grew heavy, leaden, and she let a few more tears drop. “How can you call me
hayati
when you do things like this, Malek? How can we be together if . . . ?”

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I know.
Fuck.
I know.”

Everything in her line of sight seemed to jump up a few feet and wobble in the air. She reached out for one of the seats to steady herself, no longer playing the damsel. She needed to get away and replenish her
chiaan.
Malek made a move toward her, but she put up her hand. Now that the Ifrit side of him had died down, she didn’t want to be any closer to him than she had to be. It occurred to Nalia that she had Malek right where she wanted him. But it didn’t feel like a victory, and the bottle was still around his neck.

“Did you know your father was a jinni?” she asked.

It had to be the father—from the way he’d spoken about his mother in the past tense, Nalia assumed she was dead. If she’d been a jinni, his mother would most likely be alive for several more centuries.

Malek turned to the screen just as the words
The End
dissolved into nothingness.

“Yes, I’ve known my whole life,” he said quietly. “How did you figure it out?”

“Your eyes. They . . . changed color.” They’d never done that before—so why now? She frowned. Maybe it was strong emotion that brought the jinn side of him out. He was usually so good at keeping himself in check.

His answering sigh was weary. “I’ve spent my life trying to control it—no, me. I’ve spent my life trying to control
me
. My father left before I was born, so I don’t even know who he is. There was no one to teach me or help when I . . .” He pressed his lips close together and looked away, his eyes searching the darkness, as if his Ifrit father were hiding in the folds of the velvet curtain. “I don’t want to be like this, Nalia. The anger and the rest of it just . . . happens.” He looked at her, and in the fraction of a second before he shuttered his eyes, she saw the depth of the despair he’d been carrying with him for decades. “I know what the jinn think of people like me.”

The
pardjinn—
children of Arjinna and Earth. She knew what the jinn considered them: abominations. Horrors.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. The words were out of her mouth before she could take them back.

Malek shrugged. “I’ve made the most of it.”

There was nothing else to say. Nalia went back to her seat to gather her sweater and purse. The carton of popcorn Malek had purchased littered the floor—she didn’t remember it spilling, but then, everything had happened so fast.

Malek walked up the aisle. “We can watch the Valentino another time,” he said.

He helped her into her sweater and she let him, though she didn’t trust herself when he was so close. His hands, too warm. Too familiar.

He tilted her chin up and she met his anxious eyes. Yet another side of her master she’d never seen before. “Nalia, I would never hurt you. Not on purpose. Do you believe me?”

Not on purpose. That’s comforting.

She closed her eyes as images from the coup ran across her mind, unbidden. The human weapons that tore holes through her mother. Bashil’s cries as an Ifrit soldier whipped him. The palace, crawling with the Ifrit. Vile, vile creatures. Maybe the old peasant tales were right, that the Ifrit were the spawn of demons. So what did that make Malek?

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THE SHAITAN JINNI STANDS ON A ROOFTOP, GAZING OUT
at the scene below her. The dusty street teems with throngs of human travelers who are visiting the small desert town for the annual camel fair. Elaborately costumed camels amble by, pulled by men in colorful turbans and drooping mustaches. Women encased in vibrant yards of silk call out to one another in a lilting, musical language. Saffron and mutton scent the air, and music cascades out of the open shop fronts. Monkeys chatter as they swing from electrical wires, and everywhere there is dust and heat, sound and color. She eyes the ropes of yellow marigolds that crisscross the street, strung between the compact cement buildings. She remembers the day the humans put them up, not long ago. There were laughter and shouts, and when the job was finished, they all sat around and ate plates heaped with rice and dhal.

Beyond the bustling street, the late-afternoon sun glimmers on a turquoise lake and paints the picturesque hill behind it a burnished gold. The jinni smiles at its loveliness. It’s nothing like Arjinna’s Infinite Lake, but it reminds her of those healing waters and gives her hope that she may see them again someday. It is for this reason that the jinni’s thankful her master in the dark caravan has decided to spend the autumn here, even though the air lies over the town like a thick, wet blanket.

Someone in the crowd raises a hand and waves. The Shaitan shades her eyes and waves back as she recognizes the Djan jinni she’d 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 Djan gives off. Her 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 as the Djan’s teeth tear into her flesh again and again.

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.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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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, because 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 even, but not until Bashil was safe. Yet even the horror of bringing such ruin to the jinn or the certainty of their 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 even 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; but 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 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 and tried 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 her car 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 it. 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 cafes 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 thugs 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 beautiful Djan jinni stood behind a marble counter beside the entrance to the club. 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 recreate 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 on the boardwalk.