Exquisite Captive (36 page)

Nalia ran into the garage and placed her hand on Malek’s Aston Martin, willing it to life. The engine roared; she jumped in and peeled out of the garage and down the drive, then swerved onto Mulholland. She raced down the hill, nearly killing herself as she passed too-slow cars. Sunset Boulevard was packed, as usual, and she maneuvered through the traffic and onto the freeway. It seemed mercifully clear until suddenly a wall of red tail lights rose before her.

“No!” she screamed.

Nalia slammed on the breaks. All around her, cars stopped until the freeway was one long, stagnant river of brake lights. Traffic was at a complete standstill. Her body shaking, Nalia turned on the radio, flipping through the stations until she came to one where there was no music, only talking.

“Firefighters are still trying to control the blazes that have been raging through Malibu Canyon and the Pacific Palisades since early this afternoon. There are reports that the fire has now spread to the Hollywood Hills,” said a male voice. “Authorities think it could be arson, but it’s still too early to tell. The governor has declared a state of emergency, and mandatory evacuations have begun. We’ll continue to follow the story as it develops, but now, to Shelly Grant with the traffic report.” There was a musical chime and a cool female voice spelled out Nalia’s fate: “There’s a SIG alert on the 101 and the 110, with heavy traffic from downtown LA to Long Beach. Expect long delays. A three-car pile-up has traffic stalled. It may be up to an hour before traffic flow resumes its normal—”

Malek’s plane was leaving at six thirty. It was now 6:20. Even if she evanesced, she’d never be able to find him in time. Nalia hugged the steering wheel and screamed as loudly as she could. Her failure was so epically, utterly complete. The scream turned into a sob that came from deep inside, painful bursts of agony that gutted her. Soundless at first, then raw and choking, the ancient tears spilled down her cheeks, a cascade of suspended grief.

Voices. Car doors slamming. The sounds of Earth cut into Nalia’s lament. She raised her head from the steering wheel and stared out the windshield with dazed, blurred eyes. Drivers all around her were getting out of their cars and staring forlornly at the blocked freeway. In all the traffic jams she’d been in, this had never happened before. The sky had turned the color of dried blood, an apocalyptic twilight, and the scent of the fires ravaging the city was overwhelming. It sneaked through the Aston Martin’s vents, erasing the faint scent of Malek’s cologne that had filled the car. Nalia wiped her eyes. She had to focus. She knew Haran wouldn’t hesitate to hurt the innocent humans who happened across his path. Every moment she sat in this car, another human’s life or home was lost to Haran’s endless malice.

He means to smoke you out,
Zanari had said.

Malek was gone and, with him, her immediate chance of getting the bottle. The gods had made it clear: she would face her enemy, bound in the shackles his violence had led her to. If she died, so did her brother. So did the resistance: Raif, Zanari, all of them. But there was another way to save them. She’d just been hoping things wouldn’t have come to that.

Nalia closed her eyes and pictured a small, clear bottle. It appeared in her hand and she set it on the dashboard while she pull her jade knife out of her boot. She whispered the words to take the paralyzing spell off the blade, then, before she could change her mind, she slid the knife across her wrist and held it above the open bottle, ignoring the throb of pain. Her blood, hot and thick and infused with her magic, poured inside. When it was full, she drew her fingers across the cut to close the wound, then sealed the bottle. There was more at stake—much more—than her freedom or her life.

She picked up her phone to call Raif, but just as she was about to dial, the phone began to ring: Delson.

“Did you get a hold of him?” she asked, before Delson could say a word.

“Miss Nalia! Oh, thank God.” Delson’s voice was faint, but she could detect the panic in it. “No, Mr. Malek has not called—I’m sure he’s well on his way to Beirut now, but there’s a more pressing concern. The fire department’s here and they’re making the servants and I evacuate. Security, as well. You must come back at once. The fire is only a few houses away. If anything happens to the property, Mr. Malek will—”

“I’m on my way. Just go ahead and do what the fire department is telling you. I’ll take care of the house.”

It was better this way. Not only would there not be any witnesses to the storm she was about to produce, but the evacuation had the additional advantage of keeping Delson and the servants out of harm’s way once Haran broke through the
bisahm.

“Please be safe, Miss Nalia. If anything happened to
you
, Mr. Malek would—”

“I know, Delson. Now get out of there.”

She hung up and put the bottle of blood in her pocket, then patted the dashboard of the Aston Martin. Who knew what would happen to it sitting abandoned on the freeway?

Before evanescing, she dialed Raif’s number.

He answered on the first ring. “You have it?”

Nalia’s world was on the verge of collapse but it was Raif, not Haran or Malek, that threatened to tip everything over. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.

“Nalia?”

“Yes, I’m here. Sorry. I don’t have the bottle—it’s a long story. Listen, I need you to meet me at Malek’s. There’s a glass house in the back of the property with flowers inside. Can you be there in thirty minutes?”

“What happened?”

“I want to change the terms of our agreement.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THE GHOUL WATCHES THE MARID JINNI. HE’S WAITING FOR
her to leave the crowded path full of wishmakers so that they can be alone. The Marid stands with her back to the boardwalk, her bright blue eyes lingering on the first stars. The ghoul has been waiting for her since the sun stained the beach’s sand red. It was a beautiful sight, as though an invisible battle had been fought there and all that remained was the blood of the slain. It reminded the ghoul of a recent skirmish with Marid resisters. He and his Ifrit soldiers had turned the sand red then, too.

Good eating, that.

To the left of the ghoul, kites whip through the air, their neon colors like exotic birds dipping and whirling through the slowly darkening sky. The evening has turned cool and he watches the Marid shiver—she is not wearing enough clothing. Her turquoise blouse is too thin for the chilly Pacific nights, and the goose bumps on her skin make his mouth water. The wind grows stronger, smelling of burning and death and the tang of the sea. The ghoul takes a deep breath and smiles. He has been busy this day. Calar will be pleased.

The Marid unfolds the paisley silk scarf the Aisouri had given her earlier that day and ties it over her red hair, looking every bit the jinn peasant. Her fingers brush the soft fabric and the ghoul wonders what they taste like. Peaches? Steak? So many possibilities.

It had been hard to watch the Aisouri with this Marid. Hard not to run at her and swallow her up, then and there. But after such a long journey, the ghoul wanted to enjoy his royal prey. His little mouse. He’d eat slowly. Make it hurt. Keep her fresh until the very end.

It was important to savor such a rich meal, not gobble it down like a snack. It would be his last chance at a royal banquet.

The sun finally sinks below the horizon and the boardwalk’s crowd thins. There will be humans traipsing up and down it for several more hours, but the Marid appears to hurry as she packs up her stand, as if she has some pressing engagement. The ghoul, of course, knows otherwise. This jinni will be going nowhere else tonight. Or ever. The Marid stacks her paintings. The ghoul’s stomach growls and he grows impatient, his claws itching for that fine swath of skin.

Once the paintings are secure, the Marid places them on a rolling cart and, with a wave to the artists on either side of her, walks through the crowd and onto a side street. The ghoul follows, slowly. He is a hunter, stalking his prey. No need to hurry.

The Marid hums under her breath as she walks, deftly maneuvering the paintings through the narrow streets of Venice. They pass gardens and balconies, where young humans drink from bottles of beer. The smell of meat lingers in the breeze, but the ghoul is not tempted—he likes his meals rare. Warm from the kill.

The Marid passes a shiny car—cream, with the word
MASERATI
written in small silver letters on the back. She reaches out her hand and touches it, her face sad. The ghoul smiles, watching her. Oh, how he loves it when they are sad.

The ghoul quickens his steps.

“Jahal’alund,”
he says. He knows the Marid does not see his true self. He appears to be a Shaitan jinni with curly black hair and a slight Spanish accent.

The Marid straightens her paintings and offers a smile. “Well,
jahal’alund
to you, too. I didn’t know there was another jinni in the neighborhood!”

“Can the jinni help you?”

The Marid shakes her head. “I’m almost home. I’ve carted these things around a thousand times, believe me.”

The ghoul is uncertain as to how to proceed, but then the Marid catches sight of the large mood ring on his middle finger. “Oh, I love mood rings. Where did you get it?”

The ghoul smiles. “The jinni got the ring in Barcelona.”

“The jinni?” The Marid cocks her head to the side. “English kinda new for you, huh? You speak, what, Spanish over there?”

The ghoul nods. “Yes, the jinni speaks Spanish. The jinni speaks many languages now.”

The Marid raises an eyebrow. “Okay,
amiga
. Well, I’m headed this way,” she says, pointing down the road.

“What a coincidence. The jinni is also going in this direction.”

The ghoul walks with her, asking the Marid questions about Venice Beach and her art, and the Marid talks and talks, never noticing the way the ghoul licks his lips or leans in for a quick sniff of her hair. It is dark in the streets, so they walk slowly with the Marid’s cumbersome load of paintings. The ghoul feels anxious. He wants to set more fires, and he needs this kill to gain access into the Aisouri’s home. He’d expected a
bisahm
to protect her residence, hence this necessary little detour for one more disguise.

They reach the Marid’s bungalow in a few short minutes, a tiny house in the Venice canals.

“Well, this is my place. I’d invite you in, but I’m actually leaving right now. You should come to Habibi sometime. I bartend there, so I can get you a free drink or two. We can evanesce over there together, if you want.”

The ghoul smiles and as he steps into a sliver of moonlight, the Marid stares. Her face goes slack as she takes in the part of his body that the moonlight touches. It reveals a large, thick arm, the flesh gray and peeling.

The Marid tries to shove her key into the lock, forgetting, for a moment, all about magic. The ghoul moves closer and the Marid throws her hand against its face, slicing the rotting skin on his cheek with her key.

“Ah, so the Marid likes to play rough too,” the ghoul says.

“Get away from me,” she screams.

The Marid begins to evanesce, but the ghoul’s arms are unnaturally long and he simply reaches out and throws her against the side of the cottage, breaking her connection to her
chiaan
. What little smoke she’d produced disappears into the sea breeze. The Marid tries to stand, but she sways like a drunk and the wall is red and sticky from where her head hit it.

“So beautiful,” the ghoul whispers, as he pulls her roughly against him. “The ghoul will taste her now.”

He’s ravenous, filled with an insatiable hunger. The flesh calls to him and he drools over the Marid’s face as his teeth lengthen and move toward her. The kill, the kill.

His mouth opens wide.

The last thing the Marid sees is the gaping hole of his mouth bearing down on her head. She closes her eyes and thinks of her father. Of the place in Arjinna where the sky meets the sea. All that blue. All that—

The ghoul is in the frenzy of the feed, so hungry after his exertions on the hills of the city earlier today. It’s not long before he finishes his meal. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand; then his body twists and his red smoke mixes with the blue of the Marid’s as he evanesces to Hollywood.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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AS SOON AS NALIA’S FEET TOUCHED MALEK’S GRASS,
a wave of heat and smoke crashed over her. Haran’s inferno was already devouring the next-door neighbor’s house, and it was only a matter of minutes before Malek’s property was next. The security post at the gate had been abandoned and the house was dark. The property had a long-deserted air, even though she knew Delson and the servants had just left. The sound of the blaze was deafening, and here and there Nalia heard the faint cry of sirens.

She reached her hands to the sky and focused her
chiaan
on the clouds above her. They weren’t visible, but she pushed up, past the smoke, further and further, her energy reaching as high as it could until she could draw enough moisture from the air. She felt dizzy, but she pushed on, using the last of her strength to ensure the storm would cover the whole city. When she could stand the pain no longer, Nalia swept her hands out toward the fire. There was a crash of thunder as the sky cracked open and a deluge of rain poured down, soaking the fiery cobras that Haran had unleashed on the hills. Nalia collapsed onto the grass, her face and palms to the sky as the rain pounded against her body. Creating the storm required massive amounts of
chiaan
, and her skin responded greedily to the water, soaking up its energy.

She could feel her
chiaan
strengthen as the storm fanned out over the city. The flames lingered on the edge of Malek’s property, but they were no longer spreading. The storm wouldn’t last long—she’d only had enough energy for one huge burst, but now the humans would be able to put out the rest of the fires themselves. Nalia struggled to her feet and checked to make sure the bottle of blood was still secure in her pocket. Then she headed over to the conservatory. She could barely see the glass house in the torrential downpour; it was almost invisible under the sheets of rain.