Exquisite Captive (5 page)

Loneliness flowed over her, familiar and aching. She held up her palm and a wisp of smoke hugged an image of her brother, one from happier times, when he still had his baby fat and first teeth. Better than a photograph, the image of Bashil’s face was painfully real, down to the sunlight that glinted in his curly brown hair. But the picture was wrought from memory—he looked far worse now. Too often, in recent images of him, she’d seen dark circles under his eyes and cheekbones that were too pronounced. The last time she’d shared the same air with him, Bashil was being torn out of her arms and thrown into the line of slaves bound for Ithkar, the Ifrit territory.

He’s just a child,
she thought.
Only eight summers old.

For a moment she was back in the palace gardens, teaching Bashil about the stars.

             
“What’s that one, Nalia-jai?”

             
Bashil points to a collection of stars in the shape of a flat-topped mountain, his eyes wide with wonder. Nalia hugs him closer to her and fills her nose with his sweet baby scent. He is only four summers old, so curious. It hurts her heart that their mother cares nothing for him. To Mehndal Aisouri’Taifyeh, Bashil is only a
‘keftuhm’
—a blood waste. He was not born a girl with purple eyes and
chiaan
kissed by the gods.

             
“That,” she says, “is B’alai Om—the great cauldron. It is a kind of mountain that cries fire. It is where the first jinn were created by the gods.”

             
“From fire?”

             
Nalia laughs at the horrified expression on his face. “Yes,
gharoof
,” she says—little rabbit. “From smokeless fire.”

             
“Did it burn them?”

             
“
Faqua N’ai
,” she says. Only the stars know.

Now as she stared at his image, Nalia whispered Bashil’s true name—the one only she knew—filling each syllable with searching intent. Several long moments later, her brother answered. Not with words; that wasn’t how the magic of true names worked. Instead, he sent her an image—his thin face staring into dirty water at the edge of a harsh volcanic desert. He was still in the work camps, but alive.
Alive.
She sent him her love, hoping he would gain courage from its strength, her heart breaking that she could send him little else.

“You look beautiful tonight,
hayati
.”

Nalia started, then pressed her palm against her heart before her master could see the memory. Everything Malek looked at or touched he tainted.

Hayati. My life.

He couldn’t really mean she was his life. It was absurd, but there wasn’t a trace of mockery in his voice. She turned around, willing her face to mask the fear that was pumping through her. The threat of the bottle hung over Nalia, a guillotine. With Malek she never knew—one moment, he could be charming and kind, throwing around terms of endearment in his native Arabic. The next, terrifyingly cruel. He knew what the iron did to her, how sick-making it was to jinn and how too much time away from the elements made her weak and helpless. And yet he put her in the bottle anyway, or, for minor rebellions, forced her to obey humiliating commands:
Nalia, wash the floor with this toothbrush. Nalia, clean up that guest’s vomit.
She’d once begged for her freedom on her knees like a dog, but her shameful supplication for her brother’s life had earned nothing more than a contemptuous look. The last time Malek had put her in the bottle—just a year ago—he’d left her in too long. She’d barely survived the iron poisoning. Since then, Nalia had decided that there was more than one way to, as the humans liked to say, skin a cat. She would bide her time, wait for the right moment to convince her master to free her. That or find a jinni who’d be willing to smuggle her brother out of Arjinna to Earth. Neither of those prospects looked good, but it was all she had to cling to.

Now he stood just inside the door, watching her.

“You didn’t care for the black gown?” he asked. “I saw it in Dubai and thought,
That’s for my Nalia.
”

My.
Her hands shook, yearning to hurt him.

Nalia lifted her chin, her eyes defiant. “I wanted to wear this one instead.”

Every day she battled with her master. It was these small victories, these little moments of sovereignty, that reminded Nalia who she was.

I am Ghan Aisouri.

The blood of empresses flowed in her veins. Nalia couldn’t let herself forget that. Not now. Not ever.

Her master’s eyes traveled down the length of the red dress’s shimmering folds, drinking Nalia in. So he hadn’t gotten over . . .
this.
Whatever it was.

“You know I like everything you wear,” he said.

Malek stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The click of the latch felt so final, louder than a pistol being fired at the beginning of a race. He should be slamming her against a wall or shoving her in the bottle for refusing to come right when he called, but instead he was talking about her dress? She’d been prepared for his usual brand of bruising anger, but not this unexpected gentleness. The punishment would come—it was just a matter of when and how. Goose bumps bloomed across Nalia’s bare arms and she moved closer to the fire’s warmth. She could feel its energy blazing under her skin, medicinal and strengthening—a dangerous tonic that fed the darkness hiding within her: the side of Nalia that had liked cutting the client deeper than she’d needed to.

Malek walked to his desk and took a thin brown cigarette from a box that sat beside the computer.

“No client?” she asked, feigning nonchalance. “I thought that’s why we were meeting in here.”

Malek pulled a heavy silver lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette. He puffed on it a few times and the room filled with its heavy vanilla-and-clove scent.

“Not tonight. I might send you somewhere at the end of the week, though. Haven’t decided on this deal yet. A bunch of drug lords who . . .” He waved his hand in the air, then brought the cigarette to his lips again. “It’ll bore you.”

Malek pulled off his black tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt while he crossed to a small sideboard that held a crystal bottle full of bright green liquid. Nalia was familiar with this ritual and watched him over the rim of her champagne glass. The way he moved always reminded her of a panther—lithe, quick, graceful. His glossy black hair was just the right amount of mussed up—he looked like an Armani model, all sharp lines and studied casual elegance. A young sheik, dressed for a night of pleasures.

“Where were you tonight?” he asked softly.

This was Malek at his most furious—maddeningly polite, a partner leading her in a deceptively macabre dance she hardly knew the steps to. Nalia had spent her childhood training to fight other jinn and the monsters that lurked in the shadows of her land. Nothing could have prepared Nalia for the bottle or enslavement or Earth. No one could have prepared her for Malek. She’d been taught how to fight to the death, not how to lay down her sword. There was no honor in this, no fearsome nobility. Just a flicker of hope in the darkness.

“I needed time to get ready,” she said.

Her brother’s face. The peaks of the Qaf Mountains at sunset. Her mother’s approving smile when Nalia had manifested something for the first time. She flipped through these few happy memories, grounding herself. Malek couldn’t take them away from her, no matter what he did.

He poured a small amount of the emerald liquor into a crystal goblet, then set an ornate silver spoon shot through with holes over the top.

“Ah, yes. The mysteries of women.”

Nalia’s chin trembled and she hated herself for it, for every second of fear he’d carved into her. She lifted the champagne to her lips and drank it all in one gulp. Liquid courage.

I am Ghan Aisouri.
Malek might be her master, but he was only human. He could hurt her, yes—the bottle was hell—but she was far too valuable for him to break. He needed Nalia. It was the only currency she had with her master, his insatiable need for wishes and power.

Malek’s thin fingers lay a cube of sugar on the spoon, then he doused it with more of the potion-like liquor. He lit the sugar cube on fire, staring at the flames as the sugar dissolved.

“I’m not so mysterious,” she said.

“Aren’t you?”

He dipped the spoon into the glass and a flame burst into the air as the fiery sugar cube hit the absinthe.
Like magic,
Nalia thought. Malek quenched it with ice-cold water from a nearby pitcher, then he held the drink up to the dim light. Satisfied, he took a sip.

Nalia imagined the assassin outside the door, waiting patiently while her master enjoyed his cocktail. She grasped at the inner calm that had been battered into her all throughout her childhood. It had come so easily to her mother, to the other Ghan Aisouri. But it had always been hard work for Nalia.

Finally, Malek turned to her. “I should teach you how to make this sometime. I think you’d like it.”

She held up her champagne glass. “This is my poison of choice.”

He cocked his head to the side, watching her. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired—granting does that to me, you know.”

His eyes grew hard. “I think you’re tired because of whatever kept you from coming to me when I called.”

Damn magical GPS.
She hated the shackles he made her wear. She’d already played this conversation in her mind—there was no fooling Malek.

“I was in the garage. Thinking.”

“And what, pray tell, was so important for you to reflect on?”

Her eyes fell to the Persian rug at her feet. “I was trying to figure out how I’d explain what happened tonight with the client . . . I was thinking about maybe going back and . . . uh . . . fixing it,” she began.

“Do you have the payment?”

She held up the thumb drive and took a few steps toward him. As Nalia closed the distance between them, she could almost feel the air thin, just like in the bottle. Malek reached out his hand and she placed the thumb drive on his palm. His eyes settled on the birthmark near her right ear—how many times had he run his hand across it, frowning at this one blemish, this splash of spilled coffee that wouldn’t go away? The slave trader had created an illusion to hide the Ghan Aisouri tattoos that covered her hands and wound up her arms, but Nalia had insisted on keeping her mark visible. It was Nalia’s one source of comfort, a sign of the gods’ favor and a small reminder that she was still herself. She made a point to wear it proudly, as an act of defiance in Malek’s perfectly ordered world.

He reached his hand up to her cheek and Nalia flinched—not because she feared the sting of a slap. He’d never hit her, but she’d seen him swallow the urge to do so more than once. It was this gentleness, his sudden need to touch her whenever he could. She didn’t know how to defend herself against that.

Malek frowned. “Come now. Do I scare you that much?”

Nalia shook her head and he ran the back of his finger over the birth mark, down her cheek, never taking his dark, dark, almost-black eyes off her. He tilted her chin up and stared at her for a long moment, then he let go, satisfied at whatever he saw in her eyes.

Nalia retreated back to the fire while Malek leaned against the large wooden desk in the corner of the room, absently turning the thumb drive over and under his knuckles with one hand.

“So what happened with the client?” he asked.

“I didn’t remind him to clarify his wish,” she said, watching Malek’s face carefully. “He wanted invisibility and he got it—for the rest of his life.”

“He can’t change back?”

Nalia shook her head.

“What’d he do to warrant your wrath?” Malek’s voice was light. There was no hint of the anger she’d so often seen in his face. Why? Where was it?

“He . . .” What was the human expression? She’d learned it recently, when she’d told her jinni friend, Leilan, about Malek’s advances. “He hit on me,” she said.

Malek went still. “Are you all right?”

“Since when do you care?” The words slipped out, unbidden. She instantly regretted them—they weren’t worth even one second in the bottle.

He set his drink down and crossed to her. Nalia’s feet instantly shifted into a defensive position, her hand a breath from the dagger strapped to her leg. If he punished her, she’d fight. She’d lose—he could command her to stand still or punch herself, if he wanted to—but she’d promised herself that she’d never go into that bottle without fighting like hell to stay out of it.

But Malek was full of surprises tonight.

When he reached her, he slid his fingers around Nalia’s arms and gently pulled her against him. This close, she could see the gold chain that her bottle hung from, tucked inside his shirt. Her breath caught in her throat.

Malek brought his lips to her ear, smiling as her heart threw itself against his chest. “I care,
hayati
. More than you realize.”

She pulled away. “No, you don’t.”

Nalia didn’t know what to make of this new Malek, with his soft words and caresses. But she preferred a beating to what he wanted. Sickening as it was to admit, Nalia knew she was lucky. Nearly every jinni she met on the dark caravan had been forced to sleep with their masters, slaves to commands that stole their very bodies from them. But Malek had never done that to her.

Not yet.

He reached for her hand and she placed it in his, unthinking—a natural reflex. After so much time in captivity, her body was accustomed to obeying his every command. He brought the inside of her wrist to his lips. Nalia forced herself to meet his eyes, though their hidden depths frightened her. It wasn’t just because her fate was entirely in his hands—Malek Alzahabi was unpredictable at best and sadistic at worst. Just when she thought she’d figured out how to play nice, he changed the rules of the game.

“I wish . . .” he whispered.

Her eyes widened, but he just sighed. If he made his third wish, she’d be free.