Exquisite Captive (6 page)

“No,” he said. “You can’t grant me what I want. You have to
give
it to me. Someday you will.” He searched her face, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “But can I wait that long?”

After a few moments, he let go of her. “Come join me when you’re ready. There are some people I want you to meet.”

He paused at the door and turned to her as he buttoned his shirt and put on his bow tie.

“Nalia?”

“Yes?” she whispered.

“Don’t ever make me wait again.”

Then he was gone, the room somehow colder, as if he’d taken away the warmth in it just to let her know he could.

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RAIF LEANED AGAINST A MARBLE COLUMN, BETWEEN
a Kandinsky and a Warhol, taking in the way the mansion’s gold-flecked ceiling shimmered in the soft light of the room’s many chandeliers. It was almost as pretty as if a jinni had magicked it. He shook his head, disgusted. Leave it to the one surviving Ghan Aisouri to find the swankiest punishment possible. No Ifritian work camps for her. No, no. She was much too valuable.

He guessed the girl’s master was the handsome man the vapid human partiers were flocking around. It was impossible to determine his age—he wasn’t as young as Raif, just nineteen summers, but he couldn’t be older than thirty. From what Raif had overheard at the party, Malek Alzahabi was extremely powerful, the invisible hand that controlled the planet’s politics and economy. This party, it seemed, was a mix of business and pleasure. Malek moved among the circles, alternately charming and intimidating. His confident smile never left his face and it seemed as though no one—from the servants to the wealthiest guest—dare say the word
no
to him.

The gathering reminded Raif too much of the Ghan Aisouri and their elaborate celebrations in the Arjinnan palace, surrounded by their Shaitan jinn court of mages, scholars, and overlords. Being a lowly Djan jinni, he’d never attended the events, of course. Someone like him could never hope to be
invited
to court. One whiff of the earth and cow and sweat on Raif and they’d send him straight to the dungeons.

He’d heard from friends of his who’d served in the palace kitchens of the rich food, the gaudy pomp and circumstance of the empress and her knights, and, of course, the pipes filled with
gaujuri
root. He hadn’t caught a whiff of its particular, potent stench on Earth, but it was clear the humans had their own vices. Many of the guests around him wore the vague, entranced expressions of the jinn who’d smoked
gaujuri
and, like them, their laughter split the air into shimmering shreds.

“Ah, here she is. Gentleman, this is my companion, Nalia.”

Raif moved closer so as to hear Malek’s voice above the party’s clamor. He was standing nearby, surrounded by wealthy gentlemen. They reeked of coin—their suits perfectly pressed, their hair oiled, gold rings glinting on their pinkie fingers.

Raif watched as Nalia glided into the circle. None of the men seemed to notice the tightness around her mouth or the dullness in her eyes. All they saw was her otherworldly beauty—something even Raif, with his aversion to the
salfit
oppressor, couldn’t deny. Nalia’s master placed a hand on the small of her back and she stiffened. It was just for a moment and he wasn’t sure whether Malek had noticed or not, but for Raif it was all he needed to know about their relationship. He could use that, if he had to.

The humans made small talk, and Nalia smiled and nodded. She did not speak unless she was spoken to, tamed, it seemed, by the powerful man beside her. She was more a courtesan than a warrior—Raif wondered if this was how the Ghan Aisouri behaved at the palace parties, when there were no rebellions to quell or innocent serfs to murder. It was hard to imagine the empress’s knights without their hooded cloaks or those emotionless expressions the Djan and Marid had feared for so long. He wished he could say Arjinna was better off now that all but one of the Ghan Aisouri had died, but the Ifrit had proved to be even worse.

Which was saying a lot.

As if sensing his presence, Nalia glanced in Raif’s direction, her eyes darting into the shadows that engulfed him. Uncertainty pulsed in her golden eyes—a tiger unaccustomed to being prey—but it disappeared in an instant, replaced with the cold detachment Raif was so familiar with. It was said that the Ghan Aisouri were born without hearts and that the blood in their veins ran cold as the snow ponds in the heights of the Qaf Mountains. Raif smiled, a small upturn of the mouth, and bowed his head ever so slightly, a mockery of the full prostrations he’d been forced to do whenever the Ghan Aisouri rode onto his overlord’s plantation on the backs of their massive gryphons.

Things are different now,
he thought.
It’s your turn to bow before the serfs and beg us for mercy.

Over the next few hours, Raif glided around the room, careful not to attract the attention of Malek’s security, his guests, or the man himself. It wasn’t fear—Raif was a jinni and Malek and his entourage mere humans. Still, best to be cautious. He didn’t want to arouse the suspicion of Nalia’s master. The only way for Raif to get what he wanted was for Malek to think everything was as it should be in the empire he had created for himself.

So Raif shadowed her, letting his energy flow in a slow-moving current that connected him with his prey. He was never more than a few feet from Nalia, close enough to see her clenched fists and the shiver that would occasionally take hold of her as she pretended to listen to Malek’s guests. Every time she turned around, he slid out of view. He could almost feel her frustration building. It was cruel to play with her thus, he knew. He could imagine how exhausted she was becoming, simply by keeping an increased awareness.

Finally, the revelers began to tire of their excess. Sometime before dawn, Malek leaned close to Nalia, his lips grazing her ear as he whispered to her. His long fingers traced her naked spine down to where the backless dress gathered at her tailbone, and she nodded at whatever he said. Nalia turned around and headed for the stairs, her eyes immediately shifting to Raif, who stood beside an elaborate ice sculpture of an elephant. She stopped for a moment, studying him. Her lips parted slightly, and a flicker of recognition passed across her face. Then she shook her head slightly and began moving forward once again. Had she figured out who he was? They’d never met, he was certain of that, but she must have been on the battlefield during the serf uprisings.

He eased next to her, keeping enough distance so as not to attract her master’s notice. He spoke in Kada, the jinn language, lest any guests be eavesdropping.

“I’m not here to kill you.”

She raised her eyebrows, then stared ahead, slowly moving through the crush of party-weary bodies as if he wasn’t there. The guests parted before her and Raif kept pace, annoyed that he had to play catch-up.

“Then why are you here?” she asked, her lips barely moving.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “Where can we talk?”

“I don’t speak to traitors.” Hatred oozed out of her voice. “You’re a Djan. How can you work for the Ifrit? They’re monsters—
butchers
.”

The anger he’d been keeping at bay throughout the party flared to life, igniting green sparks in his eyes.

“I’d never work for them,” he spat. “If you hadn’t been so intent on fighting me in the garage, you would have known that.”

“Something about the word
salfit
must have confused me about your motives,” she said.

“Look, if you’re through being your master’s pet for the night, I can—”

She glared, looking him full in the face for the first time.
“Pet?”

This wasn’t going well. His sister, Zanari, was constantly reminding Raif that the art of diplomacy was just as important as the art of war. The only way to get this Ghan Aisouri scum to listen to him was to play the part of the docile serf.

“Forgive me . . .
My Empress
.”

Nalia stopped, her muscles suddenly taut. When she looked at him, her eyes betrayed nothing—had she detected his mockery?

“Your empress is dead,” she said in a flat voice.

Interesting,
he thought. He’d assumed she’d been biding her time, waiting for Malek to make his third wish so that she could return to Arjinna and claim her place as the land’s rightful heir to the throne. It seemed this one didn’t fit the power-hungry mold of the royal Aisouri.

“You are the last Ghan Aisouri—the only jinni with royal blood in all of Arjinna. By ancient law—which I don’t agree with, by the way—the Amethyst Crown is yours.”

“I am not worthy of it,” she said, her voice threaded with pain.

He looked at her for a moment, fascinated. This wasn’t at all how he’d expected the conversation to go.

“Unfortunately,” Raif said, more gently than he’d intended, “that’s not enough assurance for the Ifrit.”

Nalia stepped onto the first stair that led to what Raif presumed were the mansion’s bedrooms. When she spoke, it was in the imperious tone of a royal to her subject.

“Meet me in the rose garden behind the house in five minutes.”

His momentary sympathy evaporated.
Typical salfit,
he thought. Raif slid back into the shadows.
Now for the hard part.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

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AS SOON AS NALIA GOT INSIDE HER BEDROOM SHE
changed into clothes she could fight in, though it wasn’t at all clear anymore whether or not the jinni intended to kill her. If he came in peace, what had his behavior in the garage been—a spirited introduction? Surely he hadn’t come all this way to warn her about Ifrit assassins; he had no respect for the Ghan Aisouri. But whether the Djan jinni wanted to kill or rescue her didn’t matter: Malek would never make his third wish. And it was the only way she could be free.

Nalia glanced at the clock beside her bed. She only had a few minutes until Malek knocked on her door:
I haven’t seen enough of you tonight,
Malek had whispered in her ear before she left his circle of admirers.
I’ll be up as soon as the guests leave.

If she was going to deal with this jinni, she’d better do it now. Nalia couldn’t imagine her master’s rage if he came to her room in the middle of the night and found her gone, then realized she was in the rose garden with a handsome jinni.

Handsome?
That smirk. The way he fought—dirty and rough.
No. He’s just a serf on a power trip,
she thought.

She slipped on her boots with an angry tug and made sure her dagger was secure, then opened her window and let the wind soak into her skin. It was the time of the Santa Anas—the strong gusts that blew through Los Angeles every year, carrying mysteries of other worlds and filling Nalia with power. Even on Earth, it seemed, the wind goddess Grathali reigned supreme. Like her Shaitan overlord father, Nalia favored wind above all other elements. She was one of only a handful of Aisouri who knew their parents; jinn infants born with purple eyes were immediately sent to the palace and given new identities. Neither the children nor their parents knew one another. But Nalia’s mother was a Ghan Aisouri. Because of this, Nalia saw her father on occasion, when he came to court on business or to have a tryst with her mother. Though Aisouri were prohibited from marriage, many had lovers.
Love—
no. It was said that the Aisouri heart could not love, though Nalia hated to believe that was true. The last empress had certainly proved the stereotype, though.

Empress. Fire and blood,
she cursed.

Nalia wished the Djan hadn’t made the connection between her and the throne. She’d never thought about herself that way—not once had Nalia considered what being the only Ghan Aisouri meant in terms of the crown. To her, the empress had died, leaving behind a gaping hole that could never be filled again, especially not by a jinni only eighteen summers old.

Empress.

Nalia Aisouri’Taifyeh didn’t deserve to be alive, let alone the leader of her land. Not after what she’d done. Once again, Nalia wondered why she’d been the one to survive—she, who deserved to be the first to die. And now the Ifrit empress, Calar, thought Nalia could take the Amethyst Crown from her. It didn’t make sense. The Ifrit had been able to gun down her entire race and set their own empress on the throne in a matter of minutes. Why would they fear her?

Maybe the Djan would have some answers. Nalia pictured the rose garden, then evanesced, her smoke borne away on the heavy wind almost as soon as she landed on the smooth stone courtyard in the center of the garden. The moonlight painted the blossoms an iridescent silver, and the rosebushes shivered at the wind’s caress. It was almost peaceful—the splash of water as it spit out of a fountain, the hiss of crickets, and the airplanes that traveled across the sky—still such a strange sight to Nalia’s Arjinnan eyes.

The Djan jinni was sitting on the lip of an ornately carved fountain, digging the toe of his scuffed boot into the grass at his feet. He looked up, his keen eyes watchful. Nalia pulled the jade dagger out of her boot and settled into a fighting stance. Too late, she realized the garden had not been the best choice of meeting places: he would receive just as much power from the rich soil as she would, though she could still benefit from the water in the fountain and the wind. Still, she hoped he would pick up the shift in her energy and think twice about battling with her again—after all, she’d been trained since birth to deal with ruffians like him.

“If you’re not here to kill me, then what do you want?” she said.

He spread his hands wide. “Come on. We both know that knife’s useless—I’m not one of your little human wishmakers.”

She’d let him keep thinking that. Nalia was sure he’d find out soon enough just how special the blade could be. It was the only thing she’d taken with her out of Arjinna, so cleverly disguised with an invisibility charm that neither Malek nor the slave trader was the wiser.