Exquisite Captive (9 page)

             
“Tell that to the Djan’Urbi rat who’s giving us so much trouble,” laughs Wardi, one of the older girls. “I’m sure that’ll keep the serflings in line.”

             
“Oh, don’t give her such a hard time,” Japhara says. She throws an arm around Nalia’s shoulder. “We’re Ghan Aisouri—surely we have time enough to look at sunsets and kill a few serfling rats. Right?”

             
Nalia tenses. “Right.”

             
But the color of blood doesn’t look beautiful in the sun. Why can’t anyone else see that?

Now, Nalia stared at the pendent. She’d never be free of the memories, not as long as she lived. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be—they were her only link to Arjinna. The memories, and now this necklace.

“Do you like it?” Malek asked. He sounded . . . nervous. Like it really mattered how she felt.

She looked up. The moonlight softened the lines of his face, brought out the feeling in his eyes. How could he look at her like that, after all those times he’d put her in the bottle?

She nodded, unable to speak.

“Here, allow me,” he said.

He took the box from her shaking hands. She lifted up her hair and turned around, every inch of her aware of his presence. The Santa Anas swirled through the open window. Nalia shivered. She felt the stone settle just under her collarbone, cool and heavy. Malek’s fingers gently slid down her neck and then she felt his lips on her skin. He was so close that she could feel the bottle between her shoulder blades and suddenly Nalia knew that there was really only one way she could ever hope to get him to take the bottle off in her presence, then forget all about it.

Malek whispered her name as his lips traveled to her ear. Then again as he turned her around to face him. He leaned forward, his mouth just a breath from her own, his fingers snaking through her hair.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmured.

Everything in Nalia screamed
stop stop stop
, but she tilted her head up and forced a small smile. He sighed, as though he could finally stop holding his breath, and he traced her lips with his thumb, then gently pressed his mouth against hers. Malek’s lips were warm and surprisingly soft—he kissed her as though he were afraid she’d break. Nalia reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, wanting to snap it, knowing she could if he weren’t her master.

He pulled her closer, deepening his kiss, and she didn’t realize she was kissing him back—that she was suddenly
wanting
to kiss him back—until a knock sounded at her door, startling both of them.

She stepped out of Malek’s arms and he scowled at the door, crossed the room in two long strides, and threw it open.

“What?” he growled.

Nalia touched her burning lips—what had just happened?

Outside in the hall’s dim lighting, she could just make out Malek’s assistant, Delson.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s London. They said it was important.”

Malek frowned, then nodded. “One minute.”

Delson backed away, out of sight, and Malek took Nalia’s hand in his own, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist. “Sleep well,
hayati.
”

He looked up and smiled, his eyes alight in a way Nalia had never seen before. “You have no idea how . . .” He shook his head, a low laugh escaping his lips. “Good night.”

He left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. As soon as she heard his door at the end of the hall open, then shut, Nalia threw herself over the small trash can beside her bed and retched.

A slave,
she thought,
and a whore.
She clutched at the piece of home around her neck and thought of her brother. His life in exchange for her honor. He was worth it.

Raif prowled around Malek’s property, ensuring the
bisahm
he’d set up was strong enough. He assumed Nalia would build her own defensive shield as soon as Malek left her room, far more powerful than the one he could produce, but he didn’t know how long Nalia’s master intended to be with her. Just the thought made his skin crawl—the only thing he liked less than the ruling classes were human masters who forced themselves on their jinn. Is that what was happening right now? He wasn’t sure, of course, but he’d heard the stories of what happened to the jinn enslaved in this realm. Still. He couldn’t lead a revolution in Arjinna
and
Earth. Helping the jinn on the dark caravan would have to wait.

Raif ran his hands along the magical barrier and the
bisahm
became visible under his light, searching touch. The thin opalesque membrane was like a big bubble that surrounded Malek’s entire property and was designed to prevent jinn from evanescing into it. Save himself, Nalia, or his sister, Zanari, any jinni trying to enter Malek’s property would come up against this invisible barrier. They could try to get in the old-fashioned way, of course, but Malek’s state-of-the-art security system and armed guards would make that a difficult feat, even for a magical race. The
bisahm
wouldn’t hold out long against a jinni intent on getting inside, of course—it was akin to having a thick door to a castle. With enough enemies outside and a decent battering ram, they’d eventually break in. It just might take them a while.

Raif found a weak section of the
bisahm
, near a large rectangle on the ground with a net suspended in the middle of it. It seemed to be for some human activity, but Raif couldn’t guess what. He centered himself, then drew on the power of Malek’s gardens and towering palms, binding the
bisahm
to the energy of the earth in the only way he knew how. He may be leading the revolution, but he was still a Djan peasant. It was only the Shaitan and the Ghan Aisouri who had access to books and wise mages that taught them the essences of things in order that they may manifest them. Most of the time, Raif was working off pure intuition or piecing together the few things he’d picked up from other serfs. His was a magic of mismatched patches, sewn together with hope and desperation.

Finished, Raif kneeled and rested his palms on the grass, soaking his skin in the early-morning dew. He mumbled a prayer to Tirgan, Arjinna’s god of earth and the patron god of the Djan, thanking him for the use of his strength. Then Raif leaned forward and rested his forehead on the grass, opening his body up to the earth’s power. It flowed through him, rich and hearty. He stood and his body tingled in that way it always did after he replenished his
chiaan
.

The sky had lightened to the color of Arjinnan amber, a blushing peach. There was nothing more he could do tonight. He hadn’t anticipated the complication of the bottle—what with leading the resistance, the details of the dark caravan had remained a mystery to him. The whole mess of trying to protect jinn from being sold into the slave trade in the first place had been his primary concern.

Disappointment surged through him. What had he expected, that he could just walk in here and get what he wanted? He never thought convincing a Ghan Aisouri to agree to his terms was going to be easy. The conversation had gone in much the way he’d expected. It would only get harder: once Nalia found out what he wanted in return, the whole deal might be off. You could never underestimate a Ghan Aisouri’s obsession with honor.

Or what they
think
is honor,
he thought. Real honor and Ghan Aisouri honor were two very different things.

Raif looked up at the sky, squinting at the pale starlight. “They call these stars?” he muttered. He’d only been gone from Arjinna for a day, but already he felt homesick for the familiar constellations of his realm: Tatarun, the mythical mage who’d traveled to the godlands and brought the secrets of alchemy back to Arjinna, and Piquir’s sword, slashing the night sky. Raif couldn’t imagine being in exile, to never again see the celestial lights of his homeland. To him, these forced or chosen migrations of Earth’s jinn was a fate worse that death—exactly the punishment he felt a Ghan Aisouri deserved.

Before leaving, he blended into the garden, using his connection with the earth to attain something close to invisibility. He’d spent most of the night similarly camouflaged as he set up the
bisahm.
Every now and then, he’d look up at the room on the second floor where he’d seen wisps of Nalia’s smoke drift out of an open window. He’d watched as first Malek, then Nalia, came within its wooden frame to gaze out at the waking landscape. He didn’t want to think about the look on the girl’s face as she watched the sun lighten the sky, the way her despair tore off the armor she presented to the rest of the world. In that window, Nalia seemed a child, almost—vulnerable, afraid. He’d been about to call out to her, offer a kind word, but then he thought of his father and of Kir, his best friend, both killed at the hands of the Ghan Aisouri. Nalia deserved every bit of her suffering and shame, yet he hated how it reminded him of the hunted look in the eyes of the girls in his village, when their overlord took his pick of them during the harvest festival. He’d see them, months later, their bellies round with their masters’ children, their eyes deadened.

That’s why you’re here,
he reminded himself.
For them. For their children.

Now he closed his eyes and focused on centering his energy. Thick plumes of sandalwood-scented smoke encircled him and, seconds later, Raif was standing in the living room of Jordif Mahar’s spacious loft in downtown Los Angeles. Raif and his sister had been staying with the unofficial king of Earth’s exiled jinn since they’d arrived from Arjinna. Jordif’s graying handlebar mustache and portly physique lent him the air of a fun-loving uncle, and his booming voice held more bark than bite.

Now Raif looked around for his gregarious host, but the room was dark and still except for a dim light beside a large armchair. A familiar leather slipper dangled over the edge, the owner turning a foot round and round in lazy circles.

“Took you long enough.”

His sister, Zanari, peeked around the armchair, her emerald Djan eyes heavy with sleep. She took in the velvet coat Raif had borrowed from Jordif and wrinkled her nose. He had never worn such fine clothing in his life.

“You look like a Shaitan overlord,” she said as she yawned and stretched her arms toward the ceiling. Her short-cropped hair stuck out at weird angles and her tiny body swam under an oversized sweater that must have belonged to Jordif.

Raif kicked at the chair leg as he passed by her, then ruffled her hair. “I had to play the part,” he said. “They wouldn’t let a peasant into that fancy party. The servant’s clothes were even nicer than these. Where’s Jordif?”

“Habibi. He said he was going to stay at a ‘friend’s’ house.” Zanari rolled her eyes. “From what I’ve heard, he has a lot of them. Friends, that is.”

Raif snorted. “Must be nice to have time for stuff like that.”

He thought of Shirin, his second-in-command, and that one fleeting moment after an Ifrit raid, when she’d pressed her lips against his. He’d done nothing about it, but every now and then he kicked himself for not finding a place for them to be alone, right then and there.

“Aren’t we missing something?” Zanari looked pointedly around the empty room.

Raif frowned. “There’s a bit of an issue with a bottle that’s connected to her shackles. Long story. Basically, we need the damn thing, but her master wears it around his neck. It might be a while.”

“Fire and blood,” she cursed. “We don’t have a while.”

“Well aware of that, Zan, but thanks for reminding me.” He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin as his eyes drifted over the circle of earth on the floor. Zanari always set one up to focus and intensify her psychic powers. “Did you see anything?”

He knew she’d probably spent the night using her
voiqhif—
her vision—to keep track of Calar’s assassins, who’d slipped through the portal from Arjinna the day before. At best, they had a vague description of Nalia to go on—from his spies in the palace, Raif knew that the slave trader remembered very little of the Ghan Aisouri he’d sold. Zanari’s job was to track the assassins, figure out where they were, and get a sense of their plans. Her visions came in sensory bursts—fuzzy images, snippets of conversation, scents, sounds—the toll of a bell, the bark of wild dogs. Even tastes. Connecting to her
chiaan
through the circle of earth sharpened the information she received. It had been enormously helpful for the resistance—Zanari would choose a target to focus on, be it a person or place. Sometimes she could discover what attacks the Ifrit were planning or where they had stored a new shipment of weapons. It had saved countless lives; sometimes Raif thought his sister’s unique ability was the only thing keeping the resistance alive.

But her gift wasn’t perfect. Zanari could only see things happening in the present and, as often as not, the information was faulty. Because everything came in seemingly disconnected bursts, it could be difficult to pin down specific locations or identify the individuals in a conversation. Raif wasn’t sure if this was simply the nature of having
voiqhif
or if was because she didn’t have access to training. Either way, his sister had had to develop her power on her own, hiding it from greedy empresses who would want to use it for their own purposes.

“I’m having trouble getting a read,” she said. “Wanna help? It’s so much easier when you’re with me.”

“Sure.” Raif shrugged off his jacket and threw it on the couch, then sat outside the circle while Zanari stepped inside it.

“Need a sketchpad?” he asked.

It often helped Zanari to draw what she saw, but she shook her head. “Let’s just get on with it.”

She closed her eyes and for a few minutes, there was complete silence as she centered herself and prepared to dive into her
voiqhif.
Then she reached out her hands and touched the tips of her fingers to the circle of earth. It glowed emerald under her skin as Zanari connected her
chiaan
to the soil. Her eyelids began to flutter. For several minutes, the only sound was the ticking of a clock in the kitchen. It often took Zanari some time to link her intent and
chiaan
to what she called the “lines”—thoroughfares of energy that her searching intent could speed along until she reached her target. It seemed to be taking longer than usual, though. Raif tried to be patient and resist the urge to tap his foot or crack his knuckles. Zanari needed complete silence to do her work.