The Price of Freedom (2 page)

“And I am djinn,” he finished heavily.

She flushed with shame but her chin tilted up. “Yes.” For Ilias Aboud’s life she could not trust Rafe.

He looked at her, green eyes lit with gold. “Then I’ll behave as you believe.” He tossed her down onto the sand and tore her tunic.

Shock immobilized her for an instant. In her heart, she hadn’t believed he would attack her. “Don’t—”

His mouth touched the gash over her ribs. The deep hurt of it eased. Warmth and light replaced the pain, and joy stitched new flesh, sealing the wound.

“Rafe.” Hands raised to push him away closed on his shoulders. She felt the hurt she’d done him and caressed the smooth skin.

He groaned and his tongue licked the fading scar line. “Mischa—”

“Damn him to hell,” Rafe cursed. His frustration brought a desert wind howling into the foothills. Trees bent before him and animals ran.

Umar Haya hadn’t the sense to run. His brain had rotted with the evil he planned and his own sense of power. His dirty clawed hands, stained from chain smoking, clutched Rafe’s djinni bottle to his narrow chest. He waited in the ramshackle corner room of the terrorist compound, the rat hole he called his own. He was confident Rafe would obey his summons. He was the master in this relationship.

Rafe tore into the compound, sending flying the rusty sheets of corrugated iron that littered it.

The lounging guards saw only a desert storm and cried out against the grains of sand that stung them. They ducked into the shelter of concrete-walled buildings, guard duty forgotten.

“Donkeys have more courage.” But Rafe’s scorn was a minor thing. His fury was for Haya. The man had torn him from Mischa.

Mischa. As soon as he saw her, Rafe had wanted her. The fall of wheat-gold hair, the proud carriage, the beautiful body, her power and her compassion. She loved, and he had wanted to renew himself, however fleetingly, in that life-giving passion.

She had fought with grace, strength and swift intelligence.

When she intervened in the jet’s destruction, Haya’s wish had bound him to defeat her. Yet every strike against her struck his own body. He was fierce with the need to make her his but had been bound to fight her. He hadn’t believed it when she’d won.

“An angel warrior.” She’d fought everything, including her own desire for him. He understood her distrust of his djinn nature, and wouldn’t admit it hurt.

“But she responded.” Triumph flooded him.

Healing Mischa had been heaven. He’d tasted her energy and absorbed her fresh scent. She was lemon blossom at evening time.

Even headier was the knowledge “She wanted me.”

Her body had betrayed her. He’d felt its surge of response and seen the telltale tightening of her nipples. He’d intended to taste them, to drink the sweetness of her. Everything she could give he’d have taken, and he’d have given her pleasure.

But Haya had summoned him.

“He’ll die.” Rafe looked through the concrete walls to the skinny man, unwashed and predatory, waiting in the shuttered corner room. Between Haya’s dirt-grimed hands the thick green glass of the djinni bottle glowed with its own light.

Through the millennia since Solomon, many men had held the bottle and commanded Rafe. Most had been ruled by greed and self-interest. But Haya was the first to take hate as his god and to use his wishes for destruction. To turn his malice against him would give Rafe great satisfaction, and the quest had just acquired a personal edge.

“Whatever you plan, camel spit, I will unravel.” Rafe had centuries of experience in twisting wishes.

He announced his response to Haya’s summons by slamming open the heavy wooden shutters. “Let there be light.”

For this materialization Rafe didn’t wear his comfortable Bedu robes but the clothes that would annoy Haya most: tight Western jeans, a rock concert T-shirt and sneakers. He also loomed, emphasizing Haya’s skinny build.

“I prefer darkness,” Haya said.

“Then wish for blindness, little man.” Rafe shrugged and added an earring and sunglasses to his costume.

“Very amusing. You failed to deliver my wish. I told you to kill Ilias Aboud in a simple plane crash. I wasted a whole wish on it. So why the hell is Aboud still alive?”

Rafe smiled. It gave him great satisfaction to dwell on Mischa’s victory. It also gave him an idea. “Even wishes have limitations, ignorant pig. I did my part. Ilias Aboud has a guardian angel.”

Haya spat his opinion of angels, but his hate was not insane. He could reason and he could decipher some consequences. “It explains why nothing worked on Aboud. Not bombs. Not poison.” His red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “Are you stronger than the angel?”

“Possibly.” Rafe yawned, feigning disinterest. Would Haya take the bait? “When I’m not surprised.”

“Then remove it. Get that damn angel away from Aboud.”

Yes!
“To hear is to obey, O master,” mocked Rafe. Elation whipped through him. It would be his pleasure to remove Mischa. And with this third wish he was free of Haya’s command.

He vanished with a clap of thunder that shook the wooden shutters from their hinges and toppled a concrete wall.

“Damn djinni.” Haya replaced the old green bottle in his secret floor niche. He must plan how to kill Aboud once the angel was gone.

Salwa held Ilias tightly, her face buried against his throat. The entrance to their flat was dimly lit, just enough to show tears, so she hid them.

Neither had any words. Death had brushed them closely, and not for the first time.

Ilias rubbed his wife’s shaking back. His own eyes pricked. Did Salwa know how much her courage supported his own? He loved her and needed her. His commitment to Middle Eastern peace drew strength from her clear intelligence and support. With Salwa in his arms, his home enclosing them, and his son asleep in a corner, dreaming of angels, he felt safe.

“I missed dinner,” he said. Fluent at conferences and in his translating work, he couldn’t find words to express his love and thankfulness to be home. But it seemed these words were sufficient.

“You are always hungry.” Salwa controlled her tears. “It is a good thing I like cooking.”

“We are well matched.” He kissed her gently, then more fiercely. “I’ll eat later.”

Salwa smiled and took his hand. She led him to the bedroom.

“Bless them,” Mischa said. The reunion between Ilias and Salwa was reward in itself for her efforts. But as Mischa respected their privacy and walked up to heaven, she rubbed at her chest.

Her heart hurt.

The bond between Ilias and Salwa was love. There was tenderness, understanding and mutual giving in their relationship. Anyone could see they were better people for their care of one another.

“They don’t tear into each other like passion-starved adolescents.” Mischa shuddered as she recalled Rafe’s touch. She’d been on the point of dragging him to her, wanting the power of his healing to change to passion and match the storm within her.

He’d felt the desire between them. His body had been hard with it, the muscles of his shoulders flexing under her touch. He’d smelled of sandalwood and the warm wind of the desert as the day died into darkness and mystery.

“No.” She would not think of Rafe.

Except, of course, she had to. If the person who controlled Rafe’s bottle really wanted Ilias dead, then another wish would pit Rafe against her once more. She’d be fighting a djinni and her own suddenly unruly body.

“I need help.”

The heavenly library was a place of hush and softly glowing lights. Walls as insubstantial as smoke, but filled with texts, shimmered into seeming infinity. They layered around the heart of the library, the reading room, like rose petals around golden pollen.

The reading room was large in its own right. Armchairs and lounges were clustered to provide discussion space or set apart to aid solitary study. Massive desks were provided for old-fashioned scholars, those who preferred the written word to be written and not conjured up in the latest light shows. Underfoot, the tiled floor showed a map of the universe, the outer edges swirling uncertainly, waiting to settle on a pattern.

Mischa stood in the doorway. She liked the library, but it was an alien space to her. When she walked into it, she always felt too vigorous. Not for her the quiet study of knowledge. Fortunately, others didn’t share her views.

“Sara.” Mischa spotted her quarry and wove through a tangle of desks to the solitary armchair and its occupant. “I hoped you’d be here.”

“Where else?” Sara smiled. She could have been the inspiration for one of the Pre-Raphaelite angels. She had their serenity and otherworldliness, along with their pale complexion and red-gold hair. In fact, she was an archivist.

She waved a hand to return the text to storage. The arcane symbols of its classification glowed strongly a moment before the text popped out of sight.

Mischa pulled a chair into place opposite Sara. “How are you?”

“I’m tracing the chemical properties of glnni, the Yovi plant. No one knows how it ended up in the Densti solar system, but it seems it could be useful in coloring their yarn.”

“Sounds good.” Long experience with her cousin left Mischa unfazed by her answer. Sara’s work was her life. She enjoyed tracking down knowledge and writing it up for others to use. That no one else cared about the information she unearthed would never stop Sara’s interest.

Perhaps some of that esoteric knowledge could help Mischa now. At a minimum, Sara could point her in the right direction to learn more.

“Sara, I need to know about the djinn.”

“The djinn.” Sara frowned, her eyes losing focus as she thought. “They’re powerful.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“The bstemmi moth has purple abdomen fur.”

“Idiot.” Mischa grinned at her cousin. The familiar teasing relaxed her. She stretched out her legs and made herself comfortable on the thinly upholstered chair.

Sara grinned back. She wound her long hair in a coil and fastened it to the top of her head with a pencil. Mischa recognized the preliminaries of deep thought.

“Djinn. Solomon. Let me see.” With easy skill, Sara called up and scrolled through text after text.

They flickered through the air between the two angels. The nature of the light texts meant both could read them, but Mischa wasn’t as fast as Sara. After a moment she gave up and leaned back to contemplate what she had read.

It wasn’t what she’d expected. The djinn were the offspring of Lilith and her matings with various demons.

“Devil take the woman,” Mischa swore. But the devil hadn’t taken Lilith. His demons had presented a petition and an ultimatum. If Lilith came to hell, they’d leave. “We should have left her in limbo.”

The wretched woman had birthed seventy-seven djinn and abandoned all of them. Yet now she paraded through heaven, organizing children’s sports events.

“Lilith?” Sara broke into Mischa’s mutterings. “You know everyone must have a chance of redemption.”

“Yes, but did she have to take it?”

Sara laughed and pushed the glowing text between them to one side. “You sound like you have a personal stake in the djinn.”

“I encountered one on my last guardian assignment. Unfortunately, I think we’ll meet again.”

“Hmm. According to the texts, the djinn are very good-looking.”

Mischa slid lower in the chair, refusing to answer the question in her cousin’s voice.

Sara sighed and became serious. “Be careful, Mischa. The djinn are neither angels nor demons but have the powers of both. They’re not damned, but they’ve yet to choose redemption. Solomon bound them—which I don’t think he should have done because everyone deserves free will—and only the holder of a djinni bottle can free its djinni, by using one of their three wishes. So far, none of the djinn have been freed.”

“None?” Mischa sat up straight.

“It takes a special sort of person to release a powerful being from slavery, especially when the other option is using that power,” said Sara wryly.

“Yes, but…none?”

“Think how the djinn feel. They’ve had a chain of masters over the centuries, yet not one has given them the kindness of freedom. Personally, I think that entitles the djinn to perpetrate a degree of mischief.”

“Horrible,” Mischa whispered. “They must feel abandoned, bound for eternity to human whims.”

“Now, Mischa.” Sara raised a warning finger. “The djinn are spirits like us. They don’t have guardian angels. Don’t start a crusade.”

“Someone should do something.”

“What can we do?” Sara put the rhetorical question sadly. “Only humans can unbind Solomon’s curse. And Mischa, what you need to remember is that a djinni is as powerful as you and has every reason to be angry. Be careful.”

Mischa strode out of the library, making no effort to quiet the strike of her sandaled feet against the constellation floor. She needed time alone to sort out the rage pulsing through her. How much was fear for Ilias, pity for Rafe or the remnants of the desire he’d awakened?

Be careful, Sara had advised. But Mischa wanted to punch holes in the world. How had earlier guardians allowed seventy-seven spirits to be bound, and remain bound, to the whims of humans? Quite apart from the transgression against free will, there was the impact on the humans involved. Humans simply weren’t designed to control so much power.

“Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” What human could hold a djinni bottle and not feel the lure of its power?

“The demons probably planned it that way. Why else tangle with Lilith? And they wouldn’t care what happened to their sons. Ruthless, heartless.” Mischa reached instinctively for her sword. Just thinking of demons had her wanting to hack them.

“Such violent thoughts.” A passing chorister tsked disapprovingly. He turned to a fellow singer. “Guardians. I’ve always said the world contaminates them.”

“Better than being an isolationist prig.” Mischa was in the mood to tackle anyone.

“Ooh, look. A barbarian come to judgment.”

Mischa bared her teeth in a false smile. “Would you like to sing castrati?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

She flicked her fingers and a dagger appeared.

The chorister gulped. “There are laws.”

“Yes, there are. Laws of consequence. You insulted me.”

The fellow singer tugged at the chorister’s robe. “We’ll be late to practice.”

“I want an apology first.” Mischa tossed the dagger to her other hand.

“Mischa, you disappoint me.”

She whirled.

Rafe stood just a few feet away. His robes stirred gently, as if he yet stood in the desert. He shook back the sleeves. “An opponent should be worth defeating. Where is the honor in this squeakvoice?”

“Who are you?” gruffed the chorister, insulted where it hurt.

Rafe ignored him. “Mischa?”

“What are you doing here?”