The Price of Freedom (5 page)

Someone always pays a price for happiness. Mischa had been a guardian long enough to know this truth in her bones.

Being with Rafe was a joy so deep she could never tire of it, never be completely satisfied by their joining. She’d surrendered herself to him and their love, and yet…She sighed and trickled sand through her fingers.

The price of her and Rafe’s happiness was the suffering of the people she wasn’t free to guard, people like Ilias. Rafe had stolen time for them to love, but at the cost of her duty. Before Rafe, being a guardian had defined her. Now that identity had been taken from her. Love changed everything.

Love. Mischa sat watching the uncertain nest-building of a young pair of turtledoves. The scent of orange blossom wove around her as the desert wind stirred the orange grove. Cicadas chirruped in the trees. She was alone. Rafe had called a hawk from the air and was hunting with it at the edge of the desert, enjoying the age-old art of falconry.

They had learned to give one another space. Rafe showed an unexpected passion for entomology, studying the insects of the oasis and desert fringe. At other times he would summon a swift horse and ride, reveling in freedom and the rush of air.

For herself, she studied the refinements of the martial art she followed and practiced her guitar playing. Sometimes she sang along. In the evenings Rafe would lounge near her, rarely joining her singing but receptive to her serenade. Those nights they would make love with haunting, strumming tension, as if the music woke awareness of the pain that could accompany love.

They knew one another intimately, yet there were secret thoughts, fears and memories that separated them. This paradox of love surprised Mischa. She’d thought that after the energetic experience of angel loving, there would be no secrets. But it seemed the more open you were to someone, the higher the walls that protected your final secrets. Perhaps those walls were even a product of love? You hid what would hurt the other.

Like the aching void of her guardian duty. Protecting people was her life calling. Without it, she drifted like a rudderless boat. The current of loving Rafe was powerful and true, and she regretted nothing of their union, but part of her was missing.

She wanted to know that Ilias, Salwa and little Yusef were safe. And there were other charges she worried about: Rebecca, Tania, Allen and so many others. There were crises coming in their lives, and she wouldn’t be there to help.

Part of her time at the oasis she spent practicing her form changes. Her default shape was human, but there were other worlds and other sentient species that required guardianship.

It fascinated Rafe to watch her grow tentacles or elongate into centipede form. He laughed at her efforts to control all those feet.

Laughter. They laughed a lot, their happiness welling up as irresistibly as spring water. They were happy despite their secrets.

Mischa suspected that what Rafe hid from her was the sadness of his life, the isolation, the horror of wishes commanded from him. The more she learned of his desert-honed pride and honor, the more she grieved for the hurt done to him. If Solomon had been within reach, she’d have struck him.

The wisdom of Solomon. Huh. He’d bound the djinn because he feared them and resented that their power was greater than his. He had taken from them the free will to choose between good and evil.

“A guardian should have stopped him.” Mischa threw away the tangle of grass she’d been weaving absently. The tiny net floated earthward. She frowned as the net settled over a shy peeping blue wildflower. A flick of her finger rescued the flower. How much of her unsettled anger came from the fact that no guardian had rescued her love?

Rafe suffered alone. Like the other djinn, he’d been condemned by the nature of the parents—Lilith and the unnamed demon—who had abandoned him. The natural mischievousness and rebellion of unhappy youth had been harshly tried. There had been no understanding, no gentleness. That Rafe was capable of love after his experience was testament to the greatness of his soul.

Not that he saw it that way. He had the conscience lacking in the men who controlled his wishes. He bled for the pain the wishes inflicted. Loving Rafe was not a gentle journey of pleasure. Pleasure was there, but so much more. He held her with soul hunger, gave himself with long-suppressed generosity.

She loved him. All her musings, her stirred emotions, everything came down to this. Love.

“Like Ilias and Salwa,” Mischa said, recalling her envy of their closeness. Now she understood the greatness of Salwa’s courage in loving a man pursued by the hatred of persons such as Umar Haya. She loved her husband knowing that her love could tear apart with grief.

“Ilias lives,” Rafe said.

“I didn’t hear you.” She looked up.

He stared down at her. “You were thinking of your guardian duty.”

“No. I was thinking of love.”

The tense set of his shoulders relaxed. He sat beside her.

She leaned against him. “I envied Ilias and Salwa. Now I understand the strength of their love. They love despite fear.”

“Are you afraid?”

“I feel the secrets between us.”

His arm tightened around her. “You are regretting your guardian duty.”

“I love you.”

“I know.” He traced the curve of her jaw line, the shape of her mouth. “And I love you. But a guardian is who you are. Just as I am djinn.”

“You are Rafe, my love.”

He kissed her for that strong answer, hungry, desperate, stealing her breath. She fell backward onto grass dappled by the shade of the orange trees. He came with her, easing aside clothes, finding her breasts and stroking lower, readying her for his possession.

“I love you.” He held her gaze as he entered her.

“I love you,” she answered, moving with him.

He was so controlled, so intent. He made her come first, and only then let himself break. He shouted her name, shuddering. Even as he collapsed, he rolled, bringing her on top of him, holding her close.

“I watched the hawk as I hunted her. She was beautiful, flying like an extension of me. But when I released her, she was truly herself. I have fettered you like that hawk.”

“You haven’t.” She sat up, pulling on her tunic. “You have given me love, shared your home.”

He shook his head, reaching for his robes. “I took your work from you, the guarding which gives your life purpose. I told you once, but you forgot and I didn’t remind you—you can dissolve the barrier that holds you here. It is only Ilias you cannot guard. Give me your promise not to act for his protection, and you can guard your other charges. I have been selfish.”

Free to take up her guardianship once more. Free to be completely herself, without secret regrets hidden from Rafe. He had read her longing anyway. Guarding was more than her work. It was her life.

“Oh, Rafe.” She grasped his hand. “I promise not to guard Ilias.”

Her hand closed on empty space. Rafe had vanished. The desert wind blew desolately through the oasis. A wild hawk’s hunting cry echoed eerily.

“Rafe? Rafe!”

She ran back to the tent, to the forge. Her heart beat chokingly fast.

“Oh God.” She dropped down by the pool, realization stabbing her.

When she promised not to guard Ilias, Umar Haya’s third wish was complete, and with it, Rafe was bound again to his djinni bottle.

“Rafe, you idiot.” He had given her freedom at the price of his own. But when would he be free again? “I’d rather have had you.”

“Mischa, you can’t continue raging around.”

“They won’t listen!” Mischa gripped the back of a chair so tightly the wood creaked.

“They have listened,” Sara said patiently. “In fact, for the Guardian Council, they’ve been remarkably patient.”

“Huh!”

“Mischa, I’ve read and reread everything we have on the djinn. There simply is no other way to break a djinni’s binding. They have to be liberated by a human’s free wish.”

“I know.” Mischa clenched her teeth on the words she wanted to shout. She knew her cousin was worried about her. Her presence here in Mischa’s rooms and not the library was proof of Sara’s concern. But repeating the details of Solomon’s original binding didn’t help. “But I don’t see why I can’t ask a human to free Rafe.” She had a hundred favors she could call in.

To Sara’s credit, she didn’t sigh. They had been over this ground. “The Guardian Council ruled that it would be unwarrantable interference in human affairs—”

“What about Rafe?” Mischa interrupted. “What about centuries of torture?”

“No one’s disputing it’s unfair. And everyone is sorry. By your own account, Rafe has behaved heroically. We’d all like to see him freed and the two of you reunited.”

“So why can’t I do something?” Mischa beat her fists against her thighs. “I feel helpless. He tricked me, you know? He gave me freedom to return to guarding. And now I’m here, I can’t care about anything except freeing him.”

“I’m sorry.” Sara gathered her in for a sympathetic hug.

Momentarily, Mischa resisted, then allowed the comfort. “What do I do, Sara? I miss him.”

Her cousin stayed silent, all out of easy answers.

Mischa sniffed and drew back. “I’ll wait for Rafe. When another human finds his djinni bottle, at least he’ll be paroled. It’s awful. His only freedom is serving bastards.” She shuddered, trying to control her strong emotions. “Meantime, I’ll keep an eye on Umar Haya.”

“Who?” Sara hadn’t followed the natural progression of Mischa’s thoughts.

“Umar Haya,” Mischa repeated viciously. “The man who used Rafe, hid his bottle and tried to get Ilias Aboud killed—is still trying, for all I know.” She resented bitterly the promise that had separated her from Rafe and from duty.

“Ilias Aboud is alive. I checked. Andrew is guarding him.”

“At least the Guardian Council is taking no chances,” Mischa responded grudgingly. More than once Andrew had been reprimanded for his proactive defense. Enemies of his charges frequently encountered tests of their free will that resulted in early death and damnation. “Maybe Haya will get what’s coming to him.”

“He escaped the missile launcher explosion.” Sara reluctantly punctured Mischa’s vengeful hopes. “It mysteriously exploded one afternoon. Possibly from the heat, but I suspect…” she paused and shrugged, “…demon protection.”

“Like protects like.” But Mischa’s eyes narrowed. Like could also be brought to fight itself.

Sara read her mind. “Forget it. Rafe freed you to be you, a guardian. If you twist your soul in vengeance, you’ll destroy the person he loves. You have to be a guardian and wait for him.”

Mischa bowed her head, agreeing but hurting. Anger was an easy outlet for her emotions. Without it, she had to face the haunting loneliness of Rafe’s absence. The guardian duty that had filled her life now felt empty.

“I’ll try,” she said.

“Good. And we’ll all look for a way to free Rafe.”

Mischa lost weight as she went about her work. She accepted duty assignments that required constant vigilance and ruthless action. Lovers could count on her sympathy, but greedy hate-mongers and self-appointed wise men were ruthlessly tested.

She checked once on Ilias and Salwa, not to protect him, but just to see their love and be assured of his continued safety. The Middle East peace process was a mess again, but Ilias continued with his work.

He flew to New York, speaking at the United Nations before stopping at the Pentagon. In addition to his public roles, he helped with translation and cultural interpretation. He influenced the powerbrokers.

He arrived home in Istanbul tired, depressed and determined.

“I’ll be home a week,” he told Salwa. “Then I have to join a strike force. They don’t know the desert.”

“Nor do you,” said his wife. But her bustle around the kitchen, preparing his favorite foods, showed her love.

“I know the people. I know their code of honor.”

“Honor?” Salwa was scathing. “Terrorists, filling people’s heads with hate.”

“Most people are good. Some are misguided. I have to help the strike force, stop them from making the situation worse. We don’t need a reason for more misunderstanding and hate.”

“Eat” was all Salwa said. She placed a loving hand on Ilias’s shoulder. “I worry about you.”

Mischa vanished in a stream of light. She hid in her rooms in heaven, crying hot, heavy tears. She wanted what Salwa had with Ilias: the right to care for her beloved, to touch him and comfort him, to share his life.

“Oh God, God. How could you give me love and then leave me aching?”

She dreamed of Rafe. Sometimes she’d wake smiling. Other times, her own moans and strangled screams woke her. She’d see Rafe tied to a high pillar, vultures descending to tear his flesh.

Then she’d have to leave her rooms and go the guardians’ exercise yard to exhaust herself. As a consequence, she grew in strength and power. But when she passed a mirror, she saw her face hollow with suffering.

“You’ll want to hear this.” Sara interrupted the early morning exercise session, stepping into the ring with blithe disregard for convention.

“Sara!” Mischa nearly dislocated her knee pulling her kick. “I was in the zone. I could have hurt you. The ground rules are for your own safety—”

“It’s about Rafe.”

Mischa stopped rubbing her knee. She straightened.

“Remember when Umar Haya shot the missile launcher?”

“And it didn’t explode,” Mischa said. “I remember.”

“The missile didn’t hit anything, either, but satellites recorded it. The human authorities tracked it back and they’ve been studying Haya’s compound ever since.”

“Good.” Mischa picked up her sword belt, buckled it on and sheathed the Sword of Good and Evil. “About time someone knew about that devil.”

“They’re bombing his compound, today,” said Sara. “I think Andrew had a hand in stirring their interest.”

“Good for Andrew.” Mischa had a new appreciation of direct action.

“Hmm. The thing is…” Sara hesitated. “I don’t want to raise false hopes, but it’s possible the bombing might free Rafe.”

“What?”

“It’s only a possibility.”

“Sara, I’ll shake you in a minute.”

“Well, humans are bombing the compound, and their purpose is to break Haya’s power. If Rafe is counted as part of Haya’s power, then a direct strike on his djinni bottle might free him.”

Mischa wanted to believe it. “But Haya’s used his three strikes.”

“He is still the person who knows what the bottle is, and where it is. He has the power to choose the person who next controls it. That’s power.” Sara rubbed her cheek nervously. “I hope.”

“Maybe it will be enough.”

The cousins stared at each other.

“It’s a chance,” said Sara firmly.

“And that’s more than I had before.”

Sara gripped Mischa’s arm. “Just don’t nudge the bombs. Any non-human interference could destroy the chance of freeing Rafe. I shouldn’t have told you till it was over.”

“I needed to know.”

“That’s what I thought when I read the news text.” Sara sighed. “But you’re impulsive.”

“I’ve learned control,” Mischa said grimly.

She dived to earth.

A plane was dropping bombs on Haya’s terrorist compound. Concrete walls fell to dust. A couple of bodies lay in the ruins.

Mischa grimaced at the violence and pain. Andrew stood beside her on the air.

“They brought it on themselves by choosing to hate,” he said. “Other children have survived violence without choosing to perpetuate it. Haya has given his whole life to hate. He’s nurtured it and drawn power from it. Ilias’s capacity to understand and forgive infuriates Haya because it underlines what he has lost—humanity. Even now, a moment’s regret and repentance could save him. One moment of caring for someone else.”

“Hate will steal that chance from him,” Mischa said. “Haya is blind in his own hell. I just don’t get it. How can anyone choose to hate?” Hate poisoned the hater just as surely as it destroyed his world.

“Haya held his younger sister as she died. She’d been violated by a Western mercenary. Beaten.”

“Oh God.”

Below them bombs pounded into the earth and into the bloody flesh of the dying. Bones shattered.

The two guardian angels could pity the pain of the people below, but both had seen the suffering of innocents caused by terrorists. It balanced their pity and sharpened it.

Andrew waved aside a cloud of dust that obscured their vision. “Haya built the compound into the base of the hill. He’s in there, where the bombs won’t reach him.”

“Leaving his men to die.”

“Most made it in there with him.”

“What about Rafe’s bottle?” Mischa had made a point of finding Haya’s hiding place for it: a niche in his filthy office in the compound. But in the dust and violence, she couldn’t see it.

“Haya took it with him.”

“Damn.”

“Tucked it in his shirt like a baby. I wonder who he intends to give it to.” Andrew leaned on his unsheathed sword. “It must be tricky being an evil bastard. I mean, who can he trust? Whoever he gives the bottle to could use it against him.”

“You think he’ll just hang onto it?”

“He’s paranoid enough.”

“Great, and if he hides it before he dies, Rafe mightn’t even be freed for three wishes for centuries.” She rubbed at her eyes, pretending they smarted from the dust rather than tears.

Andrew frowned sympathetically. “Go back to heaven.”

She shook her head stubbornly.

“It would be best if you went. Ilias Aboud is coming.”

“Ilias, here?”

“Yeah. The authorities are sending in a strike force after the bombing. Ilias is attached as translator.”

“But he’s not a soldier.”

“He’s a warrior in his own way,” Andrew said. “Like us, he does what he has to. And I don’t want you here, tempted to break your vow if something goes wrong.”

“I promise you’re the only one guarding here,” said Mischa. “But I’m not leaving. I can’t. Someone might take Rafe’s bottle from Haya.”

“Mischa, be sensible. Rafe will find you as soon as he can, if he’s freed to complete a wish. There’s no point in you staying here.”

“I’m staying.”

Andrew flung up his hands and walked away.

The bombing stopped and a helicopter landed. Troops poured out, along with chubby Ilias. The helicopter lifted away. Mischa drifted down to watch.