Exquisite Captive (20 page)

Nalia stretched, then ran through the first hundred
Sha’a Rho
poses. This unconscious return to her nightly habit in the palace made her smile. Strange, that discovering a murderer was after you could feel so invigorating. But it did. After three years of captivity, of dreaming of an opportunity to cut her ties to Malek and wreak vengeance upon the Ifrit, Nalia would finally get to face the jinni who’d murdered her mother and enslaved her brother. There was a savage joy in knowing her time with Malek was now finite. It would end in death or freedom, but it would end, and soon.

Finished, Nalia stood before her open window and bathed in the gusts of wind that howled around the house. The only sound was the soft, papery friction of the palm leaves as the long stalks of trees clustered near her window bent dangerously in the wind. Off in the distance, a car alarm went off and she could hear the faint refrain of a pop song blaring inside the house across the street—the film director, having another one of his soirees. Nalia closed her eyes, startled by the change she noticed within her when she focused on her energy. Her
chiaan
felt different, fresh and earthy, as though she’d hung it out to dry in the sun. She wondered if it was the aftereffects of touching Raif so much. How could his energy feel so gentle when he was so awful? She’d always been taught that one’s
chiaan
was a direct reflection of their spirit, but she couldn’t reconcile the feel of Raif’s
chiaan
with the jinni himself. It was disconcerting and, at the same time, strangely soothing, to feel the thrum of new
chiaan.

Nalia moved away from the window and pulled back the covers of her bed, then stood staring down at it, undecided. Haran could literally be here to kill her at any minute. Maybe she’d survive—she was a Ghan Aisouri, after all. But her powers were weakened by the shackles, and Haran would be using dark magic and guns. The combination had been powerful enough to kill all the Ghan Aisouri, so Nalia assumed her chances of survival were pretty low. And even if Haran failed, Calar would keep sending the Ifrit after her. As long as Nalia was a slave, Malek’s mansion would be a battlefield. And you didn’t go to bed in Egyptian cotton sheets on a battlefield. You strategized. You prepared. You rallied the troops.

Nalia desperately wanted to find a way to be free of the bottle without needing to give Raif what he wanted. But she didn’t have time to convince Malek to make a third wish—if she pushed, he might suspect she was playing him. She couldn’t even imagine the depth of rage he’d feel, after opening his heart to her, if he realized what she was up to. It could be centuries before he let her out again. But she
could
get close enough to him to steal the bottle. She closed her eyes and pictured Bashil when he was happiest, running through the palace gardens. She’d been willing to give her body in exchange for his life—why not her soul? She’d never break a vow to the gods to save her own skin, but Nalia would sell out the entire jinn race in order to rescue her brother.

The gods may damn me, but I don’t have a choice. Bashil must survive.

She’d suggest a late-night swim—tomorrow. Her mind raced as she worked out the plan.
Yes!
Things didn’t need to go as far as she feared with Malek. As long as he was separated from the bottle, she’d be able to touch the chain that held it. He would take off the necklace to swim, maybe set it on one of the patio’s little glass tables. She’d distract him with absinthe and her lips, and when he finally passed out, she’d get the bottle and meet Raif. A reckless smile cut across her face as she pictured Malek waking up on a lounge chair, trying to figure out what had happened.

Nalia closed her eyes and willed her glamour to slip off, releasing the binds that held her disguise in place. The alterations she’d made to her eyes and the skin covering her tattoos floated away, particles of sparkling dust that hung suspended in the air like uncertain stars. The magic hadn’t cost much energy, but as the intricate tattoos of the Ghan Aisouri reappeared on her skin, Nalia felt as if a heavy bird had lifted off its perch on her shoulders and taken flight. She was lighter—herself. From her fingertips to her elbows, the henna-like tattoos of her race crawled over her cinnamon skin. They were the color of wet earth after an Arjinnan storm and formed an intricate pattern that only she could understand.

“Lefia,”
she whispered, pressing her fingers to the tattoo. It was a word of power that revealed the truth of things.

As soon as the word left her lips, several lines on her tattoo began to glow, forming a glimmering orange path. A map. Once she and Raif reached the cave where the sigil was, her tattoos would guide them to its location. She looked up—bright violet eyes glowed back at her from the windowpane and she stared at them, uncertain. It had been so long since she’d seen her true reflection: it was getting harder to know which was the glamour. She rubbed her hands over the tattoos, muttering the ancient spell she’d used to hide her identity. Purple
chiaan
slipped from her fingertips like soft candlelight, gradually fading to a daffodil yellow as the glamour once again took hold. Soon she was back to the jinni the coup had forced her to be, hiding like a rat in a gilded cage.

But not for long,
she thought.

Nalia changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then looked at the address Raif had written on the slip of paper he’d given her. It was in downtown LA, near an abandoned building where she often met with Malek’s clients. She held her palm up and a small puff of golden smoke appeared. She whispered Bashil’s true name and then his image was in her palm. He was asleep, lying on a dirt floor, his body curled into itself. She watched him for a moment, his eyes closed and his thin, pinched face free of worry.
I’m coming, Bashil. Hold on. I’m coming.
She brought her hands together, and the smoke vanished.

A tremor ran through her body as she began to evanesce. The room filled with a diaphanous cloud of honey-scented smoke. Nalia was about to sell out the entire jinn race. At least this time, it wouldn’t be like the coup: she knew it was exactly what she intended to do.

“Hala shalinta,”
she whispered.
Gods forgive me.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

NALIA STEPPED INTO THE ART DECO LOBBY OF THE
address Raif had written down. The counter where a doorman might have sat was empty, but a small directory beside the tiny elevator listed Jordif’s loft on the top floor. The elevator doors opened and she stepped forward, hesitant. She wanted to evanesce, but glass windows covered the front of the building. Even though the streets were empty, she didn’t want to risk a human seeing her. Jordif would have to leave if the building drew too much attention; the only way the jinn were able to live freely on Earth was because most humans thought they were a myth. Too many witnesses and she’d find herself on the cover of a tabloid. It wasn’t hard to imagine in the paparazzi-infested town.

The elevator doors started to shut and Nalia shoved through them and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The strange contraption, built long before Nalia’s time on Earth, shuddered and then began its slow ascent. She gripped the faded gold bars on the sides of the box. It was bigger than the bottle, but much too close. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. Sweat bloomed on her upper lip and her heartbeat staggered. Nalia opened her eyes. She tried to take a breath, to be calm, but the walls seemed to crowd her. Pressing, pressing, pressing closer.

“Forget it,” she muttered. She couldn’t do this the human way.

Nalia pictured the number eight on a panel like the one she’d seen on the first floor—since she’d never been to Jordif’s loft, she couldn’t evanesce to a door she’d never seen. With the image fixed in her mind, she evanesced, the elevator disappearing as her body teleported to the nondescript hallway above her. Nalia wiped the sweat off her face, then raised her hand to knock on the loft’s door. Just before her knuckles brushed the wood, the door swung open. The jinni Raif had pointed out at Habibi—his sister—stood in the doorway, a huge grin on her face.

“I told him you’d come.” She turned around and called over her shoulder, “You owe me fifty
nibas
, little brother.”

A ping sounded as the elevator reached the top floor. Zanari looked past Nalia, then pulled her inside.

“I don’t like that thing, either,” she whispered conspiratorially.

Nalia smiled, despite herself. She’d come here in a rage, ready to flay Raif, but Zanari had already reduced her anger to a low simmer. “I’m—”

“Nalia—I know.” She pointed to herself. “Zanari. Nice to meet you.”

“You, as well.”

Nalia glanced around the loft. It had Habibi’s glassy orbs of light that hung in midair and the club’s effortless elegance—no surprise, since Jordif was the owner. The first thing that drew her eye was the ornate altar that had been set up to honor the gods: an eternal flame burned for Ravnir, and a tiny, continuous downpour fell from the ceiling for Lathor, though the surface of the altar remained dry. For Tirgan, a tiny
widr
tree circled slowly, suspended in midair, and for Grathali, the wind goddess, an invisible gust of wind fashioned a handful of diamond dust into glimmering, ever-shifting patterns.

All jinn had altars for their gods, but it was rare to see a jinni who honored all four. Nalia hadn’t expected Jordif to be so devout. From what she’d seen of him, he’d always seemed more interested in the potent concoctions Leilan made for him at Habibi’s bar than in paying homage to the gods. Of course, a jinni would be a fool not to show devotion to at least the god of his element: jinn who rejected the gods rejected their
chiaan
as well, for it was the gods who invested each element with its power. Nalia bowed before all four altars, her palms pressed together at her heart. She needed their help now more than ever.

To her left was a wall entirely composed of water—a freestanding sheet that made the sound of an ocean’s tide as it fell to the floor and back up to the ceiling. Jordif, she remembered, was a Marid. It was beautiful water magic, both soothing and powerful. She placed her hand in the water and let its energy flow into her. If she wanted, she could wield it into a sword or disappear inside it.

But that would just be showing off.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Zanari.

Nalia shook the water off her hand. “Yes, it is.”

“Changed your mind?” Raif was sitting on a couch, his arms folded across his bare chest. His feet were propped up on a coffee table, the picture of relaxation. If it weren’t for the muscle twitching in his jaw, Nalia could almost believe his nonchalance.

She took in his smug expression; she couldn’t help the faint tendrils of golden
chiaan
that leaked from her fingertips, the only outward sign of her anger.

“Possibly,” she said.

“Raif, stop being a bully.” Zanari turned to Nalia. “Please excuse my brother’s
extreme rudeness
.” She shot a dark look at Raif as she said the last two words. “He gets a little ornery when he’s tired.”

Nalia glanced over at him, then shrugged, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Well, if it’s a bad time . . .”

She started to walk away, but Raif shot up. “No!” he said, a little too loudly.

Nalia smirked. “I didn’t think so.”

Zanari gestured to a chair near the couch. “Tea?”

Nalia nodded and as Zanari left the room, she sat down in the chair, careful to keep her eyes from Raif’s chest. It wasn’t the bareness that was so distracting—his flesh was covered in scars and burn marks, reminders of an entire childhood lived under the whip of Shaitan overlords and on the front lines of a civil war. She didn’t want to care.

Raif sat back down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You’ll do it?” he asked.

Nalia slipped off her sandals and drew her legs to her chest. “First, I want to know how you even found out that we’re protecting the sigil.”

Not “we,”
she thought, belatedly.
There’s no “we” anymore—I’m the only one left.
It was little moments like this that left her raw all over again.

“I’m not really interested in putting my sources in danger,” Raif said.

Nalia glared at him. “Well,
I’m
not really interested in giving you the most powerful magical object that exists and endangering the lives of every jinn in the realm—including my own. Or, for that matter, breaking a sacred vow. But here we are.”

Raif looked behind her, toward a closed doorway, then stood. “I don’t want to talk about this here.” He walked to the arch Zanari had gone through and leaned inside. After a whispered conversation, Raif turned to Nalia.

“Give me a minute. I need to grab some clothes.”

Nalia stood and wandered over to the kitchen, rubbing her neck. Despite her stretching, her body felt stiff. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed. The scent of yerba maté floated toward her as she neared the kitchen. Its rich, earthy fragrance was as close to Arjinnan tea as you could get on Earth.

Zanari poked her head through the doorway and handed Nalia a steaming mug. “You look like you need this, sister.”

Nalia smiled. “Thanks.”

She sipped the tea, leaning against the doorway, while Zanari prepared a cup for herself.

“I know how hard this must be for you,” Zanari said. “Raif said you made a vow to the gods.”

Nalia nodded.

“I’m sorry for that.” Zanari looked like she really meant it. “You’ve been gone from Arjinna since the coup, so it might be hard to imagine what it’s like over there right now. We’re at the end of our rope. Raif and I wouldn’t be here if that weren’t the case.”

Nalia set her mug down on the counter and crossed her arms. “Why are you being nice to me?”

She thought that Raif’s sister would be just as prejudiced as he was, but the jinni had been nothing but kind to Nalia since she’d walked through the door.

Zanari shrugged. “My brother sees things as very black and white. But for me, it’s all shades of gray.” Her eyes flitted to Nalia’s bare wrists. In her haste to leave the mansion, Nalia had forgotten her sweater and the bruises looked ugly in the kitchen’s bright light. “As far as I’m concerned, the gods have paid you back for any suffering you might have caused. You were just a kid, anyway. We all were.”