Exquisite Captive by Heather Demetrios
Nalia shook her head. “There are so many ways this could go wrong. It’s not worth it—”
“Anything is worth it. The Ifrit are using guns against children in the streets who are out after curfew. There’s no magic that can compete with that. We have no choice, Nalia.”
His green eyes were bright and they burned into her own, searing. “You have a chance to save your country. Take it.” He stepped away from her. “Take it or die a traitor’s death.”
She shook her head. “Please don’t ask this of me. I took a vow, Raif. Before the gods.”
“I’m not asking you: the realm is,” he said. He shoved a piece of paper in her hand with an address scrawled on it. “This is where you can find me, if you change your mind.” He turned around and strode toward the barrier between them and the rest of the club. Just before he walked through it, he glanced over his shoulder. “It might be nice to finally do something good with your power.”
Then he was gone, the wall that had hidden them fracturing into nothing.
Nalia stared after Raif as he wove through the dancers. If she didn’t take him to the ring, he wouldn’t free her from Malek. Haran would almost certainly kill Nalia, and her brother would waste away in a work camp. But with the sigil in Raif’s hands, there was no telling what he would do with it—or what it would do with him.
Could she gamble the lives of every jinni in Arjinna for the price of her brother’s life?
OUTSIDE SIEM REAP, CAMBODIA
THE TEMPLES OF ANGKOR BECOME THE PLAYGROUND OF the jinn once the sun goes down. Ancient stone homes built to honor gods long forgotten echo with the sounds of Kada, the jinn language. Trees climb over the temples like awakened giants, their roots massive legs that lean against the carved doorways and windows. The surrounding jungle creeps closer to the weather-beaten stones, sending out thick vines to slither their way throughout the abandoned buildings. Magic lends the air a tangy, sweet scent, and throughout the liquid night sparks of blue, green, and yellow rise from the crumbling peaks of the ruins where the jinn grant wishes for one another, conjuring items for the evening’s pleasure.
The Bayon, one of the most popular sites for the tourists who come to the temples during the day, is empty, save for one Djan jinni who wanders among the colossal stone heads. Gone are the tuk tuks and motos, the street children selling poorly made T-shirts or the all-purpose checkered scarves most Cambodians own. All that remains are the Bayon’s faces, almost perfectly preserved despite centuries of monsoons and war. They never cease to fascinate the Djan jinni. The wide noses and thick lips remind her of the Khmer people she lives with in this land of rice paddies and swaying palms, yet these gods and kings from long ago possess a primeval power that calls to her in ways no human ever has. She runs her hand over the smooth black stone, smiling with gratitude as the stone’s power soaks into her skin. Her fingers linger on one of the faces, cupping its cheek like a long-lost lover—like her, it has a splash of white over the bridge of its nose: a kiss from the gods, as her mother would say.
“The little bird must be so lonely, up here all by herself,” says a soft voice behind her. “Maybe she would like company.”
The jinni turns around, startled, but the tension in her body relaxes when she sees the young female Shaitan in front of her. The Djan nods her head in greeting and uses her blue-checkered scarf to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Though the sun has been absent from the sky for many hours, it is still uncomfortably warm.
“I’m never lonely here,” she says, gesturing to the statues around her. “But you’re welcome to join us.” The Djan steps toward the Shaitan jinni, her eyes taking in the vibrant fabric that drapes her body. “You live in India?”
The Shaitan smoothes the wrinkled sari she wears, careful to keep a hand over the unfortunate bloodstain near the garment’s throat.
“She sometimes lives in India, yes.” The Shaitan cocks her head to the side and stares intently at the Djan’s face.
The Djan smiles. “How long have you been on Earth?”
The Shaitan inches forward, intoxicated by the Djan’s rich flesh. “She has played on Earth for just a few days.”
The Djan gasps as the Shaitan steps into a nearby pool of moonlight. Under the moon’s silver rays, the jinni’s body shimmers and her disguise falls away, as though her skin is a pair of old, unwanted clothes. In her place stands a hulking Ifrit, with crimson eyes and sharp, blackened teeth.
She’s never seen an Ifrit like this.
The Djan sprints down the rows of ancient stone heads, her blood pumping and her eyes wide with fear as she flies over the uneven pathways. Green smoke swirls around her, but the Ifrit grabs the Djan’s arm and yanks her toward him before she can evanesce.
“Please,” she sobs. “Hala mashinita! Hala mashinita!”
Gods save me.
The heads of the Bayon gods watch in silence as the Ifrit ghoul devours his meal. Far away, the other jinn cavorting in the Angkor temples think the cries they hear are those of a wild beast far off in the jungle, so animal are the sounds of the Djan’s screams. When he is finished, the Ifrit wipes his hands on the stone faces, a blood offering. He scowls into the night as he prepares to evanesce.
The hunt is not yet over.
12
RAIF STARED AT THE CRACKED CEILING ABOVE HIS BED.
Godsdammit.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the bruises around Nalia’s shackles. Felt her fear and misery when he said he wanted the sigil.
He turned over, punching at the too-thin pillow on his bed. He wasn’t going to pity this salfit. If Raif’s father were here, he’d say Nalia couldn’t be trusted whether or not she took him to the location of the sigil. But Dthar Djan’Urbi wasn’t here—for all Raif knew, Nalia could have been the one who killed him.
He had to get her out of his head.
Raif flopped onto his back and focused on the cracks in the ceiling. He raised his palms and slowly transferred his chiaan onto the paint, pulling the cracks together. He concentrated on the task as if it were the most important thing in the world. When the ceiling was perfectly smooth and his mind empty, Raif lowered his hands. Closed his eyes.
Saw her face.
Raif sat up and leaned against the wall, wide awake. He’d kill for even a few hours’ sleep, but it wouldn’t come. After storming out of Habibi, he’d gone straight to his room at Jordif Mahar’s loft and done nothing but replay his conversation with Nalia over and over. How could he make her agree to his terms? There had to be a way to convince her—a weakness, something—to take him to the location of the ring. But what could he offer Nalia that was more valuable than her freedom? If that wasn’t enough, he didn’t know what was.
In the distance, a high wailing pierced the silence of his room, like a phoenix in the Qaf Mountains crying out just before it burst into flames. Raif tensed, his hand darting to the hilt of the dagger underneath his pillow. Red lights flashed through the window as the wailing got louder and then whatever it was passed, its sound growing fainter as it pressed deeper into the city. He let out a shaky breath. He’d only been on Earth a few days, but even if he were to spend the rest of his life in this realm, Raif was certain he’d never become used to its strange sounds. He wondered if there was anywhere on Earth that was peaceful.
Sleep wasn’t coming this night.
He blamed it on Nalia’s chiaan—his body still hummed with the aftereffects of it. Her magic had been scalding and fierce, smoldering with the ancient power of the Ghan Aisouri. After the initial shock, the feel of her skin against his had been . . . pleasant. The sensation reminded Raif of when he was only seven summers old and had foolishly jumped into the Infinite Lake’s freezing waters and swam to the other side. He’d been certain he was going to die that day—so tired and cold that he thought his body would sink under the bottomless lake’s surface and drown for eternity. But he’d made it across, through sheer stubbornness, and when he crawled onto the lake’s shore, every piece of him wa
He grabbed the dagger under his pillow and threw it at the wall. The blade sunk into the soft plaster with a satisfying thunk.
Raif swung his legs off the mattress and pulled the bowl full of clean earth out from under his bed. If he wasn’t going to sleep, at least he could find out how things were going in Arjinna. He sat on his knees and thrust his hands into it, closing his eyes as his body soaked up his element. It wasn’t much—nothing compared to connecting in nature itself—but it was enough to do what he had to.
He whispered his mother’s true name, then reached out with his mind, guiding his chiaan across the endless spaces between them. After just a few seconds, he felt a slight tug in his chest, as though someone had grabbed the front of his shirt and was pulling him. He held up his hand and a puff of emerald smoke appeared above it. An image began to crystallize.
As his mother’s worn face came into view, he knew immediately something was wrong. Her usually smiling lips were pressed tight together and soot dusted her cheeks. Behind her, he could see the silver leaves of the widr trees deep in Arjinna’s most ancient forest, the Forest of Sighs, where the resistance had established its headquarters. He’d never forget the excitement of manifesting the small homes that nestled in the huge branches of the widr trees and filling the storehouses with weapons stolen from the Ifrit. Seeing that new life being built around him, Raif had never been more certain of his calling. But now, faced with the very real possibility of failure, he wasn’t so sure. Just because he was Dthar Djan’Urbi’s son didn’t mean he could lead. Raif would never be his father.
It didn’t matter how much he wished he could be.
His mother gave a slight wave, then sent him images from Arjinna: burning buildings—one of the resistance’s few safe houses and several village homes—dozens of his fighters’ bodies wrapped in gauzy shrouds, and screaming mothers holding badly burned children.
He stared at the smoke above his palm, forcing his mind to comprehend what his mother was trying to tell him. Raif’s spies had warned him the Ifrit would be launching an offensive. But they’d said it wouldn’t happen for months. Clearly, his spies had miscalculated. And judging from the horrifying picture of the burned children, the resistance wasn’t their only target.
Fire and blood, he thought, shaking his head. He wished the curse weren’t so literal. He blamed himself—if he’d been in Arjinna, maybe he could have stopped the Ifrit from doing so much damage. Instead, he was wasting his time on Earth, waiting for a Ghan Aisouri—the enemy—to help him win the war.
Raif shared an image of Nalia with his mother, but he had nothing else to report. After his mother’s face faded away, he shoved the bowl of earth back under his bed. He was so tired of feeling powerless. Of seeing his friends dying. His whole life had been struggle and war, and it seemed it would never end, as if every day would be just like the one before, full of the stink of fear and constant reminders of the limitations of his magic. Every time he used his chiaan, it felt as though he were walking into an invisible wall. Sometimes he broke through, like with the unbinding magic his father had taught him, but even then he was trying to dance in quicksand.
Raif pulled his dagger out of the wall, then threw on the pants from his uniform before venturing out to the loft’s main room. A black box powered by electricity was making noise in a corner—human voices talking over one another while an animated picture showed a group of people sitting at a high table. They were yelling at one another and the pictures seemed to match the sounds. The letters CNN were in the corner of the box. Raif looked at the letters for a moment—so utilitarian, these American humans. Written Kada looked like art, each letter a delicate curve or swirl.
Jordif lay sprawled on the sofa, a glass full of amber liquid in his hand and an open bottle of liquor on the table beside him.
“These humans are a strange breed,” Raif said, motioning toward the black box.
Jordif nodded as he sat up. “That they are. Couldn’t sleep either, I see?” His eyes were glassy and his mustache drooped, a wilting flower. Raif guessed that Jordif usually glamoured it—normally the hairs curled at the ends with jaunty perfection.
“I keep thinking it’s the middle of the afternoon,” Raif said.
“Traveling between realms will do that to you—jet lag’s a bitch.” He gestured to the bottle. “It’s called whiskey—tastes like unicorn piss, but it’s the best these humans can do. I’ve got the expat Shaitan working on a way to manifest things from Arjinna, but so far, no luck.”
One of Earth’s many drawbacks: the jinn could manifest anything that existed on Earth, but it was impossible for even the smallest flower from the jinn realm to appear beyond the portal.
Jordif held his hand up and a clean glass appeared in it.
Raif shook his head and dropped into an overstuffed armchair. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Jordif chuckled, but the laugh had an edge to it. “Raif, you make the rest of us look bad. Screw up once in a while—it’s good for you.”
Raif raised an eyebrow. “That’d be a poor way to repay my father for his sacrifice, wouldn’t it?”
Jordif took a long sip of his whiskey. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Your father: now he could drink his weight in savri. Next time you kids come through the portal, bring me a few bottles, would you?”
Kids? This fool spends half his time drinking while my fighters spill their blood in Arjinnan fields.
Guilt shoved the thoughts away—Jordif had been nothing but kind to him and Zanari. And it was no easy task managing the onslaught of refugees who had begged, borrowed, or stolen to get themselves out of Arjinna’s war-torn streets during the Discords and after the coup. Still, Raif couldn’t shake the feeling that Jordif wanted to stick his head in the sand. It struck him that he didn’t know nearly as much as he should about his host.
“My mother didn’t mention that you knew my father,” he said, his voice quiet.
Jordif sighed. “We grew up together. He was a good jinni. She probably didn’t mention me because we didn’t part on the best of terms. I tried to get him and your mother to come to Earth with me and when they wouldn’t, I said some things I now regret.”
Raif wasn’t surprised that his father hadn’t wanted to defect to Earth—he couldn’t imagine Dthar Djan’Urbi anywhere but in Arjinna, his hands covered in its rich, dark soil.
“We were serfs together under that Shaitan bastard, overlord Shai’Ouijir. After two hundred years, I finally found a way to bribe us through the portal, but Dthar wouldn’t leave. Said he was going to change the realm.”
Jordif leaned forward and poured himself another half glass with an unsteady hand.
“He did change it,” Raif said. “The Discords never would have begun without him.”
Jordif fixed him with a hard stare, then shook his head and downed the double shot. “The jinn on Earth have just as many problems these days.”
“How so?”
Jordif switched off the black electronic box, then lit a thick, fragrant cigarette. It filled the air with the scent of vanilla and jasmine. “For one, the dark caravan is growing. I’ve got my best jinn guarding the portal day and night, but somehow these slave traders keep getting through.”
The answer seemed obvious to Raif—at least one of Jordif’s employees had decided to help out the slave trade. The benefit of doing so was anyone’s guess. But he wasn’t going to insult the jinni in his own home; Raif had to assume Jordif had considered the possibility that someone was working for the Ifrit.
“How many jinn are enslaved on Earth?”
Jordif shrugged. “Thousands? And now jinn are disappearing—all females. Damnedest thing . . . Beijing, Moscow, India, Cambodia. Doesn’t make any sense. Of course, everyone wants me to fix it, but what in the gods’ names am I supposed to do?”
“When did that start?” Raif asked. He tried to keep his voice casual, but Zanari’s tracking of Ha
“Around the time you and Zanari came.” Jordif ran a hand over his head. “Maybe something slipped through the portal when it opened for you two, I don’t know. Damn thing’s trickier than human technology, and it doesn’t come with an owner’s manual.”
Haran had to be behind the disappearances. But what was he doing with these other jinn? He was only supposed to be looking for Nalia. Raif clenched his fists, bunching up the chiaan that wanted to burst out and break something. He was no good at guessing games. He wanted a fight to win, not a puzzle to solve.
“Were they on the dark caravan?” Raif asked.
Jordif nodded. “The girls are fine, I’m sure. Their masters probably have them in bottles—it’s a common enough form of punishment for slaves. The traders line the bottles with iron and tell the new masters it’s the best way to make their jinn behave.”
Raif’s stomach turned. He thought of Nalia, stripped of her power and made to suffer inside a tiny prison full of the poisonous metal. It was something he’d only wish on his worst enemies. Despite Nalia’s refusal to accept his demands, Raif felt none of the joy he once would have as he imagined her trapped in that hellish prison.
“I still don’t get it,” Raif said. “What’s in it for the slave traders? Human money’s no good in Arjinna and it’s not like there’s anyone here they can trade magic with.”
“Hell if I know.” He shook his head. “One of the girls who disappeared . . . she was a friend of mine.”
The way Jordif’s voice had gone soft, he wondered if the jinni had meant something more to his host.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Jordif stared off into the distance. “She was a cute little thing. Had this”—he waved his stubby fingers across his cheek—“mark on her face, but I didn’t care. She hated it, though. Didn’t believe all that stuff about it being a sign of the gods’ favor, but was too afraid to cover it up in case she was wrong about that.”