Exquisite Captive by Heather Demetrios
Raif’s eyes dimmed. “Nalia, don’t make me choose.”
“There’s no choice. There never was.”
He was used to impossible choices, she knew. Raif would make the right decision, if not for himself, then for his tavrai. He laced his fingers with hers and looked down at their hands; his, brown and callused from a life of struggle, hers, delicate and covered with Ghan Aisouri ink.
“Just being here like this,” he said, his voice low, “feels like we’re winning a battle.”
Nalia drew closer, until her lips nearly brushed his as she spoke. “And no matter what happens, that will always be true.”
Outside, the rain turned into a soft patter on the glass ceiling, a delicate drum, like the beginning of an ancient dance. She took his arm and gently pushed up the sleeve of his shirt.
“This might hurt a little,” she said.
Raif brushed his lips against her forehead. “Just do it,” he whispered.
She could hear the defeat in his voice, the frustration that they hadn’t been able to get the bottle in time and that they were losing something they’d just found. Nalia crossed her arms so that one hand pressed the tattoo of the map while the other held on to Raif’s bare forearm. Then she willed her chiaan to transfer the magic to Raif’s skin. He hissed as the first lines of the map were carved deep into his arm; Nalia had never forgotten the pain of her tattoos, each one a symbol of her maturation as a Ghan Aisouri. Another secret learned or ability gained or test she’d passed, forever branding her. The muscles on Raif’s forearm twitched as the eighth point of the star formed. The whole thing glowed, from purple to green until Nalia let go and the tattoo reverted to the chocolate color of the ink against his almond skin.
When the tattoo was complete, Nalia wrapped her arms around Raif and he buried his face in her hair.
“I’ll come back for you,” he said.
Nalia didn’t say anything. He knew as well as she did that even if she killed Haran, Calar would send more assassins after her. She couldn’t fight the whole Ifrit army.
She slipped the bottle of blood into his shirt pocket.
“Kajastriya vidim,” she whispered.
Light to the revolution. Maybe Raif was right: the sigil might be the only weapon left for him to use in this war full of shadows and darkness. But to Nalia, he was the light her people needed. She hoped she hadn’t taken too long to realize that.
By the time they left the conservatory, the rain was no more than a light mist. The air was heavy with the scent of charred wood and a chemical rankness that was made worse by the damp weather. The faint glow of a few enduring fires spotted the hillside, but the homes around Malek’s property were dark and forlorn.
Raif held Nalia’s hand as they picked their way over puddles and mud, and she gripped it tighter as they neared the rose garden, remembering that first long conversation. It didn’t seem possible that her feelings could change so quickly in a matter of days, but her shredded heart was proof enough that what she felt for Raif was real.
“I have to tell you something,” she suddenly said, stopping in the middle of the lawn.
Nalia couldn’t die with the truth about the coup still locked inside her—Raif, and all of Arjinna, had a right to know. A part of her hoped that it would make it easier for him to leave her. Raif glanced at Nalia, his eyes wary. He must have detected the anxiety in her voice. She let go of his hand.
“The coup was my fault.”
“Nalia, that’s ridiculous—”
“It isn’t.”
She told him, in stops and starts. She couldn’t look in his eyes: it was hard enough, just trying to get the words out. The precise sound of the girl’s cries as the Ghan Aisouri tortured her. The way the girl had pulled her hair in distress. The smell of the dank cell they’d put her in: urine and vomit and other ugly things. Her mother’s order.
“I had no idea she was a mind reader,” Nalia said. “The prisoner got the whole map of the palace out of my head: the secret passageways, the tunnel underneath the Qaf Mountains that connects the palace to Ithkar. I handed them everything on a silver platter.”
“You showed her mercy,” Raif said gently. He reached for her, but she sidestepped his outstretched hand. “Nalia, whatever the Ghan Aisouri may have told you, mercy is never wrong—even if it caused a coup.”
Nalia shook her head. “I should have killed her. I was ordered to. But I just thought . . . what was the harm? We’d done enough to her, she wasn’t talking. It seemed so simple. I could just say I’d killed her and then put her body in the prison grave. It’s what we did after . . . it’s what we did.”
She bit her lip, but there was no emotion on Raif’s face, save for the flicker of pain in his eyes. How many of his tavrai had the Aisouri killed, then denied the ritual cremation that would have allowed their souls to rest in the godlands? She thought of the revolutionary boy whose chiaan had bled all over her hands. She opened her mouth to tell Raif about that, as well, but the confession died on her lips as she imagined how he’d react to her having killed one of his brothers-in-arms. Nalia didn’t think she could handle having the last expression she saw on his face be one of hatred.
“None of this would have happened if I had just done what I was told,” she said.
“Yes it would have.” Raif’s eyes were bright and his face still glowed from Nalia’s chiaan boiling inside him. “You said yourself that the Ifrit were getting guns from the slave trade. And my father was killed a year before the coup happened. It’s not like everything was perfect. If that mind-reading Ifrit hadn’t discovered the secret passage in your memories, another Ifrit would have found it eventually.”
Nalia shook her head. She’d made it so easy for them. “I’m not telling you to make me feel better, Raif. I just wanted someone to know—I wanted you to know.”
He wrapped his arms around her and, this time, she didn’t resist. “I’m glad you told me,” he murmured.
Her admission didn’t change the past, but for a moment, she almost felt absolved. Raif looked down at her, his face thoughtful.
“What?” she said.
“It’s strange to think that you and I might never have met if you’d followed your mother’s orders.”
How can something so wonderful come from something so bad?
She tried to smile. “Well, you would definitely have been against my mother’s orders.”
“‘The Ghan Aisouri and the Revolutionary’—kinda has a ring to it, eh?”
“Like ‘Rahim and Jandessa’?”
He grimaced. “But with a better ending.”
“I’d rather not see you cut up and turned into stars,” she agreed, though she had always secretly loved the story. As a young girl, she’d thought Jandessa was so brave, leaving her Shaitan father and running off to live out her days in the Forest of Sighs, mourning her one great love. Now she wasn’t so sure. Why hadn’t Jandessa fought harder for Rahim? His death was so pointless. Jandessa should have known how forbidden their love was and that her father would kill him—she should have seen the evil that lived all around her. She should have stopped it.
They started walking again and when they reached the fountain, she let go of his hand. “It’s time, Raif.”
He turned to her with a stricken look. “Nalia, I can’t—”
“Tell Zanari I said good-bye, okay?” She took a step back, away from him. “And when you see my brother—” Nalia’s voice caught and she swallowed the tears that threatened. “When you see Bashil, tell him I fought like hell to get back to him.”
They looked at one another for a long moment. Pain, frustration, and denial flitted across his face until, finally, his shoulders sagged.
“I promise.” Raif held her against him, one last time. “We’ll take good care of him.”
“Thank you,” Nalia whispered. She reached up and crushed her lips against his, then pushed him away. “Now go.”
Raif’s smoke swirled around him and he held her eyes until the v
Then he was gone.
Nalia followed the tattered wisps of smoke that curled in the air until they dissolved in the immense black cauldron of the night sky. She could still feel his chiaan within her, a bright thing pushing against all the dark turmoil that threatened to engulf her. He’d be across Earth in a matter of minutes, but she could almost pretend he was standing beside her.
But he wasn’t. Nalia was alone.
I am Ghan Aisouri, she repeated over and over. I am Ghan Aisouri.
A stench of death and decay began to permeate the air. It was a hopeless smell, a twisted aroma that reminded Nalia too much of that room in the palace. She glanced up at the sky. The bisahm was faintly visible through the patches of moonlight that burned through the smoke, the thinnest of walls between Nalia and her greatest enemy. She crouched and set her hands on the earth, two pale starfish that clutched at the soaked blades of grass. Her chiaan, once again disguised, golden and bright, lapped up the earth’s energy. It focused her, this first preparation for the battle to come. She stood and was about to go into the house when her ear caught a faint, insistent buzzing. For a moment, she looked around, confused, until she remembered that the fire department had forced security to evacuate.
Someone was at the front gate.
Nalia looked down the long drive. Delson should have a key, if he was already coming back. It could be a neighbor, but Nalia thought that unlikely: the neighborhood was deserted. Except for the occasional fire truck, Nalia seemed to be the only person around for miles. As she moved closer, she felt the faint pulse of jinn energy.
Haran.
But after hours of trying to burn down the city, would he politely buzz her front gate? Not likely. Still, she had to see who was there.
Nalia stuck to the shadows and moved soundlessly down the drive. This part of Mulholland didn’t have any streetlights, and Delson had been careful to turn off the house’s outdoor lights, most likely for fear of an electrical fire. Inky darkness drenched the street, an impenetrable wall cut through with wan strips of moonlight. It was the set of one of Malek’s silent films, all textured blacks and grays.
Once she was only a few feet away, Nalia tensed her fingers, waiting. Ready. She slowly reached for her knife.
“Hello?” a familiar voice called.
“Leilan!” Nalia’s adrenaline poured out of her and she laughed with relief as she rushed to the gate, where Leilan was huddled next to the security booth, practically invisible except for her glowing blue eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Nalia pressed the code to open the gate and ushered her friend inside.
“All this fire . . . the jinni wanted to make sure Nalia was okay.”
“Yeah, I’m all right. Sorry about the bisahm. You can never be too careful.”
“No problem. It’s understandable—the city isn’t very safe for a jinni on her own.”
Nalia looked past Leilan, at the empty street.
“Listen, Lei, it’s not safe for you to be here. I can’t explain, but you really need to go.”
“Please—just a few minutes? It’s important.”
Nalia bit her lip. All things considered, it’s the least I can do. Leilan stepped closer and Nalia’s throat caught when she noticed the bandanna on her head. “You’re wearing the scarf. I thought . . . I thought maybe you were angry with me. For the way I left.”
Leilan just stood there, staring at Nalia. Maybe it had been a mistake to hint at the truth—telling Leilan she was a Ghan Aisouri without actually telling her. It was a lot to take in, three years of lying. But there was a hint of a smile on her friend’s lips, enough for Nalia to hold on to.
“Lei, I’m so sorry. I know that was a terrible way to say good-bye.” Nalia grabbed her friend’s hand, for once not shying away from the intimacy of touching her. Marid normally had very cool hands, the temperature of the sea. But Leilan’s were burning hot and her chiaan somehow reminded Nalia of Malek—angry and insistent. Her eyes flew to Leilan’s face, concerned.
“Are you sick?”
Leilan shook her head. “No.” Her eyes glittered. Feverish. “She feels very good.”
Nalia frowned. “Let’s get inside. We shouldn’t stay out here.” She started toward the house, Leilan a few steps behind her, hugging the shadows. The moon slid behind a cloud, and Leilan hurried forward until she caught up with Nalia.
As they approached the front door, Leilan looked at the house with interest.
Nalia sighed. “Welcome to my not-remotely-humble abode. If Delson were here, he’d insist on tea, but I’m afraid we’re on our own. You hungry? I can give you something to take on the road.”
Leilan smiled. “Starved.”
24
RAIF EVANESCED ONTO THE ROOF OF JORDIF’S BUILDING and stared at the filthy sky, half of him here on this roof, the other part of him with Nalia. The scent in the air reminded him of the harvest celebration, when large pits full of fire and smoking meat lay scattered over the newly harvested fields. The three-day festivities culminated in a large dance, in which the serfs dressed in their nicest clothes and the women decked themselves out in crowns of flowers. The dance was more than a simple celebration—it was a public declaration of love and fidelity for the couples who attended the dance together. He imagined taking Nalia, her tattooed hand in his and a crown of flowers on her head.
But now that would never happen.
And it probably never would have, anyway.
His feelings for Nalia were a slap in the face to every tavrai who’d been oppressed by the Ghan Aisouri. What he shared with her didn’t have a place in his realm, he knew that. And yet.
Raif crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the building. Could he really just leave Nalia to fight Haran on her own? Everything in Raif told him to stay with her. That inner voice had never steered him wrong, but his feelings for Nalia were so confusing, so unprecedented, that he wasn’t sure he could trust it anymore.
You’re a fool.
Raif couldn’t believe he’d given in to his feelings—the kiss this morning in Malek’s backyard had been a betrayal. Kissing the oppressor. A horrible mistake he’d sworn never to make again. Nalia had done such a good job of pushing him away, he’d never dreamed she felt the same insistent pull to him as he had to her.But she did.
He’d known it in that first kiss, but he’d been too terrified to admit it. And later, when she’d told him to go on without her, he’d forgotten every argument against them being together. Something inside him had shifted, and though he didn’t understand it yet, Raif knew that no matter how much he tried to deny his feelings, one look at Nalia would decide him.
Every time.
Which was why he was on this roof instead of downstairs, getting ready to leave the city with Zanari. He looked down at the lines on his arm, dreading the moment they would disappear. Haran might not kill Nalia, but one of Calar’s henchmen would, and soon. Could he live with that, knowing he’d left her to face that darkness alone?
He had to.
If Raif didn’t get the sigil, the Ifrit would massacre his remaining troops. And not just his fighters—the whole serf population would suffer. The resistance’s supplies had dwindled to an all-time low, and the Ifrit assault was a new, unimagined hell. Raif hadn’t forgotten the images his mother had sent him a few days ago, of the bodies wrapped in shrouds, the burned children. But Nalia. Nalia.
He wished Kir were here, or his father. They’d know what to do. Would they ever forgive him for falling in love with one of their killers?
She didn’t kill them, he reminded himself. She’s not like the other Ghan Aisouri.
He winced as an image of Nalia on the battlefield flashed into his head. He hadn’t seen her, but he could imagine Nalia on the moors in her Aisouri leathers, a scimitar in her hand. That proud tilt of her chin, the glint in her eyes.
“Stop it,” he whispered to himself.
It was hard to reconcile her past with their present, but
Raif closed his eyes. He could picture his father, sitting by himself on a sand dune near the sea, watching the glowing ball of the sun slip behind the horizon. It was the day before the second uprising; the day before the Ghan Aisouri would cut Dthar Djan’Urbi down in the middle of a muddy field that stank of cow shit. Perhaps his father had known it was his last sunset and was in need of solace. Maybe he was trying to bargain with the gods. Raif watched as the setting sun bathed his father’s familiar face in a warm, buttery glow. He was about to call out when he noticed the tears streaming down Dthar’s cheeks, falling into the forest of his dark beard. Raif froze, staring. As if sensing his son’s presence, Dthar turned around and beckoned Raif to come closer.
Why are you crying, Papa?
His father was silent for a moment, his eyes on the waves that crashed upon the shore. Because I love you. And your mother and sister. He put an arm around Raif’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Whatever happens tomorrow, I don’t want you to forget that. We fight because we love, not in spite of it. Someday you’ll understand.
Tonight, now, this was Raif’s moment on the dunes. He finally understood what his father had been trying to tell him, all those years ago, when he’d made his own choice.
There’s no choice. There never was.
Nalia was his weakness and his courage, his distraction and his focus. The push-pull of her was a crucible that had left him irrevocably changed. This was the moment, the crux that would define him as a leader; he wanted to make a choice worthy of the blood that ran in his veins and the love that pulsed in his heart. Nalia was an extension of everything he was fighting for: freedom, love, equality. She was the embodiment of his young life’s work. What was the point of caring so much for her, of breaking down all those barriers, if they were the only ones who knew it was possible? Arjinna, the revolution, the dead that weighed on their hearts: all of it was bigger than them. It always had been.