Exquisite Captive (18 page)

“So what do I owe you, for going to all this trouble for me? Obviously I’m not in a position to negotiate,” she said.

Raif hesitated, then smoothly pulled her into the nearest darkened corner. Nalia looked over her shoulder; no one was paying attention. Raif waved his hand and a small stream of
chiaan
manifested a thin, nearly invisible wall between them and the dance floor. Where the light hit it, the barrier shimmered, like oil on water.

“How did you do that?” she asked. His element was earth, but there wasn’t much of it in the underground club—the walls were cement, dead stone whose energy had been compromised by human interference. Other than a few plants, there wasn’t much for a Djan to draw
chiaan
from.

Raif reached into his shirt and pulled out a leather pouch he was wearing around his neck; she’d forgotten that many Djan carried them in order to have access to their element in situations such as these. Inside there was most likely dirt from one of the Djan temples in Arjinna that honored Tirgan, the god of earth.

“A simple illusion. When people look our way, they’ll feel the need to pay attention to that potted tree over there.” He pointed his finger and manifested a palm tree at the edge of the dance floor, between two tables.

“Because
that’s
not remotely suspicious,” she said.

He shrugged. “We’re among friends. They’ll assume it is what it is: magic. We don’t have long; this much earth will only buy us a few minutes, so feel free to shoulder the burden.”

She crossed her arms. “You know, we could have done this from the start.”

He grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Nalia couldn’t help but feel he was putting her off. “What’s your price, Raif?”

His face grew suddenly serious. “Solomon’s sigil,” he said softly.

Nalia went numb. “Very funny,” she said with a scornful snort. She prayed he hadn’t noticed her delayed response. “Why don’t I get you Antharoe’s sword while I’m at it?”

It was said that Antharoe, the famed Ghan Aisouri who had supposedly discovered Solomon’s sigil, had a sword whose cut no monster could survive. Every spring, young jinn tried to find the sword in the depths of the Infinite Lake, where legend said Antharoe had thrown the weapon just before she died.

“Don’t mock me, Aisouri,” Raif said. “I didn’t come all the way to Earth to play games.” His voice suddenly had the hard, commanding tone of a general. She could see now why Raif’s youth was no detriment to his leadership. The boy she’d danced with was merely one side of his kaleidoscopic self.

The ring inscribed with Solomon’s sigil was the most powerful magical object in the known universes. It had been given to Solomon, the ancient king of Israel, by his god so that he could control all jinn. It was said that as soon as Solomon put the ring on his finger, the entire jinn race was summoned to his court to fight his wars and build his great temple and palaces, serving at his beck and call during the king’s reign. After his death, one of the jinni slaves slipped the sigil off Solomon’s finger, then hid it deep in a cave on Earth so that the jinn would never again be slaves to the ring and its bearer. Only the Ghan Aisouri knew where it was hidden, a secret passed down through generations. Protecting the sigil was at the very core of the Aisouri’s vows to the realm. But how had Raif discovered that the Ghan Aisouri even knew where it was? Since disappearing millennia ago, the ring had been consigned to myth, a subject of old jinn songs and human collections of stories. No one, not even the most superstitious jinn and humans, believed in its existence.

“Raif, Solomon’s sigil is a tale for children, like
Shiraq the Dragon
or—”

“You’re the only person alive in all the realms who knows where it is,” he said, his face darkening. “Take me to it or I will let the Ifrit tear you limb from limb, so help me gods, I will.”

Nalia pressed her hands against the cold cinderblock wall so that he wouldn’t see them trembling.

“How can you ask for this?” she hissed. “You, who proclaim to want nothing more than the
freedom
of all jinn? No good can ever come of wearing that ring.”

This is why we rule,
her mother had said, that day on the moors as the Ghan Aisouri crushed the second uprising like a small bug.
The average jinni cannot fathom all that we do to keep them safe. Left in their hands, there would be nothing but chaos. Anarchy.

Was it true, then? Had the Ghan Aisouri been Arjinna’s best hope for peace?

Raif leaned closer, his hands on the wall behind her, boxing Nalia in. It was too close to what Malek had done only hours before and she shoved him off her.

“Don’t think I won’t kill you,” she said.

“I have no doubt you’ve thought about it.” He fixed her with a look of pure loathing. “And who are you to talk to
me
about freedom,
salfit
? If it weren’t for your Ghan Aisouri, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.” He lowered his voice. “I’d never use the sigil—it’s a threat. All I have to do is show it to the Ifrit and we’ll have them on their knees.”

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 bore 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?

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

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. Huge trees climb over the temples like awakened giants, their roots like 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 all 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. The Djan jinni is alone, finally, in her favorite place. The Bayon’s faces, almost perfectly preserved despite centuries of monsoons and war, never cease to fascinate her. 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 god heads 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 appearance 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, pointy teeth.

She’s never seen an Ifrit like this.

The Djan sprints through the rows of ancient stone heads. Her blood pumps and her eyes are wide with fear as she flies over the uneven stone 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 god heads of the Bayon 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 it is over, 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.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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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 no matter how many angles Raif looked at the problem from, there was nothing he could 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 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 it was gone, its sound growing fainter as whatever it was 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, he 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 was singing the same glorious song. He felt echoes of that song in his body now.

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.