Exquisite Captive (19 page)

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 she had dark circles under her eyes. 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 a few village homes—dozens of his fighter’s bodies wrapped in gauzy shrouds, and screaming mothers holding badly burned children.

He stared at the images, 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 his 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 comrades dying. His whole life had been struggle and war, and it seemed like 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 it felt like he was trying to dance in quicksand.

He 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 animate picture showed a group of humans sitting at a high table. They were yelling at one another and it seemed like the pictures matched 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 like a wilting flower. Raif guessed that Jordif usually glamoured it—normally the hairs curled at the ends with jaunty perfection.

“I still 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.”

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 four 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 the couch groaned under his weight. He 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 Haran seemed to match up with what Jordif was telling him about the disappeared jinn. Not that he knew where any of the places Jordif had just mentioned were. But Haran was definitely moving around Earth, and quickly.

“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 sick-making metal. It was something he’d only wish on his worst enemies. Despite Nalia’s refusal to accept his demands, he 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.”

Something stirred in Raif, a niggling feeling. His eyes widened. “A birthmark? You’re saying she had a birthmark?”

Jordif gave him a strange look. “Yeah.”

Fire and blood.
That was how Haran was trying to find Nalia: tracking jinn with facial birthmarks. And he was killing the girls because he could.

“You okay over there,
tavrai
?” Jordif said.

Raif nodded. “Sure. Yeah. Just . . . tired, is all.”

Jordif stood up. “Speaking of . . . I better get some shut-eye before I head over to the portal. We’re supposed to be getting a group of refugees sometime tomorrow.
Jahal’alund
.”

Raif frowned as he watched his host shuffle toward the rooms on the other side of the loft.
“Jahal’alund,”
he said softly.

“He’s lying.” Zanari emerged out of a bank of shadows near the kitchen once Jordif was out of earshot.

“How long have you been standing there?”

She shrugged. “Long enough.”

Raif closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. “Mom said we could trust him.”

“I’m not saying we can’t trust him. But Jordif’s definitely hiding something—I just don’t know what. Every time I try to get a read on him, I draw a blank. I mean, literally—no images, sounds, scents.
Nothing.
I can never figure out where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s with. He’s got some kind of shield that covers his ass all the time. It’s like trying to keep an eye on the palace.”

For once, Raif thought, it would be nice to trust someone who wasn’t related to him.

“Did you hear what he said about the missing jinn?”

“Haran, obviously,” Zanari said. “The birthmark—I never even thought of that. Maybe Nalia would be willing to glamour it.”

Raif bit his lip—it was unlikely. Birthmarks were considered a kiss from the gods—there were countless stories of a jinni being cursed because they’d decided to cover up their mark. He guessed Nalia would want the gods on her side now more than ever.

“Almost every time I sense Haran,” Zanari continued, “he’s surrounded by blood. A lot of it. Do you think he’s killing all those girls?”

Raif ran his hands over his eyes. “Dammit.” He wished he could protect Zanari from having to spend so much time watching Haran. “Yes—that’s all he does. Kill.” He knew he couldn’t save everyone, but it never got easier, hearing these kinds of things. “I don’t know what to do,” Raif admitted. “Nalia won’t give me the sigil. And there are only so many jinn on the dark caravan with birthmarks. Gods know how Haran’s finding them, but the more jinn he eliminates, the closer he gets to Nalia. Meanwhile, our people are dying.” He sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Us coming out here . . . never should have happened.”

Zanari shook her head. “I’ve changed my mind on that. She’ll help us.”

Raif looked up, hopeful. “Really?”

Zanari laughed softly. “I don’t need to be psychic to know that, little brother—not after seeing the way you two were tonight.”

Raif rolled his eyes. “Great. The fate of Arjinna rests on my dancing skills.”

“I wasn’t talking about your dancing.”

Nalia closed her bedroom door, thankful that Malek hadn’t summoned her. It was three a.m., but the light was on in his study—the only bright spot in the otherwise darkened house. She’d paused at the foot of the marble staircase, waiting, but his door had remained closed. She didn’t know if what she felt was relief or disappointment.

Nalia peeled off her clothes, then slipped on a nightgown, wincing at the bruises braceleting her wrists and the bump on her head. She should have tracked down a mage before she left Habibi, but she’d been so furious with Raif, so terrified that she’d lost her one chance to save her brother, that she’d evanesced almost as soon as Raif walked away. Instead, she’d spent the past hour driving up and down Pacific Coast Highway; the brisk sea breeze usually did the trick when she needed to clear her mind. Nalia had been hoping she’d come up with a miraculous way out of breaking her vow to the gods, but nothing had presented itself. She had nothing to barter—she was a beggar, hungry for scraps of kindness from a jinni who had every reason to let her starve. Raif didn’t owe Nalia a damn thing and she knew it. All she had to offer him was the sigil. And in return, she’d have her freedom and her brother. Had there ever really been a choice?

It had been one of the longest days of her life on Earth, even longer than the one when she met Malek for the first time, when he’d looked down at her and said, “I think you’ll do quite nicely.” The two hours of
Sha’a Rho
on the beach felt like a million years ago. She hoped her offerings to the gods kept Haran away, if only for another night or two. Ideally, she’d be able to rest before the fight of her life. Nalia had noticed the
bisahm
Raif had set over the house, but the shield gave her no comfort. The one over the palace, made by the Ghan Aisouri, hadn’t saved anyone. Like snakes, the Ifrit had a way of crawling into unexpected places and biting you when you least expected it. Still, it was better than nothing. She used to have one over Malek’s property, just to be safe, but so many of his clients had jinn that it had become complicated. A client would summon his jinni, but because summoning was essentially forced evanescence, the jinni would only be able to get as far as the front gate. Getting through was worse than trying to breach airport security. By the time the jinni reached the house, their masters were in a rage. Eventually, Malek forced her to take it down.