Exquisite Captive

by Heather Demetrios

  The woman raised her eyebrows. “Seriously? I can’t believe people your age would actually want to be here on a Friday night. This place bores me to tears. I’m about two seconds away from ditching my date and going to the Standard.”

  The trendy hotel was one of the places Nalia frequently went to grant wishes. Its bar was very see-and-be-seen, not Nalia’s kind of place at all.

  The woman gestured to the small crowd that mingled among the Van Gogh, Degas, and Renoir masterpieces. “Which one’s yours?”

  Nalia pointed to where Malek stood in a corner of the museum, deep in conversation with the young CEO of a social networking enterprise. Her master wore an impeccably tailored tux and leaned against a pillar with casual elegance, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a tumbler of vodka. His eyes slid over to Nalia and he gave her a wink, then went back to pretending to listen to the man across from him.

  Nalia stiffened, forgetting for a moment that on Earth, a wink was a friendly gesture. In Arjinna, it was a death threat.

  “Wow,” the woman said. “You won the lottery with that one. Wait, how old are you?”

  “Eighteen sum—” Nalia stopped herself. It’d been a long time since she’d fallen into speaking like a jinni. “Eighteen.”

  Nalia lifted her champagne glass. “You won’t tell on me, will you?”

  She often forgot the rules about drinking on Earth—sometimes she was in countries where it was no problem. Other places, it was against the law. In Arjinna, savri was like water. Even little kids drank it.

  The woman laughed. “Oh, honey, you could be doing a lot worse in this town, believe me.” She nodded her head at Malek. “You’re smart to date an older man. Trust me, they usually know how to treat a girl right—as long as they’re not too old. Then that’s creepy.”

  Nalia thought it best not to point out that Malek had been around for over a hundred summers.

  “Agreed,” she said. “Much older men are creepy.”

  The woman laughed and held out a manicured hand. “Denise Stenson,” she said.

  “Nalia.” She shook the woman’s hand, though she’d never get used to such physical familiarity. Jinn, of course, rarely touched one another—especially Ghan Aisouri—since the transference of chiaan was so palpable, but shaking a human’s hand was even more disconcerting. There was nothing there. Nothing. It was like they didn’t have souls, although she knew they did; the art around her was evidence of that.

  Denise pointed to the shackles on Nalia’s wrist. “Oh, I love those bracelets. Are they vintage?”

  Nalia resisted the urge to laugh hysterically. “I’m not sure. They were given to me.”

  “Gorgeous.” She ran a manicured finger over the looping script and intricate pattern. “What’s that writing on them?”

  “Something in Arabic, I don’t know.”

  That was a lie. Nalia knew exactly what her shackles said: Blood, bone, and breath to a master bound.

  Not like she needed a reminder.

  “Nice.” The woman nodded at Malek. “Your boyfriend—he’s Malek Alzahabi, right?”

  “The one and only.” Nalia took a long drink of champagne.

  Denise leaned closer, her voice pitched to a conspiratorial murmur. “Is he really a Saudi prince?”

  “No. He’s a businessman,” she said. Malek’s own words came easily to her lips—she’d heard them thousands of times. “He invests and advises. He buys and sells.” What would Denise say if she knew Nalia was one of those investments? She shrugged. “I don’t know the details, really.”

  Malek had grown up poor, she knew that much. One night, when he’d had too many glasses of absinthe, he’d told her how his mother’s brothers had threatened to stone her because of her pregnancy. She was young and unmarried, and the law said she could be publicly killed for such a transgression. Nalia now knew the story was much more complicated. Having a baby who was half jinn in a culture that sometimes considered Nalia’s race demonic would have been no easy feat. Today, there wasn’t a country or company in the world that didn’t heed Malek’s voice. If Earth could have one emperor, he would be it. And he’d done it all to prove that he wasn’t an abomination, a monstrous pardjinn, and to erase those years he’d spent as a little boy in tattered hand-me-downs from cousins who despised him.

  “Well, he’s certainly easy on the eyes.” Denise gave Nalia an appraising glance. “You look well together.”

  Nalia threw back the rest of her champagne and held up her glass. “Thank you. I think I’m going to get another. Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course. Nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other. The one he’s talking to is my fiancé.”

  Nalia eyed the man opposite Malek, wondering if she’d soon be meeting him in a hotel room to grant a wish.

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  Nalia made her way outside, anxious to be away from the din. The champagne had gone to her head a little, and she stumbled in her too-high heels.

  “Fire and blood,” she muttered.

  She slipped off the Louboutins and held them in her hand as she made her way across the travertine tiles. The Getty’s distinctive cream stone covered the outer walls and floors of the museum, giving it the effect of a polished shell. The buildings blushed under the twinkling lights strung throughout the outdoor garden, and for a moment, Nalia felt as though she were in a temple. There was the gentle splash of water flowing into a reflecting pool that glimmered with underwater light, and the few guests who had retreated to the outdoor pavilion spoke in the hushed whispers of lovers and confidantes, trading sweet nothings or Hollywood gossip. She ignored the announcement coming over the loudspeaker, which told all the guests to gather in the main gallery for the unveiling of a new painting recently donated to the museum. The patio emptied and Nalia was alone. Finally.

  The sun had already set and the sky was a dark plum punctured with dim stars and a sliver of moon. Far off in the distance, Nalia could see the red and white lights of fishing boats off the coast.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered. Knowing that she was leaving, Nalia no longer felt compelled to hate Earth. It would just be another realm, nothing more or less. A place, not a prison.

  If this was to be her last night on Earth, she wanted to say a proper good-bye. She felt the sudden urge to leave something of herself in this wondrous wasteland, a memorial that washed away the misery of exile and granting and imprisonment. One good thing in all the bad.

  Nalia descended the stairs that led to the museum’s colorful gardens, inhaling the sweet scent borne on a gentle breeze. Before her, tall topiary structures stood like oversized martini glasses, overflowing with bright pink bougainvillea. Further down, narrow paths twisted through shrubs and flowers. Except for the distant hum of the party and the occasional burst of sound from the city—a siren, a helicopter—the garden was silent.

  She glanced over her shoulder one more time to be sure she was alone, then went to the garden’s centerpiece: an elaborate circular labyrinth created out of low bushes, embedded in a shallow pool of water. From a slightly elevated position, it was easy to see the labyrinth’s looping pattern. Nalia hiked up her dress and settled onto her knees. It had been so long since she’d done this kind of magic. Her mother and the gryphons had all but beat it out of her. No magic for beauty’s sake. No art. Just war, war, and more war. She could hear her mother’s voice, even now: Pretty things won’t help you on the battlefield. You’ll be very sorry if I catch you wasting your time on this trash again.

  Nalia closed her eyes and let the Santa Anas sweep over her as she connected her chiaan to the wind’s ancient, willful power. It rushed through her so fast it took her breath away, and Nalia’s skin tingled as she held her palms over the labyrinth. She created a clear picture in her mind of what she wanted to manifest there. Her chiaan seemed to leap and bound within her, and she smiled as it left her body and covered the garden. When she opened her eyes, thousands of fireflies had settled
over the labyrinth, dusting it with a golden glow. Lotus flowers danced in the shallow pool, their delicate petals emitting a soft shimmer. For years to come, botanists would marvel at how these blossoms never died, but continued to grace the labyrinth with their otherworldly presence. She knew that from now on, visitors to the gardens would feel an inexplicable peace as they gazed upon the blossoms, and worries they had would vanish. Their day would be full of luck and they would look back on those moments in the garden as a turning point in their lives.

  Nalia sighed. It was hard to leave something kind in the wake of all that she had experienced. But she would soon be with her brother, and it somehow felt wrong that her last acts on Earth would be vindictive, full of hate and vitriol. Her hours becoming one with the Pacific had renewed Nalia, and her hope of escape had given her the grace to see the magnificence this realm had to offer. She realized that there had been meaningful moments peppered throughout her time on Earth. Willingly or not, she had become a part of this planet, though as temporary as a shooting star. Nalia drank in the balmy, fragrant air and allowed her awareness to dim as she basked in the comforting ebb and flow of her chiaan. She had a big night ahead of her, and she could only pull it off if she was relaxed.

  But then something hard and metallic suddenly pressed into the base of her skull.

  “Move and I’ll blow your pretty little head off, I swear I will.”

  Nalia’s eyes flew open. The client, again. She’d shut down her awareness, but now it was back in full force—his energy was the same as it had been earlier today, but now an even deeper ugliness lurked in it, dark and ruthless. She shouldn’t have mocked him at the beach. The gods were punishing Nalia for her cruelty.

  “I granted the wish you asked me for,” she said softly.

  “You tricked me,” he growled. “You ruined my life because—what? You think you’re better than me? You’re just Malek’s little slut. His slave. You’re nothing.”

  The client dug the barrel of the gun into the bump on Nalia’s head—it was more painful than when her skull had smashed against the movie theater’s wall. Hot, white stars exploded across her vision.

  Nalia’s body trembled as she remembered other, larger guns and how they’d destroyed her family, her country. She could taste metal in the back of her throat, and death seemed to crawl over her, its cold claws sinking into her skin. Her magic wasn’t strong enough against this human technology. It would take fewer seconds for a bullet to lodge itself in Nalia’s skull than for her chiaan to throw itself against the client.

  I was so close, she thought. Her brother was as good as dead.

  “Please,” she whispered. “You don’t have to do this. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  “Oh, now we can figure something out?” the client snarled. “Convenient, isn’t it, how you suddenly think there’s a solution to my problem.”

  He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked Nalia’s head back, sliding the gun to her temple as her back painfully arched. She cried out and he hit her with the barrel.

  “Shut the fuck up. Shut up,” he snarled.

  She couldn’t see his face, of course. There was just empty air where his body should have been. The black handgun seemed to hover in midair.

  I am Ghan Aisouri. He’s a human. Think, Nalia, think.

  But the sight of the gun paralyzed her. She was fifteen again, lined up with the other Ghan Aisouri. Haran and his Ifrit soldiers stood before them, holding objects she’d never seen before but immediately knew were the epitome of evil. Nalia’s shoulder was dislocated and she had a painful burn on one arm. She could barely see out of her right eye, and her legs and back ached with the fire whips the Ifrit had used against her when she struggled. She could hear her mother, even now, so many years later, whispering the prayer of the dead. Whispering it, Nalia realized, for all of them. That was when the room exploded with sounds she’d never heard before, and she felt the hard, metal rocks from the machines—the guns—slice into her body. As though she were made of soft cheese.

  Hala shaktai mundeer. Ashanai sokha vidim. Ishna capoula orgai. Hala shaktai mundeer: Gods receive our souls. Fill them with grace and light. Grant entrance to your eternal temples. Gods receive our souls.

  “Shut up, bitch.”

  Nalia was back on Earth, the garden lights blurring from the client’s slap. She hadn’t realized she’d been saying the prayer aloud.

  “I want to see your face when you die,” he whispered. She could smell the sourness of alcohol on his breath. “I want to hear you scream.”

  Then: a soft click. He was about to shoot. Nalia closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. This, she knew, was going to hurt—but not as much as dying. She pushed the backs of her bare feet against the earth as she used every bit of strength she had to flip her body and dig her knee into what she hoped was the client’s face: Sha’a Rho Pose 793—Hunting Lion.

  “Nalia!” Malek’s voice rang across the garden.

  The client grunted as bone met flesh and he dropped the gun, but not before he shoved her to the ground. Nalia fell on her side, her face connecting with the hard-packed dirt. Bright lights flashed across her vision—pink, purple, blue. There was a vicious kick to her side and just as she was sitting up, she heard the gun go off—a discreet metallic pop, like the uncorking of a champagne bottle. The client must have been using a silencer.

  Nalia cried out as Malek stumbled. She knew the client stood in front of him because the gun was pointed at Malek’s chest. Malek fell forward, his hands on his knees. Nalia struggled to stand and the long skirt of her gown ripped. The gun swiveled in her direction.

  “Stay where you are,” the client yelled.

  Nalia held up her hands, fighting the urge to help Malek. She looked at his shirt, but there was no sign of blood. How was that possible? She’d heard the gun go off—

  Then she remembered: Draega’s Amulet. Malek could only die by choice or his own hand. A week ago, she would have been disappointed; his death would have immediately freed her. But all she felt was relief. She’d worry about what that meant later.

  “Mr. Davis, I assume it’s you since you’re my only invisible client.” Malek said the man’s name softly as he straightened up. “I hope you at least have the decency to look into my eyes next time you shoot me. Be a man and watch me die.”

  “Oh, I’m looking, Alzahabi, don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss this for a second.”

  What was Malek planning? Was he expecting her to evanesce or do something else behind the client’s back? Malek’s eyes turned a scalding red.

  “I want you to drop the gun,” he purred.

  His voice had turned low and hypnotic, infused with Ifrit magic. It was a cruise on the Nile, a hot summer night, spicy and sweet. Irresistible.

  The gun immediately fell to the grass. Nalia stared.

  Oh my gods.

  It was hypersuasion, a dark power the Ifrit had inherited from the shadow gods they cavorted with. Malek’s father must have possessed it, passing it down to his son through his blood and chiaan. And Malek clearly knew what he was doing—somehow along the way, he’d figured out how to hone his gift. Of course, Nalia thought. That’s how Malek has become so rich and powerful. He didn’t negotiate. He told the CEO’s and politicians what they were going to do, and they did it willingly. The wishes were just Malek’s way of keeping them silent about it once they’d woken up to what had happened.

  “Good,” Malek said. Hypersuasion only worked through eye contact, but as Malek began to speak, it was clear all that mattered was that his victim saw his eyes; invisibility didn’t seem to be a problem. Once the initial eye contact was made, Malek didn’t need to maintain it—so long as he kept infusing his voice with his chiaan, the client would be malleable as wet clay. Of course, hypersuasion was exhausting. Malek would only be able to keep it up for a few minutes at most.

  “Now walk over to the pool of water and kneel in front of it.”

  “Why?” The client’s voice ha
d a dazed, faraway quality, the echo of an internal struggle that he’d already given up. Nalia couldn’t see the client’s face, of course, but she imagined his eyes would have a glazed look, every inch of his being suddenly hanging on Malek’s every word. Tying his own noose.

  “You don’t care why,” Malek murmured. “You want to go over there. You need to go over there.”

  There was some shuffling as the client walked toward the water and Malek followed the sound. But before her master joined the client at the waterside, he crossed to Nalia and pulled her into his arms.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  Nalia shook her head. “I just want to go,” she said softly, dread pooling in her stomach. “Malek, let’s just go. Please.”

  He smiled down at her and kissed her forehead. “In a minute.”

  Malek let her go, then went to stand beside the floating labyrinth. His hand seemed to pet the air and then grab something—Nalia guessed it was the client’s hair—and he leaned close to the space where the grass ended and the pool of water started. Malek’s eyes brightened as he held the client in his sway, red as the lava that flowed in Ithkar, but the rest of his face remained calm and resolute. Even as he strained to keep the client in control, his face betrayed not one hint of emotion.

  “Touching her was your mistake,” Malek said.

  Then he thrust his hand that gripped the client’s invisible hair toward the water. The man’s gagging and choking filled the air as he struggled against Malek’s iron grip.

  “Malek! Stop. Malek.”

  He glanced at her. “Look away, hayati.”

  She opened her mouth to say something—she should stop him, this was brutal, wrong. But she couldn’t have this man stalking her, not with Haran on the loose and her brother’s life at stake.

  Nalia looked away. She wondered if she would have, even if her master hadn’t commanded it.

  I’m no better than him, she thought. She’d killed. It didn’t matter that the Ghan Aisouri had made her do it. She’d felt a jinni’s chiaan wither and die under her hands, heard his last strangled gasp. He’d been her age. A revolutionary. He could have been Raif, she thought. Nalia’s body began to shake.