Kiss of the Virgin Queen

by Sharon Buchbinder

  “Is a dybbuk like a jinni?”

  She clutched her daughter’s hand harder and pulled her coat tighter. “Nothing like a jinni. Walk faster.”

  Eliana struggled to keep up with her mother’s long legs. “Ima, I can’t walk faster.” Her skin began to tingle. “Ow. You’re making my hands and arms sting.”

  Her mother stopped under a street lamp and put her hand over Eliana’s mouth. “Hush. We’re not alone.”

  The lamplight dimmed, and shadows closed in. A whirling dervish of paper, leaves, and plastic bags coiled around Eliana and her mother. The prickling grew worse, until her arms felt as if they ablaze with flames, and her entire body burned. She wanted to ask who else was there. Was it a dybbuk angry about her question? With her mother’s fingers pressing her lips closed, she could not say a word.

  Her mother pulled Eliana closer pressing her into her breasts. She began to pray in Hebrew, Amharic, and some other languages Eliana didn’t understand. At last, shaking and weeping, her mother raised the hand with the large ring and shouted, “It is the Sabbath. How dare you desecrate this day? In the name of all that is holy, God, Allah, Blessed Be the One, leave us.”

  The tingling stopped. The street lamp grew brighter. The wind disappeared and dropped the debris at their feet.

  “My arms, Ima. They hurt so bad.”

  Tears glistening on her cheeks, her mother leaned down, slid back the sleeves of her puffy coat, and stared at her reddened inner arms. She kissed Eliana and hugged her tight. “That was a jinni. They know who we are. They want people like us. Never, ever forget that feeling. It tells you when a jinni is near. Run away as fast as you can.”

  One year after the attack, her mother died of acute myeloid leukemia. The specialists asked how long her mother worked with ionizing radiation. The answer: not at all, not once, never. Despite her scientific training and applied physics doctorate, a tiny corner of Ellie’s mind believed if her mother hadn’t had the confrontation with the jinni—or whatever that energy field was—that evening, she’d still be alive today. Her mother would be furious with her daughter for making it her mission to run toward the jinni-induced sensation, instead of away from it, as she did now.

  Her skin stung as if she’d run through a nettle bush. She picked up the pace, jogging deeper into the darkening woodland. Branches whipped at her face, and roots grabbed at her ankles. Warm blood trickled down the side of her face. She wiped it out of her eye, and felt the back of her hands explode with a million barbs. Breathing hard, she stopped and turned in a circle, her body a prickling compass attempting to settle in the right direction. She inhaled, and focused on the sounds of the wild—or rather the absence of sound. Not a single bird chirped. No bugs hummed in her ear. No squirrels chattered at her from above. Silence shrouded the forest.

  Just as she exhaled, a twig snapped to her right. She wheeled in that direction and froze in place. Less than fifty feet away, a huge gray wolf stared at her with glowing orange eyes.

  Gazes locked, Eliana placed her hand on her left hip, searched for her cell phone, and stopped. No signal penetrated these woods. Not daring to blink, she placed her hand on her right hip, and her fingers curled around the reassuring grip of her Sig Sauer.

  Lips curled, huge yellow teeth dripping with saliva, the creature’s growl made her heart stutter. She took a deep breath and spoke in a firm voice. “Are you one of the Adalwolf pack?”

  The gray raised an eyebrow, cocked his head, and softened his growls.

  Hand still on her hip, she took a cautious step toward him. “My name is Eliana Solomon.”

  He sat down.

  “If you can understand me, please nod.”

  He shook his head, ears flopping.

  Close enough.

  “I’m trying to find someone, he’s—” Her skin burned with the stings of a million wasps that weren’t insects, and the stench of sulfur filled her nose. The jinni was close by, practically on top of her. Where was he? Did she dare take her eyes off the wolf?

  As if in response to her thoughts, the wolf lay down, put his head on his paws, and stared over her shoulder.

  She glanced to her right and screamed.

  ****

  Arta ran toward the scream. What happened? How far away was she? The scream, so out of character for this woman with more courage than most men, made his heart falter.

  “Eliana?”

  Arta’s voice came out in a growl. The jinni stink grew stronger. Nose up, he lunged through the woods, pushing past the snapping branches, swiping bushes, and leaping over fallen logs. As shadows lengthened in the forest, his vision grew sharper, more intense, as did his sense of smell. He flexed his fingers and the sharp edge of a claw grazed his palm.

  Oh shit. Not now. Not again.

  His mind went to the first time he met Eliana.

  His rendezvous with her had been at the agency’s private plane at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport. He had checked the photograph in his phone three times to make sure she was the right woman. The headshot from her Homeland Security ID did her no justice. She was taller than he expected. Blue blazer, long-sleeve button down white shirt, black slacks. All business. But when she removed her sunglasses, the green of the irises of her eyes, surrounded by a rim of black, mesmerized him. Contrary to his expectation of a wild-eyed fanatical jinni hunter, this woman appeared to be calm, collected, and cool.

  He dropped her hand. “What can you tell me about this case?”

  Eliana pointed toward the waiting Lear jet. “We’ll chat onboard.”

  Throughout the long flight, she shared her voluminous notes and thoughts with Arta. The testimony of the Border Patrol Officers and the comments of the priest called in to translate the man’s ravings read like something out of a Grade D horror movie, stereotypical and absurd. Despite her solemnity, or perhaps because of it, he chuckled.

  Eliana gave him a stern look. “Dr. Shahani, what’s so funny?”

  “Call me Arta, please.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid this may be a ruse on this man’s part. He’s originally from Pakistan and moved to India. The belief in jinni possession in both countries is quite prevalent, especially in the rural areas. How did he come to be in Mexico?”

  “Vacation, supposedly. God only knows what the Mexican government thought when they approved his VISA. The man lived in Bombay, worked as a customer service agent for a US Credit Card company.”

  Arta touched the tips of his fingers together in a steeple and tapped his chin. “Lots of Internet access and time to search for instructions on how to build a bomb.”

  “Yes, I’m sure between Americans calling to complain about their credit card bills, he played on the computer.”

  Quick, smart, and exuding a devastatingly female scent of flowers and spice, Eliana Solomon embodied the word, ‘distracting’. She took a deep breath and pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes.

  “The Indian government has promised to assist us in the investigation, but—”

  “You’re not depending on their help.”

  She nodded, leaned back in the leather seat, and crossed her long legs. The plane banked to the right, and he glanced out the window. Brown and red, interspersed with patches of green for lawns and the blue of swimming pools met his eyes. Descent, at last, thank God. Close proximity to this woman gave him reckless thoughts about gardens, perfumed silks, moonlight, and love poems. He needed to focus on the investigation. The little jet touched down on the tarmac and bounced once, twice, jolting him out of his thoughts.

  Arta unbuckled his seat belt. “Let’s go meet this young man and find out if he’s hallucinating, possessed, or a fake.”

  A short time later Arta took control of the situation at the local police station where the gibbering Pakistani sat in solitary confinement.

  “I’m a physician. I have an obligation to assess this man in private.”

  Eliana and the Sheriff protested, citing national security, the Patriot Act, and danger to the doct
or’s life. “Okay, I get it. He’s a danger to himself and others. Do you have a room with a one-way mirror so you can watch the interview?”

  Shackles clanked as the man shuffled into the room wearing a one-piece orange jumpsuit. Arta took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves, as if preparing to play a hand of poker, instead of probing the mind of a terrorist. Video running, he began with easy questions, “What is your name? How old are you?”

  The young man across the table bared his teeth and responded with a potpourri of multiple languages.

  “You’re not making much sense, my friend. Pick one language, please. Tell me your name in English, French, Farsi, Turkish, or Arabic.”

  A low guttural sound, more a growl than words, emerged from the man’s curled lips, then worked themselves into Arabic. “You say you are an ‘Ifrit, an evil jinni.” Arta nodded. “Can you tell me more?”

  The Pakistani babbled about how he was going to destroy the world. The man became more agitated with each word. Although manacled to a metal chair bolted to the floor, he shook and rattled the chains and the chair with each word. Something hissed, popped, and crackled. Arta yawned to clear his ears of the air pressure changes from the plane ride. More hisses and crackles. The sound system must have a malfunction. Arta glanced at the one-way mirror and shrugged.

  Turning back to the Pakistani, Arta realized the suspect made the bizarre sounds. The man’s voice alternated between a booming bass, hisses, and clicks. To his horror, the bolts holding the chair to the floor rattled, loosened by the man’s exertions.

  Arta rose to his feet, shouting at the prisoner. The next thing he knew, his shouts turned to roars, and glass exploded. The power went out and darkness enveloped the station. People yelled to get the generator up and running. Despite the blackout, Arta was able to distinguish everything in the room. Shrieking, the suspect jumped at him. In the melee, Arta found himself standing on the suspect’s chest, his hands, now gigantic paws, pressing on the terrorist’s throat. The man’s head fell to the side and Arta thought he killed him. Just before the generator kicked in, Arta fled into the desert. Three days later, a cleanup crew removing trash on tribal lands found him by a dried out riverbed, dehydrated, disoriented, and naked. The workers told him he was lucky he wasn’t eaten by a pack of feral dogs.

  With the recording equipment destroyed in the explosion, and the ensuing chaos in the blackout, the investigators were forced to piece events together. After an extensive autopsy, which revealed radio transmitters implanted in the terrorist’s false teeth, they decided the devices were responsible for the bizarre sounds, shattered windows, and resulting chaos. The medical examiner determined the cause of death was asphyxiation—on his tongue. Eliana was peppered with shards of flying glass, one of which lodged in her chest, and was rushed to the hospital with massive bleeding.

  For his part, Shahani thought he’d suffered from hallucinations caused by inhalation of toxic fumes. He’d told himself the same story so often, he’d begun to believe it. Until he went to see Nur. What did you call someone who shape shifted into a Persian lion and drove out jinnis? Crazy. He wasn’t crazy, and he was a shape shifter. The first time he shifted was in Arizona. The second time in Chevy Chase. In each instance, he confronted the same ‘Ifrit. Could he control his shape shifting? Could he will himself to become the powerful cat when needed?

  Shouts and high pitched yelping came from close ahead of him in the shadowy woods. A few more feet, and he’d be at her side. He wanted to call her name, but all that came out was a hoarse roar. He leaped over yet another fallen tree and landed on all fours. When he glanced up, Eliana was ten feet in front of him, on her back, fighting for her life with not one, but two growling, snapping wolves, one of which was dark brown and twice the size of the other. He leaped at the beasts and a gun exploded.

  Chapter Ten

  Jerusalem, 954 B.C.E.

  King Solomon paced the cool courtyard at dawn, unable to sleep one moment more, in spite of the soft comforts of his bed and one of his seven-hundred wives. Yet, she was not the one he wanted. The woman he longed for with every breath he took was the only female he could think of day and night. She haunted his dreams and every waking moment. The Queen of Sheba. Just thinking about her caused his loins to stir. She insisted he call her Makeda, which he did at every opportunity.

  Makeda. Makeda. Makeda. Makeda.

  Each thump of his heart repeated her name, echoing in his ears like a drumbeat. Shouts of frustration would be roaring to the skies if he were alone, but the soldiers standing guard nearby might think demons drove him mad, like King Saul. He suffered from a disease worse than demon possession. He was sick with love.

  God delivered a love match to him, a woman equal to him in every way. For a year now, Makeda remained a royal guest in Jerusalem. From the moment she lifted the white linen from her head and locked gazes with him, her intelligent green eyes penetrated to his soul, capturing and keeping his heart hostage. Love brought strong men to their knees, made them do foolish things, undid years of training and wisdom. Solomon yearned for a love match like David and Bathsheba’s. Not once did he ever suspect his wish would come true. God’s plan? Or a divine joke? Who else but the Lord would deliver his love match to him in the form of a queen who was required to remain a virgin?

  Every other female swooned at his feet, overwhelmed by his wisdom and God-given powers, regardless of country, culture, or chastity. Not this one. She demurred, smiled, joked, and drove him mad with desire. His hands itched to explore every inch of her statuesque body, from her long graceful neck to her bejeweled fingers and toes.

  Her toes.

  Mid-step, he stumbled a bit on the dew slicked rocky surface. A soldier lurched forward to help, but Solomon waved the man away.

  He’d never seen her toes.

  Dressed in her finery, her feet were always tucked beneath her throne. Not even a glimpse of her toes peeked out when reclining on pillows to dine. Makeda managed to make his countrywomen appear clumsy by seating herself without flailing arms and legs.

  Damn Benaiah for planting a seedling of suspicion. The woman was modest. That was all. Her country expected her to cover her legs and ankles. When they went hunting, Makeda wore a sand-colored outfit that fit like a second skin and boots made from the hide of an antelope. Hair pulled away from her regal face, spear at the ready, no extraneous cloth impeded her lightning fast pursuit of the prey. Her prowess shamed the mightiest man in his guard. Benaiah remarked to Solomon about her hunting abilities, albeit in a begrudging tone of voice, saying if he had one warrior like her among his men, they’d never go hungry.

  Even the self-righteous Zadok remarked on her intelligence. She’d attended every festival over the past year, including the high holy days, and participated in every ritual. On the Day of Atonement, at the tossing of the scapegoat from the cliffs, Makeda asked for her sins to be taken with the animal. She fasted and prayed for her name to be inscribed in the book of life. His beloved rejoiced at the sounds of the rams’ horns sounding from the great walls of Jerusalem at the end of the day. And, at the harvest festival of Sukkot, Makeda formally rejected the sun god. His God was her one and only God, and the new God of the people of Sheba. Overwhelmed by her piety, Solomon fell more deeply in love with the Queen of the South. He wanted her more than ever. She was his true love. And she was breaking his heart.

  He closed his eyes, raised his arms, and prayed, his lips moving in silence. “Lord, I beg of you. Take this love sickness away from me. Make me the man I was before she arrived. Restore me to the stalwart, wise man you created that night on Gibeon.”

  “May I approach?”

  As if summoned by his prayer, Makeda stood before him, a lion at her side. His breath came in short, shallow puffs, and his heart thrummed in his ears.

  “Solomon, are you unwell?”

  He shook his head to clear away the fog seizing his brain and made his thoughts take flight. “Never better, now that you are here. I
see your constant companion is still at your side.”

  The lion inclined his head and lay down before his king.

  She rubbed his ear. “He is a noble fellow, brave and handsome.”

  “The Kingdom of Mannai sent me seven of their finest lion-men. They guard me where men cannot. Shirzad is yours now. He is the best, one of my favorites.” Solomon smiled. “Neither man, nor beast, nor shape-shifter can resist the charms of the magnificent Makeda.”

  She smiled and flushed from her long, lovely neck to the roots of her gold and jewel bedecked hair.

  “I’m here to share my travel plans with you. It is time for me to go. I cannot stay any longer.”

  His stomach plummeted. His prayer had been answered. Go? She couldn’t go. Not now, not ever. “No, please don’t leave me.”

  Makeda’s green eyes widened, and her eyebrows rose. He closed the gap between them and grasped her arms. “Marry me. I will make you queen of my nation, my primary wife. You will be the mother of my children, heirs to not one, but two great dynasties. You can keep your kingdom.”

  “You know I cannot do that. I must remain a virgin or lose my people, my throne. Everything.”

  He pulled her closer, risking the disapproving expressions of the soldiers who looked on and committed every word to memory for Benaiah. He didn’t care. He fell into the green pools of her eyes. Sandalwood, frankincense, and myrhh enveloped him in a heady mixture, sending shuddering waves of heat to his groin. He wanted to press his lips to hers, skim his hands across her silky skin, plunder her hidden treasure trove with his tongue, and be with her every night of his life.

  “Did your father intend for his dynasty to die with you? How can you have an empire if you don’t have offspring? Did he not wish for you to have the pleasure of a family? The joy of children’s laughter? The love of a man who wishes to fulfill your every desire?” Eyes blurry, voice husky, he whispered, “Do you not care for me?”

  Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Shoulders shaking, she shook her head. “I’m not made of stone. I feel much for your people, for you. I’ve wanted to be with you from the moment we met. Would you break the laws of your fathers? Would you abandon your nation? Please, don’t make me break my promise to my father and my country.”