by Stephen Ayer
Groups of djinn mingled about, drinking, speaking, all dressed in a fashion Frank took to be outdated yet new. Beyond the servants and the guests, dancers, nude but for their gauzy silken veils, danced to the rhythm of the band, hypnotically bending and twisting, arresting Frank’s attention, at once as quick as a flame’s flicker and as flowing as a water’s wind.
Once he changed his gaze, he felt as if the colors in the world suddenly muted, the notes that hung in his ears not as resplendent. Reason entered his soul again just as enchantment left. “Show me the man. Let’s make this quick.”
Basima looked around, but dully, her eyes glazed, her spirit lost in the reveries unique to her kind. “He will... be hard to find... so many.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe not.”
He knew the man the instant he saw the crowd around him. Vazim. The man turned at Frank’s approach, his fire bright blue eyes flitting to Basima, drinking in her low cut dress, its pitch cloth clinging to her like a shadow. “Ah, an outlander... my parties are so loud that even witch kin come to visit!”
Many in the crowd turned to Frank and chuckled, while others kept watching, intrigued by the outsider in their ranks. The vampire watched them in turn, picking out the watchful, impassive faces and guarded stances.
Got maybe seven or eight guns in this group right here.
Vazim looked back to Basima. “And what a treat you’ve brought me...”
“I’m with him.” she said, clinging more closely to Frank.
Frank smiled and pushed her off. “You can have her. Where’s the drinks?”
Gonna need an escape before I pull trigger. Need to plan.
A look of indignation flashed over Vazim’s face at his abruptness before assuming the mask of gregarious host once more. “You’ll have to find one of my servants. They wear the purple—”
Frank turned away before he finished, scoping out the only thing that danced with his love for blood: alcohol.
Before long the vampire was drawn to the bar, its counter lit up in blooming tones of golden luminescence. The bartender, clad in purple so dark it seemed black but for how the light hit it, gave Frank a strange glance, unused to men of such outlandish bearing.
“Give me something. I don’t care what.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair as the djinn tended to his order. How the fuck have I gone on this long not knowing about these bastards? He eyed Basima in the back, brushing herself up on Vazim, the Emir’s eyes brightening with each affection the beauty deigned to give. An underground... shadow city... right beneath Rabat. What the hell else have I missed?
“Your drink, sir.” said the bartender, sliding a chilled, amber glass in front of Frank. As small as the thing was, it seemed to have a stem of sorts, narrower than its top and bottom yet thicker than the stem of a wine glass. The tapered top of the glass reminded Frank of a sliced open bamboo chute.
Need to go to China again.
He shrugged at the glass’s shape and slammed the liquor back. It was sweet upon his tongue and hot along his throat. He pushed the glass forward. “Another.”
Pretty sure there ain’t any crazy shit underneath Hong Kong.
New glass and new drink slid into his cold fingers.
Frank slammed down the golden liquid again, sighing loudly. “Goddamn...” The burn was there, the buzz was not. His coagulated blood could not push the intoxicants through unless he had a fresh, hot red drink of what gave life to his undeath. He eyed the crowd, his killer instincts looking for the isolated and intoxicated.
The djinn’s manner of dress was not too far off from that of the mortal’s above. Collars were longer, jackets were predominant, their palettes mostly black with flashes of color, lush red silks, dark blues, vibrant green gowns and many flashes of orange and gold, whether it be on a tie or the frills at the end of a dress, false fire played in all designs.
Not one was dressed in a style Frank would call casual.
The djinn themselves were beautiful, their flesh barely able to contain the vitality of such brilliant and fiery spirits. Eye colors were akin to that of Man, blues, greens and ambers, but each contained a shine and vividness more common to witchbreed than those of mortal blood. Emotions and expressions were punctuated with a flash of golden orange, the flames of their being clouding their irises in a show of regal light.
The dance, dress and decadence of all involved could not help but conjure memories for the vampire, the bacchanal balls of the Night Courts, the stillness of their reverie and the blood that flowed so wildly beneath it all, all seemed as a twisted reflection of what happened here. Frank’s kin danced beneath the silver pools of the moon, their flesh just as white, while these creatures flowed under the golden glow of fire, smooth muscles moving underneath skins that were as bronze.
He eyed one woman out of the crowd, laughing loud, her joy turning her gaze to burning gold.
He wanted to join.
He wanted to drink.
“There you are.”
Fuck.
Frank looked over his shoulder and saw Basima. “Hey.”
“Emir Vazim wishes to entertain us... alone.”
Frank gave her a nod, but kept his eyes on the woman, drawn to the lush and soft expanse of her neck. “There you go. You got this. Tell me when you’re done.”
“I’m not the best at that kind of thing...”
Frank sighed and looked over his shoulder. His eyes roved over Basima’s sensuous curves, the way her silken black dress seemed to glide along her mahogany skin. “Better find someone who is.” He laughed while she fumed.
“Frank... please...”
“Relax. I know what you’re made of.” He pulled her close by the waist and whispered in her ear. “And it’s nothing strong. I’ll kill the fucker.”
And bring you back to your cousin a few quarts low.
He got off his stool and turned in time to see Vazim emerge from the crowd, his hand held out. “Shall we?”
The vampire followed the invitation.
***
Frank followed Vazim through the dim corridors of his home. The music of the Emir’s party was almost muted here, the strange strains of djinn merrymaking muffled by plush silence, the wild colors of the ball room exchanged for a palette of muted golds and austere black panels.
The vampire’s eyes drifted to the murals carved within the wood, mesmerized by pulsating glow that traced each line, swoop and curve, as if the flames themselves inhabited the depictions, hot enough to give them life but not to burn the whole building down.
The renderings were chiseled with impossibly straight lines, and within the lines glowed passionate golden orange light. They depicted various glories and conflicts, bygone scenes of djinn temptresses before old Eastern kings and fantastic battles between Saracens and other otherworldly forces.
Vazim beamed with pride as the colors drenched Frank and Basima in a lambent gold shine. “A people without their history is not a people, no more than a man is a man without his, merely some flickering soul doomed to pass from this world without note...”
Frank stared hard into Vazim’s eyes, enough to give the Emir pause, before new colors shone on the trio.
Great wars between the djinn themselves were depicted. Djinn composed of ocherous flames clashed against brethren wreathed in reddish white fire who in in turn directed their spiteful blades upon djinn blazed in vivid blue cinders. The blue ones sometimes were depicted with an undercurrent of dark violet light, much in the same manner how Frank’s lighter often had a blue glow underneath the body of yellow flame.
“If we fade, this will not. Djinn flames are quite unlike any other. And for that, I needed a sculptor unlike any other.” Vazim continued and pointed a finger at Frank. “A curious woodsman was my answer. He said he learned his craft in your very own Calanar! Probably a lie but his results speak for themselves, wouldn’t you say?”
Basima’s eyes twinkled as she brushed her hand down Vazim’s arm. “Oh yes.” The three-way war of
fered a vibrant contrast in comparison to all the other murals depicted in roiling orange light. Reds and violets reflected in her glassy eyes, her voice full of genuine admiration. “Worth... every... coin.”
Frank smirked at that. He knew the sound of sins as well he knew the taste of them, and from Basima’s mouth seeped nothing but envy.
The further they progressed, the more brutal the depictions became. Golden djinn skewered their brethren upon their pikes while the red ones set upon them with their bare hands, tearing at their heads and eyes like savages. All the while the djinn clad in azure flame stood from up high and washed their foes away in a wave of brilliant fire.
Frank noticed that out of the violet streaked sapphire conflagration rose a figure drawn far larger than the rest, glowing in resplendent tones of gold and unearthly flame, with a head that blazed like a forest’s end and eyes that burned hotter than hate itself. A champion. With a sword in one hand and a hammer in the other, he smote his rivals into supplication, until he took a throne, and the djinn were united under one banner.
“Inspirational isn’t it?” said Vazim, watching with amusement Frank’s look of awe.
“Yeah...” He looked back to the Emir. “Very impressive.”
“There are many lords there, like Prince Azash. He fought alongside your Almoravids and drove the Ifrit from Marrakesh... right under the nose of the great Yusuf ibn Tashfin...
The Night Courts talked about that bastard. About all they did.
“The greatest one you see on the wall is King Amarr.” Vazim smirked and gave Basima a knowing look. “One of your ancestors, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes...” she said quietly and looked down.
“If Emir Navras did not maintain such good health, we might have had a third Queen of Flames.” He stopped to maintain his stare on the demure woman. “How... monumental... that would be.”
New light flickered onto the party, soft whiteness fell on Vazim’s shoulders. He smiled and turned around. “And now my crowning achievement...” said Vazim, spreading his arms wide, “... and his,” remembering the deft hands that made his dream of opulence manifest.
At the hallway’s end was a mural, far larger than the one with scenes of djinn conflict. Whereas the previous murals ran along the direction of the hallway, from left to right, this one ran from top to bottom.
At the very top was a medley of white light bursting with undertones of shimmering, prismatic color. Below it were two glowing hands, also flaming white. In the left hand there was a smokeless ball of flame, rendered in the golden orange tones that dominated the hall’s friezes. In the right hand, there was a pair of wings, with simplistically rendered rays of heavenly light shining out between them.
In between the hands was a vast multitude of tiny, multicolored orbs. Cosmic dust or perhaps even the stars themselves, Frank could not tell. His eyes roved further down. The flame turned to the shape of the djinn, and the wings of the other took the shape of an angel, while the dust was more concentrated but still indistinct.
Further down, a great battle raged. A tall, radiant angel raised his sword against his brothers, rallying not only other angels, but some of the djinn as well as a horde of other monstrous beings. While the traitors were cast down into a runged abyss spotted with sanguine flame, some further still were imprisoned within a darker place far below it.
By now his eyes were half-way down the wall and the three creations had defined their own places well. The dust from before had fully formulated into the shape of a man, standing on patches of earthen emerald. The djinn were on the planet as well but stood on every part outside of the green while the angels stood guard in a circle around the sphere.
The Children of Fire, Light and Dust had their domains to cover, and for a time, it was good. Frank was well aware of the old stories, but not this one. There was no forbidden fruit in this mural, no snake, only what happened after The Fall.
Conflict.
Scenes of disagreement. Petulant men and noble djinn came to fore with meddling angels in between. The lords of fire refused to yield before the sons of earth, and did what was in their nature. Burn. Another illumination came after the argument. The planet was covered in flames, primordial lands and earliest Man used as tinder to flourish and thrive.
The second to last picture showed a great lord among the angels, clashing against the assembled champions of the djinn. It was as detailed and sprawling as the earlier image when it was angel against angel. This time however, the defeated were not relegated to the abyss, but cast into flesh, which was as dust to their flames, the rest of the race exiled into shadow, a separate dimension where they blazed as suns in the dark.
It was out of this, came the final rendering, perched just above the arch of the hall’s exit. The image of earth was reversed, this time in a surreal, glowing shadow, and out of it sprung the djinn of varying hues and flames, their exile having cost them their unity as Babel did to imperious Man.
The arch of multicolored djinn loomed in sight, throwing its mix of gold, sapphire and ruby light on the moving column. The procession fell under the passageway’s shadow. Only the smoldering eyes of the djinn and the red stars of the vampire’s pocked the darkness.
As Frank and Basima entered the darkened lounge, Vazim snapped his fingers and the place lit up. Cylindrical stones lay embedded in the walls, their middles cut with diamonds, clouded with ochre flame. The room slowly expanded with warm light, but enough shadow remained to catch Frank’s eye.
The dark was no less strange than light in this underworld, and the vampire caught the shadows coil and smoke in corners. Fingers of pitch retreated from the lamp’s glow, leaving sable residue on the walls that darkened and lightened to the strength of the flames.
The vampire found a couch and slumped down with a sigh. He pulled loose a cigarette while Vazim poured himself some arak, and then mixed it with other liquids until it resembled a glass of iced caramel. Basima only stood, making light conversation with the other guests in the room.
Vazim sat down on the couch, right next to Frank, taking up as much space as possible. The vampire only stared forward and put the cigarette in his mouth. The Emir’s eyes flashed for a breath and the tip of the cigarette suddenly glowed orange.
“Nice trick.”
Vazim grinned. “In Ralshalba, all is possible.”
Frank puffed on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose, rather than respond. Funny how that works. Princes of fire in the shadow... princes of ain’t shit in the light.
“So... Frank... eh... not the first name that comes to mind when I think of your kind. What brings you from the clouds? Not many leave, so you must know of the one... who escaped.” Vazim chuckled and then drank his liquor, amused with his musings.
Has to mean the witch with the demon. “Yeah. Crazy bitch.” He assumed what Vazim assumed and was rewarded as if he knew all along.
“Mmm. Aren’t they always? Witch blood is rich with madness.”
“She ain’t why I’m here.” Frank slowly turned his head to the Emir, his voice low enough to not be overheard. “And I’m not a warlock. I’m here to kill you.” He took another puff.
Vazim choked on his drink and bumped his chest with his fist “Wha-what!?”
“Be cool. Ain’t shit gonna happen while I still got this cig.” Smoke rushed through his nostrils. “Navras wants your royal ass in a coffin. He also wants my ass in a coffin.” He puffed again. “So I’m thinking... you want to live. I want to leave. You gimme a getaway and I’ll give you a life. And I’ll throw in Basima too.”
“This is... unprecedented.” A shadow came across the Emir’s face and he motioned for his men to come closer. “But what’s to stop me from disposing of you and taking Basima for myself?”
Frank turned his head once more and extinguished the cigarette in his palm. “Nothing. Better be damn sure of your men though, ‘cause you’re about to find out exactly what you paid for.”
Vazim rapped his finge
rs along the arm rest. “Hmm.” He eyed the trio of guards that had come up behind the couch. All gripped their weapons, swaying on their feet, not eager to be measured on Frank’s scale. “That’s not something I need answered right now.”
“Good man.”
Vazim’s men relaxed, some exhaled. “As for your getaway... it can be arranged. It will attract undue attention to myself, but then again... so would death, so I can’t say I give a damn.”
“The sound of a man whose realized what’s most important.” Frank stood up and beckoned Vazim. He eyed Basima in the back, her eyes quick and smile bright, so ensconced in her deception she was lost in it, oblivious to what conspired to put her in chains once more.
Vazim took the hint and moved away from the crowd with discretion. “Many questioned why I built my estate in one of the poorest parts of the city.” Bodyguards filed in behind the duo. “Let me show you why. And Emir Navras thought he had the only one...” he chuckled to himself and lead the way.
The vampire stalked shadows and salvation.
“I must ask you...” said Vazim, as he lead Frank down spiraling stone stairs, “to make as little noise as possible once we arrive.” He stopped before a doorway that was like a triangle, divided into three sections, each black piece alive with golden orange sigils. “The shadows here... are not as bound to our will as they are elsewhere.”
Frank looked past the djinn, his eyes redder than ever in the dark. “No one likes me when I’m silent.” he said in a low voice, the quiet magnifying his words.
“And why’s that?”
“Things don’t end well for them.”
Vazim let out a nervous laugh. “Oh. Well you don’t need to be that quiet, just... be aware.”
Always.
The djinn turned around and the triangle door pulled away from three angles. Beyond, the darkness was lit like the cosmos, pinpricks of amber light floating in the shadows. A certain fog hung in the air, and set aglow by the false stars, clung to the stonework in hazy veils of shifting gold.