Exquisite Captive

by Heather Demetrios

  But here on the beach, without her Ghan Aisouri sisters or the watchful eyes of the gryphon trainers, it was as if Nalia were understanding the poses for the first time. Leaping Phoenix was not simply a forward jump followed by a three-hundred-sixty-degree spin—suddenly it was a way to surprise her brother’s guards as she stormed the work camp the Ifrit had imprisoned him in. Each thrust or chop or punch, every backbend, seemed to bring her closer to Bashil. Nalia lost herself in the movement, becoming each pose so that her chiaan could find its most direct path through her blood.

  By the 715th position, Malek didn’t exist, Raif was a myth, and the bottle couldn’t hold her. She was Ghan Aisouri, protector of the realm, heir to the throne of Arjinna. She would save her brother and avenge the deaths of her mother, the empress, and the Ghan Aisouri who still hung from the palace’s front gates. She would kill Calar, the Ifrit usurper who now wore the Amethyst Crown, and destroy the monsters who had dared to enter the palace and defile her homeland with their dark magic. The chiaan grew within her, transporting Nalia into First Awareness, the state of mind in Sha’a Rho when the self has merged with the magic of the universe until they are one.

  Thrust. Kick. Flip. Bend. Slice.

  The thousandth pose: Faithful Warrior. Lying on the sand, palms up, Nalia closed her eyes to the brightening sky, took a deep breath, and held it, honoring the dead. Her skin tingled with the chiaan she had awakened, but she willed the magic to retreat deep inside her. Only when she began to slip out of consciousness did she take a breath, returning to herself and the world.

  Nalia sat on her knees and bowed low to the ground, pressing her forehead to the sand. She whispered her thanks to Tirgan, god of earth. Then she walked down to the water, setting her palms on the ocean’s frothy surface. Where her hands rested, the water lay still and silent. Again, she murmured words of gratitude, this time to Lathor, goddess of water. Then she lifted her palms to the sky, closing her eyes as the wind swirled around her. She once again honored Grathali, goddess of the wind. Finally, she walked to the far end of the beach and set a dry piece of driftwood in the sand, like a totem pole. She held her hands over the wood and chiaan burst from her fingers, a lightning bolt. The dry tinder turned blood red as the flames licked its surface. She gazed into the flames, chanting a last sadr—one of the hundreds of prayers in the Halamsa, the jinn holy book. This time the words were for Ravnir, god of fire.

  Hopeful that the gods were satisfied with her humble offerings, Nalia focused on an image of Malek’s mansion, willing herself to evanesce. Moments later, all that was left of her on the beach was the burning piece of driftwood and a few small footprints in the sand. Then a wave crashed on the shore, hungrily claiming even those remnants of the jinni’s presence.

  Hours later, as the sun’s parting rays glowed orange across her bedroom floor, igniting the blue velvet wallpaper and turning its fleurs-de-lis into glittering sapphires, Nalia lay curled on her bed, waiting for Malek to return home from his business meeting. She had no plan, other than to be with him as much as possible, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.

  Present itself for what, exactly?

  She blushed, remembering his kiss from the night before. Shame and horror mingled with expectation, a promise inside her like a flower clenched in a fist. She couldn’t want that again, that fire that threatened to burn her up. She couldn’t. Not after everything he’d done to her, the agonizing years of servitude and his twisted ways of making her yield.

  And yet the sensation of his lips on hers, so unexpectedly gentle, lingered. It made no sense, his courting her—as if they could be a normal couple. As if she had a choice.

  Nalia flipped onto her back, clutching the novel she’d been trying to read against her chest. It hadn’t been enough to distract her, though the human books that lined the walls of her bedroom could usually take the edge off her captivity. They were so different from the books in Arjinna, where the leather-bound tomes in the palace library served only as dry sources of information. Alchemy, mostly. How to bind the elements to one’s will in order to manifest, create illusions, command the seas, and speak with the wind. The novels Malek had given Nalia taught her about human nature, about the desires hidden deep within the hearts of the wishmakers she granted for; these human books were illusions in paper and ink, just as powerful as the kind Nalia could manifest out of thin air. Lost in the magic of story, Nalia had begun to understand what it meant to be human, to burn so brightly for such a short time, just a tenth of a jinni’s lifespan.

  But more than anything else, the novels taught her about love.

  The lonely hours spent reading human stories or watching films were all she’d ever known of love, any love, save her brother’s. The only time Nalia had heard the words I love you were when Bashil had whispered them, just once, in her ear. And now her brother’s life—and maybe that of countless other Arjinnans—depended on her ability to convince Malek that she had suddenly realized she was hopelessly in love with him. She needed a spell, some kind of jinn alchemy that she could use to trick Malek into thinking she cared, but it was the one magic that didn’t exist. Love couldn’t be wished for—even Malek knew that: You can’t grant me what I want. You have to give it to me. Someday you will.

  The Ghan Aisouri prided themselves on emotional detachment—Arjinna always came first. Nalia’s mother had never hugged her, and overlord Ajwar Shai’Dzar, her mother’s occasional nighttime companion and Nalia’s father, was only a ghostly presence in her life. She didn’t even know if he was alive, and the not knowing hurt more than she thought it would. Though she’d only ever seen him at court a handful of times, she remembered that he was quiet and gentle, a scholar reluctant to show necessary force with his serfs. He’d given her a book of spells once, when she came of age on her thirteenth birthday. She wondered where it was.

  An engine gunned in the driveway; Nalia felt Malek’s summons as soon as she heard his Aston Martin pull up in front of the mansion. It was only a slight pinch at her navel, but after what had happened with her master last night, this power he had to reach across space and touch her felt too intimate. Like a dark, secret thing only they knew about. She gripped the novel in her arms, suddenly terrified to see him—that kiss, so foreign, so unexpected. Before, she had only feared her master when the threat of the bottle pulsed under a moment, like last night’s granting for the client. This fear was different. It hid deep inside her, unraveling her sense of self, spinning Nalia into confusion. The Ghan Aisouri didn’t train for dealing with that.

  Malek had been gone by the time she returned from her Sha’a Rho exercises on the beach, and the only way she’d known she was going to see him later in the day was a small note on the breakfast tray Delson brought up. Her master’s elegant script on thick cream paper had simply said, I’m taking you out tonight.

  Nalia sat up and slipped on a pair of intricately beaded flats that Leilan had gotten her from the Venice boardwalk. It was silly, she knew, but wearing the shoes gave her courage, as if her one friend on Earth was going on the date with her. Nalia stepped in front of the gilded floor-length mirror in the corner of her room and adjusted the sleeveless, black sundress she’d chosen for its low cut and the way it accentuated all the places on her body Malek’s eyes were drawn to. She sprayed on the perfume her master had given her a few months ago—he’d had it made for her in Mumbai, a smoky scent that hinted at secret trysts and honeyed promises. The night he’d given it to her was the first time Nalia had noticed the shift in his attention. It was subtle, that move from brusque taskmaster to charming suitor. But as the weeks went on, it became more and more impossible to ignore the comments, the gifts, the late-night chats. Then there was his kiss. It had set something in motion, pulling them somewhere Nalia had never been.

  She took one last look in the mirror. Malek’s lapis lazuli necklace glimmered against her bronze skin. She brushed her fingertips across it, thinking of Bashil, of home, and the price she would have to pay to get the
re. It was a simple plan, really: seduce her master. Sleep with him, which would require taking the bottle off. And after, when he’s lying in bed, content and deep in sleep, steal the bottle and let Raif do his magic.

  But her plan didn’t feel simple, not at all.

  Malek was waiting for her outside, smoking a cigarette and staring at the fountain beside the door—a large stone angel he’d gotten from Rome, a Michelangelo coveted by every museum in the world. Bright pink bougainvillea tumbled over the porch’s stone railing and twisted around the columns that bordered the front door, the vibrant blossoms perfectly offsetting Malek’s dark hair and suit.

  “Hello,” he said, turning around as she pushed through the door. He threw the cigarette down and stamped it out. His eyes immediately strayed to her necklace and he smiled. She wondered if he was thinking about the kiss.

  Nalia forced her lips up and gestured to her sundress. “Is this all right or . . . ?”

  Malek reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “Perfect. Come on.”

  He kept her hand in his as they walked to the Aston Martin, though it was only a few steps away. She looked at the once-

  broken windows of the car with satisfaction. She’d spent an hour that morning fixing the damage she and Raif had wrought on the cars in the garage during their fight. Every car now looked as good as new.

  “Your note was very mysterious,” she said, hoping her words would distract him from the waves of self-loathing that were rolling off her.

  “Was it?” he said, pleased. “I’m taking you to my favorite place in the city. I want to celebrate.”

  He held the door of the tiny sports car open for her and she slid onto the black leather seat. Delson rushed onto the porch, holding up a cell phone, but Malek waved his hand as he walked over to the driver’s side.

  “No calls tonight,” he said. Delson gave a short bow, his eyes flitting to Nalia but his face otherwise expressionless. She wasn’t sure what she saw in the servant’s eyes—pity?

  “What are we celebrating?” she asked as Malek started the engine. She clutched her purse and thin sweater in her lap as though this could somehow protect her from his advances.

  He looked over at her, then put the car in drive. “New beginnings.”

  Malek didn’t elaborate as they drove down the steep hill and into the city. Instead he told her about Dubai, how he’d make sure she went with him next time.

  “You can even go skiing, if you want,” he said. “They have an indoor slope. You’d like it, I think.”

  Nalia shook her head. “I doubt it. If jinn want to go down a mountain quickly, we can just evanesce to the bottom.”

  Malek laughed, the sound surprisingly rich and boyish. Nalia realized she’d never heard him truly laugh before. “It’s not about getting to the bottom, hayati. It’s about the rush. Magic is too easy. It takes all the fun out of things.”

  She considered that for a moment, then nodded. Her time on Earth had given Nalia an appreciation for nonmagical skills. It was amazing, the things humans could accomplish without the aid of chiaan. Unlike the humans, her people had never discovered a way to visit their moons and planets—Nalia thought it must be a fearsome and wonderful thing to fly among the stars.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I suppose having both would be ideal.”

  Malek merged into the long line of traffic on Sunset, ignoring the blaring horn and middle finger from the Mercedes he’d cut off. “What did you do while I was abroad?” he asked.

  Nalia closed the air vents on her side of the car—as usual, he had the heater on even though it was still warm outside.

  “Nothing, really. I drove a lot.”

  He smiled, pleased. “I knew you’d like that car.”

  Nalia had begun to think of each word, each lingering glance she bestowed on him, as moves on a chess board. “It’s perfect.” She imagined one of the Ghan Aisouri’s gryphons smacking her on the arm or leg with a wooden pole. She had to go one step further. “You know me better than I thought you did.”

  “I’m glad you’ve finally noticed,” he said, his voice soft.

  She’d worried that he would be suspicious of her sudden interest in him, but he seemed . . . happy. Maybe even a little relieved. Malek pulled up in front of a low building with looping white letters shining above a marquee: SILENT MOVIE THEATRE. Nalia furrowed her brow.

  “Silent movie? What’s that?” she asked.

  “The first kind of film—well before your time. The actors play out their roles, but instead of hearing their words, you read them on the screen.”

  “Why?”

  “They didn’t have the technology back then.” He shrugged. “Personally, I think they’re better than the ones they make now.”

  “And this is your favorite place in the city?”

  He smiled. “Yes. Surprised?”

  “A little,” she said. He raised his eyebrows. “All right, a lot.”

  “There’s more to me than you think, Nalia,” he said, his face suddenly serious.

  She swallowed. “I know.”

  Malek leaned toward her, one hand tracing her jaw. Nalia froze as his lips moved closer to hers. The heat in the car was stifling and his fingers on her jaw, now her neck, her collarbone, seemed to sear the skin beneath them. And she knew she had to let this happen, she knew, but there was no air, just heat and Malek so close. And, unlike her convertible, Malek’s car was entirely enclosed. The steel was sickmaking and it seemed to fold in on her, confining, like the bottle—

  Nalia put her hands on his chest and pushed him away, panic overriding her desperation for the bottle around his neck. “Malek, I can’t breathe—”

  Something flashed in his eyes, but when he leaned back and saw her face, he softened. Malek turned off the engine and jumped out of the car, throwing the keys at the valet who’d been waiting inconspicuously in front of the theater. He went around to Nalia’s side and opened her door, shielding her from the passing cars.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, as she stumbled out. She let him guide her onto the sidewalk.

  After a few moments, she nodded. “I’m sorry.” She hated that she had to apologize to him—the words tasted like iron, coming out of her mouth. “It was the heat. I’m fine now.” She glanced at him. “Why do you always like it so damn hot?”

  He frowned. “I feel unwell otherwise.” There was clearly more to it than that, but he didn’t elaborate. “Let’s get you inside.”

  Nalia tried to relax into his arm around her shoulder, but she was sure he felt her stiffness. A quick look at him didn’t reveal anything. Malek looked as in control of the world as ever.

  8

  NALIA WASN’T SURPRISED TO SEE THAT MALEK HAD rented out the whole theater. She couldn’t imagine him occupying the same space as average humans, sitting beside them during a film, or waiting in line to buy a ticket. A gangly teenager stood behind the concessions stand, eyeing them curiously, but other than that, they were alone. Nalia smiled despite herself. She was certain Malek didn’t know of her frequent attendance at Hollywood’s many cinemas. It was one of her favorite things about Earth—sharing a dark room with hundreds of strangers, immersing herself in a soup of raw emotion. Like the books, movies made her forget she wasn’t human. For a little while, she was right where she belonged.

  Malek tilted his head to the side, watching her.

  “What?” she asked, flushing.

  “Nothing,” he said. “It’s just nice to see you happy.”

  She wasn’t happy. That would require wrists without shackles and dozens of jinn to come back from the dead. Happiness was Bashil in her arms and Arjinnan soil under her bare feet, not a date with her master. But Malek had caught her in an unguarded moment of enjoyment, something she’d have to beat herself up for later. How could she smile about anything when all that was left of her childhood were skeletons swinging under Arjinnan stars and a deep, gut-wrenching regret?

  He walked toward the concession counter. “
Do you want anything?”

  She shook her head, but he got a tub of popcorn anyway, then guided her through the lobby, his hand on the small of her back. The black-and-white posters and warm light sconces that covered the walls gave way to a small hallway that led to the theater’s one auditorium. Faint music rippled from underneath the closed set of doors, a happy tune that clashed with the fear inside her. She’d rather face ten Ifrit assassins than sit alone with Malek in a darkened movie theater.

  “After you,” he said.

  His eyes were bright with excitement, and Nalia pushed through the doors, bemused. She almost missed the Malek of the past three years—his cruelty or indifference was so much easier to bear than whatever this was.

  “As you can see, we have our pick,” he said, his arm sweeping over roughly two hundred empty seats in the intimate space.

  A short, bald man wearing an old-fashioned suit played a piano near the stage at the front of the auditorium. He glanced over his shoulder and gave Malek a brief nod before continuing the jaunty Gershwin tune. A few spotlights focused on the red velvet curtains that hid the movie screen from sight. The room was dim, save for the spotlights and a few sconces on the walls.

  “Where do you usually sit?” she asked.

  He led her to the back row, under the cutout for the projector. Nalia settled into the velvet seat beside Malek and he leaned back with a contented sigh as the curtains drew back and the projector shot a beam of light onto the blank screen.

  Malek drew close to her, whispering even though there was no real need. “I used to come to the cinema all the time after I moved here from Saudi Arabia.”

  “When was that?”

  “Nineteen twenty. We had to . . . get away from some problems there.” He coughed, suddenly uncomfortable. Another first for Malek. “People started noticing I wasn’t aging—it became complicated. I’ve lived in LA off and on since then.”

  She wondered if he’d ever tell her what magic ran through his veins, but somehow Nalia knew the question would break the mood, send Malek into one of his random rages. It puzzled her how he could see her perform magic every day, yet believe, as he’d once told her, that there were no gods. How then could he explain the wonder of eluding death?