Exquisite Captive

by Heather Demetrios

  Sergei checked the large, expensive-looking watch on his wrist. “I need to be in Paris in twelve hours.”

  How many lives could she save if she granted him the wish the way she wanted to: give him the immortality he’d asked for, but with a twist? She’d turn him to stone. Carve him out of granite and let him spend the whole of his earthly existence standing in the middle of this loft. Humans thought stone was dead, but they were wrong, of course. You can’t draw power from a dead thing, and some of her strongest chiaan came out of stone. It would be so satisfying, to work the magic, then open her eyes to see a permanent howl of dismay on Sergei’s ugly face.

  “I can see you scheming, jinni-girl. I’m not one of your virgin clients, I know I have to be specific. So put this in your contract: I wish to live forever, to be immortal, as myself, Sergei Federov: a human, a Russian, a Titan.”

  She’d read the human myths—the titans were, ironically, stone gods, the first of the human gods. But she couldn’t make a man a god. Nobody could.

  “Let’s leave the Titan part out, shall we?”

  Sergei gave her an indulgent smile. “All right, jinni-girl.”

  “Oh . . . there’s one other thing you’ll need to do in order for me to grant this.”

  “More?”

  “A slight detail I might have forgotten to mention. What I’m about to give you is called Draega’s Amulet. I can’t grant it unless you give up the thing you love most in the world,” she said.

  “Very funny, jinni-girl.”

  Nalia pointed to her face. “Do I look like I’m being funny?”

  “Not so much, no.” Sergei lit another cigarette and took a long drag. “This changes things.”

  “Not to me. The price of my services is what we agreed to. But the gods need a little kickback—you’re Russian, you know what that’s all about. Think of it as a tax.” She cocked her head to the side, watching Sergei fume. “Don’t tell me you don’t love anything?”

  Sergei started yelling at her in Russian—unfortunately, she understood every word. She hated living up to the stereotype of the trickster jinni, but she didn’t really have a choice. If she’d told Sergei about the cost of the amulet right away, she never would have gotten him to agree to her terms.

  “Da,” he finally said. There was a flicker of sorrow in his emotionless eyes. Just the tiniest bit of regret.

  Nalia shivered. The gods would accept anything as tribute—she hoped it wasn’t a person that Sergei loved most in the world. She’d seen it happen before. When Nalia first learned to create the amulet, her tutor had brought in a Shaitan who had traded holdings in his estate just to set up his meeting with Nalia. When she told him the cost of immortality, the overlord had spent several long minutes in anguished, silent prayer. Then he’d agreed to her price. As soon as he made his silent promise to the gods his daughter, who had accompanied him, dropped to the floor.

  “You’ll need to remove your shirt,” she said.

  “Oh, jinni-girl, I don’t think Malek will be liking that.”

  Nalia gave him a loaded look, then pulled the contract out of her back pocket, tapped it once, and handed it to Sergei. She’d create the fake one for Malek after she granted Sergei his wish. He looked it over and then held out his hand—he knew the drill. Nalia took her dagger out of her boot and whispered a word of power over it so that he wouldn’t become paralyzed by the Aisouri blade. Then she pierced his thick skin. Sergei pressed the drop of blood on his finger against the paper, then handed her a business card with a number written on the back of it.

  “This is what you’re giving Malek in exchange for immortality?” she asked in disbelief.

  “It’s a code. To a safe. A very important safe—and I’ve already said too much.” Sergei began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Sergei?”

  “What now?”

  Nalia held up her dagger and grinned. “This is going to hurt like a bitch.”

  “I’d expect nothing less from you, jinni-girl.” He threw his shirt to the ground and took one last puff on his cigarette before stubbing it out. “Now make me live forever.”

  21

  NALIA KNOCKED ON THE DOOR TO JORDIF’S LOFT, HER body shaking with anger. She hadn’t stopped to think about what she’d say to the traitorous bastard, what she would do. She was running off pure adrenaline, forgetting, for the moment, about Haran and the bottle. As soon as she’d finished performing the taxing magic Sergei’s wish had required of her, Nalia had evanesced straight to Jordif’s loft, with no other thought than to hurt him.

  Badly.

  Zanari answered on the second knock. Her eyes were heavy and glazed over. When she saw Nalia, she smiled with relief.

  “Oh, thank gods. I saw you with some huge wishmaker with a black beard and I thought he was going to—”

  “Where is he?” Nalia said, her voice a vicious bark. She could only focus on one thing right now, and Zanari’s vision wasn’t it.

  Zanari flinched. “Raif? He’s looking for the Shaitan you told him about.”

  Nalia shook her head. “Jordif.” She pushed past Zanari into the loft, her fury rolling off her in waves, charging the air. The lights flickered and a gust of wind blew through the open window, scattering the pages of an open newspaper.

  Zanari closed the door behind her, frowning. “He’s at the portal. A group of refugees is coming in from Arjinna. Orphans.”

  Nalia felt the blood drain out of her. Was there no end to the evil that plagued the dark caravan? Children. Children whose whole world up until this point was war and suffering, orphans who were reeling from the loss of people they loved and were too trusting to realize the slave traders meant them harm. Nalia could picture them, young jinn stuck in iron-coated bottles, drugged and confused. Scared.

  And Jordif knew. Jordif was letting it happen.

  “Gods,” she growled. “That filthy skag.”

  Zanari raised her eyes at Nalia’s coarse language. “I see you’ve been spending more time with my brother. Couple more days with him and you’ll be a regular tavrai.”

  Nalia ignored her, pacing the room, her mind reeling. She had to get to the portal. Maybe there was still time.

  “Um . . . Nalia?”

  Zanari was staring at Nalia’s fingertips. Golden flames were flowing out of them, curling up toward the ceiling. Nalia clenched her fists and the flames disappeared. Times like these, it was impossible to forget that a part of her shared the depthless rage of the Ifrit. A murderous fury was building in her, a bloodlust that needed to be satiated. Her fingers trembled, longing to hold her jade dagger and feel it plunge into a beating heart. Zanari moved toward her, but Nalia jerked away.

  “Don’t. I can’t . . . I’m losing my mind,” Nalia whispered. She clasped her hands together, afraid they’d do the violence she knew they were capable of. She looked up at Zanari. “I have to go. I need to stop him. There must be a way to—”

  “Nalia, what are you talking about? Stop who?”

  “Jordif! He’s—he’s—” Flames shot out of her fingers. “Godsdammit!”

  “Okay, sister, you really need to tell me what’s going on.” Zanari gripped her elbow and guided her toward the wall of water that moved in an endless free fall on one side of the room. “Why don’t you calm down for a minute—before you burn the whole building down?”

  Nalia thrust her hands into the water. She heard a slight sizzle as her skin made contact with the element, and she was immediately flooded with a sense of calm. Images of still lake water, the sea kissing the shore, and summer rain whipped through her mind. As the bewitched fountain filled her with its soothing energy, Nalia thought of those hours in the ocean the day before, of its delicious waves and the sense of emptiness she’d felt. When her chiaan had settled, Nalia took her hands out of the water and wiped them on her jeans.

  “Now for the love of the gods, would you please tell me what’s going on?” Zanari asked.

  “You can’t trust Jordif anymore,” Nalia said. />
  Zanari nodded. “I know. I can’t get a read on what exactly he’s up to, but Raif and I both feel something isn’t right.”

  “Jordif’s the one behind the slave trade—on Earth’s end, anyway.”

  “What?”

  Nalia repeated what Sergei had told her. As she spoke, the expression on Zanari’s face turned from one of disbelief to disgust.

  “I don’t understand. What can the Ifrit possibly be giving him in exchange? This Sergei wishmaker gets the jinn and the Ifrit take the guns . . . what does Jordif stand to gain?”

  “I have no idea. Immunity? Couldn’t the Ifrit come here and screw around with us if they wanted to?”

  “Screw around?”

  “Human expression.” Nalia shook her head. “What I mean is, it’s a bit suspicious that the Ifrit aren’t here, demanding our fealty. Why aren’t they forcing those jinn who aren’t on the dark caravan to get more guns for them? Jordif must have bargained with the Ifrit. They stay out of his hair, he stays out of theirs. Or something like that.”

  Zanari muttered under her breath as she stalked off to the kitchen.

  “I need a drink,” she called. “Come in here.”

  Nalia followed the other girl into the brightly lit kitchen. “We have to stop them, Zanari. We can’t just stay here and drink while people—kids—are suffering—”

  “Welcome to the party, sister,” Zanari said, her voice edged.

  Nalia narrowed her eyes. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Zanari took a bottle out of a cupboard and slammed two thick glasses on the counter.

  “I’ve spent my whole life fighting. First your kind, then the Ifrit. You think I don’t know that there’s a lot of messed-up stuff going on out there?”

  Nalia blanched. “Look, all I’m saying is that I’m tired of seeing so much suffering—”

  “You mean like when you went on Ghan Aisouri raids? Or fought my family during the uprisings?”

  The air crackled with chiaan, an invisible lightning storm of raw energy.

  “Yes,” Nalia said quietly. She looked into Zanari’s eyes. “That’s what I mean.”

  She’d never forget the faces full of fear. How the mothers held their children tight against their chests when Nalia and the other Aisouri rode by on the gryphons. The tracks of tears running down dirty cheeks. Serfs bowing in the mud, pressing their foreheads on the ground in a desperate show of respect. The Shaitan overlords’ whips cracking against Djan and Marid skin.

  Zanari’s face softened and she ran a hand through her already messy hair. “Look. I’d be out there in a second if I thought it would make a difference, and that’s the truth. But here’s how it would play out: the Ifrit kill me and maybe you win the fight with them, depending on how many there are. Then what? Haran’s closer than ever and your master could summon you at any moment, so you won’t have much time. And what are you gonna do, bring all these orphans home to Malek?”

  Nalia knew Zanari was right. But after deciding she was going to stop the caravan, she couldn’t sit this one out.

  “It’ll just keep happening,” she said. “Over and over. If nobody stops it . . .”

  “That’s why the resistance needs you, Nalia. If we can take down the Ifrit, the slave trade ends. But we can’t do that without the sigil. And we can’t get the sigil without you.” She offered Nalia a grim smile. “Basically, we really don’t want you to die. And if you go out there like you’re Antharoe brought back from the dead, you’ll be of no use to us.”

  The ancients called Antharoe the Fearless One. It was said that she’d defeated the dark gods and drove them over the Qaf Mountains at the point of her sword, forcing them into Ithkar, where the Ifrit had lived for centuries.

  Nalia snorted. “I’m no Antharoe.”

  She turned away and leaned against the counter, the weight of what Zanari was saying sinking in. She couldn’t afford to die, not now. She was so close.

  Bashil.

  A ghost of a smile dusted her face as she thought of him running through the palace gardens, his face and hands smeared with couloms, the succulent berries that hung from the bright orange leaves of the grisim tree in the spring. But at what point was her brother’s life too high a cost? Her shackles caught the kitchen light and she pulled at them, knowing they wouldn’t come off, maybe not ever, but trying anyway. The gold bit into her bruised skin, but she knew that twitch of pain was nothing compared to what those kids were going to feel tonight. And just that thought made her tired, so godsdamned tired.

  Nalia wished she knew how to give up.

  She felt Zanari’s hand on her arm, warm and reassuring. Nalia was grateful the other jinni wasn’t touching her bare skin. She feared all Zanari would feel would be Nalia’s urge to destroy something.

  “If we can get the ring and turn the war around, we’ll make them pay for what they’ve done,” Zanari said.

  She filled the glasses on the counter with thick, red wine, then handed one to Nalia.

  “What should we drink to?” Nalia asked.

  Zanari shoved the bottle to the side and sat on top of the counter. “To the revolution,” she said. “Kajastriya vidim.”

  Light to the revolution.

  Nalia hesitated, then raised her glass. “Kajastriya vidim.” She took a large drink. The wine was sweet, with bits of fruit and cloves and spicy liquor.

  “It’s as close to savri as I can get here,” Zanari said.

  Nalia nodded. “It’s good.” An idea began to form in her mind. “Do you have another bottle of this?”

  “It’s been that bad of a day, huh?”

  “Actually, I was thinking that if Raif says some kind of sleeping drug will work, I can add it to this. I’ll tell Malek I want him to try something from Arjinna.”

  Zanari frowned into her glass. “Why didn’t you use a sleeping potion to begin with?”

  Nalia took another, larger sip of the wine. “If it doesn’t work and Malek finds out what I’ve done, then he’ll put me in the bottle for sure. Maybe he’d never let me out. But I’ve tried everything else, so now I have to take the risk.”

  “Do you think Draega’s Amulet will warn him somehow?” Zanari asked.

  “I hope not. I mean, this isn’t going to hurt Malek. Just knock him out.” She closed her eyes. “Gods, I want this to be over with.”

  They sat in silence, drinking. Zanari refilled their glasses and the room became pleasantly warm.

  “I’m going to kill Jordif,” Nalia said suddenly. “As soon as I’m free.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “It’ll avenge a lot of deaths, for one. He’s responsible for guns coming into Arjinna in the first place. Without them, the Ifrit never would have had the strength or confidence to stage the coup.”

  “Killing isn’t the only answer,” Zanari said.

  “I thought the resistance did it as much as possible,” Nalia said, her voice cold.

  “We only kill in self-defense. We kill when there is no other alternative. We want a peaceful revolution.”

  “All I ever saw of the revolution was the fighting during the Discords. Your resistance didn’t seem very peaceful then.”

  Zanari gripped her glass and drops of wine fell onto the floor with her animated gestures. “Your people fired first—the overlords and the Ghan Aisouri. The common jinn have never fired the first shot.”

  Nalia took another sip of wine. “So Raif thinks he can avoid bloodshed by using Solomon’s sigil, is that it?”

  Zanari nodded. “He hates death. Hates it.”

  “But he’s killed.”

  “Yes.”

  Nalia could picture him doing it . . . and couldn’t. Again, it was difficult to reconcile the jinni Raif presented to the world with who he was inside. Chiaan will out, the gryphon trainers had always said.

  “He believes that simply having the ring—the threat of it—will force the Ifrit to return to their territory,” Zanari said.

  “And
the guns?”

  “We’d keep a supply, but never use them.”

  “If you really intend to never use the guns, you should destroy them.”

  “I agree. But Raif . . .”

  “Is smart,” Nalia finished. “You’d be a fool to destroy the guns. It would be a terrible strategy. Anytime someone tries to do the right thing, it’s a terrible strategy.”

  She thought of the Ifrit girl she’d set free, only to have her turn around and betray Nalia’s kindness by pillaging her mind for the palace’s secret entrance.

  “That’s not true,” Zanari said. “It’s always best to do the right thing. Always.”

  Zanari’s eyes were bright with passion, like her brother’s, but with more blue in them. Nalia’s face grew warm with the memory of Raif’s kiss. She looked away, afraid that Zanari already knew about it—maybe she’d seen them kissing in one of her visions or, worse, maybe Nalia carried the memory of those moments on her skin, an imprint of something that was briefly, fleetingly perfect.

  “I think we could be friends, you and I,” Zanari said. “I want to be.”

  Nalia hadn’t realized she felt the same until Zanari said the words out loud. It was a relief to think that when she went back to Arjinna, Zanari would be there. It felt less lonely. Less immense.

  “But your brother—”

  “—is an ass. And he doesn’t mean half the terrible things he says. It’s his way of . . .” Zanari sighed. “After Papa died, Raif had the whole realm thrown onto his shoulders. He was only fifteen, you know. And everyone expected him to be like Papa, to lead and inspire. And he does. He’s good at it. But he’s had to give up a lot.” She gave Nalia a small, sly look. “You shake him up, is all.”

  Nalia stared at the patterns in the marble tile, afraid that if she looked Zanari in the eye, the other girl would see every bit of this morning in them. How had she gotten so mixed up with the Djan’Urbis? If her mother had been given a proper grave, she wouldn’t just be rolling in it, she’d be doing Pose 378—Dragon’s Claw.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Nalia whispered. Her lips remembered the shape of his, the gentle weight of Raif pressing into her.