“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Carson. Please believe that.” The sorrow in her eyes is a knife to my chest. “But it’s complicated. Really, really complicated. It’s not just me, it’s my family. Running away was bad enough in their eyes. If they found out I was messing around with an outsider…”
“An outsider? What the hell does that mean?”
Leila looks ready to cry from frustration. “I didn’t mean outsider, I just meant…I am a Muslim and my family expects me to remain that way. I may not be dressed that way right now, but that’s a minor rebellion in comparison to getting involved with someone…with someone who lives outside of our ways. Can you please stop asking me questions? Please!” She turns away and buries her face in her hands, sucking in deep shuddering breaths.
I take a deep breath and expel it slowly. I reach for Leila and pull her over to me. She resists at first, but the closer she gets, the more her resistance melts. I pull her down to the bed and tug her onto my lap, ignoring the ache in my ribs. She curls her body in against mine on the tiny hospital bed.
“Listen,” I whisper, “I’m sorry I pushed it. I’m just hard-wired to demand the truth. I know there’re things you’re hiding, and, yeah, that bugs me. But I care about you, okay? I won’t ask any more questions right now. Just promise me you’ll tell me when you’re ready?”
Leila shakes her head. “What if I were to say I couldn’t ever tell you everything? What then?”
“I don’t know. I want to be with you. I want you to trust me. If you can’t trust me, then where do we go from here?”
I feel her tears on the shoulder of my hospital gown.
“I don’t know.” The words are almost inaudible. “I don’t know if I can be with you, no matter how much I want to.”
“What’s stopping you?” I ask.
Leila is silent for a long moment, and I wait for her answer.
“My father, for one thing. And other…factors. More of what I just can’t explain.”
“You mean won’t explain.” I sound bitter, even to myself.
“No, Carson. That’s not it. And it’s not just about me. If they found out about you it’d be bad, not just for me, but for you, too. If it was just about me, I’d tell you everything in an instant, but there are things that have to do with my family, and my…culture.”
She freights that last word with an enormous wealth of meaning. “I don’t understand,” I say, after a long moment.
“I know,” she says. “And I’m really, really sorry for that. I just can’t. I can’t do this. It’s too hard on me, and it’s not fair to you.”
Leila gets up abruptly, snatching her purse from the floor. She stops in the doorway, turning to face me with tearful eyes. “I’m sorry, Carson. Goodbye.” There’s a sense of finality to her words, a glint of farewell in her eyes.
Leila walks away. I don’t expect her to come back.
Chapter 6: Father’s Words
Leila
I choke back sobs as I walk away from Carson.
I tell myself I’m doing the right thing. I can’t get Carson involved in my problems. If he got wind of my father’s real business, he’d be compelled to do something about it. Call the DEA or FBI or something. How could a cop date the daughter of a drug cartel kingpin? But that’s not even the craziest part.
He doesn’t have a clue as to who…as to what I really am. He’s totally clueless. He had such a hard time with that case, and that girl, Miriam. She sounds like a djinni, from what he told me. He just couldn’t accept the truth of what really happened to her, of what she is, so how would he react if he knew I was like her?
How do you even broach the subject? “Oh, by the way, Carson, I’m an ifrit princess. So, how about Greektown for dinner?” Yeah, that’d go over well.
I can barely see where I’m going, but I make it to my car and slump into the seat, letting the sobs out. My body shakes and shudders, and I can’t seem to stop it. He knew I was saying goodbye, I saw it on his face just before I turned away.
I can’t let him into my life, and I can’t let myself trust him, even though I want to so desperately.
It’s impossible to get Carson out of my head. Even as I sit and cry my eyes out, his face is running through my mind. His lips on mine, his hands on me, his arms wrapped around me, making me feel safe and protected. He lights me on fire, and he calms me, all at once. I want him, and I need him, and I can’t have him.
I remember the way his hand felt on my thigh, inching upward, how I’d trembled with anticipation, how I’d wanted him to keep touching me, to dare to go upward, to make me feel, make me forget.
My phone trills in my purse, and I pull it out, rubbing at my eyes with the heel of my palm. It’s a text from Hassan.
Two weeks, Leila. Ready or not, here I come.
I throw the phone down on the seat next to me, cursing Hassan under my breath. He is relentless. I’ll hear from him every day. He’ll haunt my every waking moment.
And if he gets even so much as a whiff of Carson, things will get even worse. I have no doubt that Hassan would kill him in a heartbeat. Hassan wouldn’t even blink, even though Carson is a police officer.
When I’ve calmed myself enough to drive, I head back to my apartment, my mind running in overdrive, trying to come up with a way out of this that will let me be with Carson without anyone getting hurt.
The trouble is, I don’t see a way out of this without someone getting hurt. The situation is impossible. I may not feel a filial duty to my family, but I cannot let them suffer at Hassan’s hands. I’ll marry him if I have to, and it will be a living hell, but I don’t see any other way to protect them. I’ve never considered suicide in my life, but the thought of Hassan’s hands and lips and body…
I’d rather die.
* * *
Remembering Hassan’s last visit, I check the parking lot, but there is no sign of the black Mercedes. I double-check that the front door is still locked before I go in. I go over every inch of my apartment before I allow myself to relax. Once I’ve confirmed for myself that I’m alone, I need to do something to unwind, so I run a bath. I pour a glass of wine, strip my clothes off, and slip into the steaming water.
I try not to imagine Carson in the bath with me. If I close my eyes, I can almost see his body, smooth and hard and corded with heavy muscle. I can almost feel his hands on me, swirling through the water to caress my skin.
I’m lost in the image, and I feel, distantly, the warm rush of magic opening up inside me. I shut the daydream down before the magic runs awry and brings Carson to me. I’ve never had the best control over that aspect of the powers that are my birthright, and it’s tempting to let the magic have its way, but I manage to control it. There’s nothing I’d like more than having Carson Hale wet and naked in my apartment.
He’d be confused at first, but I can think of any number of ways of distracting him…
Power is rumbling in my belly, whirling at the core of me. I slow my breathing and push it down, gentling the raging winds of desire and magic.
I want him, but not that way. I want him to know what he’s getting into. I want him to know he’d be tangling with a hurricane if he were to be with me.
I distract myself before I let the magic unfurl.
I think of my father, sitting in his office at the huge cherrywood desk with the blotter calendar and little lamp with the green shade, a fountain pen in one hand, silver-black hair perfectly combed and oiled. His beard is carefully trimmed to a point beneath his chin, and his eyes are like chips of obsidian. He stares at me, glares at me, disappointment rife in his gaze. I could never please him, as a girl. The best grades weren’t good enough. My school friends weren’t good enough, because they weren’t of the blood. Only girls from other ifrit clans were allowed over, and only if my father approved of them. They had to wear a hijab, and it had to be traditional white, no fancy new bright colors like some girls wore.
He meant well, I know that. He loves me; he just had
no other way of showing it. Now, his fate rests on my decision, on my willingness to marry that demonic pig, Hassan.
A wind kicks up in the bathroom as my thoughts turn to Hassan. The bathwater is tossed by the out-of-control winds, sending sudsy water flying, soaking the floors and walls. My powers rage out of my control. In my mind I hear Hassan’s threats, and I can’t stop the anger from rushing through me.
I shoot to my feet, standing in the tub, surrounded by a vortex of howling wind and spraying water, the shower curtain ripped off the hooks and flapping above my head, towels whipping around me. I close my eyes and push the memory of Hassan away. I force him from my mind, force the rage away, and force the hatred down, force the winds to die down.
Carson.
His intelligent, vivid blue eyes fill my mind, and I focus on the memory of the feeling of his hand on my skin. I manage to calm myself before real damage is done to the bathroom, pulling the winds back in. I dry myself off, wrap the towel around my torso, and then get a stack of clean towels to mop up the water, which is inch-deep on the floor. I re-hang the shower curtain. When the bathroom is back in order I lie on my bed, trying to further calm my frayed nerves and figure out what to do next.
And then my phone rings. It’s Father. I consider hitting “Ignore”, but I know I can’t. “Hello, Father.”
“Leila. You still haven’t returned home. I am growing displeased.”
“I’m not going to, Father. You don’t understand me, and you won’t listen to anything I have to say. I won’t marry Hassan, Father. I will not.”
“You will. This is for the good of the clan, and the family. I am sorry you find Hassan so distasteful. I wish I could find another way to seal this alliance, but there is no other way. You must do your duty, Leila.”
“My duty,” I spit. “What about what I want?”
“What you want must be surrendered for the good of the clan. I expect you to obey me, or there will consequences.”
“I will not marry Hassan, Father. You know what he said to me? He showed up at my home and told me he’d rape Mother in front of me if I didn’t marry him. He told me he’d kill you, Aunt Talia. Everyone.” I pause to let that sink in. “And you know as well as I do that he’s perfectly capable of actually doing it. He’s vile and disgusting and I would rather die than marry him.”
My father is silent, if only briefly. “All the more reason to obey,” he finally says, with a sigh. “I am sorry, child, but it is decided. He will be your husband. I will send your cousin Amad to retrieve you, rather than Hassan, if you wish.”
“Leave Amad out of this. He’s a moron who worships the ground Hassan walks on.” My voice is shaking with rage. “Hassan is evil, Father. He threatened to kill all of you, and this is the man you expect me to marry?”
Father is silent again, and then clears his throat in dismissal. “Hassan was merely making a point to get you to come home.”
“He was serious and you know it. You know his reputation, you’ve heard all the rumors about him. They’re true, all of them. He is a demon. A monster of the worst sort.”
“You don’t know the price of refusal, Leila. There is more than just this family’s honor at stake, and even that much should be more than enough reason for you. The clan has deemed this union, not just me. It is the ifrit way, Leila. You must. Our clans have warred for thousands of years, and this marriage can end that. You know this.”
“What other reasons are there, Father? I know there are things you’re not telling me.”
“You are a woman. Business is none of your concern.”
I want to scream, but I don’t. “Women are running businesses,” I say, as calmly as I can, “and they have been for decades.”
“I don’t care what heathen practices this foul nation caters to. We are ifrits of the oldest blood, and we will uphold tradition.”
Anger burns through me at his condescension. “You are so backwards, and so damn arrogant. I don’t owe you obedience, Father. This isn’t the Moorish Empire; this is America, and I’ll do what I want.”
“I wish it were the Moorish Empire. They knew how to rule.” He pauses. “That was a pleasurable time.”
“But it isn’t,” I say. “I can’t marry Hassan. I won’t. He’s evil.”
His voice softens, and I know he is going to try to convince me now. This should be interesting. “Hassan is not so bad, girl. He is heir to a great fortune, and he will rule the clans well. You will be a queen, Leila. His kingdom will be vast, and the powers he will control will be mighty. You would rather slave away in smelly, dirty kitchens, serving alcohol to lecherous outsiders?”
“Oh my god,” I groan in frustration. “Stop acting so grandiose, Father. No one talks that way anymore.”
“I speak this way,” he says, his voice icy. “You will show respect to your father.”
“It is decided.” His voice is hard, and I know the conversation is over; my father is unmovable once he’s made up his mind. “You will be here in Chicago by the fourteenth. Too much rides on this alliance. I can’t give in to you, Leila. I simply cannot, no matter what you and I may both wish. Our family, the entire clan…we’re depending on you to do your duty.”
“I hate you!” I end the call and toss the phone aside, fighting tears.
Father had almost sounded afraid, there at the end.
The fear in his voice, more than anything, is what convinces me I have no choice. If Ibrahim Najafi is afraid of Hassan, the situation must be even more dire than I knew.
Chapter 7: Ten Digits
Carson
I leave the hospital the next morning, strolling out into the sunshine and taking a deep breath of summer air.
I’m an active, energetic person, so being essentially strapped into a hospital bed for two days was sheer torture. The doctor warned me to go easy on the workouts for a few weeks, but that’s going to be impossible for me: strenuous exercise is how I focus on a problem.
Captain Archer is waiting for me in an unmarked car. She had offered to pick me up and drive me home from the hospital. “They finally cut you loose, huh?”
“Yeah, thank god. I was going crazy in there.” I slam the door closed, and Archer guides the cruiser out into traffic. I glance at Archer. “So, any progress on the case?”
She shrugs, and I can tell she’s irritated. “Not really. There’s just nothing to go on. It really does seem like a bizarre natural accident. That’s what forensics says, at least. My instincts tell me different, but without evidence to back it up…” She trails off, knowing she doesn’t have to spell it out: without evidence, it doesn’t matter what your gut tells you.
A few minutes later we pull up in front of my condo building. “Well,” I say, “thanks for the ride. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” I get out and shut the door, not waiting for a reply.
My condo stinks from being closed up during the heat of the past few days—an old, empty smell. There are dishes in the sink, half a pot of coffee still in the glass carafe, and a Styrofoam take-out container on the coffee table with week-old food in it that looks as if it has developed its own ecology.
I curse it all and get out the cleaning supplies. I get to work, needing something to do to get my mind working. I scrub the dishes by hand before running them through the dishwasher, gather several bags of garbage and carry them out to the dumpster, then I vacuum the tiny living room.
While I clean, my mind is whirling, questions burning through my brain. Why is Leila lying to me? What is it she’s so afraid of? What doesn’t she want me to find out? Every instinct I have is telling me that she’s not just lying to me. I think she’s withholding some major information, something about herself, or her past, or her family. And whatever her secret is, it was enough to make her walk away from me, despite the obvious attraction between us.
The look in her eyes when she said goodbye is something I will never forget. There was a finality there, a sense of permanent farewell. And behind the sadness was the terror—a bone-d
eep fear of doing something she really, deeply did not want to do.
The memory of the fear in her gorgeous brown eyes sends my urge to protect her into overdrive. I want to hunt her down and take this on for her. Or, barring that, at least be there with her to help in any way I can.
But I can’t. It’s not my place to protect her. She’s not my girlfriend, and it’s looking like she never will be. If she wanted my help, she’d have told me the truth.
Cleaning my apartment only takes an hour, and the need to distract myself wins out over prudence. I walk to the gym—just a few blocks away—and start a workout that is harder than is probably advisable. My still-mending ribs scream, but I ignore them and pound out rep after rep, until I’m shaking with exhaustion. Finally, the pain forces me to step away from the weight machine and slump over, chest heaving, muscles aching. I try to clear my mind and focus on the burning of my muscles, but Leila is all I can think about.
I fantasize about sliding my hands under those tiny shorts, picture what it would feel like to pull them down around her thighs, pushing them away until they drop to the floor, leaving her skin bare to my touch. I imagine her wrapping those long tan legs around my waist and kissing me like she can’t get enough. I can hear her moaning, a breathless whimper of ragged desire.
I close my eyes and I can almost see her right now, naked and wet, just out of the bath, maybe. Her hair is thick and dripping wet, her skin beaded with droplets of water. I can almost taste her skin, can almost feel the heavy weight of her breasts in my hands.
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