I glance at Nadira and see a flash of something like anger and embarrassment cross her face before she schools her features into a still, calm mask once more.
“It’s not like that, Aunt. I promise,” Nadira says, then cuts me a look, her eyes telling me, Don’t ask.
Noura looks from me to Nadira and back, then smiles. “Ah. I seem to have mistaken the situation. My apologies once more. Please, come in.”
She opens the door the rest of the way and ushers us into a spacious apartment with many wide windows letting in the sunlight. She shows me to a tan leather couch and I sit down, sinking into the soft leather. Nadira and Noura go into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the living room while they stand together having a whispered conversation. Water heats in a kettle on the gas range. The way Noura glances at me from time to time tells me they’re discussing me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I withdraw it, grateful for the distraction. There are half a dozen work-related emails that I answer quickly, slipping the phone back into my pocket when Noura returns bearing an elaborate silver tea service. She places the gleaming tray on the coffee table and sets about pouring the tea into the fine china cups with a sense of dignity and ceremony. I feel myself unconsciously sitting straighter, taking the teacup in careful hands, sipping slowly and trying to match the graceful dignity of the women. I feel hopelessly out of place suddenly, holding a tiny teacup in my big rough paws, unable to join in the aimless small talk of the women, who discuss family matters in quiet tones.
Eventually I can’t contain myself any longer. I set down the teacup as gently as I can. “Look, this is all very pleasant, and thank you for the tea, but—”
Noura interrupts me. “My niece has apprised me of the situation, Mr. Hale, but please be reminded that you are a guest in my home, and that I have not seen my niece in at least an entire human lifetime. Your problem will not change in the few minutes it will take for me to catch up with Nadira. Please, be patient.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. I take a deep breath and pick up my teacup, sipping the black, bitter tea. I don’t understand what we’re doing here, or what Noura has to do with Leila, or how any of this is helping me get her back.
After what seems like an interminable amount of time spent chatting idly, Noura finally removes the tray, returning to sit next to her niece.
“I know this must all seem very strange to you,” Noura begins, “but what you must understand is that this is not the type of situation you can solve by just barging in with guns blazing. You would only worsen things, and most certainly get yourself killed. The reason Nadira brought you to me is because I am related to the al-Jabiri clan. I am a djinni, as is my niece, but my husband and his brothers are ifrits—distant relations to Hassan, as a matter of fact. This is a delicate situation, as is my and my husband’s place within our respective clans, as well as between the two tribes. The wrong action could precipitate a war between not only the clans, but between the tribes. Certain sectors within the djinn actively wish for war—” Noura cuts a hard, meaningful glance at Nadira, “but they haven’t lived through a djinni-ifrit war…they don’t know the devastation such a thing would cause.”
A look passes between the two of them that I can’t interpret. Nadira looks away first, and I could swear she’s acting as if her aunt has rebuked her in some way.
“I admit I don’t understand why Nadira is involving herself in this in the first place,” Noura continues. “But she has, and now you’re here, for better or worse. I can tell, from merely looking at you as well as having viewed your intentions, that you will not let this go. I cannot expect you to understand that Leila Najafi’s marriage to Hassan al-Jabiri really is the best thing for everyone involved.”
“It’s not best for her!” I say through gritted teeth, with more force than I intend.
“Perhaps, but as the daughter of a man like Ibrahim Najafi, she has more than just herself to consider. The Najafi clan is the subject of much speculation within the ifrit community, since Ibrahim never sired a male heir. That leaves a power vacuum, which would incite a power grab when he dies. And a power grab would then spill over into the human world, cause human deaths, cast scrutiny upon the existence of our people. She has her entire clan, her parents, her tribe, and our entire species to think about. No offense to you, Mr. Hale, but you are an intrusion and a distraction she didn’t need, and can’t afford. If she had exercised patience and restraint, she might have realized that marriage to Hassan wouldn’t have been so bad, after a while.” Noura holds up a hand to stall my protest. “No, please listen. You do not know the situation. Hassan is a businessman, and he is a very unique heir, for all his…moral shortcomings. He is a staunch believer in the old ways, which is rare among both tribes, as well as being a very modern and successful practitioner of human business practices.
“The old ways, Mr. Hale, mean that marriage is an arrangement and, as such, both individuals typically perform only a perfunctory lip-service to the reality of the marriage. Leila would likely be given free rein to live as she wishes. She wouldn’t have any expectations placed on her beyond attending a few functions here and there. She would be free to do many things. Many women in her situation have taken a lover, and have enjoyed long, satisfying relationships.”
“You want me to be her affair?” I stand up and stalk to the window, trying to calm my boiling blood. I speak without turning around. “This has got to be a joke. If you think Hassan would be content with that kind of arrangement then you’re fucking delusional. I know that much and I don’t even know the asshole, yet you claim to be related to him? You can’t honestly sit there and suggest that I just let her marry that evil sack of shit, and then just…what? Show up every now and again and fuck her in the back of a limo? Be her side-piece?”
Noura shakes her head. “It is common in our culture. It wouldn’t be secret, just…discreet.”
“There’s so much in what you’re suggesting that’s so fucked up.”
“Please, Mr. Hale, calm down. I am only trying to help. Your cursing offends me.”
“My cursing offends you? Really?” I turn around finally, letting my anger show. “Your suggestion that I just sit around with my dick in my hands while the woman I love marries someone else, someone like Hassan?…that offends me. This isn’t the eighteenth century, lady.”
“Please, Mr. Hale, your vulgarity is unnecessary. You can’t be expected to understand. You are only human, after all.”
“Only human?” I shout. “Are you for real? You’re straight out of a fucking movie! This is stupid. I’ll figure it out myself. I really don’t care if I start a war. I’m not about to let Leila go through with this marriage just because you people are too fucking backward to let go of archaic traditions that should have died hundreds of years ago.”
I stomp to the door and slam it behind me. I’ve got no idea where to go next, but I’ll figure it out. I’m in Chicago, I’m close; I can almost feel her.
I find my car and start the engine, but before I can peel out, Nadira slides into the seat next to me.
“Look,” she says, “I know my aunt is a little old-fashioned, but there was some truth to what she was saying.”
I hiss between my teeth; Nadira is the closest thing to an ally I have in this whole mess, and I can’t afford to alienate her. “You can’t honestly think I’d—”
“No, I know you couldn’t do that, and I agree with you about the whole tradition of arranged marriage. I do, more than you could ever know.” Nadira grabs my hand and squeezes it, meets my eyes, pleading silently. “But you do not want to start a war. If the two tribes started fighting…you don’t understand what that would mean for your kind. You really don’t. The last time there was open warfare between our tribes, the fighting spilled over into the politics of the human countries, and it turned into a war that killed hundreds of thousands of people. And that was five hundred years ago. With weapons being what they are today…with how deeply our people
are tangled into this society…”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means we have people in positions of power in this society. Politicians, mayors, governors, policemen, FBI and CIA agents, generals and admirals…crime bosses, arms dealers and drug runners…it could drag the entire country into civil war. I’m not exaggerating.”
“And all this hinges on Leila’s marriage? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Yes, Carson, that’s exactly my point. That’s my aunt’s point, too.”
Nadira seems perfectly serious, and that scares me. But it just doesn’t seem possible. I met Leila when she was slinging drinks at a tiny little pub in Detroit, and now these people are trying to tell me the fate of the entire country hangs on her marriage to a bastard like Hassan?
“What am I supposed to do?” The words are whispered, more to myself than to Nadira.
“I don’t know,” Nadira answers. “I wish I did.”
“Weren’t you the one telling me I couldn’t let the marriage happen?”
“Yes,” Nadira agrees. “I did, and it’s still true. It’s a complicated problem. If Hassan gained access to the wealth and power and influence of the joined clans if Ibrahim were to die, he’d be unstoppable, for all intents and purposes. What’s more, Hassan is one of the ifrits who wants a war with the djinn, who wants to reveal our existence to the humans, openly exist, and he’s willing to spill blood to make it happen. He’s not content with one little clan, either, and that’s another problem. He’ll want more.”
“How do you know so much about him?” I ask.
“I just do. Leave it at that.” Nadira’s features are hard and cold, her eyes lost in memory again.
She keeps dropping hints and snippets that suggest she used to be involved with Hassan somehow, but then always clams up again. It’s driving me nuts.
“So I can’t let them marry, and I can’t let them not marry? Real fucking helpful, Nadira. Thanks.” I groan and slump back into the driver’s seat. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping my aunt would be more helpful.”
“Well, she wasn’t.” I sigh. “Look, if you don’t have any better ideas, then I’m just gonna crash the wedding, consequences be damned. I can’t let her do this. I can’t let it happen. I love her, and she doesn’t deserve to be railroaded into this. The idea that one girl not marrying this one guy could start a war, which would in turn drag all of America into war? That’s idiotic. I just can’t…can’t believe it. I’ve reached my limit of believing impossible things.”
“I know it sounds that way,” Nadira says. “But you have to trust me. It’s real. It’s true.”
“Too bad.” I pull my pistol from the small of my back, eject the clip and check the load, slam it home, then replace the gun in my waistband. “Where the hell is this wedding happening?”
Nadira lets out a long breath, wiping her face with both hands. “I guess I’m going with you, then. God knows you’ll just get yourself killed without me.”
Chapter 16: Thunderheads Approaching
Leila
The gate is locked, and I have to announce myself on the intercom to be let in. I push the button and wait.
“Who is it?” The voice on the other end is unfamiliar, gruff and male.
“It’s Leila. I’m here to see my father.” I don’t bother to hide the exasperation in my voice.
The voice on the other end doesn’t respond; the gate swings silently and slowly inward. I drive forward, marveling as always at the sculptured beauty of my parents’ estate. The driveway is long and wide, lined with imposing poplars and cool green grass, a line of bright flowers edging the blacktop. Beyond, the lawn stretches away in all directions, an ocean of wind-rippled green. The trees sough and sway, the flowers nod, the topiary shrubs tremble, the water spouting from the fountain at the center of the circle shivers and casts diamond droplets; there is always wind here.
I park my car at the top of the circle, leaving the door open and the keys in the ignition. Father’s valet will park it somewhere hidden, so its ugliness won’t mar the perfection of the surroundings.
I need a few moments to gather myself before I go in and face them, so I sit on the ledge of the fountain. I’ve always loved this fountain. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve found peace here, listening to the water gush and splash endlessly, admiring the Grecian curves and lines of the perfect Carrera marble. It’s a scene from Greek mythology; Father told me the stories, but I don’t remember the names. There’s a young man depicted on the side of the fountain, handsome and muscular, chasing an equally beautiful young woman. The artist caught them in the act of the woman being clutched at by the man, his fingers tangled in the folds of her robe. Now, it seems to express how I feel at this moment: chased, caught, captured.
I don’t know what to expect when I go in. Father could be dead. That’s my worst fear. I might be angry at him right now, but he’s still my father, and I love him. He gave me a wonderful life up until the moment he betrothed me to Hassan. He gave me everything I could ever want and so much more, despite the strictures and rules and expectations. If he were dead…I would be devastated, of course. But that’s not where the fear comes from. If he’s dead, he can’t protect me from Hassan, from the horror of marriage to Hassan. If Father is alive I still have hope that I can persuade him to find another way to fix everything without me having to marry Hassan. There’s still hope for this to work out another way.
There’s still hope, however slim, that I can be with Carson.
I wrench myself away from those thoughts. Carson isn’t here, and he can’t help me.
I go to the door and lift the monstrous brass knocker, molded into a serpent’s head. One echoing rap, and the door swings open.
“Leila, my dear. It’s good to see you’ve come to your senses.” Mother, tall and imperious, cold and distant, hair always perfect and fluttering in an invisible breeze.
I stifle a sigh. “Hello, Mother.” I give her a stiff embrace. “Aunt Talia called me. She was upset, saying something had happened to Father.”
I step inside to the cool grandeur of my parents’ home. I see Mother’s face contort in confusion briefly, recovering quickly. Now I’m curious. That look of confusion tells me Talia was lying. I feel myself tensing. Something is wrong. The house, ever silent and still, breathes with a new air, a new kind of coiled tension.
I turn to Mother. “What’s going on?”
She doesn’t answer, only stares at me, almost vacantly, for a long, awkward moment. She draws a deep breath, holds it, then blows it out over me slowly in a magic-laced wind. I feel the spell clutching at me, seeking entrance into me, and I recognize the feeling. My anxiety loosens, my shoulders relax, and the fear starts to bleed away. Mother used to do this to me when I was a little girl, if I hurt myself, or woke up with a bad dream. She would blow on me, weaving a soothing spell into the breath to calm me and put me at ease.
I brush the magic aside and clench my anger around me. “No! Don’t you dare do that,” I hiss. Raising my voice to yell at her is inconceivable, even now. “Don’t you dare. Tell me what’s going on. Where is Father?”
She remains inscrutable as ever. “Do not speak to me like that, child. Yes, your father is fine. I apologize for Talia’s untruth, but it did serve a greater purpose, in the end. Come with me into the living room and all will be made clear.” She turns and glides away, expecting me to follow.
Which I do, damn it.
She always makes me feel like a little girl again. I hate it.
My anger almost boils over and gets the best of me when I see what’s waiting for me in the living room: my aunts, my grandmothers and great-aunts and my cousins, and my mother’s friends’ daughters; every female in the entire clan above the age of five is here, plus Hassan’s mother and his many aunts, and all the cousins from that clan as well. There are easily two hundred people between the crowd in the kitchen, living room, and backyard, and th
ey’ve been waiting all this time.
There are streamers and ribbons, vases of flowers, all of them white, and there are round tables set up in the backyard, draped with white linens and sparkling silverware and tall centerpieces with snow-white irises. There’s a table piled high with gifts, all wrapped in silver and white. There are tables groaning under the weight of trays of cheese and meats, vegetables and fruits, lamb kebabs and a thousand other hors d’oeuvres and finger foods. Servers float through the crowd, dressed in white robes that would be ridiculous anywhere else, but manage to seem regal and ethereal here.
It’s a wedding shower. On the face of it, at least. But as I look around, I see other decorations that make me suspicious. An arch woven through with hundreds of white roses with a podium in front of it, facing ranks of white wooden folding chairs.
A wedding shower, or the wedding itself?
I turn to leave but, suddenly, there is a pair of guards flanking me. Normally decked out in all black, even they are wearing white slacks and button-down shirts. They aren’t holding weapons openly, but I have no doubt they have them hidden somewhere, not to mention their ifrit birthright powers. I try to push past them, but they close together, forming a massive shoulder wall between me and freedom.
“Don’t be foolish, child,” a dry, amused voice says in my ear.
I turn to face Aida, Hassan’s mother. She is a short, voluptuous woman with chin-length black hair touched with silver at the temples.
“Excuse me?” I demand.
“You wouldn’t want to ruin the party, would you? Not when we’ve all gone to so much trouble.” Aida leans forward and puts her mouth to my ear, whispering like a snake slithering in knee-high grass. “You cannot get out of this. Do not try. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your family after the wedding, would you? Too much is at stake for you to play the part of a spoiled child.”
Djinn and Tonic Page 18
