Djinn and Tonic

by Jasinda Wilder

  I resist the impulse to send her flying across the room. I turn to Mother. “Where is Father?”

  “He is with the other men, of course,” Aida answers.

  Mother remains silent, and I wonder at that. I know my mother and Aida al-Jabiri have no love lost between them, so Aida answering for Mother shows all too clearly where the balance of power resides. Mother glances at me, and for once I see actual emotions brimming in her normally flat and emotionless eyes: she is afraid. She clutches at the fabric of her skirt at her hips, knotting the cloth in her trembling fingers.

  I look around at the gathered women, ranging in age from children and young girls to aged grandmothers. They are all watching me, waiting for my reaction. Silence reigns, tense and heavy. I glance at the wall of male muscle standing impervious and immovable behind me, and I notice that they clutch their hands behind their backs, and I know their callused hands hold the grips of pistols.

  The gravity of the situation permeates my anger. If I cause a scene, the punishment will not be meted out to me, but to others. The clans are tense enough as it is, and if any one of these women gets hurt, the clans will all fall to fighting. There are tenuous alliances between clans, solidified through marriages exactly like the one being ‘celebrated’ here. My cousins are married to men with business partners in other clans, who are related by marriage to other clans, which in turn bear long-standing enmity to yet other clans. One shot fired, one bit of magic carelessly cast, and the fragile peace would collapse like a house of cards.

  Seconds of silence drags out into minutes as I struggle to contain my anger. Can I allow a civil war to be sparked over me? I love Carson, but at what cost? I feel magic thrumming in the air, and I notice the guards’ eyes are glowing, one pair liquid blue, and the other orange pits of flame.

  I grind my teeth, unclench my fists, and storm out to the backyard. I watch the other women loosen up and begin to mill about, resuming their chatter, suddenly cheery and happy. My stomach revolts at their blasé attitude to what almost happened. Perhaps they don’t know, or just don’t care. I sip the wine and try to hold back the tears that threaten to spill out. It doesn’t work, and I turn away from the house.

  I feel a presence near me, the cold and familiar stolidity of Mother.

  “I can’t do it, Mother,” I whisper. “I can’t marry him. You don’t know what he’s like. He destroyed the bar I worked at, just to get my attention, and he almost killed a human police officer in the process. He’s threatened me, you, Father, Aunt Talia, everyone. He attacked me in my apartment, and then shifted in front of humans. He’s the reason the djinn are threatening a war of suppression. Not to mention, Hassan is a pig.”

  Mother doesn’t answer right away, considering her words. “Listen, Leila,” she says. Shock runs through me: she never, ever speaks to me in so intimate and informal a tone. “I know what you’re going through. I also know you see me as being ice-cold and uncaring.

  I actually gasp, hand flying to my mouth. I have never heard my mother refer to herself this way in my entire life.

  She smiles, a small smirk of amusement. “I am cold. ‘Ice queen’ is a term I’ve heard all my life, and I suppose I earn it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re experiencing, to a degree. My marriage to your father wasn’t my choice, surely you realize that. I was betrothed to him when I was fifteen and married him at sixteen. I was very young, and I had barely begun to understand who and what I was. My parents were wealthy and powerful and important. They were always too busy for me, so I was raised by my nurse, Hoda. Then, one day, my parents sat me down and said to me, ‘Leena, you have been betrothed to Ibrahim Najafi. He is a powerful man, and very wealthy. Marriage to him will cement the alliance between our clans. He is a good man, and he will take care of you.’”

  Mother stares out past my shoulder, not seeing me. Her fingers toy with the rings on her finger, one a platinum band, the other a massive diamond worth a rather large fortune. She’s silent so long I wonder if maybe she’s forgotten she was speaking, then she draws a deep, shuddering breath and continues.

  “I was terrified. Everyone knew Ibrahim Najafi. He was one of the most ancient and powerful ifrits in all the clans, even then, but he had always refused to marry despite the many suits he received on an almost daily basis. You see, despite his age, he was still a handsome and virile man. I know you don’t want to think about your father that way, but it’s true.

  “All it meant to me, however, was that I was even more terrified of him. Why had he finally agreed to marry, after so many centuries of bachelorhood? And why to me? I was a slip of a girl then, a sheltered, frightened little thing. I begged and pleaded with Father to call it off, but he’d Sealed the agreement with Ibrahim. He couldn’t back out, and of course I had no more say in such matters than did Mother. Less, really. So a year came and went, during which time I never left my room unless forced.

  “The wedding arrived, and I hadn’t even set eyes on my betrothed, a man several hundred years older than me. Oh, the stories they told. All the bridesmaids and the cousins, they all talked about how lucky I was. He was born into the Almoravid dynasty, and was a prince of one of the most powerful empires in history. But he was a bastard, spawned by an ifrit warrior on a wayward daughter of the emperor. He was raised with a scimitar in one hand and magic in the other, wind always swirling around him like a cloak. He was trained by all the best of the warriors and mages and ifrit advisors in the land. It was whispered that he fought against the European invaders during the Crusades. He was a pirate, and a Berber king, and…oh, for weeks leading up to the wedding I was regaled with tale after tale about the man I was to marry. His adventures were the stuff of legends, and I do mean that literally as well as figuratively. All of Córdoba was abuzz with news of the wedding, for both our clans were known across the lands, his more so, though the Almoravids had long since fallen from power.”

  I wonder why Mother is telling me all this, what it has to do with Hassan, and I open my mouth to ask, but she holds up a hand, silencing me. She’s never spoken so many words to me in all my life, and I’m enthralled despite my confusion as to her purpose.

  “My legs shook beneath my gown as I approached your father on our wedding day, and I think it was only my own father’s hand on my arm that held me up and kept me from running away. Ibrahim was tall and his skin was darkened by the sun, and his muscles showed even through the ceremonial warrior’s garb he wore. He was handsome, devilishly so, though this did little to help my nerves. It made them even worse, I think, for he was watching me approach him down the aisle with open desire and anticipation. As if he knew me, and this was a marriage of love rather than a political alliance. When he took my hands in his, I nearly fainted. Yet…he was gentle, and his eyes were kind.

  “I knew then that I wouldn’t mind the marriage so much, although I was still terrified of him, of the stories told about him. They were all true, it turned out, but I didn’t discover that until later.

  “The point to all this, Leila, is that you never know what the man you are betrothed to is like until you marry him. Some of the stories told about your father were every bit as horrid and distasteful as the ones told about Hassan. And I must say, every time I have met him, Hassan has been polite and charming, and he is your own age, furthermore, a consideration I didn’t receive.” Mother pauses, but I keep silent, sensing that she isn’t done. Besides which, every moment here is another moment I don’t have to spend in there. “I know this is hard, my daughter, and I know it’s not what you would choose for yourself. But, really, you’ll grow to care for him, if you let yourself. It was many years before I stopped being terrified of your father, and I came to realize that he was in fact a kind and loving man. You are a child, Leila, and you see with limited vision and experience. Please, give this a chance. There is too much at stake…for everyone.”

  Finally she’s done, and I’m bursting with questions and protestations, but none of them come out. I don’t know wher
e to start.

  “Mother…you don’t know Hassan.” I’ve told her this a hundred times. “He’s charming and polite around you and Father, yes. But underneath…he’s a monster. He’s violent and cruel, and he wants me as a trophy, as a possession, not as a wife. He wants me only for what I represent, Mother. Don’t you see? Father isn’t young anymore, and the clans all know this….you know this and so does he, and so does Hassan. Everyone knows that without an heir, patriarchy of our clan is up for grabs. That’s all this is about: power.” I sigh, knowing I’m getting nowhere. Mother knows the situation, better than I do, probably. I’m not sure why I’m bothering.

  Mother only looks at me sadly. “I know, Leila,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

  She stands up and floats away without a backward glance, without a hug or a touch. Her story was interesting, but it seems so…pointless, so non sequitur. Was she trying to make me feel better? I know my father is a good man, and I know he cares about me in his own way.

  But Hassan is not anything like my father.

  Aida beckons to me, and I realize I’ve got no hope left. The guards stand behind her, glaring at me with blank, dead eyes. They would kill everyone here if Aida commanded it, I think. I consider for a moment letting that happen, just opening up with all my powers and blasting them as hard as I can. Perhaps Aida sees my thoughts, somehow, because she lifts a hand and a dozen more white-clad guards materialize all around the party, magic falling from them as they cast aside the spells that had rendered them invisible. The threat is obvious: cooperate, or blood will run.

  I see the true hopelessness of the situation, and I have to fight away tears yet again. But I can’t cry, not in front of Aida, not in front of my mother.

  I force myself to my feet and make my way back inside. A mask falls into place, slamming down between the world and me. Carson is out there, but I know now there’s nothing he can do. Even if he showed up here by some miracle, all that would happen is that he would be killed. I can’t let the clans fall into war, and I can’t let my family suffer at the hands of these hard-eyed killers.

  Aida appears beside me, eyeing me. “Your father is Sealed to this arrangement. Don’t forget that little fact, my dear.”

  A sob bubbles up and escapes my lips. I clamp down on it, swallow it.

  I must do this. I have no choice.

  * * *

  Carson. I can feel him, out there. The night we shared together, it bound us together, somehow. My magic is twined around his heart, I think, and now I can feel it returning to me, drawing closer. He’s coming.

  I try not to let this translate into hope, but I’m not entirely successful. I can’t help the feeling that arises within me at the thought of his presence. He’s coming for me, and I know he won’t stop until he’s either dead or has me in his arms. That’s the most cliché thing ever, I’m pretty sure, but it’s true. I know it is. I’m sitting in my bedroom, the sprawling room in the house where I grew up, big enough to hold my apartment twice over. I’m on the balcony, guards are posted outside the bedroom door. My heart throbs, both with the anticipation of Carson’s presence and with fear for what it might mean.

  If he shows up, all hell will break loose. I haven’t told Mother or Father about him, and if they know I made love to a human…if Aida knew…blood would run. I want to tell him to stay away, to save himself. I want to believe in the impossible, that he could somehow get me out of this. But even if he did accomplish the impossible, the consequences would be…outside both of our capacities to understand.

  My father is Sealed to the agreement, held to the oath not only by his honor but by magic. I’d forgotten about that part, that Father had let himself be Sealed to the arrangement. Agreements are law to our people, and breaking them holds dire consequences. I don’t know exactly what would happen if Father were to try to break his promise, but it wouldn’t be good. Knowing how the magic of my people works, he’d probably be killed instantly.

  God, my head is pounding with all the variables. The agreement, my father’s Sealing, the escalating tensions between the clans, and between the tribes…Carson’s love, his hands on me, his lips pressed to mine, warm and tender and intense with passion…the rage in Hassan’s eyes, the threats from his mouth, my mother’s oddly-timed and confusing revelation of her own past…

  I can’t make sense of it all, I can’t put all the variables into an equation that makes any sense to me. It’s too much for one girl to bear, but bear it I must.

  Carson my love, if you’re coming, come quick. I pulse the thought out into the ether. I’d rather die with you than live without you.

  Chapter 17: Ibrahim’s Plan

  Carson

  My pulse pounds in my ears, and my breath is coming in short, shallow gasps. I’ve got my Glock in my hand and extra clips in my pocket. Nadira told me such things won’t do too much good against Hassan, but I’ve got to try. I feel better with a pistol, whether it’ll do any good or not. I need the pretence, at the very least.

  I park the car on a quiet, tree-lined side street. I can see the lake in the distance, and the highrises of downtown Chicago. I slide out of the car and lock the door with the fob. Nadira is beside me, eyes boiling supernatural blue, the roaring sound of crashing ocean waves accompanying her every step.

  We’re down the street from Leila’s parents’ home, the mansion looming in the distance surrounded by expansive green lawns and surrounded by a huge stone and iron fence, extending half a mile in both directions. As we draw near the gate, a steady wind kicks up, gusting around us in violent eddies.

  This is definitely the place: the crawling of my skin, the churning in my gut, these are clues, along with the ever-blowing wind that smells oh so faintly of Leila.

  I flex my fingers on the grip of the pistol as we stand on one side of the closed gate, the driveway stretching away toward the house packed with cars, all of them expensive luxury vehicles. Valets stand at attention near the top of the circle, and four security guards flank the wide double front doors. I can’t quite believe the opulence of the estate. It’s like something out of a movie, unfathomably grand and imposing.

  “How do we get past the gate?” I ask as we follow the fence out of sight of the guards.

  Nadira smirks, an ‘I know something you don’t know’ kind of smile. She lifts her hands, flexes her fingers, and the glow of her ethereal cerulean eyes brightens. I feel a pressure at my feet and look down to see a fountain of water lifting me up inch by inch, foot by foot, slow and steady and impossible. The water guides me up and up and over the spiked wrought-iron fence and to the ground on the other side, evaporating the moment my feet touch the grass. I expect Nadira to rise over the same way she’d lifted me, so I’m shocked when she merely presses herself against the fence and her entire body turns liquid, allowing her to squeeze through the bars.

  “Let’s stick to the fence and move towards the back of the house,” Nadira suggests. “I want to avoid the guards as much as possible. The more people that get involved, the more likely we are to spark fighting, so try not to shoot anyone if you can help it.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I’m not sure what to expect. I could be walking into a trap, with dozens of armed guards waiting for me. Or they may not know I even exist, which would work in my favor, up to a point.

  We skulk along the fence a few hundred yards away from the mansion and the attendant guards until we come to a point where the fence angles away into the distance and we’re forced to cross the open yard. Nadira breathes a word, and I see a cloud of glowing golden particles spring from her mouth to shower down around me, coating my skin.

  “That should keep you from being spotted until you get to the house,” Nadira says. “That’s about all the assistance I can give you, though, and it won’t last long. I’ve got to conserve my energy. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need it.”

  I step carefully through the grass, moving as quickly as I can while still staying silen
t. I can see myself, my body, and I don’t feel any different, but a guard rounds the side of the house and looks straight at me but doesn’t raise an alarm. I must have been rendered invisible by whatever magic Nadira used on me. I don’t dare think about it too closely, though; I’ve got other things on my mind.

  Nadira strides next to me. She’s turned herself into a statue of woman-shaped water, her body outlined by a faint shimmer in the sun.

  I focus my attention on the house, watching for guards and trying not to be distracted by Nadira. She’s beautiful in her human form, but like this…there’s something alluring about her liquid body, especially since she may as well be naked with the way every curve and detail of her body is carved in ever-moving liquid. Despite the strange and ethereal beauty of Nadira in her elemental form, it’s disconcerting and distracting and difficult to look at her for too long. I’ll be glad when she reassumes her human form.

  After what feels like an hour of silent advance, we finally reach the side of the house, pressing ourselves against the brick. The backyard is only a few hundred feet away at this point, and that’s where the crowd is gathered, milling in and out of the house, sitting at tables and chatting. There are several hundred people here, mostly women and children, but also many men including many male attendants.

  I risk a glance at Nadira, who has returned to human form, and looks decidedly uncomfortable.

  “What’s up?” I breathe. “You look like you’re about to puke.”

  She takes a deep breath and lets it out, swallowing several times. “I am,” she mutters. “I’m a djinni, remember? It’s like a lone cat walking into a dog pound. Plus, I know some of these people. But, never mind, I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”