“Enemies…yes,” Ibrahim says, “although we haven’t been at risk of outright violence in many centuries. In recent decades, however, we’ve slid inexorably toward war, and we are closer now than ever before. There are many, many factors at play here, but if you are determined to do this, then we cannot worry about what we cannot control.”
“You didn’t say how you knew Noura.”
“No, I didn’t. It’s complicated, and ancient history. The short of it is Noura is married to an ifrit from Hassan’s clan. Her husband and I have had some dealings in the past, so I have met Noura on several occasions. She is…a unique individual.”
Nadira laughs, a harsh bark. “Yeah, you can say that again. I wasn’t sure who else I could talk to. I was kind of desperate.”
Ibrahim and Nadira exchange a weighted glance, one that I can’t decipher. Nadira has secrets, that much is clear, but I can’t spend time thinking about that right now.
“Desperate is right,” I say, rising to my feet. “This whole thing is desperate, but I don’t see another way. I can’t just sit around and let it happen. So…let’s do this.”
Ibrahim shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. You need to time this exactly right. Hassan is sequestered with his groomsmen and friends. They would simply rip you to shreds and burn the remains. You have to make your appearance when all the crowd is watching.”
I slump down into my chair, cursing. I hate waiting.
I focus on breathing, bringing Leila’s face to mind, picturing myself marrying her, saying “I do,” feeling the magic bind us together. It’s scaring me shitless, but it also seems right somehow.
I can sense her somewhere close, and I know that she’s afraid, which is enough to remove any remaining doubts.
I’m here, Leila. I’m here.
Chapter 18: The Wedding March
Leila
Carson’s here, somewhere. He’s so close I can feel his presence on my skin, almost hear his breathing in my ear. My door is heavily guarded, and I cannot leave or even look out into the passageway.
There’s a deep, boiling rage in my gut, anger building inside me that these people would do this, would force me to marry at gunpoint. If the only one to suffer was me, I would loose all my rage and take the consequences. But it’s not just me. They’ve made sure of that, they’ve arranged everything so I have no choice, and that helplessness is what makes the anger flicker to life, morphing from mere emotional response into a howling typhoon of barely-contained hatred. I cannot let the winds free, not yet. But soon. Oh yes, very soon they will all know the mistake they’ve made.
But god, Carson. I know he’s here, but I don’t know why, or how, or what he’s planning. I can’t get out of this room, I can’t communicate with him. I can’t tell him to flee, to run, to forget me.
So all I can do is sit on this stool, sweltering and sweating, this heavy dress belled around me, an explosion of ruching and lace with a long veil and hijab, long-sleeved to cover me to the wrist, beautiful and traditional and lacking any sensuality. I will walk down the aisle at my father’s side, and I will speak the words of Sealing to bind myself to Hassan, and I will die inside with every footstep, every word.
I may say the words, but I will never belong to him. I will not allow him the pleasure of consummation. He will kill me first; I will make sure of that.
Father has not come to see me. He hasn’t shown his face even once. I am tempted to think he is ashamed, feeling guilty that he allowed this to come to pass. He should be. I will never, ever forgive him for this.
The first time I will have seen him in more than a year will be when he takes my arm to walk me down the aisle in the backyard of the home where I grew up. There is a window—sealed shut to prevent escape—and through it I can see a clear blue sky dotted with shreds of cotton clouds, a sparrow wheeling in the bright air, free and chirruping joyfully. It’s maddening torture to see a bird so free and happy to merely be, to fly and wing and soar, when here I sit, alone and trapped and forced to complete the Marriage Sealing to a monster, all so my father will have a male heir, because I am nothing but an irrelevant woman, a possession, a thing to be bought and sold, traded, given away.
Tendrils of air stretch out from me, seeking gaps in the walls, cracks under doors, anywhere that I might fade and filter and fly away. They’ve done their job well though, blocking every avenue of escape. This room is airtight, air-conditioned and cool, but escape-proof, even for an air elemental like me.
I am tempted yet again to send the winds to bash and batter at the door and window, to fall into a screaming tantrum. But it won’t do any good, I know. It’s best to wait, to bide my time and conserve my strength, hoard my anger and let its potency mount.
Soon, now. I can feel it. The moment is nearing. They will open the door, level black muzzled assault rifles at me, their eyes flat and dead, power held ready and thrumming and far more dangerous than their guns.
Yes, here they are. The door is unlocked and pulled open. Four hard-faced guards enter the room, followed by Aida.
“It’s time, dear.” Her voice is sickly-sweet, grating on my nerves.
She takes my arm, and I snatch it away. She reaches for it again, and I cannot help my reaction. I blast her with a ball of wind, sending her flying through the open doorway and into the opposite wall.
The guards rush to me, rifles pointed at my head, all four surrounding me like an inward-pointing star of death. Aida emerges from the rubble of the crumbled wall, dusty and bleeding, her face a rictus of hatred. She stomps back into the room, fists balled at her sides.
“Touch me again, and I’ll kill you,” I hiss at her. “I have nothing to lose. Your little dogs here can shoot me if they want. They’d be doing me a favor.” I want her to touch me. I want a reason to rip her foul little body apart with gusts of wind sharp as knives.
She trembles, eyes hating and sparking fire, but she keeps her distance. One of the guards shoulders his rifle and reaches for my arm as well, and I step away from him.
“Keep your filthy hands off me,” I snarl.
He lowers his hand slowly. Perhaps he recognizes the glare in my eyes, the look that says I won’t hesitate to shred him like paper. A vortex of wind blows around me, tousling my hair and plucking at the hem of my dress. I know my eyes have turned white, the edges of my body fading and reappearing. I silently dare him to touch me again.
His lip curls into a snarl, but he keeps his hand to himself, gesturing at the open door. I force the winds back within, lifting the hem of my dress off the ground and walk with all the dignity I can summon.
They lead me, Aida in front, two guards behind her, then me, then the other two guards. We pass doorway after doorway, turning down one hallway after another, and I realize once again how mammoth my father’s house is. It’s excessive and exorbitant to have this much house. We descend the wide, curving staircase to emerge in the foyer, my heels echoing off the high ceilings and marble floors. To the right of the front doors is my father’s study, the doors pulled closed. I can see straight through the house to the backyard, and now my nerves begin to jangle. There are easily five hundred people seated on white folding chairs. A white carpet stretches like a wide ribbon through the green grass, coming to an end at a high, lily-wreathed archway. Hassan stands to the right of the dais with six groomsmen, his cousins and best friends lined up behind him. To the left of the podium are the bridesmaids, three of my distant cousins, none of whom I’ve spoken to in at least five years, and the other three are Hassan’s sister, her friend, and another girl I’ve never seen before. The officiant of the wedding, the Sealer, is an ancient man, liver-spots on his bare scalp, back bent and knuckles trembling. He holds a thick book in both hands, and I can see his eyes flashing fire as he struggles to retain his form and stay upright.
The doors to my father’s study open and he emerges, tailored tuxedo perfect and creased just so. He looks at my entourage and waves for Aida to leave, and she does, after a
moment of hesitation. The guards remain until Father barks a command in Arabic. Their expressions pale and they scurry to follow Aida.
He stands inches away from me, eyes for once gentle and showing his emotion. “I’m sorry, Leila.” It’s all he says.
You should be, I think, but the words don’t come out.
He flourishes his hands and a magnificent bouquet of flowers appears, which he hands to me. They are all white roses, wrapped in pale blue silk. I take them in my trembling hands and grip them tightly, as if they could provide strength somehow.
He glances at the guards standing by the door, then back to the study. He hasn’t shut the study door all the way, as he normally does. I see a flash of a body through the crack in the door, a brief glimpse of brown hair and blue eyes. Carson. He’s in there, mere feet away. Father steps into my line of sight, meeting my eyes and shaking his head, a slight movement that I almost miss. I feel a twinge of hope. Perhaps they have a plan. All I can do is carry on as if I’ve seen nothing, despite wanting to burst into the study and wrap my arms around him, bury my face in his shoulder and let him kiss me, let him take me away from here.
I take a deep breath, hold it, let it out slowly, and ready myself. I nod to Father, and he takes my arm. We begin the slow, measured pace, unpracticed but automatic. I want to drag this out, hoping the walk to the altar will take a lifetime, hoping some miracle will happen between here and there.
I ignore the eyes on me, stare at my feet and refuse to look at Hassan. My father’s arm is all that steadies me as I finally approach the dais. I know I’m near to fainting, so hard is my heart beating, so violently is my stomach heaving. I don’t quite stumble, but almost. One step, two steps up, and then I’m facing the officiant, the aged ancestor from a neutral clan. He takes my hand in his parchment paper palm, turns me to face Hassan, and places my hand in Hassan’s. I jerk my hand free, and the fear drains away, replaced by rage.
Everyone present knows this is a farce, knows this is a forced wedding, and they all understand the reasons behind it. I see no reason to play along with these stupid games of pretend.
Hassan reaches for my hand, and I pull free. The flowers held in one hand are nearly blown away by the sudden gust of wind, and Hassan’s eyes flash.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Hassan whispers.
“I hate you.” I don’t quite whisper it, and the microphone picks it up. The crowd murmurs, and there are a few gasps.
Hassan pales with anger, grabs my hand before I can move, grips it with crushing fingers. There is a moment of struggle, but then Hassan glances from me to Father and Mother, his glance meaningful.
Father seems nervous somehow. He glances back at the house, almost as if expecting someone.
The officiant begins his ritual speech, reading from the heavy tome in his hands in a language that was already ancient when humans were still learning to forge iron. I tune him out and look around, taking in the familiar faces and the unfamiliar, the white-clad guards standing motionless and alert in strategic locations. I can see into the house from where I stand, and my heart stops beating for a moment when I see Carson leave the study, Nadira beside him.
I see two interior guards step forward and then Nadira lashes out with twin jets of water from her palms that split the guards’ heads like melons, striking with enough force to paint the wall red. No one else notices.
Carson catches a glimpse of me, and our eyes meet. Nadira moves away from Carson’s side, gliding on cat-quiet feet to stand behind a guard who is positioned just outside the door to the backyard. She claps a hand over his mouth, and I see him struggle, thrashing around as if drowning. Her hand glows slightly, and I realize she is drowning him, water gushing down his throat from her hand. The guard struggles once more, then goes limp and she drags him inside. The other exterior guard must have heard something, because he steps inside, and Nadira smirks. She shoots a hand out, sending a serpent of liquid to coil constrictor-like around his neck, a wrist-thick rope of water that seems to take on a life of its own, forcing itself into his mouth and down his throat, into his eye sockets and in his ears. A moment of thrashing, grasping at his throat, eyes terrified, and then the guard drops to the steps, twitching. Carson drags him further inside the house, settles the corpse quietly to the floor beside the others, and then exits the house, approaching the [carpet?].
Hassan follows my gaze, sees Carson standing on the white carpet just behind the rows of chairs. The officiant sees him at the same moment, falters to a stop, and then the crowd turns to look as well.
I can’t pull my gaze from Carson, and I don’t try to. Hassan lets go of my hand and descends the dais.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” Hassan demands. “This is a private event. How did you get in here?”
“My name is Detective Carson Hale, and I’m here for her.” He gestures at me. “This sick joke of a wedding is over.”
By this time Nadira has snuck up behind two more guards and made them both vanish, though I don’t see how she’s done it. There are four more and now Nadira emerges to face the remaining four. They form up and close in on her, withdrawing pistols and firing at her, but the bullets are stopped midair by a column of water and then fall harmlessly onto the grass. With a haughty laugh, Nadira flashes into her full elemental form and rushes at them, swelling in size as she moves until she’s twenty feet high and rolling down upon them like a tidal wave. She slams down on the guards before they can react, before they can summon their own magic or elemental powers. They are crushed to the ground, everyone in the crowd forced to listen to their bones crack and crunch, and then Nadira is a woman once more, clad in skintight black pants and a tight black V-neck shirt, knee-high leather boots, simple warrior garb.
Ten men, dead in under a minute; Nadira is a little scary.
“What is the meaning of this?” Hassan demands, a little slow on the uptake, it seems.
“I told you, dickhead, I’m here to stop this wedding. She doesn’t want to marry you.” Carson hasn’t moved, hasn’t even looked to see what Nadira is doing. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me, and even now he answers Hassan while holding my gaze.
God, I love him.
Hassan snarls, his eyes flash fire, and he summons a crackling globe of fire in one hand, prepares to throw it, then hesitates, looking around at the seated crowd. He has realized Carson is a human, offering no overt threat. If he were to strike now, Hassan would be in the wrong. To attack a human who poses no threat would be breaking a cardinal rule of our kind, and Hassan knows it. He’s done it before, to Carson himself no less, when he and his thugs attacked him in the Old Shillelagh, but to do so in public would be to invite dishonor. It would be cowardly.
Hassan lets the fireball dissipate with a muttered curse. He also cannot allow Carson’s insult to pass without an answer.
“You don’t know what you are meddling in, human. Leave now, while you still can.” Hassan speaks loudly, so all can hear his response.
“Pussy,” Carson spits the insult, his voice dripping contempt. “That’s all you are, Hassan. Nothing but a pussy. You can pick on women, and you can attack me when my back is turned, but you’re too much of a fucking pussy to face me like a man.”
He’s trying to provoke Hassan, and it’s working. The crowd is whispering, nudging each other and muttering. I want to warn Carson, tell him to stop, tell him to save himself before it’s too late. But I can’t. All I can do is watch, and hope Carson knows what he’s doing.
“This is your last warning, human. Leave…now.” Hassan is furious, livid, outraged. His control is slipping, wisps of smoke and fire are rising from his tuxedo.
“Or what? What are you going to do? Set me on fire? You already tried that, when you attacked Leila and me at The Old Shillelagh. And then you attacked Leila again at her apartment. You must get your kicks attacking women. Why? Cause you’re a pussy, that’s why.” Carson is spitting the words, and he’s moved up the aisle as he speaks until he�
��s standing less than three feet away from Hassan. He’s several inches taller than Hassan, far more muscular, a tight gray T-shirt clinging to his torso, thick arms stretching the sleeves. Hassan, by comparison, looks small and weak. Carson towers over Hassan with his arms crossed over his burly chest, head back and eyes flashing contempt, lip curling in disgust.
Hassan can’t handle the intimidation. He puffs his chest out and stands as tall as he can, steps close to Carson and glares up at him, posturing, cocky and vibrating with rage. Heat is radiating off Hassan. I can see it from here on the dais where I’m frozen in fear for Carson, the heat billowing in visible waves. A bead of sweat drips down Carson’s forehead, and he lifts a finger to wipe it away, flicks it into Hassan’s face with a contemptuous snap of his hand.
Hassan snarls and wipes his face, shoves Carson backward. Carson doesn’t retaliate, only laughs, catching his footing easily.
An ugly expression crosses Hassan’s face, a look of sudden inspiration and returned arrogance. “How about a challenge, then?” he says, his voice pitched to carry. “How about a duel, man to man? I challenge you, Carson Hale.”
Carson grins, a brutish baring of teeth. “I thought you’d never ask. As the one challenged, I choose fists and feet. No magic, no fire, no guns, no special powers or tricks of any kind. Just you and me, man to man. Or man to…whatever the fuck you are. You’re certainly no man, that’s for damn sure.”
Carson smirks as Hassan goes still, realizing he’s been out-maneuvered. He thought Carson wouldn’t know about the rules of challenge, and he was wrong. I didn’t think Carson would know that either, but then I look to Father, and he’s got a ghost of a smile on his face. This was the plan, then.
I can’t interfere, I know this much. The rules forbid it, and this is my only chance out of this, so I don’t dare speak out. My fate rests in Carson’s hands, now. I follow the two men as they circle behind the dais with its arch to face off in the open grass. The crowd has gathered around them, and I stand behind Carson, still absently clutching the bouquet of roses in my hands. Hassan peels off his tuxedo coat and vest, takes off the bow tie and the button-down shirt, stripping until he wears nothing but a thin white tank top above his tailored black tuxedo slacks. His arms are toned and he obviously works out, but it’s also obvious that he’s outmuscled by at least fifty pounds.
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