Djinn & Tonic (The Houri Legends: Book 2), page 20
Finally she was done, and Leila was bursting with questions and protestations, but none of them would come out. She didn’t know where to start.
“Mother…you don’t know him.” Leila had said this to both of her parents a hundred times. “He’s charming and polite, yes. But…underneath, he’s a monster. He’s violent and cruel, and he wants me as a trophy, 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. We’re women, and Haroun is still just a boy.”
Leila sighed, knowing she was getting nowhere. Her mother knew the situation better than she did, probably.
Leena only looked at her daughter sadly. “I know, Leila,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”
Leena stood up and floated away without a backward glance, without a hug or a touch. Her story was interesting, but it seemed so…pointless, so non sequitur. Was she trying to make Leila feel better? She knew her father was a good man, and she knew he cared about Leila in his own way, but that didn’t really help much.
Aida beckoned to her, and it wasn’t so much a beckon as a command, brief and imperious. Leila realized then she had no hope left. The guards stood behind Aida, glaring at Leila with blank, dead eyes. They would kill everyone there if Aida commanded it. Leila considered for a moment letting that happen, just opening up with all her powers and blasting them as hard as she could. Perhaps Aida saw her thoughts, because she lifted a hand and a dozen more white-clad guards materialized all around the party, magic falling away from them as they cast aside the spells that had rendered them invisible.
Leila saw the true hopelessness of the situation, and she had to fight away the threat of tears yet again. She couldn’t let them fall, not yet. Not in front of Aida. She forced herself to her feet and made her way back inside. A mask fell into place, slamming down between Leila’s heart and the world.
Carson was out there somewhere, but she knew now there was nothing he could do. Even if he showed up there by some miracle, all he would do was get killed.
She also couldn’t let the clans fall into war, and she couldn’t let her family suffer at the hands of Aida’s hard-eyed killers.
A sob bubbled up to escape Leila’s lips as a hiccup. She clamped down on it, swallowing it with more wine.
There wasn’t enough wine in all the world to drown out the cracking of her heart, but she was damned well going to try.
* * *
Carson.
Leila felt him out there. The night they’d shared bound them together. Her magic was twined around his heart, connecting them. It was more than magic, though. She would have known he was close even without it. He was a part of her, his brown eyes burning into hers, his sexy smile and sinful body that could draw such sweet, sensual pleasure from her. He had promised her he’d be with her through it all. He’d promised her he wouldn’t let her go without a fight.
Leila tried not to let this translate into hope, but she wasn’t entirely successful. She couldn’t help the feeling arising within her at the thought of his presence. He was coming for her, and she knew he wouldn’t stop until he was either dead or had her safe in his arms.
That was the most cliché thing ever, but it was true. She knew it in her bones and in her soul. Carson was her knight, but his armor was Kevlar, and it was battered and well-used. He didn’t ride a horse, and he didn’t swing a sword or hold a shield, but he was her knight just the same, and she sure as hell was a damsel in distress.
Leila sat in her bedroom, the same sprawling room in the same monstrous house she grew up in. The one room was big enough to hold her apartment twice over. She sat on a polished oak bench on the balcony, hard-eyed guards outside the bedroom door. Her heart throbbed, both with the anticipation of Carson’s presence and with fear for what it might mean.
If he showed up, all hell would break loose. She hadn’t told her mother or father about him. If they knew Leila had made love to a human…if Aida knew…blood would run in tidal waves. She knew she should tell him to stay away, to save himself. She should, but she couldn’t make herself want that. What she wanted was to believe in the impossible, to believe that he could somehow get her out of it. How could one man, one human man, stop a marriage than had been arranged, the agreement Sealed upon, for ten years? How could he prevent a wedding meant to ally two immensely powerful and wealthy clans, an alliance that could prevent war? How could he hope to beat Hassan, an ifrit, a man who commanded dozens of thugs and wielded powers Carson couldn’t even partially grasp?
He couldn’t. He would try, and he would fail. Leila knew it, logically.
But her hope was detached from her logic.
Leila considered the consequence of Carson actually succeeding. Her father was Sealed to the agreement, and if he reneged, he could be killed, depending on the terms of the agreement. The clans would pounce on his infidelity, and any alliances he might have had would be nullified, That would all happen before the Najafi clan was attacked—not just her immediate family, but everyone, however distant—and their assets seized.
Agreements were law to her people, and breaking them held dire consequences. Of course, Carson didn’t know any of that.
God, Leila’s head was pounding with all the variables. The agreement, her father’s Sealing, the escalating tension between the clans and the tribes…Carson’s love, his hands on her, his lips pressed to hers, warm and tender and intense with passion…the rage in Hassan’s eyes, the threats from his mouth, her mother’s oddly timed and confusing revelation of her own arranged marriage…
She couldn’t make sense of it all; she couldn’t put all the variables into an equation that made any sense. It was too much for one girl to bear, but it was a burden she couldn’t put aside.
Leila heard herself whisper a plea: “Carson, my love, if you’re coming, come quick. I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
Chapter 17: Ibrahim’s Plan
Carson’s pulse pounded in his ears, and his breath came in short, shallow gasps. He had his Glock in his hand and extra clips in his pocket; Nadira had told him such things wouldn’t do too much good against Hassan, but he had to try. He felt better with a pistol. Stomach roiling, bowels clenching, skin clammy, Carson slid out of the car and locked the door with the button on his keychain fob. Nadira was beside him, eyes boiling blue, a roaring of crashing ocean waves accompanying her every step.
They were down the street from Leila’s parents’ home, the mansion looming in the distance, surrounded by an expansive green sward. As they drew near the gate, a steady wind kicked up, gusting around them in playful but violent eddies.
This was definitely the place. The crawling of his skin was a clue, along with the ever-blowing wind that smelled oh so faintly of Leila.
Carson flexed his fingers on the grip of his pistol. They stood on one side of the gate, now closed, the driveway stretching away toward the house, packed with cars, all of them expensive luxury vehicles. Valets stood at attention near the top of the circle, and four security guards flanked the wide double front doors. Carson couldn’t quite believe the opulence of the estate. It was like something out of a movie, unfathomably grand and imposing.
“How do we get past the gate?” Carson asked.
Nadira smirked, an “I know something you don’t know” kind of smile. She lifted her hands, flexed her fingers, and the glow of her ethereal cerulean eyes brightened. Carson felt a pressure at his feet, and he looked down to see a fountain of water lifting him up inch by inch, foot by foot, slow and steady and impossible. The water guided him up and up and over the impossibly tall, spiked wrought-iron fence and to the ground on the other side, evaporating the moment his feet touched the grass. Carson expected Nadira to rise over the same way she’d lifted him, and was surprised when she merely pressed herself against the fence, her entire body turning liquid and squeezing through the bars.
“That works,” Carson said, impressed.
“Let’s stick to the fence and move towards the back of the house,” Nadira suggested. “I want to avoid the guards as much as possible. The more people that get involved, the more likely we are to spark a war. Try not to shoot anyone if you can help it.”
“I’ll do my best.” Carson wasn’t sure what to expect. He could be walking into a trap, dozens of armed guards waiting for him. They might not know he even existed, which would work in his favor, up to a point.
The pair skulked along the fence, hundreds of yards away from the mansion and the attendant guards, until they came to a point where the fence angled away into the distance and they were forced to cross the open yard. Nadira breathed a word, and Carson saw a cloud of glowing particles spring from her mouth to shower down around him, coating his skin.
“That should keep you from being spotted until you get to the house,” Nadira said. “That’s about all the assistance I can give you, though. I’ve got to conserve my strength. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need it.”
Carson stepped carefully through the grass, moving as quickly as he could while still staying silent. He could see himself and didn’t feel any different, but a guard rounded the side of the house and looked straight at him without raising the alarm, so Carson figured he must be invisible. Nadira was striding next to him, but she’d turned herself into a clear column of woman-shaped water, her body outlined by a faint shimmer in the sun.
Carson focused his attention on the house, watching for guards and trying not to be distracted by Nadira. She was beautiful in her human form, but like this, there something exotic about her liquid body, certainly helped by the fact that she may as well have been naked with the way every curve and detail of her body was displayed. Carson shook his head, reminding himself why he was here. They’d traveled from Detroit to Chicago together, and they were going into what might turn out to be a battle together, but she held no claim on his mind or heart. She was distractingly attractive, but that was it.
He’d be glad when she resumed her normal form.
After what felt like an hour, they finally reached the side of the house, pressing themselves against the brick. The backyard was only a few hundred feet away. A crowd gathered around dozens of white-draped tables, milling in and out of the house, drinking and chatting. They all looked normal to him, but Nadira assured him they were all ifrit.
Nadira looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“What’s up?” he asked her. “You look like you’re about to puke.”
She took a deep breath and let it out, swallowing several times. “I am,” she said. “I’m a djinn, remember? It’s like a lone cat walking into a dog pound. Plus, I know some of these people. Never mind. I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”
“What’s the plan? Just…walk in and say ‘I’m here to stop this wedding’? “
“Basically,” Nadira said. “I don’t see any other options.”
“I don’t, either. I just hope they don’t all attack at once.”
“Oh, most of them will stay out of it, whatever happens. They’ll let the guards and Hassan handle it. If things get violent, you take care of the guards, however you have to. Leave Hassan to me.”
“Shouldn’t he be my responsibility?” Carson asked. “I mean, I’m the one trying to stop his wedding.”
“Yeah, but you’re no match for him. Not by a long shot. No offense, you’re just not. The guards will be trouble enough, trust me.” Nadira took a step toward the backyard, but pulled up short, glancing around as if she’d heard something.
“What is it?” Carson asked.
Nadira only shook her head, holding up a hand for silence. “I thought…” she began, then trailed off. “Do you…do you feel anything unusual?”
Carson stilled, listening, straining all his senses. “No, I don’t feel anything.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt a breeze curling around him, susurrating in his ears, ruffling his hair, smelling faintly of Leila, and strongly of something else, wood, leather, pipe smoke, and brandy.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a deep voice said behind them.
Carson jumped and span around, his heart thudding crazily. “Who—who are you?” Carson demanded.
The man was tall, maybe an inch taller than Carson’s six-foot-three, elegant and impressive in a slim-fitting tailored tuxedo, salt-and-pepper hair carefully oiled and combed backward, beard carefully trimmed to a point. His features were sharp and attractive, resembling Leila enough for Carson to be sure this was her father, Ibrahim. He was a stern, commanding man, his eyes piercing and penetrating, coal-black and hard. He exuded power and menacing confidence. He was a man used to authority, used to being feared. Carson wasn’t an easy man to intimidate, but this man came close. His age was impossible to determine just by looking at him, but his eyes spoke of ancient wisdom, eyes that had seen centuries roll past, that had seen the world change day by day.
“I am Ibrahim Najafi, clan patriarch, Leila’s father, and owner of this estate,” the man said, confirming Carson’s assumptions. “You are?”
“I’m Detective Carson Hale, and this is—”
“Nadira Nasri.” Ibrahim’s voice was hard and cold, threatening and dangerous. “Why are you two here? What do you think to accomplish? A human and a djinn?” The last word was spat, like a curse.
“Please, Mr. Najafi,” Carson said. “You’re making a mistake, making Leila marry Hassan. You can’t let it happen.”
“What could you possibly know of such things? You are a mortal, and you think to tell me I am making a mistake. Why should I not kill you where you stand?”
“Because I love Leila, sir.” The words came out unbidden. They emerged, and as soon as they did, Carson felt the danger in the air thicken into a tangible frost. Nadira muttered a word Carson didn’t recognize, but it sounded like an exasperated curse.
“What did you say?” Ibrahim hissed.
He knew he couldn’t take it back, so Carson repeated his words. “I’m in love with your daughter, sir. And she loves me back.”
Ibrahim stared at Carson for a long moment, then turned on a heel to walk away, saying, “You should go. I have no wish to do violence at my daughter’s wedding.”
Carson reacted without thinking. He grabbed Ibrahim’s arm and spun him around, stepping close to the older man. “No, please listen—”
Ibrahim snarled, jerking his arm free, and Carson was assaulted by a punching fist of air, the breath crushed from his lungs, sending him flying across the yard. Before he hit the ground he was reeled back in by an invisible hand to dangle in front of Ibrahim.
“You dare lay a hand on me?” Ibrahim was livid, veins pulsing visibly in his neck.
“I’m sorry,” Carson gasped past the pressure squeezing the life from his lungs. “I’m sorry. I just—I love her too much…to let this happen. It’s not right. She told me…she said you didn’t have much choice in the matter, but…there has to be another way.”
Carson was lowered to the ground, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, coughing and fighting for breath. A wave of nausea rolled over him, accompanied by an all-too-familiar sensation of violation in his mind, a presence ransacking his mind and memory. He fought against it, knowing it was Ibrahim, knowing it was futile. The presence sorted through his mind, shuffling images like playing cards: his childhood in Ferndale, his dad’s belt descending; the first time he shot his firearm in the line of duty, a too-young face contorting in confusion as the bullet pierced his chest; his first girlfriend lifting her shirt over her head, fluorescent parking lot lights bathing her white skin even paler in the dank heat of the back seat of his car; Leila kissing him, whispering to him, sobbing against him, naked above him—Carson ripped himself away and slammed a wall down between himself and those most private memories. He was surprised to feel the presence suddenly gone, and Carson was lying on the ground, puking violently, cursing past drool and bile.
“What is it with you people?” Carson demanded as he wiped his face. “Every one of you does that to me. I fucking hate it!”
“Most impressive, Mr. Hale,” Ibrahim said. “You shut me out of your mind. Not many humans can do that. But I saw enough. More than enough. You do indeed love her, and she does love you in return. Unfortunately, such things are irrelevant in the face of the current situation. I cannot stop this, whether I want to or not.”
“You have to…” Carson struggled to his feet, spitting bile and clearing his throat of phlegm. “You can’t make her, please—”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Hale,” Ibrahim said. “I’ve been Sealed.”
Carson opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but Ibrahim held his hand up for silence. He glanced around, then punched a hand forward, ripping a hole in the air and sinking his fist up to his elbow in some invisible pocket in reality. Carson blinked, not believing what he was seeing. Ibrahim then shoved his other fist into the hole and pulled his hands apart, and the hole widened to show a library or study of some kind. Ibrahim waved at Carson, who stood transfixed.
“Go, you idiot,” Nadira whispered in his ear, shoving him toward the gap in the air. Carson stumbled through and found himself standing in front of a huge desk, surrounded by books and cases containing old swords and axes and shields and silver-crusted bridles and curving, jewel-studded knives, yellow parchment maps curling at the edges, crumbling strips of paper lined with scrolling Arabic script. Carson was drawn to a sword hung on the wall, its sheath beneath it. It was a long, curved blade, the metal swirling with intricate designs that weren’t carved or etched or painted, but rather seemed to be a part of the metal itself. The hilt was simple, black leather wrapped with silver wire, a huge ruby gleaming in the pommel, the sheath etched with intricate gold-leafed Arabic script. The sword was mesmerizing, somehow, and Carson felt himself wanting to hold the blade, though he knew nothing about swords whatsoever.
