Djinn and Tonic (24 page)

“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 they’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.”

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.