Djinn and Tonic (28 page)

“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.

It’s Carson’s turn to strip off his shirt, which is unnecessary but impressive. He’s a beast of a man, his stomach rippling with cords of muscle, pecs and biceps and triceps bulging and flexing as he swings his arms. He jumps up and down a few times, curls his hands into fists. He turns to face Hassan, and then lifts a hand in a ‘hold on’ gesture. He pulls a pistol from the small of his back and hands it to Father, then bends down and pulls another from his ankle, then pulls his cell phone from his pocket and hands that to Father as well.
 

“Remember,
asshole
,” Carson says to Hassan. “No magic, no fire, no powers of any kind. Hands and feet only.”

Hassan spits on the ground at Carson’s feet. “Prepare to die,
human
.”

Chapter 19: Facing the Demon

Carson

My body turned sideways, my fists held loose near my face, I bounce on the balls of my feet, circling Hassan, waiting for the right opening. Memories of hour after hour spent sparring with Juice in the tiny ring at the gym flood though my head, and I cycle through possible moves and blows. Hassan assumes a rough parody of a fighter’s stance, making it obvious he doesn’t have a lot of experience in hand-to-hand combat.
 

Adrenaline rushes through me, blocking out the world around me, fading the crowd into silence. It’s harder to block out Leila standing behind me, so beautiful in the dress, so tempting, so alluring, so strong. All that exists is Hassan, elbows sticking out, his body facing me full-on, presenting me a wide-open target.
 

Hassan’s gaze flickers away for a split second, and that’s the opening I need. My right fist thunders into Hassan’s exposed torso, and his breath blows out in a wheezing huff. My left knee follows into Hassan’s kidney, and then my right fist again.
 

Hassan gasps and his eyes blaze, the pain replaced with rage. He bellows like a bull and charges me with both hands flying at my face. I block easily, forearms barred vertically, dance back a few steps, then lash out with my left foot, heel crashing into Hassan’s chest and knocking him backward. I immediately dart in swinging before Hassan can catch his balance or his breath, and my fists smash into his ribs—left, left, right, left, right—and Hassan has no chance of blocking any of them. Curling down over his torso, Hassan takes the last two blows to the ear and the back of the head, and then I bring my knee bashing upward, breaking Hassan’s nose and spraying blood onto the grass.
 

I hear the crowd muttering, and I realize with unease how one-sided the fight is: Hassan hasn’t landed one hit yet, and I’m not even winded. Hassan stumbles backward, nose sluicing blood, eyes sparking fire. Magically, the blood evaporates and the break straightens, and I realize my mistake: I could batter Hassan all day and never win since, as an ifrit, he can keep healing himself that way. I’m not sure if healing is automatic or an infraction of the rules, and I don’t know if he can keep healing himself indefinitely. Too many things I don’t know.
 

Hassan smirks, knowing he has just surprised me, and then he charges again, this time with a flurry of clumsy but powerful blows, a few breaking through my defenses, one landing on my cheekbone, splitting the skin open. The sight of my blood seems to send Hassan into a frenzy, and he rains blow after blow on my torso, most of which I’m able to block with my forearms, but a few hit the mark, inflicting pain I know I’ll feel later.
 

I curl up and absorb the worst of the blows on my arms and shoulders, waiting. I peek through my shell of defense, waiting for Hassan to leave an opening; I don’t have to wait very long. A momentary pause between punches, a brief glimpse of a torso and a face, and I explode forward, leading with a left jab, following with a right hook and a driving knee. Each one lands, and with each one Hassan wilts further in pain.
 

This time I don’t let up, but hammer in with punch after punch, not bothering with style or technique or finesse, just powering in with a hail of brutal blows, each one spearing down with all the force I possess. Blood flies and the crowd backs up, a few turning away, sickened by the display. A woman sobs and faints, another vomits into the grass.
 

Hassan curls up again and I see the pulp of his face dripping gore, but his eyes burn still with bright fires of hatred, so I continue to pummel him. I don’t dare let up, now. Some instinct tells me Hassan is about to explode, about to reach a threshold, and I know I have to deliver as much punishment as I can before that happens. I drive in with my knee, knock Hassan backward and lash out with a foot, slice an uppercut to bare his battered face and grab a handful of gelled hair, jerking his face downward as I smash up with a knee, crushing his face so brutally that had he been a human he would have been killed instantly.
 

Honor can only push a man so far, especially a man like Hassan.
 

Hassan crumples, his face a mask of blood, spitting teeth and fragments of bone. A woman shrieks and rushes forward to his side, followed by Leila. The woman is short and resembles Hassan; I guess this is his mother. Leila pulls at the woman, spins her around and shoves her away. Hassan’s mother screams in rage, her hands igniting in red flame, heat billowing to force me away. Leila holds her ground, finally dropping the bouquet she’s held in a death-grip all this time, and I hear the freight train roar of a tornado, watch in awe as a spinning storm cloud howls into existence around her. Leila’s eyes glow white and her hair streams out behind her, reminding me of that night in Hart Plaza, only this time there’s no seduction in her face, only hate and fury.