Tales of the Djinn: The Guardian (8 page)

“I know stories,” he said.

A tiny pucker appeared between her brows.
“Stories?”

“Stories are only words of course, but they
do fill the head when you’d rather your own thoughts did not.”

He’d hit on the right temptation. Her smile
was small, the tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips. “Are
they Turkish stories?”

“They are the most magical Turkish stories
you could imagine.”

This was a lie. The only stories he knew well
enough to relate were stories of the Glorious City: his stories, in
point of fact. For a moment, he questioned whether he ought to tell
true tales. Maybe that was risky, or just too personal.

Elyse broke into a grin. “No one’s told me a
bedtime story since my dad.”

Her anticipation charmed him, his doubts
ceasing to matter.

If it helped save his people, he’d play
Scheherazade.

~

Elyse preceded him up the building’s stairs
with her snowy boots clumping. She had a strong suspicion she
shouldn’t be doing this. Never mind her dread of one more hour
spent alone in the too silent apartment. She barely knew Arcadius,
nor was she comfortable with his effect on her. The more time she
spent with him, the stronger the attraction grew. Was the chemistry
only on her side? The look in his gemlike eyes had been so hot for
a few seconds . . .

Should she try to clarify the situation, or
would that be embarrassing? Did he mean
pressure points
as a
euphemism for something else?

She gnawed her lip all the way up the final
flight.

Arcadius opened the door for her. “I’ll make
you a cup of tea,” he said.

“You don’t have to—”

“Hush,” he said. “I understand grief, Elyse.
It will soothe me to do this for you.”

His deep voice was dreamily beautiful, his
exquisite manners nonthreatening. Everything about him seemed
impossible to refuse. The memory of Joseph calling him
master
returned to her. God, why did that turn her sex
liquid? No one should have moved her this easily. David had been
the light of her life, the only great love she’d have.

“Take off your little boots,” her companion
said. “Curl up in your favorite chair. I’ll tell you one story and
disappear.”

Either her instinct was to believe him, or
she didn’t care if he were truthful. As obedient as a child, she
removed her clunky boots—which he thought were little!—and sat on
the old leather sofa in front of the flickering gas fireplace.
Though the light was low, she didn’t rise to turn more lamps
on.

It seemed only seconds before he returned to
her. He set a single teacup and saucer on the brass-topped Moroccan
table and then joined her on the couch. He left space between them,
as much as his height and long legs allowed. She saw he’d removed
his shoes, his large male feet covered in black dress socks. The
hems of his lovely trousers were damp from shoveling. He was in
shirtsleeves, the perfectly fitted pale yellow garment buttoned all
the way to its collar. His leather belt was narrow and sexy—as were
his hips, if she were honest. Elyse reminded herself she shouldn’t
be studying that vicinity. Seeming unaware she’d almost measured
his package, he handed her the Peruvian throw from the back of the
sofa.

“Wrap this around yourself,” he said. “Sip
your tea and warm up.”

If he’d been trying to seduce her, wouldn’t
he
have wrapped her in the blanket?

Elyse pulled it around herself. “What sort of
story are you going to tell me?”

He bent his arm on the sofa’s back, using his
elegant thumb and fingers to support his jaw and chin. The grace of
the pose appeared natural, his gorgeous lips pursing slightly as he
considered her. Unable to stop herself, Elyse wriggled deeper into
the soft leather. “Would you like to hear the story of the sultan
and the lost princess?”

“Is it exciting?”

“Do you want it to be?”

His tone was playful and she laughed. “Tell
the story the way it’s supposed to be, no prettying it up for the
American.”

His gray blue eyes crinkled with approval.
“As you wish. I shall tell the tale the way it’s supposed to
be.”

~

“I have heard it said,” Arcadius began in a
gentle but formal tone, “that in the golden days of the Glorious
City, there lived three men who were as close in love as
brothers.”

“‘As close in love,’” Elyse repeated, her
lips curving in a smile. She’d turned toward him on the couch with
her legs drawn under her and her cheek resting on her hand, as if
she were half asleep already. Wrapped in the colorful blanket, she
seemed childlike. Only her humorous eyes were womanly. Seeing her
like this, trusting and receptive and yet unattainable, moved him
in ways he couldn’t quite pin down.

“The trio were great friends,” he explained,
ignoring the reaction. “Among the people of the Qaf, men do not
hesitate to say ‘I love you’ to each other.”

Her smile deepened at his scold. “That’s
nice. Friends are good.”

“Yes, friends are good.” He cleared his
throat as emotion threatened to close it. “These three were so
devoted any one of them would lay down his life for the others.
They had come early to their positions, which were lofty. One of
the men was a great artist and the son of the vizier. He could
create any work in any medium, and it would be more beautiful than
that of other djinn.”

“They were genies.”

“They were.”

Perhaps thanks to her father, Elyse seemed to
understand the term referred to more than wish-granting beings
sealed up in bottles.

“Go on,” she prompted. “What was the second
friend’s position?”

“He commanded the sultan’s army. He was less
interesting than the others, but he loved them and was loyal.”

“I see. And the third?”

“The third friend was the sultan himself. He
was known as Iksander the Golden. The sun was not more radiant than
he, nor the willow tree more graceful. Thankfully, his looks hadn’t
spoiled his character. He was strong, cared for his people, and—in
most instances—possessed a discerning mind.”

“In most instances.”

“Only God is perfect,” Arcadius responded
philosophically. “Like the others, Iksander attained his position
when still youthful. His father, the previous sultan, had died
recently, and Iksander was very sad. Because his friends loved him,
and because they were young men, they decided to raise his spirits
by taking him to a tavern.

“In order to avoid attention, all of them
being recognizable, the friends decided to assume disguises.
Dressed as simple workingmen and bringing only one servant, they
slipped through the gates of the palace into the surrounding town.
After walking about a bit, they came upon what seemed a merry
establishment.

“As it happened, this particular watering
hole belonged to a dangerous demon—an ifrit, who would not honor
the Creator by any of His names. That is what makes a demon among
the people you call genies. All djinn believe in God, but some
refuse to obey.”

“Why is that?” she said. “If you don’t mind
me asking.”

“It is said that God created angels, then
djinn, and finally the human race. Angels have no free will. They
love and obey God, and that is that. Djinn have some free will.
They may choose to love God or not, and in some cases can disregard
His edicts. Humans were created with the most free will, and—so it
seems to djinn—God loves them best of all. The Creator gave
dominion over the Earth to djinn, but took it back and passed it to
the younger race after they were born. Djinn were ordered to bow to
humans but some refused. As punishment, djinn’s power to eavesdrop
on angels was revoked. Djinn were also made subject to certain
magical rituals. If humans know the proper formulas, as was the
case with King Solomon, they can force djinn to obey them. As you
might expect, this inspires resentment, especially since God seems
to forgive humans no matter what they do.”

“I’d be resentful,” Elyse admitted.

She rubbed her cheek on her arm, making him
long to brush its softness with his fingers. Her sleepy green eyes
met his, giving him the odd sensation that he was falling.

“What happened at the tavern the demon
owned?” she asked.

Arcadius returned his attention to his story.
“The ifrit who owned the tavern was as canny as he was fiendish.
Seeing his latest customers were above the common run, he gave them
their own table, plying them with the best food and drink he had.
Women were sent as well, to sit on the young men’s laps and
entertain them with sweet kisses. The commander’s lap was so large
three plump slave girls perched on his legs at once. With such
distractions, the men forgot their troubles—their good sense as
well perhaps.

“The hour grew late, but the crowd did not
thin. The ifrit’s friends, evildoers like himself, kept filling the
empty seats. The tavern was so busy the owner’s personal female
servant was pressed into service. The moment the young sultan laid
eyes on her, his heart fled his strong body.

“The female servant was humbly dressed but
veiled, suggesting she was no pleasure slave. Though the sultan saw
little of her person, what he saw inflamed him. Here was a woman,
he thought, whose hand as she poured was so fair and soft it must
belong to an angel.

“She filled his cup, sliding it gracefully
toward him. She seemed to peer at him meaningfully through her
veil, which covered not just her face but her eyes as well. The
sultan truly believed that if he didn’t discover what the fine silk
concealed, he’d die a broken man.

“Though famed for his own beauty, the
violence of the sultan’s feelings embarrassed him. He dropped his
chastened gaze to the cup the woman filled. As he did, he saw that
on its surface a small piece of rice paper sailed.

“
Please save me
it said in miniscule
writing.

“The sultan didn’t know what to make of this
request. He nudged his friend the commander, who sat next to him
with his lap full of giggling girls.

“
Hm
, thought the commander as he also
read the plea. He looked at the sultan, whose jewel blue eyes
begged him to provide support.

“The commander’s brain wasn’t completely
pickled by the strong wine they’d been drinking. He realized his
friend had fallen in love. He didn’t get a chance to inquire how
this came to pass. At that moment, the ifrit owner, who looked like
a normal djinni—simply not very beautiful—hopped onto a stool to
get the crowd’s attention.

“‘It is time for our nightly contest,’ the
proprietor declared. ‘Who will offer up a story to match my own?
The winner receives my most priceless treasure. The loser stands me
a drink of my choosing.’

“‘He must mean
her
,’ the sultan
murmured to the commander. ‘No other in this place is as priceless
a paragon.’

“Unaware of this conversation or of the
change in the tavern’s clientele, the sultan’s friend the artist
jumped up from his floor cushion. ‘Good Proprietor,’ he addressed
the ifrit. ‘How are the stories judged and what are their
requirements?’

“‘The stories must be horrifying,’ replied
the tavern owner, ‘and seize every soul with terror. As for the
judging, I leave that to this honest crowd.’

“‘Will you allow our party a moment to
consider which of us should compete?’

“‘Of course,’ the tavern owner agreed, all
unctuous courtesy. ‘I’m sure it would be our honor to hear any of
your tales.’

“The artist huddled back at their shared
table. Sober enough to know they shouldn’t discuss business in
front of pleasure slaves, the commander dismissed his giggling lap
companions. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded angrily. ‘We don’t
know this place’s customs. This may lead us into trouble.’

“‘Nonsense,’ the artist scoffed. ‘You heard
the proprietor. Loser stands him a drink. Even if we lose, which I
propose we do not, no matter what libation he chooses, it won’t
impoverish us.’

“‘We must compete,’ the sultan added. ‘We
must win this good woman free of her servitude.’

“The
good woman
he spoke of hadn’t
left with the other girls. She was silent behind her plain gray
veil. Not subject to his friend’s smitten state, the commander
pinned her with his gaze. ‘What say you?’ he asked her. ‘Is this
contest dangerous?’

“She seemed to shrink before his challenge.
The sultan touched her arm soothingly. ‘You may answer my friend,’
he said gently. ‘As dear as you are to me, I am dear to him. He
protects my interests as if they were his own.’

“The mysterious female bowed gracefully.
‘Kind gentlemen,’ she said in a lovely voice every bit as
cultivated as their own. ‘I have involved you in my troubles, and I
owe you honesty. This tavern owner is a demon who kidnaped me from
my home and held me captive these last two years. The drink he
demands when he wins is every drop of blood in your veins. If you
value your lives—and never mind my own—you must triumph in this
contest.’

“The commander of the sultan’s army didn’t
ask if the demon had ever lost. The answer to that was clear in the
female’s desperation and the ifrit’s cockiness.

“‘I am the best storyteller,’ the artist
said, ‘and the least important of our number. I will venture my
chance with him.’

“‘You are
not
the least important,’
the sultan protested. ‘In addition to which, I have the most at
stake.’

“The ruler of the Glorious City turned
adoring eyes to the veiled woman, who—so far as could be told
through her concealing garments—regarded him in the same fashion.
The commander sighed to himself. He saw there would be no walking
away from this danger. ‘I shall compete,’ he said resignedly.
‘Though I am no great taleteller, I have been to war and have seen
more horrors than all of you. Moreover, if I lose, I have the best
chance of overpowering the ifrit before he drinks my blood.’