Authors: Jasinda Wilder
“What is it?”
Nadira only shakes her head, holding up a hand for silence. “I thought…” she starts, then trails off. “Do you…do you feel anything unusual?”
I go still, listening, straining all my senses. “No, I don’t feel anything.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth I feel a breeze curling around me, a susurrus in my ears, ruffling my hair, smelling again faintly of Leila and strongly of something else, wood and leather and pipe smoke and brandy.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a deep voice says behind us.
I jump and spin around, my heart thudding crazily. “Who—who are you?”
The man is tall, maybe an inch taller than my six-foot-three frame, elegant and impressive in a slim-fitting tailored tuxedo, salt-and-pepper hair carefully oiled and combed backward over his scalp. His features are sharp and attractive, resembling Leila enough that I’m sure this is her father, Ibrahim. He is a stern, commanding man, his eyes piercing and penetrating, coal-black and hard.
“I am Ibrahim Najafi, owner of this estate,” the man says. “And you are?”
“I’m Detective Carson Hale, and this is—”
“Nadira Nasri. I know who you are.” Ibrahim’s voice is hard, cold, and sharp with threat. “You are trespassing on my property. Why are you here? What do you think to accomplish? A human and a
djinni
?” The last word is spat like a curse.
“Please, Mr. Najafi,” I say. “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 human, and you think to tell
me
I’m making a mistake? Why should I not kill you where you stand?”
“Because I love Leila, sir.” The words come out unbidden, unrehearsed. They emerge and as soon as they do I feel the danger in the air thicken into a tangible frost.
“
What
did you say?” Ibrahim hisses.
I know I can’t take it back, so I repeat myself. “I said I’m in love with your daughter. And she loves me back.”
Ibrahim stares at me for a long moment, and then turns on his heel, saying, “You should go. I have no wish to do violence at my daughter’s wedding.”
Wedding? Already?
I react without thinking, grabbing Ibrahim’s arm and spinning him around, stepping close to the older man. “No, please, listen—”
Ibrahim snarls, jerks his arm free and I’m assaulted by a punching fist of air crushing the breath from my lungs, sending me flying. But before I hit the ground I feel myself reeled in by an invisible hand, and then an all-too-real hand clutches my throat and lifts me an inch off the ground. I’m dangling and choking in front of Ibrahim.
“You
dare
lay a hand on me?” Ibrahim is livid, veins pulsing visibly in his neck.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry. I just—I love her too—too much. ”
Beside me, Nadira is silent, watching, not interfering. I understand her reticence, but I sure could use her help right about now. I’m released abruptly, and I collapse to my hands and knees. A wave of nausea rolls over me, accompanied by the all-too familiar sensation of being violated in my mind. I’m aware of a presence ransacking my mind and memory. I fight against it, knowing it’s Ibrahim in my mind and knowing it’s futile. The presence sorts through my mind, shuffling images like playing cards: my childhood in Ferndale, Mom taking me to the library, Dad coming home, setting his briefcase on the floor at the front door; the first time I shot my sidearm in the line of duty, a too-young face contorting in confusion as the bullet pierced a chest; my first girlfriend lifting her shirt over her head as fluorescent parking lot lights bathe her white skin even paler in the dank heat of the backseat of my car; Leila kissing me, whispering to me, sobbing against me, naked above me—
I rip that last memory away from the invisible presence in my mind and slam a wall down between Ibrahim and those most private memories. I’m surprised to feel his presence is suddenly gone, and I find myself lying on the ground, puking violently, cursing past drool and bile.
“What is it with you people?” I demand as I wipe my face. “Every one of you does that to me. I’m fucking sick of it!”
“Most impressive,” Ibrahim says. “You shut me out of your mind. Not many can do that. But I saw enough. Too much, perhaps. 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 can’t stop this, whether I want to or not.”
“You have to…” I struggle to my feet, spitting bile onto the grass. “You can’t make her do this, please—”
“You do not understand, Detective Hale,” Ibrahim says, each word precise. “I have been Sealed.”
I open my mouth to ask what that means, but Ibrahim holds his hand up for silence, glances around, and then punches a hand forward, ripping a hole in the air and sinking his fist up to his elbow in some invisible pocket of reality. I blink, not believing what I’m seeing. Ibrahim then shoves his other fist into the hole and pulls his hands apart, and the hole widens to show a library or study. Ibrahim gestures for me to go through, but I can’t make myself move, too stunned and confused to make my limbs cooperate.
“Go, you idiot,” Nadira whispers in my ear, shoving me toward the gap in the air.
I stumble through and find myself standing in front of a huge desk, the walls of the large room lined with glass cases containing old swords, axes, ornate round shields, silver-and-gold encrusted bridles, curving, jewel-studded knives, yellowing parchment maps curling at the edges, crumbling strips of paper lined with scrolling Arabic script. I’m drawn to a sword hanging on the wall, a matching sheath beneath it. It’s a long, curved blade, the metal swirling with intricate designs clearly not carved or etched or painted onto the blade, but which rather seem to be a part of the metal itself. The hilt is simple, black leather wrapped with silver wire, a huge ruby in the pommel, the sheath etched with intricate gold-leafed Arabic script. The sword is mesmerizing, and I find myself wanting to hold the blade even though I know nothing about swords.
Ibrahim speaks behind me. “That is a Damascus blade. It is one of a kind, crafted for me by a master swordsmith in the year 1292. No one alive knows the secret of crafting sword blades such as that. Few such exist anymore at all, and certainly none so fine as that. I slew a thousand infidel Christians with that blade.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, awed by the blade.
“Yes, it is.” Ibrahim’s voice is pitched low, almost tender. “If I could swing that sword and with it win my daughter’s freedom from Hassan, I would. Please believe that, Detective Hale. I would. I love my daughter, and I know all too well what kind of man Hassan is. But I am bound by the Sealing.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “Sealed? I’ve heard the term used several times now, but I don’t understand it.”
“Please, sit, Mr. Hale. The wedding is still more than an hour away.” Ibrahim pours a generous finger of brandy into a cup, hands it to me and pours another for himself.
“The wedding is
today
?” I ask, confused.
Ibrahim hasn’t so much as looked at Nadira, who sits next to me, silent. It’s almost as if she’s trying to become invisible again.
“It has been moved forward, to today. Hassan and his father are eager to finalize the alliance. To get their hands on my clan.” He sounds more than a little bitter. He takes a swallow of brandy and then continues. “Sealing is a complicated business, but, basically, it’s an oath, a promise. It’s not merely a matter of my word, however. It’s a contract sealed between the two parties by blood and by magic. I am incapable of going against my word. Not unwilling, I must emphasize this, but rather rendered magically
incapable
, and if I were to try there would be disastrous consequences. I would be struck down dead on the spot by the magic of the Seal and my assets would be seized, my clan taken over by another patriarch. My wife would be given as a gift to another man and my daughter married to Hassan anyway.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” I remark.
“Yes, I suppose it is. But that’s how we do business.”
I’m struck by a thought. “Is Hassan Sealed the same way?”
“Well, yes, of course,” Ibrahim nods. “What are you thinking?”
“Just…what if we could somehow force Hassan to violate his end of the Seal?”
“How would we accomplish that?” Ibrahim asks. “He would not do anything to risk this. He has too much to gain.”
I shake my head and shrug. “I don’t know. It was just an idea. If we could get him to void his end of the deal, then Leila would be free, wouldn’t she?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Ibrahim agrees, “but I don’t see how that’s possible at this juncture. The wedding happens in one hour, out there in my own backyard.” He waves toward the window.
Silence hovers between us as we try to think of a solution. Eventually it’s Nadira who speaks first. “What if Hassan was somehow
unable
to marry her? What if something stopped the wedding?”
Ibrahim tilts his head, considering. “Well…that would work temporarily, but he would still have the right of claim and the Seal would be intact. We would have to make sure he couldn’t ever possibly fulfill his end of the bargain.” Ibrahim hisses in pain. “I can feel the magic of the Seal working on me even now. Even discussing this is activating the terms of the Sealing.”
“What if I were to banish him to the elemental dimension?” Nadira asks. “He might be able to find his way back, but by then we could figure out a way to break the contract without risking your safety.”
“I would still be bound by my side of the oath, to see my daughter married. The oath does not say
who
she must marry, though,” Ibrahim says, his voice low and thoughtful. “I have an idea, but I have to be careful in my phrasing of it. Even thinking it causes pain. The clans are gathered for the wedding. They would be displeased if they were to be made to leave without witnessing one. Perhaps if Miss Nasri were to do as she suggested—banish him to the elemental dimension, which is a one-way trip, correct, Miss Nasri?”
“As far as I know it is, yes. I cannot say with one hundred percent certainty, however.”
“Good enough for our purposes, I suppose, and the best chance we have.” Ibrahim waves a hand toward the backyard. “So Nadira banishes Hassan, at which point a different wedding could take place…just not the one everyone was expecting. Do you see? I would have fulfilled my end of the bargain, and in returning to the elemental dimension, Hassan will have voided his end of the oath, so he would be dead, and thus unable to challenge your marriage to my daughter.”
There’s a hissing noise, and smoke rises from Ibrahim’s palms. He opens his hands flat, and I see the curving script of Arabic lettering seared onto his palms, a reminder of his oath, I presume.
I see his plan, and it’s insane. I love her, but…marriage? So soon?
Ibrahim seems to sense my hesitation. “It will only work if you are totally committed, Carson. I must warn you. Ifrit marriages are not like yours. The vows made are a contract as well, and they are a kind of Seal, though not so draconian as the one binding me. They are permanent nonetheless, and they are magical in nature. The magic would work on you, though you are not an ifrit. You…joined with my daughter, Carson, and that union has imbued you with a certain amount of magic, binding you to Leila, albeit loosely.” Ibrahim pauses, his face schooled to stillness, though I can see pain etching lines in his forehead, tendrils of smoke rising from his flesh, the scent of charred flesh filling the room. “Were you to do this, it would complete that binding, and you would be united with her in a very unique way. It is the only way, if you truly wish to free my daughter from the fate set out for her.
“It is not without risk, however, Detective Hale. Besides Hassan himself, his clan has provided the security you saw around my estate. They are loyal solely to Hassan, Aida, and Farouk al-Jabiri. They will fight to the death to prevent anything from interfering with their plans. And I am rendered powerless to work against the Sealing I agreed to. You and Miss Nasri would be on your own.” He glances at Nadira. “You are positive you are able to perform the banishment? It is a difficult piece of magic known to few, and comes at a price.”
Nadira nods. “I can. I’ve done it once before. It’s not fun, but I can do it.” She in turn looks to me. “This is for real, Carson. There’s no divorce in our world. It’s not possible. It doesn’t exist. You marry her, it’s forever. You try to leave, you
think
of leaving…well, you can’t. You won’t be able to, no matter how unhappy you may be. You could cheat on her, but even that would come at a price. So you’d better be really damn sure you love her enough to go through with this.” She lets out a long breath. “Plus, there’s no guarantee this will even work. There’s two of us, and a lot of them.”
My mind is racing. I love her, and this is a way out. Am I willing? This isn’t something I can just get out of later if it doesn’t work out; I can’t undo this. It’s permanent. I will be bound to Leila for all time.
My hands shaking, I can only nod.
“Are you sure about this, Carson?” Nadira asks again. She seems incredulous. “This is a little crazy.”
“No more so than storming an ifrit wedding,” Ibrahim points out. “You are a djinni, Miss Nasri. Your presence itself is the height of insanity, whether you are related to the al-Jabiris or not.”
Nadira’s only response is a laconic shoulder shrug.
“How do we do this, then?” I ask.
“My kind are somewhat addicted to the Old-World notions of honor, Mr. Hale,” Ibrahim says, each word carefully chosen. “Hassan in particular fancies himself an ifrit of the ancient world, though he is but a child himself. He holds himself to a code of honor, though not as you and I would know it. If Hassan is challenged in front of a crowd of witnesses, he would not have the freedom to simply strike the challenger down with all his fury and magic, as he might in private. This is especially true if the challenger is not of the same race as he, not possessing the same abilities. If Hassan were to be provoked in front of such a crowd, he would be honor-bound to challenge that person to a duel.”