Exquisite Captive by Heather Demetrios Read Free Book Online Page A

Kandinsky and a Warhol, taking in the way the mansion’s gold-flecked ceiling shimmered in the soft light of the room’s many chandeliers. It was almost as pretty as if a jinni had magicked it. He shook his head, disgusted. Leave it to the one surviving Ghan Aisouri to find the swankiest punishment possible. No Ifritian work camps for her. No, no. She was much too valuable.
    He guessed the girl’s master was the handsome man the vapid human partiers were flocking around. It was impossible to determine his age—he wasn’t as young as Raif, just nineteen summers, but he couldn’t be older than thirty. From what Raif had overheard at the party, Malek Alzahabi was extremely powerful, the invisible hand that controlled the planet’s politics and economy. This party, it seemed, was a mix of business and pleasure. Malek moved among the circles, alternately charming and intimidating. His confident smile never left his face and it seemed as though no one—from the servants to the wealthiest guest—dare say the word no to him.
    The gathering reminded Raif too much of the Ghan Aisouri and their elaborate celebrations in the Arjinnan palace, surrounded by their Shaitan jinn court of mages, scholars, and overlords. Being a lowly Djan jinni, he’d never attended the events, of course. Someone like him could never hope to be invited to court. One whiff of the earth and cow and sweat on Raif and they’d send him straight to the dungeons.
    He’d heard from friends of his who’d served in the palace kitchens of the rich food, the gaudy pomp and circumstance of the empress and her knights, and, of course, the pipes filled with gaujuri root. He hadn’t caught a whiff of its particular, potent stench on Earth, but it was clear the humans had their own vices. Many of the guests around him wore the vague, entranced expressions of the jinn who’d smoked gaujuri and, like them, their laughter split the air into shimmering shreds.
    “Ah, here she is. Gentleman, this is my companion, Nalia.”
    Raif moved closer so as to hear Malek’s voice above the party’s clamor. He was standing nearby, surrounded by wealthy gentlemen. They reeked of coin—their suits perfectly pressed, their hair oiled, gold rings glinting on their pinkie fingers.
    Raif watched as Nalia glided into the circle. None of the men seemed to notice the tightness around her mouth or the dullness in her eyes. All they saw was her otherworldly beauty—something even Raif, with his aversion to the salfit oppressor, couldn’t deny. Nalia’s master placed a hand on the small of her back and she stiffened. It was just for a moment and he wasn’t sure whether Malek had noticed or not, but for Raif it was all he needed to know about their relationship. He could use that, if he had to.
    The humans made small talk, and Nalia smiled and nodded. She did not speak unless she was spoken to, tamed, it seemed, by the powerful man beside her. She was more a courtesan than a warrior—Raif wondered if this was how the Ghan Aisouri behaved at the palace parties, when there were no rebellions to quell or innocent serfs to murder. It was hard to imagine the empress’s knights without their hooded cloaks or those emotionless expressions the Djan and Marid had feared for so long. He wished he could say Arjinna was better off now that all but one of the Ghan Aisouri had died, but the Ifrit had proved to be even worse.
    Which was saying a lot.
    As if sensing his presence, Nalia glanced in Raif’s direction, her eyes darting into the shadows that engulfed him. Uncertainty pulsed in her golden eyes—a tiger unaccustomed to being prey—but it disappeared in an instant, replaced with the cold detachment Raif was so familiar with. It was said that the Ghan Aisouri were born without hearts and that the blood in their veins ran cold as the snow ponds in the heights of the Qaf Mountains. Raif smiled, a small upturn of the mouth, and bowed his head ever so slightly, a mockery of the full