Of Wish and Fury (Seven Kings of Jinn)

Chapter

Two

EVEN AS I DRINK MY LIPS ARE DRY WITH THIRST

The bitter chill in the air pinched at Dalí’s skin, little goosebumps rising all over his arms in the aftermath. He shivered a little in his plain T-shirt, leaning over the balcony of the guest room he occupied whenever he was lucky enough to be invited to Mount Qaf. He was lucky if that invite from his father came once a year. The balcony hung out over mountains that glittered in the winter sun, the dazzling green of inset emeralds making his blood rush with need. It didn’t take much for the thirst to attack, that thirst for power, that ever-growing need to be more than what he was, but Mount Qaf emeralds were an entirely different story. The need they inspired…

He sighed, scratching his arm unconsciously as he thought about his father’s power, his domain over this part of the mountains. Beautiful homes scattered among the mountains, precarious walkways leading back and forth between houses, the marketplace, and the large gated curtains to the entrance of his father’s sprawling home carved into the very rock of Mount Qaf, just like all the other royal homes.

His eyes caught on a burst of moving color and for a moment Dalí’s frustrations were forgotten. Moving up toward the billowing silk curtains that draped over his father’s enormous gates was a small entourage. Men and women dressed in bright colors and light, loose clothing that Dalí would freeze in, were walking behind a magic carpet. Straight out of the Arabian Nights. Dalí smiled at the unexpected sight of a beautiful female jinn kneeling upon the floating Moroccan Berber rug, her eyes wide as her family led her to the mansion. He’d never seen a magic carpet before. Well, he’d seen them rolled up in his father’s house, but he’d never seen one in use. They were very rare. That this family used one now was a sign of celebration. The luscious beauty was a gift for his father. Dalí’s smile slowly melted in,to a frown and he felt that familiar rush of love/hate he had for his father mix into a bittersweet mouthful, like chocolate and salt on the tongue. It was difficult to live in the human world and have to deal with people who had no idea how extraordinary he truly was. He’d gathered a few followers these last years, made some money, some contacts — but he still only saw his father once a year, was only allowed a glimpse into the world of Mount Qaf before it was torn from him again and he was back in the real world, hungering for what his father had. The knowledge that he would never have the power his father had ate at him, ate at his love for his father, although he was always so affectionate and giving whenever he saw him. His father always asked after his mother and gave him gifts to take back to her, gifts that had made their lives extremely comfortable. Perhaps if his mother had been broken-hearted by his father leaving them in the human world, he could have hated him more, but she wasn’t. She was always grateful for what he had given them, grateful that he had given her Dalí, grateful that someone as extraordinary as he had deigned to want her. Dalí felt his jaw clench, watching the curtains part with magical hands and the gates swing open behind them. Clearly not feeling the vicious bite of the winter chill, the entourage danced their way up the side of the mountain to his father’s home, the girl on the magic carpet beaming nervously from her seat. God, she was beautiful. Dalí sighed, feeling a stirring of lust — not really for her but for what she represented. A jinn — an actual jinn, powerful in her own right, being offered as a gift to his mighty father. What Dalí wouldn’t give for that kind of supremacy.

A knock at the door sounded, and Dalí ducked back inside his airy room. It was in an area of the building that wasn’t built into the rocks of the mountains, so his walls were emerald free. The four-poster bed in the room was made of solid, dark mahogany, and comfortable armchairs and sturdy furniture decorated the space. The bed was covered in cushions he’d have to bury through to get to the mattress. His duffle bag laid slung at the bottom. He wouldn’t unpack. His father usually only required his company for a few nights. Anyway, he had his growing criminal organization to get back to. Without him, they’d forget they even were an organization. “Yes?”

The door swung open and a shaitan with blood-red eyes walked into the room. Dalí felt a frisson of fear slither through him at the sight of the shaitan that was so much more powerful than he’d ever be. He's still my father's servant, he reminded himself, straightening the cowardly curl in his spine.