Jinn were terrified. Fear is the most powerful magic there is. They lined up for the injections. My parents did. For years, it was considered a positive change. When I was born, my parents injected me willingly, happily. They had no idea what they were doing would result in our family being one of the last to live together. That allowing the Afrit to curb our magic would enslave us to them, leaving them free to invent punishments as vile as tortura cavea.
A revolt is what the Afrit fear most. Over the past few decades, they’ve instituted reform after reform out of pure self-preservation. Even with the rules we are made to abide by, coups have been attempted. But each one has failed. The Afrit punish these Jinn harshly, stripping them of their magic, taking them away from their families, and, sometimes, sometimes, killing them. The last insurrection was so strong, so close, that they are now mandating that all male Jinn leave the human world. They want to keep us separated, to prevent us from being able to plot another rebellion that could usurp their power. And they also want to punish us.
Keep in mind, the Afrit have strong magic. They have powers most of us don’t, like mind control.
Mind control … like the mind control I have? My mother said Jinn can’t do mind control without spells. But Samara said the Afrit can. I lift the photos of my father off the bed. My thumping heart threatens to break a rib. Was my father … is. Please let it be is. Is my father a…? Is he one of them?
“Always,” your father repeats to me as he caresses my round belly. “I’ll love you both always.” He insists when he goes back to his family, as he must do, he’ll be able to convince them he’s on their side. “This will be for now, but not forever,” he says. He believes his loyalty will allow him to eventually help us fight against them. But his family, your family, the Afrit family, I’m afraid they’ll never let him get that close. And I’m terrified for all our sakes that they will.
I drop the diary.
My father is an Afrit.
I am an Afrit.
That’s why my powers are so advanced. That must be why the Afrit pounced on my first candidate so quickly. They were probably eager to see what I could do. I must have been quite the disappointment.
Bile rises in my throat, and I race to my mother’s bathroom, but dry heaves are all that I can manage. Hugging the bowl, I press my forehead against the cool porcelain.
A Jinn trick to top all Jinn tricks. This is what I get for wishing not to be a Jinn.
Suddenly both mentally and physically spent, I’m barely able to concentrate enough to draw on my magic and cover my tracks. Working slowly, I recite my mother’s spell and the words in her diary disappear. It looks as though I never read a word. Part of me wants to pretend I didn’t.
But I know I won’t be able to conceal the fact that I know about the Afrit’s sordid past. It’s too much to hide. My mother had said I could read their history in the blank pages of the cantamen. Once I tell her how I granted Nate’s wish, she’s going to find out I used spells anyway. I locate the blank pages in the codex and recite the unseen/seen spell I wrote. The pages fill with an abbreviated version of the history my mother wrote in her diary. The account in the cantamen leaves out all mentions of me and my father and our connection to the Afrit.
I try to arrange the bedsheets and the diary as I found them. I reassemble my mother’s jewelry box, returning the emerald ring, the A, and the photos, though I don’t quite remember where each piece is supposed to go.
Creeping back into my room, a deep voice carries up the stairs. It’s a man’s voice, but it’s not Henry’s.
“It’s time, Kal. If not now, when? How much longer does she have, really? They’ll come for her, you know they will.”
I freeze as I picture the face that goes along with this voice. It’s older, more fleshed out, maybe, but it’s still a dead ringer for the one in my mother’s photos. I’m not sure how I know, but I feel it in my Jinn blood, in my Afrit blood. Somehow, impossibly, my father is in my house, right downstairs, right underneath where I am standing.
I’ve imagined this moment over the course of my life more times than I can count, but it has never played out like this. Not with me backing away, retreating to my bedroom, and closing the door.
Henry stirs. “Wha … Is it … morning?”
“Shh, no, go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Henry groans as he uncurls his body. He swivels his neck, which makes a disturbing cracking sound.
I return the cantamen and notebook to my desk, my hands shaking as I lay them down.
What am I doing? Nate lost his father, but mine’s finally here. My whole family is here.
And I’m missing it.
With a start, I turn and rush to the door. My hand’s on the knob as Henry sits up.
“Is that what woke you?” he asks.
The sound of the barking dog sends chills down my spine. It’s the same bark that woke me up earlier. I’m now convinced it’s the same bark that woke me the morning of my birthday, months ago. I move to the window. Walking across our front yard is a large, chestnut-colored dog with beautiful, shiny fur and thick, strong legs. It stops and turns its snout toward me.
It’s eerie, the way it appears to be staring at me.
“Az, is something wrong?” Henry asks.
“No,” I lie.
It can’t be. The eyes simply remind me of his eyes, eyes I’ve never actually seen in person. Besides, it just … it just can’t be. I turn away from the creature outside and shudder.
Can’t be? After tonight, do I really think there’s anything that can’t be? They are his eyes. It’s him. How, I have no idea, but it is. Guess the book of spirits was right about the shape-shifting. I look back out the window, searching for him, but he’s gone.
“Come here,” Henry says. “Try to sleep.”
Since reality has become worse than my nightmares, I crawl under the covers that Henry’s holding in the air. As I place my head on the pillow, Henry starts to return to his perch at the end of the bed. I stop him. He gently lies down next to me. I move my head to his chest and wait for his warmth to overcome the chills still coursing through me.
I’m still waiting hours later when the sun rises.
37