Chapter 4
Dancing with the Djinn
Iris
The line outside The Obsidian Lounge stretches for half a block, full of partygoers excited to visit the city’s most infamous club. Camille walks past it as if it doesn’t exist. I follow her along the sidewalk, taking careful steps in the heels she’s put me in.
The dress she chose for me is beautiful, and the moment I saw it, I regretted ever agreeing to come. The contacts are uncomfortable and threaten to make my eyes water. The night has just started, and I already feel tired.
“I feel like a grape,” I tell Camille. “A very expensive grape that someone’s about to drop on a marble floor.”
Camille shoots me a chastising look. “You look beautiful, Iris. Try to walk like a woman who knows it.”
“These shoes are a safety hazard. If there’s a fire, I’ll die because I can’t run in them.”
“If there’s a fire, I’ll carry you out myself,” Camille says. “I’ve done worse at weddings. Now come on. Just give it a chance. You won’t regret it. You’ll see.”
That seems unlikely, but I’m here now. The alternative is giving up before seeing this through. I am many things, but I’ve never been a quitter.
Camille guides us through the crowd, her demeanor so certain no one tries to stop her.
A few succubi glare at us, but they make no comment.
And then we’re standing in front of the door itself.
The troll bouncer outside glances at us with beady eyes.
He’s dressed in a black suit that strains against his muscles.
He’d undoubtedly give Rakan a run for his money, at least in size, if not in power.
Camille gives him an easygoing grin. “Hello, Bert. How’s your mother?”
Bert thinks about the question for longer than required. “Thrilled. Her sister is still angry. The honey you supplied was delicious. The party was a hit.”
“Wonderful,” Camille shoots back. “Always happy to hear a customer is satisfied. Now… Could I trouble you to let us in tonight?”
Bert steps aside without a word. Camille squeezes my elbow and steers me through the door.
Inside, it’s loud. The bass reverberates from my heels into my whole body.
The hot air, layered with perfume that has nothing human about it, stings my nostrils.
Above the dance floor, strobes of blue and white wash over the moving crowd.
People press shoulder to shoulder along the edges of the room, and ninety percent of them are probably wealthier than I’ll ever be.
Near the cloakroom, a tall, thin man is blinking three sets of eyes out of phase.
Two goblins are making out somewhere to his right.
At the side bar, I recognize a vampire from the Sunday paper.
Her hand is resting on the shoulder of a young man who already seems enthralled, and she winks at me as Camille and I walk past.
The monsters at The Daily Grind were not like this. I miss Mary with a passion, along with her daily complaints about my unwatered plants.
Camille is still leading me along the edge of the floor, skirting the worst of the chaos. Without her, I’d feel completely and utterly lost. I’d be grateful if she wasn’t the reason I’m here in the first place.
And then I see him. Rakan is at one of the high tables on the raised platform along the far wall.
I’d know him anywhere. By now, my body seems to instinctively react to his presence.
My nerve endings come alive, and I can feel my face flame.
This is an utter disaster, and there’s only one reason why it could be happening.
I turn to Camille. She has the grace to look mildly embarrassed. “I promise. I can explain.”
I can barely hear her over the sound of the music, so she drags me away into a quieter corner. “You ambushed me, Camille,” I accuse her. “You told me we were going out tonight so I could relax. Whatever this is isn’t relaxing.”
“I chose the venue with care, which is a meaningfully different thing,” Camille replies. “And if you give the djinn a chance, I’ll bet he can help you relax.”
I honestly don’t have the patience for my friend’s matchmaking. “Don’t make any bets you can’t afford to lose, Camille. Right now, the exit’s looking very inviting, and these are still your shoes.”
“Shoes are a small price to pay for your happiness,” Camille insists.
It makes zero sense, just like so many things about my friend. “How did you even know to find him here?” I ask her.
Camille shrugs. “Rakan is photographed at this club approximately every two weeks. I read the gossip pages. And Bert helped.”
Of course he did. Because Camille’s troll contacts were apparently matchmaking for me, too.
I take another look toward Rakan’s table.
For the first time, I realize he isn’t alone.
The man beside him is roughly the same height and considerably broader.
He has deep gray-blue skin and a charcoal suit that makes him almost invisible in the dark club.
“What about him?” I hiss at Camille. “Rakan’s friend. ”
“He won’t care. Monsters take this sort of thing in stride, Iris. They’ve lived too long not to.”
That isn’t as reassuring as Camille seems to think it is. But Rakan is looking at us now, and if I turn back and flee, I can never show my face at The Daily Grind again.
“I’ll make you pay for this somehow. I swear it.”
Camille’s mildly apologetic look shifts into one of triumph. She grabs my arm and practically drags me toward their table. The silk shifts around my knees with each step, and I struggle not to stumble. I’ve never felt more ridiculous.
By the time we arrive at the table, I’m sure my face is far more colorful than my dress. But thankfully Camille doesn’t abandon me. “Fancy seeing you here, Mr. al-Rashid,” she greets Rakan smoothly. “And so soon after our meeting at the cafe. How fortuitous.”
Rakan half-turns toward Camille but somehow keeps his eyes solely on me. “Good evening, Iris. Ms. Thorn. I hadn’t taken you for regulars at this kind of establishment.”
“It’s gracious of you to call it that, Mr. al-Rashid,” Camille replies without missing a beat. “I’m only a regular when work requires it of me.”
“But you do regularly badger me, which is how I ended up here,” I mutter under my breath.
Rakan’s lips twist into a mild smile. Camille ignores it entirely and turns to the man beside him. “And you must be Mr. Eiriksson. I haven’t had the pleasure before tonight.”
The man inclines his head. The rest of his body is very still, in a way only monsters can ever be.
A tentacle emerges from his back, swaying slightly to the music.
When he speaks, his voice is lower than I’d expected.
“Ms. Thorn. The pleasure is mine. I’m familiar with your work, at least by reputation. ”
“You’ve made my evening, Mr. Eiriksson. But I don’t think you’ve met my best friend. This is Iris Beckett. Iris, Sigurd Eiriksson. He’s the CEO of Eiriksson Maritime.”
Of course he is. Because all of Rakan’s friends own half the planet, the ocean, or the skyline. Even I’m not oblivious enough to miss the weight this man has in international trade.
But he doesn’t look like a shipping mogul right now. His eyes lock onto me. They’re glowing blue, with no pupils, and so deep they almost seem empty. But there’s a warmth in his gaze I hadn’t expected from a man who is so visibly composed.
“Miss Beckett. It’s a genuine pleasure. I’ve been told you’re responsible for a notable improvement in my friend’s mood lately. I’m glad to be able to thank you in person.”
“He’s joking, Iris,” Rakan says. There’s a faint note of resignation in his voice. “He has a very dry sense of humor and a tendency to apply it without warning.”
Sigurd scoffs. Or maybe his tentacles shuffle against the table. I can’t quite tell. “I’m not joking,” he answers. “I haven’t joked since approximately 1612.”
“That’s not even slightly true,” Rakan counters.
It’s an endearing exchange, and I’d like to see more of this Rakan. He seems relaxed with his friend, and it’s nice in an almost unnerving way. But Camille has other ideas.
She squeezes between the two men and leans toward Sigurd. “Mr. Eiriksson. Will you walk me to the bar? I have a lot of questions about your friend, many of which need answers right this instant.”
Sigurd sets his glass down on the table and gives Camille a small nod. “With pleasure, Ms. Thorn. I expect we’ll find a great deal to discuss.”
They move off into the press of bodies near the side bar. Within ten seconds, I’ve lost sight of them entirely. And now Rakan and I are alone.
“I should apologize for this,” Rakan offers. “I feel like you weren’t really looking forward to seeing me tonight.”
There’s something so candid about his words, an effortless honesty that lacks artifice. It seems out of place in a creature who brought me priceless flowers at my workplace. And yet, it feels more genuine than anything I’ve seen of Rakan so far.
I have no intention of lying to him. “My plans for the evening involved a footbath, a book, and zero djinn,” I admit. “But Camille was insistent.”
“Well, I’m selfishly glad you’re here, Iris,” Rakan replies. “Even though I have no doubt the book would’ve been more enthralling than my presence.”
I let out a small laugh. “I suppose it depends on the book.”
He offers me his arm, and on a whim, I decide to take it. When his fingers brush my bare skin, it takes everything in my power to not gasp. Damn it, this was a horrible idea.
Fortunately, Rakan takes pity on me. “How do you feel?” he asks. “You looked tired when you walked up.”
“It’s the noise and the crowd,” I admit. “I lose the ability to think when there’s this much bass involved. Camille knows that, but… I suppose she must’ve thought this was important enough to risk it.”
“Or maybe she thought it wouldn’t matter,” Rakan replies, humming lightly under his breath. “Would you like the room to be quieter, Iris? I can manage something close to that, if you’ll allow me to try.”
The question comes without a flourish. There’s no hand gesture, no readying of magic, no sense that he’s about to perform something for me. It’s the same voice he uses to ask whether I want him to leave the change.
Before I can stop myself, I nod. Just like that, the smoke begins to rise from the floor around us. There’s no spoken word and no movement I can see. Rakan is watching my face as it happens, the same way he does in the cafe.
The smoke drifts over us and softens into a haze. The bass drops to an almost indiscernible pulse, and the voices of the crowd flatten into something far away. The strobes from the dance floor become a quiet shimmer through the dark.
The air inside the column smells of warm stone and ancient spices. It’s Rakan’s scent, the one I’ve been catching across the counter every morning since I met him. I take the first deep breath I’ve had since we came through the door.
“Not entirely fragrance-free,” he drawls. “I haven’t worked out how to summon scentless air, Iris. I hope this is an acceptable substitute.”
His self-deprecation is almost as comforting as the bubble of smoke. Like this, it doesn’t feel like we’re barista and billionaire. Just two people sitting quietly in the dark. “I’ll take the improvement on principle, even if you don’t get full marks,” I reply.
“I am aware that’s a low bar to clear. I’m still grateful to clear it.”
I find myself smiling. It doesn’t surprise me, not anymore. “I’m prepared to grade you generously tonight, Rakan. Don’t waste it.”
When he speaks again, the words hold a strange softness. “Thank you, Iris. For being here, and for staying, even if you didn’t want to.”
“Maybe I wanted to, but I just didn’t realize it,” I blurt out.
He’s standing closer than he was when the smoke began. Or maybe I am. I’m not sure which of us moved. Was the movement a single step or a series of small adjustments? I don’t know that either. But between us, there is only the smoke, while a slow song has begun playing somewhere on its other side.
I’m not stepping back.
“Dance with me, Iris,” Rakan murmurs. “I haven’t asked a person to dance in roughly four hundred years, and I would prefer not to lose my nerve now.”
I already know the answer I’ll give. So does he. But when he closes his fingers around mine, he doesn’t press. He draws me toward him by half a step. His other hand finds the small of my back through the silk, and the heat bleeds through the dress into my spine. I rest my hand on his shoulder.
We begin to move.
Inside the smoke, my whole world becomes focused on him. He’s holding me so close now, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why we haven’t done this before.
I lift my eyes to his. The gold in them has gone darker in the low light.
I let my hand slide from his shoulder to the side of his neck. The skin there is hotter than his hand. His pulse beats once, hard, beneath my fingers.
The song outside is still going. We are still, technically, dancing.