“Master will see you now.”
Dalí could have sworn the shaitan sneered at him as if he knew how much he’d frightened him. Reminding himself that he was a grown man, and not just any man, but a hybrid, a sorcerer, Dalí touched the emerald talisman around his neck and drew out its power, letting it pulse into the room. The shaitan gave him a mocking smile. Trying not to flush at his unspoken condescension, Dalí bit back a growl of indignation. “Lead the way,” he snapped and the shaitan laughed, his red eyes glowing brighter before he turned. Dalí followed the short demon out of the room, noting how his bare feet never made a sound on the cold flagstones. They passed through bright, cream-colored hallways with bronze sconces and bronze-framed portraits and landscapes. Moving through a light, vast hallway, several shaitans stood on guard, staring straight ahead, ignoring Dalí. They continued up into darker corridors as the home became part of the rock. More sconces lit the dark, emerald glittering halls and Dalí couldn’t help himself from reaching out and touching a gem, feeling a shot of energy shoot into him and sizzle in his blood, waiting to be used. Like a junkie needing another hit, he touched another emerald.
“Stop that,” the shaitan snarled without turning around. Dalí snatched his hand back from another stone even though his throat burned hot, it felt so dry with want.
Eventually, after what felt like hours of walking, the shaitan knocked on a door before opening it and stepped aside to let Dalí pass.
“Son,” a deep, smiling voice called to him from the other end of the room. It was a small throne room where a dozen shaitans stood in formation along the walls and dancing girls giggled at his father’s feet, offering him wine and food. His father sat on his tall, white-gold throne. At the sight of his son, he stood to his feet as Dalí made his way through the perfumed air toward him.
“Father.” He smiled at the Gleaming King despite himself, love for this man warring with his envy. The Gleaming King had the hardest, blackest eyes Dalí had ever seen and yet when they looked upon his son, they always sparkled with warmth and humor. His bald head gleamed even under the moody candlelight, the gold in his ears and on his fingers giving credence to his name.
“It is good to see you.” His father stood up from his throne, his massive figure causing the shadows to reform in the low candlelight. He sauntered down the dais and came to a stop before his son, who stood only a few inches shorter than him. “You have been doing well. Channeling your heritage into something… productive.”
If you called pulling off the perfect bank jobs anyone had ever seen, with a little help from his talismans and magic, then yeah, he was channeling his heritage into something productive. “Thank you, Father.”
“I have news.” The Gleaming King put an arm around him and led him away from the dancing girls.
“If it’s anything to do with the delightful jinn female being gifted to you, I already saw her. Very nice.”
The Gleaming King laughed, but there was a hard-edge to the sound that caused the hair on the back of Dalí’s neck to rise. “No. That is not my news, although I am thrilled with my latest acquisition. No. I thought you might like to know that the war between my brother and father has escalated.”
“The White King?” Dalí frowned. His father had told him about the War of the Flames, how Azazil — whose job was to manipulate and form the destinies of importants—had caused the Seven Kings’ world to crumble into chaos. He knew the White King was trying to change things back to the way they'd once been, that he was attempting to usurp the sultan jinn. That sounded crazy to Dalí, but he kept his mouth shut considering his father was an ally to the White King.
My brother has found a way that may gain him some headway. The Gleaming King spoke to him telepathically so the others in the room would not hear.
How?
He kept a secret from me. An important secret. About the seal.
Dalí’s eyes widened. The Seal of Solomon, the ring that hung from a strap of leather around Asmodeus’ neck, was famous. It was said to gift the wearer with the ability to command all jinn, good and evil. What about the seal?
His father grinned at him. There is a girl…
And from there he told Dalí a story that sounded preposterous but, if true, so very, very intriguing.
Chapter
Three
THE TRUTH AND ITS LAST CHANCE
Her heart pumped her blood around her body so fast, Ari felt nauseous; like she had been running for miles instead of chasing her father through town until he skidded to a stop in a random spot at the edge of Vickers Woods. Clearly knowing she was tailing him, her dad dashed out of his car and into the woods, shouting over his shoulder as Ari pulled up behind him that he just needed some time alone.