Scorched Skies Read Free Page B

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. The fact 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 into 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, despite the fact 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 part of the building that wasn ’ t built into the rocks of the mountains, so his walls were bright and 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 actual mattress. His duffle bag lay slung at the bottom of it. 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 down his neck at the sight of the Shaitan that was so much more powerful than he ’ d ever be. Not powerful enough to walk away from serving his father, he reminded himself, straightening the cowardly curl in his spine. “Master will see you now.”
    Dalí could have sworn the Shaitan was sneering 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 just smiled at him condescendingly, his eyes saying, ‘ yeah, yeah, you ’ re Master ’ s son. I ’ m trembling in my boots. ’ Trying not to flush at the unspoken condescension, Dalí felt a growl purr out from the back of his throat. “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