The Genius of Jinn Read Free

real and not something out of a fairy tale or Camelot.
    Those two medieval towers on either side that stretch to the sky. That perfect row of vibrant stained-glass windows shining in the sun like kaleidoscopes. The symmetrical pointed arches in which live doorways fit for giants. And of course, the posse of gargoyles that guard it all. The statues keep watch as we venture closer to the cathedral of Notre-Dame.
    “A masterpiece, no?” Tayma says. “More than seven hundred years old. Must have been one talented Jinn to help get this built, oui? ”
    Questions whiz around my mind of what we’re doing here and how Yasmin and Tayma know one another and why I was brought along, but Tayma doesn’t leave me an opening to ask any of them. Still latched onto my arm, she sways her hips, gently bumping into mine, guiding me down the path toward the cathedral.
    Mere minutes ago, I was in Farrah’s bathroom, and now, here I am, strolling down the Île de la Cité with the sun warming my face, surrounded by the energy of tourists and Parisians alike, listening to Tayma recite the history of this Gothic cathedral. The only question that matters is how long before Yasmin ruins it.
    “We don’t have time for a history lesson, Tayma.” Yasmin blows past and whirls around directly in front of us.
    The answer to my question is approximately one minute, thirty seconds.
    Sharp as fangs, Yasmin’s tone doesn’t invite contradiction. Or even conversation.
    I slacken my arm that’s entwined with Tayma’s, but she tightens her grip and pulls me even closer. She smells like lilacs. Like the ones that bloom on the bush under my window at home during the spring. I wonder if my mother’s magic can make them bloom for longer.
    “Oui, mon amie,” Tayma says, “but that is only because you refuse to introduce me to your sisters.”
    A jolt of surprise sparks through me. Me knowing nothing of Tayma isn’t unusual. But the other girls not knowing? Not even Hana?
    “And why is that?” I blurt out, momentarily emboldened by Tayma.
    Yasmin juts her chin in the air. “Really, Azra? All of a sudden you care about something Jinn?”
    Tayma covers her mouth with her hand. Her long, burgundy fingertips graze the perfectly round birthmark on her cheek. “What is this? Why, but of course Azra cares about everything Jinn.”
    Now I do loosen my arm from Tayma’s. I shove my fists in the pockets of my jeans. An unexpected surge of guilt prevents me from meeting Tayma’s gold eyes—the same eyes I’ll have when I turn sixteen.
    Yasmin’s eyebrows rise. “No, Tayma. Azra never has. Probably never will.”
    My mind flashes back to a time when Yasmin wore that same condescending look. When she used that same stony voice. When my heart, already shredded into ribbons from the loss of someone who did mean everything to me, was clawed out of my chest by Yasmin. And then destroyed by my Zar “sisters.” They poured acid into the crevices of my tattered heart by not stepping up and stopping her. Stopping her from making my loss of everything into nothing. By not telling me they were sorry for me. By not doing a thing to help me heal. To fill the holes. My “sisters” only care about everything Jinn. Precisely why I don’t. Why I can’t.
    “Take me home, Tayma,” I squeak out. “Please.”
    Tayma’s ample chest inflates as she sucks in a breath. She wraps her arms around me, and, tight against her body, I feel the air leave her lungs. Her long eyelashes tickle my cheek as she whispers in my ear, “For whatever she did, I am sorry, mon chou. ”
    The quickening of my pulse precedes a stinging behind my eyes. But even the hint of tears is a weakness I can’t let Yasmin see, and so I stiffen and keep my face blank.
    Tayma releases me. “The Zar sisterhood is a place for us to feel safe and loved. Without judgment.” She positions herself between Yasmin and me. “The world of being Jinn is much more difficult than you may now believe it to be. We