The Conjurer (The Vine Witch #3)(18)
She imagined Jamra being the sort of child who deliberately stuck animals up in trees just to see them squirm when they couldn’t figure out how to get down. If jinn ever were children. But he wasn’t wrong. Though he’d assured her the makeshift magic carpet wouldn’t let her fall, the unnatural sensation of moving above the earth in the open air without even a handrail to provide a sense of security was most distressing. Escalating her fear was the very real notion that the sun would be setting soon, leaving them in the dark above the clouds. Not a place she wished to be. What if they hit a tree or hillside or one of those mortal airplanes with a propeller and were cut into pieces?
“I’d like to get down now. It will be dark soon, and I cannot navigate any longer without the light to see by.” It was a lie, but Elena was willing to bet Jamra didn’t know truth from fiction for witches. Besides, she was cold and hungry and in need of some grounding.
He spit another pit at her. “We are not there yet.”
“We won’t get there tonight, regardless. I’m not like you. I need rest and warmth at night. And food,” she said, glancing at the olives he’d refused to share.
Jamra exhaled in frustration. “Very well. But only because we are approaching the city at the fork of two rivers. There is a small restaurant there that serves grilled lamb the way I like it, with all the right spices. You may eat as well,” he said as he lowered them toward a grassy slope.
“You’re too kind.”
He answered her sarcastic response by bumping the tapestry against the ground, creating a hard landing. Elena rolled off and was sent sprawling onto the grass. Jamra had the nerve to laugh as her skirt flew up over her knees. She swore then, as she straightened her hem and gathered her belongings back in her satchel, that she would die finding a spell that would stuff the insufferable jinni into the smallest container she could think of and secure him inside for a thousand years.
Jamra rolled up the tapestry by making a winding gesture with his finger, stashing the rug high in the branches of an alder. He waved his hand at the tree, as if closing a curtain, and motioned for Elena to take the path to the center of town. “After you,” he said.
Instead of heading down the main road that ran beside the river, Jamra forced them to walk several blocks inland before coming around to the side street where the café sat wedged between a tobacco store and silk goods shop. No, a creature made of fire wouldn’t be very fond of the water, she imagined. The sun had gone down, and the streetlamps were just coming on in the town. The lamplight gave the walls a golden old-world glow as they entered the quaint bouchon.
Remarkably, somewhere between crash-landing the magic carpet and sitting down at their table by the fire inside the cozy café, Jamra had changed her appearance. She no longer wore her work clothes and muddy sabots. He’d opted instead to present her in a tasteful blue dress with a lace neckline. Simple yet appropriate for dinner out in a casual café. He, in his suit and derby hat, looked like any other man of business out for a bite of local cuisine.
“Nice trick,” Elena said and shook out her napkin upon being seated.
He ordered them a bottle of red wine. A good one full of strong notes of plum, smoke, cherry, and a hint of oak-barrel spice. The grapes had been grown in the south where the sun baked the hard earth, forcing the vines to dig deep for survival. As she watched him sip, she wondered how someone capable of tormenting others with the destruction of property, brain fevers, and kidnapping could so casually sit at a table like a normal being, ordering exquisite wine and grilled meat as if he were on holiday.
The drippings still sizzled on the plates as the waiter brought out their lamb, carrots, and potatoes. “There are few things mortals do well, but their talent for braising meat with just the right spice is to be admired,” Jamra said.
Elena spread a pat of butter on a hunk of crusty bread. “You don’t have a very high opinion of mortals, do you?” she said and took a bite.
“Every now and then you find one worthy of the air they breathe.” He skewered a chunk of meat on the end of his knife with a slice of potato and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. He smiled as he chewed. “I vow the chef in this quaint café shall never come to harm,” he said after he swallowed.
Elena put her knife down. Here she was sitting in a café eating a delicious meal in a new dress while Jean-Paul lay sick in bed with a fever. And sitting across from the very jinni who’d broken into their lives and stolen the happiness they’d worked so hard to build as if it meant nothing more to him than wiping a few breadcrumbs from the tablecloth. She might be hungry, but she couldn’t share another bite with her abductor. She wished there were a way for her to be alone with her thoughts, if only for a few minutes, so she could slip into the shadow world and check on Jean-Paul. But how to do it without Jamra noticing? He would undoubtedly try to invade her vision if he caught her, and she had no wish to experience that breath on her neck again. Could she make an excuse to be alone? And just how much of a prisoner was she? Jamra certainly hadn’t tried to restrain her or keep her from walking away when they landed in the village, though she hadn’t really made a serious attempt. No, the knowledge that he could kill Jean-Paul on a whim was manacle enough, and he knew it.
Jamra lifted his glass to drink. “You are not eating.”
“It’s very spicy,” she said as the seed of an idea sprouted. “Makes me thirsty.”