Kiss of the Virgin Queen Page 3

  The shocked response was either well-rehearsed or sincere. For the moment, she’d go with the latter. “This is about finding out where the two other girls might be held captive. We need to know if there are other routes in and out of these old mining shafts.”

  He passed a hand over his creased face again, and appeared to age before her eyes. “Tell me it’s not like the Carter pack.” He lowered his voice. “Please tell me it’s not a jinni.”

  How had he heard about that case? Werewolf grapevine?

  The mission of Project Aladdin was to find jinnis, the portals where they came from a parallel dimension, and to shut them down. The assignment in Eden, Kentucky was a groundbreaking one for Eliana and Homeland Security. An applied physicist specializing in weapons, she theorized that, in the wrong hands, a jinni could become a weapon of mass destruction. She’d captured a battle between a werewolf and a jinni with low light internet protocol based surveillance cameras with high definition encoders she had placed in the woods around the abandoned mine. Specifically created by Homeland Security to assist in recording criminal activities under poor lighting conditions, the equipment live streamed real time and tamper-proof videos directly to Homeland Security. This documentation of the werewolf and jinni fight proved the existence of the supernatural creatures.

  The werewolf won the battle, but the war between the wolves and jinnis still raged. Before she left Kentucky, the old alpha wolf of the Carter clan had revealed the source of the grievances between the two shape shifters, a blood feud dating back to biblical times.

  The problem, however, was the jinnis weren’t necessarily interested in keeping their attacks focused solely on werewolves. Contrary to popular TV images of a pretty girl in a bottle, the jinnis, or genies, were powerful shape shifters, who, like humans, could choose between good and evil. If a terrorist ever found a way to conjure and command an evil jinni, or ‘Ifrit, the world would never know what hit it. Although they’d been able to seal up that particular portal, shafts of working and non-working mines honeycombed the entire Appalachian region of the United States. Jinnis could be anywhere, even beneath her feet in the sealed up mine turned winery. She rubbed the large signet ring now loose on her cold hand.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the Carter case, sir. All I can say at this time is right now three little boys can’t recall a thing, one young woman is dead from a brutal attack, and two girls are missing.”

  A low growl came out through his gritted teeth. “Why us? Why our pack?”

  “We don’t know, but that’s what we hope to find out.” She wasn’t about to tell Adalwolf about the energy signatures in the Summertown area caught by the satellite imagery.

  A wall phone shrilled next to the winery owner. He snatched it up. “Adalwolf.”

  He nodded and handed the receiver to Eliana. “It’s for you.”

  The police chief could barely speak. “Get. Over. To. The. Hospital. Now.”

  She’d said hospital, not morgue. That was good news. “What’s going on?”

  “A truck driver nearly ran over the two girls in the middle of the turnpike outside the state park.”

  “Are they—”

  “Hypothermic. Naked. And—”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “Visibly pregnant.”

  Her mouth snapped shut, and she honed in on the red exit sign. The medical examiner would have to ascertain if the dead girl had been expecting, too. In light of the urgency of the case, she doubted that important item would have been left out of the family interviews. She had to get to the hospital and talk to the survivors. “Mr. Adalwolf—” she returned the phone to him “—I must go. My team will get back to you for those blueprints. Here’s my card.”

  The CEO pulled out a pair of reading glasses and examined the small print. “Eliana D. Solomon, Special Agent, Homeland Security, Science and Technology Directorate, Anomaly Defense Division.” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t understand. Why is Homeland Security involved in this situation?”

  “All the agencies work as a team now, especially in unusual cases like this. If you think of anything else, call my cell.”

  She raced up the narrow stairwell and mentally thanked her boss for giving her the go ahead to assemble a task force of experts for this new case. The lineup was impressive; people with years of research experience in the field and in the scholarship of jinni phenomena were anxious to assist. Here in the middle of the West Virginia Mountains, she was going to need some specialized help from someone who had personal experience with jinnis.

  As soon as she’d gotten the green light, she’d known exactly who to ask—a tall, dark, and dangerously beguiling physician she had worked with on an extremely difficult case two years ago. Arta Shahani, an Iranian-American and Harvard trained psychiatrist, had firsthand experience in dealing with the shape shifters. The leading expert in the country on jinni possessions and a consultant to the agency on the inner workings of the minds of terrorists, the good doctor also had well-established relationships with the Baltimore and Washington Islamic community. An important consideration in a politically charged, highly sensitive arena.

  Arta was, without a doubt, the best man for the job. However, he was the last person in the world she ever wanted to speak to again. Her stomach fluttered, her heart lurched, and her hands grew slick on the hand railing just thinking about calling him. Not that she held a grudge, mind you, but didn’t she have the right to be pissed at a guy for leaving her for dead?

  Chapter Two

  Chevy Chase, MD, U.S.A., Present Day

  Arta Shahani, MD, stood on the sidewalk outside a thick green hedge surrounding a brick federalist style home in Chevy Chase, Maryland. He took a deep breath, opened the white wooden privet fence, and strode up the front walkway.

  What awaited him behind the solid black door? Would the entire family, minus the affected girl, greet him, wringing their hands in distress? Could he help the fifteen-year-old or would her disease overpower her? After ten years in the practice of psychiatry, he never knew what to expect, especially when called in to rule out a jinni possession.

  The curtain in the narrow window to the left of the door twitched, and a dark haired man peeked out. Ah. The father. Very well.

  “As-Salaam Alaykum, peace be upon you, Dr. Shahani. Thank you for coming to visit my poor daughter, Nur.” Wrapped in a long down coat, the father inclined his head and extended his right hand. It was seventy-five degrees outside. Why on earth was the man wearing a heavy coat indoors?

  “May peace, mercy and blessings of Allah be upon you, Mr. Mustafa.” Arta shook the man’s hand. It felt as if he’d been holding an ice pack for an hour.

  “Please come in.”

  Arta crossed the threshold. The temperature dropped ten degrees. Mid-June in Maryland did not require this much air-conditioning. He shuddered and wished for a heavier wool suit.

  “I apologize for the chill. No matter how much we run the heat, we cannot get the temperature over sixty degrees. You’ll need this.”

  Mr. Mustafa helped him into a down jacket.

  Oftentimes, in a case of suspected jinni possession, the family’s religious leader or Imam would have been consulted on the case first. Referred to Arta by a mutual friend, Mr. Mustafa was convinced his daughter was histrionic at best, over-indulged at worst. Arta expected to find an upset teenager, perhaps one in need of a family therapist. He didn’t anticipate walking into an igloo. Not once, in all of the suspected jinni possessions he’d investigated, had he ever encountered a chill like this one. It was like something out of a cheesy ghost hunter TV show.

  “How long has the temperature been this low?”

  “A month, maybe two. Technicians came out to examine the heat pump twice this week. And twice every week before.” He shook his head. “They cannot find anything wrong with it. They come, it gets better. They leave, it gets worse. I think Nur slips out of her room when the women are sleeping and plays with the thermostat.”

  As
a psychiatrist, Arta’s job was to rule out jinni possession, to identify any medical and mental illnesses before considering a paranormal cause. Depression, anxiety, endocrine, or neurological disorders, the list went on and on for underlying issues attributed to the supernatural being. Only after a thorough family interview, mental, and medical examinations, would he rule in the possibility of a jinni possession.

  “Tell me about Nur.” Arta took no notes. The good thing about a photographic memory was he never forgot anything. The bad thing was there were some things he wanted to forget and couldn’t.

  “A good girl, a lovely child. Respectful, obedient.” Mr. Mustafa took slow steps toward the second level. “Never gave us a moment of trouble. Did her homework, went to her Islamic classes, and loved Allah.”

  “What changed?” In his experience, an inciting incident always set off a chain reaction. Half the battle was finding the trigger.

  The father gave a great sigh. “A boy.”

  Ah. A boy. Perhaps Nur did play with the thermostat. “And?”

  Mr. Mustafa stopped and stared deep into Arta’s eyes with his bloodshot, coffee brown ones. “He met her at the shopping mall. Got her name and number from her friends. Started calling and asking her out.” He shook his head. “We said no. He came from the wrong kind of family.”

  “Can you tell me more about him?”

  “He’s an American.”

  “I’m an American. Persian extraction, born here in the United States. Is this a problem?”

  The father shook his head. “She’s promised to a man in our home country. When we’re finished with our diplomatic assignment at the end of this year, we’ll return to Turkey. Then they’ll be married.”

  Romeo and Juliet. Nur had reason to be angry. She probably didn’t want to leave her stateside beau.

  At the top of the stairs, Mr. Mustafa stood in front of a closed door. “I’m embarrassed to tell you this, but I think I should let you know my wife sought out a witch, asked for his help. The trickster told her to keep my daughter in a darkened room for thirty days and to light incense. I forbid my wife to go back to him. She still insists on burning candles scented with frankincense and keeps the room dark.”

  Arta nodded. “I’m sure those measures gave your wife some comfort.”

  The father rapped on the door. “Dr. Shahani is here to see you, Nur.”

  He turned the knob and shrieking commenced. Regardless of the language, the girl did not want visitors.

  “The light of my life, my little Nur, is behaving badly. But she is not possessed, of this I am certain.” The father paused and considered Arta with a sad expression. “The girl is simply acting like a hysterical teenager. Her mother is much too easy with her. Gives her whatever she wants. My wife wanted Imam Abdal to conduct an exorcism. I said absolutely not.”

  Arta knew the Imam well and respected him. One of the best-known spiritual leaders in the Baltimore and Washington Islamic community, the holy man advocated thorough medical assessments and interventions prior to any religious treatment. An exorcism was not a trivial event. The home needed to be prepared in a proper way, and medical and spiritual experts were required to be present to ensure the safety of the afflicted person, without turning it into a spectacle. An endangered soul wasn’t something the Imam wanted to have in the tabloids or evening news. Concern for the privacy of the afflicted individual was a top priority.

  Despite Arta’s accommodating words, he knew the Imam would not approve of Mrs. Mustafa visiting a witch, nor did he. Those charlatans preyed on the fears of the vulnerable and took their money. Nur and her family were victims who needed compassion, not deception and misinformation. Arta shuddered with a sudden chill despite the warm coat.

  “My wife and her sisters take turns staying with Nur. She’s never alone.” He shrugged. “Still, she manages to do things, like the thermostat.” He pushed the door open and nodded for Arta to go in. “I stay out here. Otherwise, she’ll become more agitated.”

  Arta stepped inside the candlelit room. Turkish writing covered the walls, the same phrase repeated over and over. “I hate my father, I hate my life, I want to die.” To put it mildly, it appeared this young woman was depressed, angry, and in desperate need of help. Mr. Mustafa called it right. She was rebelling. A lot of work waited for Arta.

  Time to roll up my sleeves.

  A woman sat in the near darkness in a wing-backed chair next to an empty twin bed. Wrapped from head to toe in layers of blankets, she prayed and called on Allah to help her child and to release the ‘Ifrit, the evil jinni, from her body.

  Arta’s eyes adjusted to flickering light as he searched the room for the girl in question. “Nur?”

  The mother stopped praying and locked gazes with Arta. Eyes large and round in her gaunt face, the woman looked as if she’d stopped eating for the past two months. She pointed below the bed.

  Arta went to the opposite side and got down on his knees. The temperature got even colder. His breath came out in puffs of white. No. His imagination, nothing more. Leaning on his forearms, he peered into the darkness under the bed and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  “Nur, I’m Dr. Shahani. Your family is worried. I’d like to speak with you. Is that okay?”

  A dark lump moved.

  “Nur, can you hear me?”

  A muffled sound. Crying?

  “What can I do to help you?”

  “Kill me.”

  At least she responded. That was a start. Now to open the door a little wider.

  “Why would you want me to hurt you, Nur?”

  She kept her face turned away. “Hate him.”

  “Why do you say that?” He’d seen a lot of angry teenage girls in his life, a stream of them in and out of his office in upscale Chevy Chase and in jails and courtrooms. Sometimes, he wanted to shake them and tell them how lucky they were and to stop whining. Other times, his heart broke at the psychic injuries the girls revealed. The ones he met in jail in his pro bono work cut at his soul. So many bore deep wounds of a kind no child should ever have to endure.

  “Comes at night. Makes me do things. Hurts me.”

  Arta tried not to jump to conclusions, but based on his medical knowledge and years of experience, he could not rule out the possibility of Mr. Mustafa as a perpetrator of wrongdoing with the girl. No one liked to talk about child sexual abuse, much less admit that it could occur in an individual's family. But denial and silence only added to the victim’s degradation and shame. He needed to start somewhere. He steeled himself and asked the question.

  “What kind of things?”

  She thrust an uncovered arm toward him. Covered in red scars and lines, as well as healed and unhealed wounds, her skin resembled a crazed game of tic-tac-toe.

  A cutter. A call for help. Self-loathing propelled some girls in desperation, to focus on the pain, instead of the shame.

  His mind raced. Even if Arta proved Mustafa abused his daughter, what penalties would be imposed? The father was a diplomat.

  A minor at fifteen, Nur would be protected from Mustafa if Arta could get her to a hospital. The diplomat blamed the boyfriend, when it looked like dear old daddy was the problem. His stomach knotted. If that was true, why did the father invite a psychiatrist into his home to treat his daughter? Was he that good an actor? It didn’t make sense. Most abusers hid their abuse and threatened their victims to keep them silent. What did make sense was that Arta needed to get the girl out from under the bed so he could obtain help for her.

  “Nur, I can take you someplace, keep you safe.”

  The girl’s fingers uncurled and beckoned to him. He reached under the bed and held her hand. “It’s going to be okay, Nur. We’re going to get you well.” He waited.

  She gave his fingers a slight squeeze.

  Good, she understood him. Now to extract her from under the bed.

  “Are you ready to come with me to a place where we’ll take good care of you?”

  She moved he
r foot, then her leg, and inched closer to him.

  Progress. Relief flooded him. Once she was out from under the bed, the next step would be to work on getting the parents to agree to take her to a hospital. She slid her icy hand under the sleeve of his coat. Good grief. Sliced up and nearly frozen, enraged at her father for who knew what, it was a wonder the girl was still able to communicate. He grieved for the girl’s suffering and pain.

  Her fingers gripped his forearm. “Buzz, buzz. Answer your phone.”

  His phone wasn’t ringing. Was she hallucinating? “Nur, you can let go of my arm.” The last thing the girl needed was to have the impression he was violating her, too.

  “I’ll get out of your way so you can come out.”

  His phone vibrated in his pants pocket. How had she heard the phone before he felt it?

  A sudden burst of movement, and she slammed into him, her nails digging into his flesh, and her nose touching his. Nur’s puffy, red-rimmed eyes flew open, and she erupted into laughter, coarse and guttural in his ear.

  “Hello, Dr. Arta. Long time, no see.”

  Chapter Three

  Gibeon, Israel, 959 B.C.E.

  King Solomon stood where Joshua once led troops to victory and offered up yet another burnt offering. So many deaths, so many sacrifices made to God. Now, despite being a man of seventeen, Solomon, the youngest of King David’s offspring still felt like a boy. Without military experience, he was forced to use the captain of the guard’s sword as his own, lest his kingdom topple. First his half-brother, Adonijah, then Joab, and the exiled Shimei were killed to keep his regency intact. He hated the killing. Each death tore at his heart.

  He turned and faced Zadok, the only person he trusted to accompany him to the high place. “Return to Jerusalem. Tell my mother I need some time alone.”

  The priest made the sign to ward off evil. “What of the wild animals and bandits? Fear you not for your body, if not your soul?”

  “I will keep Benaiah and ten of his men with me. They can guard me at a distance. I will fast and pray for God to come to me.”