Blood Passage

by Heather Demetrios

  Raif gestured for Nalia to sit beside him and she sank into the couch, feeling unbearably selfish for not working harder to convince him to get the sigil without her. She resolved to try again tomorrow—as much as she wanted Raif close, Malek was right: when it came down to it, the magic of the wish only worked in her former master’s favor. Protecting Nalia from the Ifrit wasn’t as important as Arjinna’s fate.

  “The voice of reason—thank you, Zanari.” Malek took a bite of his couscous, ignoring Zanari’s glare. “I know a jinni in Marrakech who can get us a guide while we’re in the desert. It’d be easy enough to find a Berber to help us through the Sahara—plenty of Moroccan nomads about—but for our purposes, I think a Dhoma is best. We’ll be in their territory and those jinn don’t take kindly to strangers.”

  Dhoma: the forgotten.

  “Absolutely not,” Nalia said. “We have enough problems as it is.”

  It was said the Dhoma were wild, trickster jinn who lived without rules and haunted the desolate landscape of the Sahara with no one to keep them company but the Berber nomads who roamed the lonely dunes. Though their magical ability was vast, they chose to live simply and rejected modernity.

  Malek snorted. “And you say I’m intolerant.”

  “They’re more like criminals, really,” Raif said. “My tavrai have been held up several times by the Dhoma on their way through the desert. They’re insanely protective of their territory and demand tolls from anyone who steps past their invisible borders.”

  “All the more reason for a Dhoma guide,” Malek said, smug.

  It was his fault they were being forced to cross the godsforsaken desert in the first place—though he was a pardjinn, Malek couldn’t evanesce. If he hadn’t made that third wish, Nalia, Raif, and Zanari could have evanesced directly to the cave’s entrance from Los Angeles.

  “What happens if they discover I’m a Ghan Aisouri?” she said. “They hate my caste. My ancestors refused to help the Dhoma when Solomon enslaved them.”

  The Ghan Aisouri had seen it as a just punishment for abandoning Arjinna. Let them rot in that wishmaker realm, since they think it’s so much better than ours. Nalia wasn’t sure if those were her ancestors’ exact words, but it was what her mother would have said. Not long after Solomon put on the ring, the Ghan Aisouri began using Earth as a penal colony; any jinni who committed a crime stood a chance at being banished from Arjinna forever and enslaved to the Master King. Nalia never ceased to wonder at the cruelty of her caste.

  “You jinn need to bury the hatchet,” Malek said. “This all happened three thousand years ago.”

  “You forget how long we live, Malek.” Raif stood and began pacing the room. “It wasn’t so long ago for us. We’re talking about our grandparents, great-grandparents. I’m telling you, the Dhoma are not going to help.”

  Malek crossed to the fireplace and let out a contented sigh as his skin got as close to the flames as possible without burning. Because Malek was a pardjinn, he needed to be around his element nearly as much as a full jinni.

  “Listen,” he said, “you’re going to have to set aside whatever issues you have with the Dhoma. Raif’s description of the lightning storm above where the sigil’s hidden is at the precise spot of the Dhoma’s most sacred site, Erg Al-Barq—the Lightning Dune. There’s no way we’re getting near there without the Dhoma’s permission.”

  “And if they refuse?” Nalia asked.

  “They won’t. Trust me,” Malek said. Nalia raised her eyebrows and he sighed. “I have every confidence that my contact will help us. She just . . . might need a little convincing.”

  “I’ve seen how you convince people, Malek,” Nalia said. “I’m not hurting anybody and I’m not letting you hypersuade your way through Morocco.”

  “I think when you meet my contact, you’ll understand that hypersuasion would be ill advised.”

  “I still think it’s too risky,” Nalia said. “All it takes is one traitor like Jordif and we’ll have Calar’s whole army on us in seconds. A human guide won’t be able to betray us to the Ifrit.”

  “Well, you’ve got me there,” Malek said. “You jinn are quite the experts at betrayal.”

  Nalia held his gaze for a long moment, long enough to see hurt replace anger. Just a few days ago he’d held her in his arms, happier than she’d ever seen him. I love you . . . more than anything else in the world, he’d said. Malek had been willing to give up his search for the sigil, but her betrayal—every bit of which he deserved—had put an end to that resolve.

  Malek looked away and lit another cigarette, his lips pulled down.

  Raif nudged her. “Eat,” he said softly. “It’s been hours since you put anything in your stomach.”

  Nalia took the cover off the ceramic dish, unleashing a cloud of steam and mouth-watering aromas. The food looked delicious, but she wasn’t hungry, not anymore. Even so, Nalia picked up a fork and forced herself to eat. For Bashil. For the chance to see her homeland again.

  Home. Bashil. That had to get her through whatever tomorrow would bring.

  “As much as I’m enjoying the company, I think it’s time to call it a night,” Malek said. “Big day tomorrow.” He glanced at Nalia as he threw his coat over his arm. “I’ll keep the bed warm, Madame Alzahabi.”

  He was gone before Nalia could spit in his face or kick him or do any number of violent things to his person. Gods, he was infuriating.

  “Sister, how did you live with him for three years?” Zanari said.

  Nalia speared a piece of lamb with her fork harder than was necessary. “I slept with a knife under my pillow.”

  Zanari turned to her brother. “I hate to admit it, but I think Nalia has to stay with Malek.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Raif growled.

  “Well, you and I certainly can’t, unless we want to be hypersuaded like those jinn,” Zanari said.

  “Then the three of us will share a room,” Raif said. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  Nalia shook her head. “If Fareed is a slave owner, that means he has Ifrit contacts. We can’t do anything to arouse his suspicion. We have to play along for now.” She sighed. “Malek will be sleeping on the floor tonight.”

  Nalia leaned toward Raif and brushed his cheek with her lips. “It’s only for a night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Have I mentioned today that I hate Malek?” Raif asked.

  Nalia smiled. “Maybe once or twice.”

  5

  A MINUTE LATER, NALIA WAS STEPPING INTO THE ROOM she shared with Malek, her eyes immediately going to the bed that sat beneath a delicate canopy. It was empty. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom, and some of the tension inside her loosened. Like the rest of the riad, it was a beautiful room, decorated in rich gold, red, and purple tones. Thick Berber rugs covered the tiled floor and a large metal lamp hung from the ceiling, casting a delicate pattern over the plum walls. It was unbearably romantic.

  Nalia crossed to the bed and threw a pillow onto the floor, the smack of it hitting the tile only nominally satisfying, then quickly manifested a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt. She changed, then slipped into bed and turned off the light, her back to the bathroom.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and steam poured into the room, carrying Malek’s scent: sweet pine, like a dark forest.

  “I know you’re awake, Nalia,” Malek said.

  “There’s a knife under my pillow and I’d be more than happy to acquaint you with it,” she replied.

  The bed sagged with Malek’s weight and in less than a second, her Ghan Aisouri dagger was at his throat. The razor-sharp jade glinted in the moonlight that drifted in through the sheer curtains that covered the window. He wore nothing but a thick towel wrapped around his waist, and drops of water dripped down his neck from the wet hair that curled just above his ears.

  He looked down at her palm pressing against his bare chest, ignoring the knife. Nalia tried to stop the flow of chiaan between them,
but it was impossible with their skin touching. He burned, as always, and her eyes shifted to the amulet she’d carved over his heart years ago.

  “You’re forgetting something,” Malek said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The wish. I imagine you’re not allowed to do anything that would prevent you from granting it. Seriously injuring me would definitely set us back, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Why don’t we find out?”

  Nalia pressed the blade to his throat and Malek held her eyes with infuriating calm as it refused to come in contact with his skin. She growled as she threw it into the wall, where it stuck halfway to the hilt, then she reached back and slapped him as hard as she could. At least the wish didn’t protect him from that. Malek stared, his eyes wide with shock, then he laughed, utterly delighted.

  “Damned if I don’t love you more like this,” he said.

  “You don’t even know what love is,” she snarled.

  Malek’s lips tightened and Nalia felt the tiniest jolt of satisfaction upon seeing the pain that lashed his face. It was gone in an instant, but she knew her words had hit their mark.

  “I guess we’ll have to disagree on that, won’t we?”

  Malek lunged forward, knocking Nalia onto her back. His onyx eyes roved over her face. She lay very still, staring at him. He leaned toward her, the heat of his bare skin on her own, scorching. His lips, so close. She shivered and he smiled.

  “Is this how you imagined it would be, Malek?” Nalia asked softly, just as his lips were about to fall on her own. “You, having your way with me while I lay on my back, hating you and wishing you were Raif?”

  His jaw twitched and he shoved himself off her. “Your ability to lie to yourself is impressive, Nalia. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe you’d hate every second of making love to me. Except.” He gave her a velvet smile. “I can read your body like a map. And when you shivered just now—it wasn’t because you were cold.”

  Malek crossed the room, grabbing a pair of silk pajamas that were lying over the back of a chair.

  “Good night, Nalia.” He shut the bathroom door behind him.

  Nalia crawled under the covers and stared at the useless dagger pinned to the wall. As soon as she granted Malek’s wish, she was going to plunge the blade into his chest. It wouldn’t kill him, but she wanted to cut his heart out, anyway.

  Malek ignored the call to prayer.

  He had promised himself long ago that he would never bow to anyone again, not even a god. The familiar sound of his childhood broke the predawn quiet of the city, shattering the peace that had lain over it like a soft blanket.

  Allahu Akbar. God is great.

  As the muezzin’s voice traveled from the nearby mosque, rising and falling over the roofs of sleeping Marrakech, Malek checked to make sure the gun’s barrel was full, then tucked the small firearm he’d gotten from Fareed into his belt, where it would be concealed by his suit coat. He couldn’t be too careful in Morocco, especially not when the city was crawling with Ifrit.

  Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.

  He looked at the girl in the middle of the bed, the way the lavender dawn slid over her face. He wished he could hate her. Kill her right now in her sleep. It was humiliating, how desperately he wanted to crawl across the bed and take Nalia in his arms. Even after her betrayal. Even after seeing the way she looked at Raif, nothing but a hotheaded boy with a laborer’s tan and soldier’s manners.

  I’ll never love you, she’d said.

  Her never was his always, and Malek needed to change that, to stop this crushing desire and affection that was turning him into a shell of himself. How could he have let things go so far, given her so much power over him? His hand moved, unconsciously, to his bare neck. He still panicked a little every time his fingers brushed nothing but his own soft flesh. The bottle was gone, but it had only been two days since he’d watched Nalia grind it under her foot. It had felt like a heart attack, like a knife in the gut: real physical pain that he could still feel the echoes of.

  I’ll never love you, she’d said.

  The muezzin’s voice pushed against him, part balm, part burn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed.

  As-salatu khayrun minan-nawm. Prayer is better than sleep.

  He is seven years old, kneeling on a worn prayer rug, his eyes full of sleep and his limbs heavy. Amir is beside him, swaying on his feet. Malek reaches over to hold his brother’s elbow, keeping his eyes on his uncle and cousins. They will beat Amir if he falls asleep during prayer again. Amir looks up and shoots his twin a grateful smile. Shukran, he mouths. Thank you. Malek nods once, then turns away from the face that is almost identical to his own and begins his prayers.

  The sky lightened and the rooftop patios began to fill with half-awake Moroccans who set their prayer rugs beside satellite dishes and clotheslines. Malek watched as they went through the familiar motions, that dance of submission he swore off long ago.

  La ilaha illa Allah. There is no god except the One God.

  Nalia stirred and Malek gazed at her a little longer, then pulled his eyes away, back to the window that overlooked the city’s rooftops. Their adventure last night reinforced for Malek how it was all too easy to get lost in the city and equally easy to stay hidden within its storied walls. He’d have to be careful today: they couldn’t afford to waste time, not while the Ifrit were on the hunt.

  There was a strangled gasp from the bed and he whirled around, forgetting, for a moment, his careful nonchalance.

  “Bashil!” Nalia screamed. She was sitting up, clutching the sheets to her chest, her eyes scanning the empty room.

  “Just a dream,” he said, turning away before she could see his concern. He’d overheard her speaking to Raif about her brother. In all likelihood the child was dead, though Nalia had said she couldn’t be sure. A good thing Malek hadn’t allowed her to go rescue the boy when she’d asked, else Nalia would probably be dead, too.

  There was a rustle of sheets and then he felt her move past him without a word. She shut the bathroom door behind her, the click of the lock the only greeting Nalia would deign to give him. His hand slipped into his pocket and he took out the necklace he’d been carrying with him since Nalia had torn it off her neck and thrown it at his feet. A gold pendant inlaid with the lapis lazuli of Arjinna’s Qaf Mountains. He’d never forget the thrill of seeing Nalia’s reaction to the necklace: a surprised delight that he wanted to give her over and over. Malek shoved it back in his pocket.

  I could have made her happy, he thought.

  This jinn revolution he’d heard Nalia and the others speak of was doomed, Malek knew that much. And if Nalia wasn’t killed trying a foolish rescue of a child in a heavily guarded prison camp, then that dolt of a boy who slobbered over her would manage to somehow get the job done himself.

  Malek sighed and threw on his coat as the last of the morning’s prayer rose to the skies. December in Morocco was cold, sometimes cruelly so. But a little fresh air would do him good. He started toward the door, hesitated, then crossed to the bed and rested his hand on the warm pillow. Then he left, shutting the door softly behind him.

  A boy was in the hall, carrying a tray loaded with mint tea and glasses. He smiled when he saw Malek.

  “Sbah el kheyr, Monsieur Alzahabi,” he said.

  “Morning,” Malek replied.

  “Your wife—she is awake also? I can bring tea to the room if you would like.”

  Your wife. The little lie had been worth seeing the look on Raif’s face when he found out.

  “Yes, she is. But don’t bother with tea—she’ll come down if she wants some,” Malek said. The boy nodded his head and continued down the hall.

  Malek glanced at the elegant courtyard below, wishing he were there with Nalia under different circumstances. Wish. He hated the word.

  No matter. Solomon’s sigil was closer than ever and once it was on his finger, Nalia—and every jinni that ever stepped foot on E
arth—would be under his control.

  6

  HUNDREDS OF MILES FROM THE RIAD, RAIF WAS SCANNING the flat expanse of desert, empty but for a few flat-topped trees, a line of low, rocky hills, and the occasional tuft of desert grass. The portal to Arjinna was a few feet away, invisible to human eyes. It looked as though a piece of sky had been ripped from the air and placed just above the sand, a jagged oval shimmering like the surface of an opal. Raif knew that if he walked through that border, all he would see was suffering. And yet it called to him, a magnetic pull that almost hurt to ignore. It didn’t matter how bad things were in Arjinna, it was home. Where he belonged.

  “Jahal’alund, tavrai,” a jinni said, placing a fisted hand over her heart. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

  Raif waved away the jinni’s formal manner. “We’re all in this mess together. The honor’s mine, tavrai. Now, let me see this skag.”

  The jinni hesitated, then gave a curt nod, her body still in the rigid pose of a soldier before a commander. “As you wish.”

  Raif followed the tavrai along something resembling a path. The desert winds made the improvised walkway hard to find, but the cairns all over the sand helped him navigate the desert floor. Each one of the small piles of white stones represented a jinni who had died on the crossing. It was a memorial of sorts. Nobody knew how it began, only that the cairns seemed to multiply every year. Some were slaves on the dark caravan who’d been so brutally abused and drugged before the portal crossing that they’d died as soon as they evanesced from the bottle—or never evanesced at all, the bottle nothing more than a coffin. Others were refugees who’d been injured during the crossing, either by an Ifrit guard or the treacherous passes in the Qaf Mountains.

  This is why I fight, he thought, gazing at the endless rows of cairns.

  It was almost dawn and the Sahara was cloaked in early-morning quiet. A cool wind blew fine grains of sand around his scuffed boots, and the last stars were fading from the sky. Just twenty-four hours ago he’d been unbinding Nalia from the bottle and now here he was, overseeing an execution.