“Uh-huh.”
Zanari was a remote viewer; she could see things happening thousands of miles away, so it wasn’t hard for her to know someone was standing outside her door. Nalia was glad Zanari couldn’t read minds, especially now, when her confession about Kir was all Nalia could think about.
“Where’s Raif?” Nalia asked, glancing around the room. It was similar to the one she shared with Malek, steeped in the lush elegance of Moroccan decor: bright, handwoven carpets, carved bedposts, and colorful lamps.
Zanari nodded toward the closed bathroom door. “He just got back from his meeting and now he’s in the shower. Should be finished soon.”
“His meeting?”
Zanari sat on one of the unmade beds as she tied the laces on her boots. “Revolution stuff. I asked, but he didn’t want to talk about it.” She grasped the velvet pouch around her neck and held it open as she waved her hand over a circle of earth on the room’s wooden floor. The dirt shot into the pouch, a rainbow of earth.
In order to best access her voiqhif, Zanari sat in a chiaan-infused circle of earth that magnified her ability to follow the signal lines connecting her to her targets. For Zanari, it was as though the universe were composed of intersecting highways that her psyche could travel along, stopping whenever she saw someone or something of interest.
“See any movement from the Ifrit?” Nalia asked.
“There are several still in Los Angeles—they’ve posted a guard at Malek’s house, much good it will do them. There are definitely soldiers in Morocco who are focused on finding you, but nobody seems to have any leads, thank the gods. They have a picture of you in their minds, but it’s an old one, from before the coup. They’re mostly looking for a jinni with your birthmark—just like Haran.”
Nalia glanced at the bathroom door. Raif had refused to consider going on ahead, but maybe Zanari would listen to reason. “You guys have to leave us—get the sigil. It’s probably only a matter of time before they find me. And the longer Raif stays in Marrakech, the more likely it is he’ll be recognized. We can’t fight off the whole Ifrit army.”
Zanari sighed. “Honestly? I totally agree with you. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d feel terrible leaving you alone with Malek, but the thought of him getting the sigil instead of Raif . . .”
“I know. What Malek said last night—it’s true,” Nalia said. “The wish’s magic is in his favor, not Raif’s. I honestly have no idea what will happen in that cave.”
“Gods. I keep picturing them both running toward the damn thing,” Zanari said.
“Please tell me you two have some kind of plan.” Nalia held up her hand. “Don’t tell me the plan. Just tell me you have one.”
Zanari grimaced. “Um. We’re working on that. It involves running and hitting.”
Nalia closed her eyes. “Why is he so godsdamned stubborn?”
“I think my brother’s afraid that if he leaves you now, he’ll never see you again. I think that would kill him.”
Nalia wanted to deny it, but all she could do was nod. Nothing was guaranteed. She’d be lucky to get out of Morocco alive.
Zanari stood and grabbed her room key, then turned toward the door. “I’m going downstairs to get some food—want anything?”
Nalia’s eyes flicked to the closed bathroom door, panicked. “I’ll come with you. I hardly ate any dinner.”
Coward, she thought. If she was alone with Raif, she’d have to tell him about Kir. And she couldn’t bear to have him look at her with disgust or hatred. Nalia wasn’t ready for that. Not ever, but especially not now, when everything in her life was so uncertain.
Zanari rolled her eyes. “Sister, you don’t have to play the blushing maiden, okay? When you and Raif are ready, come find me.” She gave Nalia a wave and was out the door without another word.
Nalia sat on the edge of Zanari’s bed, staring at the bathroom door. Raif. Tendrils of steam snuck out from beneath it, like the tentacles of a jellyfish. A war raged inside her: tell him, don’t tell him. She didn’t know what to do. She longed for Thatur, her gryphon, who had always counseled her.
She stood, restless, and crossed to the window that looked onto the street below. Children on bicycles clattered over the cobblestones, women clothed in bright kaftans carried shopping bags heavy with fresh bread. Shopkeepers began raising the metal shutters that covered their stores, where Nalia caught a peek of bolts of cloth and mannequins wearing head scarves. A little boy skipped by, singing a song in Arabic. His smile reminded her of Bashil, and the hole inside her grew wider, deeper.
The bathroom door opened, and the room filled with the scent of the riad’s rich musk soap. Nalia could feel Raif behind her, his heat and energy whispering to her in a wordless language only they knew. She was suddenly terrified to turn around. If she looked at him, she wouldn’t be able to say what she needed to.
I killed your best friend, she thought. I killed Kir. No. I was forced to kill—
“I was going crazy last night, imagining him in that room with you,” Raif whispered, his lips against her neck. His hands slid down her arms and Nalia leaned into him, even though she knew she shouldn’t. Her confession retreated as his chiaan connected to hers, electric. Raif turned her around so that she was facing him. He made no effort to disguise the want in his eyes.
Nalia rested her hands on Raif’s bare chest, a thrill running through her as she felt his heart beating fast and sure under her skin.
“Raif, nothing happened.”
“What if he’d tried—”
Nalia reached up and pressed a finger against his lips. “I’ve got a pretty good uppercut. You never need to worry about me around him.” She had a flash of Malek pushing her onto her back, his lips a breath from her own. “Now that he’s not my master, Malek is nothing but a pardjinn I owe a wish to.”
It was true that she was stronger than Malek, but her former master didn’t fight like other people; he fought the mind and heart. He would use the worst parts of Nalia against herself, like he had last night.
Now, she thought. She’d tell Raif the truth and he’d hate her for it but at least it’d finally be out in the open.
“Raif—”
“They found Jordif,” he said softly.
She stiffened. “Where?”
“Someplace called South America,” he said. “We executed him this morning.”
Nalia’s eyes widened. “That fast?”
Raif nodded. She let that sink in for a moment. It was something like justice, but it didn’t satisfy. She wasn’t sure if anything would.
“You know what an evil part of me wishes?” she said.
The Ifrit part, she thought to herself. As the only jinni left that had access to all four elements, it meant that Nalia shared the fire her enemies drew strength from.
“Hmm?” Raif tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, his rough fingers grazing her cheek.
She looked at the scars around her wrists, reminders of her slavery that would never go away. “I wish you had put him on the dark caravan. Made him a slave to someone like Sergei Federov. That’s what he deserves. Death is too easy.”
How many times had she wished for her own death? Haunted by the massacre of her people, forced to obey Malek’s every whim and subject to the torture of the bottle—death had always seemed kind. A black-cloaked angel of mercy.
“Who’s Sergei Federov?”
“One of Malek’s business partners. He’s . . .” She shivered. Eyes like the Taiga in winter, soul like the bottom of a deep well. Yes, she thought, that would be justice.
“Jordif received a traitor’s death,” Raif said. “His punishment will never end.”
Nalia’s breath caught. To have your body pecked at by birds, to forever roam the shadowlands, deprived of the ritual burning that set your soul free . . . she almost felt sorry for Jordif. But then she thought of the horror of slavery, of the bottle, and of all the masters who took advantage of their jinn. Nalia had been one of the only jinn s
he knew whose master hadn’t forced her to sleep with him—in that, at least, she’d been lucky. Malek could be cruel, but he wasn’t a rapist. Though last night, she hadn’t been so sure, not at first.
“Laerta,” Raif whispered. Come here.
He drew her to him so that her heart pressed against his chest. He smelled like the Forest of Sighs, where the revolutionaries made their home: grass and trees and good, clean dirt.
“I’m so tired of everything,” she said. “I just want to get my brother.”
“I know,” he whispered against her hair.
“I wish . . .” Nalia sighed. Not even she could get herself out of having to fulfill Malek’s wish.
She felt Raif’s chiaan wrap around her like a soft blanket, a bright, restless energy that had begun to feel like home. Nalia pressed closer to him, all too aware that they were finally alone. He gasped a little as her chiaan slid into him and he tightened his arms around her.
She’d never forget the moment when they first exchanged energy. At the time, Nalia had thought the intensity of feeling him inside her was because she’d spent so many of her years on Earth trying not to touch any jinn. The texture of her chiaan, so different from the other castes, would have instantly marked her as a Ghan Aisouri, as it had the night before, with Fareed’s slave. The only reason Nalia had been able to avoid being killed by the Ifrit during her three years of captivity on Earth was because Calar had thought all the Ghan Aisouri were dead. When Raif’s chiaan had surged through her, exploring, it felt like she’d peeled back the layers of her skin to show him what was underneath. But now she knew she hadn’t just been responding to the sensation of another jinni’s chiaan mingling with her own; it was encountering Raif himself, the force of him, that had been so disorienting.
Still was.
“I don’t know if I’m ever going to get used to this,” he said, a smile in his voice.
“What about this?” she whispered, brushing her lips against his.
“Definitely not.”
He returned her kiss and when he opened his mouth, she tasted the sweet mint of Moroccan tea, felt the warm earthiness of his chiaan collide with her own. His kiss enveloped her in warmth, his want matching perfectly with her own. Raif was a rule meant to be broken, a promise made in starlight and darkness.
She forgot about Kir. She forgot about everything.
They tumbled onto one of the beds and the room melted away as Raif’s whole being seeped into her. He’d risked everything for Nalia—the revolution, his life. He’d offered himself up like a sacrifice to a fierce and lovely goddess and she had let him.
You don’t deserve this, she thought as his hands snaked under her shirt. You don’t deserve him.
Nalia grabbed his hands. “We have to go soon,” she whispered. “To meet Malek’s contact, remember?”
Raif’s hair was still damp from his shower, a dark halo around his face as he looked down at her, like the images of Tirgan, the god of earth that graced the palace’s temple. “Zan won’t come in, you don’t have to worry about that,” he said.
How could she explain without explaining? She had no right to take any more from him than she already had.
I killed your best friend.
“It’s just . . . everything’s so complicated right now—”
Coward. Tell him the truth. TELL HIM.
“It’s actually pretty simple: I love you,” he said. She sucked in her breath. “And you love me.” Raif trailed a finger along her jaw. “Right?”
She nodded. So so much. Nalia pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck.
“Nothing,” she lied.
He traced her collarbone, a thoughtful expression on his face as he looked down at her. “Did I tell you about my home in Arjinna?”
She shook her head and he shifted to his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “It’s in the middle of a widr tree, built right into the branches, a little ways away from the other ludeen. There’s a pond nearby and honeysuckle grows beneath the windows year round. You’ll love it.”
She tried to imagine it: waking up beside Raif every morning, smelling the sweet Arjinnan air. Falling asleep beside him each night. They’d never had time to discuss what would happen in Arjinna. There had simply been that promise, when they were still enemies: they wouldn’t kill one another when they reached their native land, and Nalia wouldn’t try to steal the ring, nor could Raif use it against her. That was all.
But so much had changed since then.
It hurt, this love he had for her. Soon it would be gone. Once he found out the truth, he’d never look at her like this again.
“Raif—”
He stopped her words with a soft kiss. “Just for the next few minutes, can we pretend we’re there already?” he said. “We have the rest of the day to deal with Malek and fight Ifrit and get to the cave. I want you to myself before I have to share you.”
The space between hope and reality was growing wider, a chasm they wouldn’t be able to bridge for long. Anything but right now, this moment, felt like a hazy, half-remembered dream. She wanted to hold on to it a little longer before it wasn’t real anymore.
“So if we were in your ludeen, what would be doing?” she asked, suddenly distracted by his finger as it traveled down her neck and settled on the top button of her shirt. She stopped breathing, her entire being concentrating on where his finger rested.
Raif smiled. “Relaxing.” He undid the button, his eyes never leaving hers. “Last night I was thinking about how worried you’ve been about everything, how you can never get out of your head.”
Another button.
“Uh-huh,” she whispered.
His eyes were filled with a secret kind of knowing. “And I thought maybe you’d feel better if you could just . . . let go.”
Another button. His hair fell forward, brushing against her cheek, and her chiaan vibrated—she actually felt it tremble—as though Raif’s closeness had struck a chord inside her, one that kept playing the same sweet note over and over and over.
“I . . . um . . . I’m not sure . . . let go?”
Another button.
Raif lay his palm against her stomach and Nalia felt his chiaan push through her skin, right into the knot he was unraveling inside her.
“Right now,” he murmured, “there’s nothing in the whole world but you and me.”
The last button.
Nalia reached her hands up, her fingertips skimming the scarred surface of his chest, where Ifrit bullets and Shaitan whips had cut into his flesh. He closed his eyes as she touched him. Rays of sunlight peeked through a lattice screen, creating a golden pattern against his skin.
He leaned down and brought his mouth to her chest, taking a leisurely path to her stomach. Her hands gripped his shoulders, his hair. Dust motes swirled around them, a motorcycle went by on the street below, someone in the hotel was playing Arabic love songs. Her breathing quickened the lower he got, and she could feel Raif smile against her belly. It was becoming impossible to hold the magic inside her, to keep herself in check. Control: it was all she knew, all she had.
“Just let go,” he whispered.
“Raif . . .”
But it was a weak protest, her hands grasping his hair as his lips seared her skin. His fingers undid the drawstring of the loose-fitting pants she wore.
“What?” he said, his lips turning up at the shocked expression on her face. “This isn’t how they do things at the palace?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.
“I might be a good guy, Nalia,” he said. “But I never claimed to be well behaved.”
He pulled the fabric down and smiled—a devilish upturn of the mouth that made Nalia bite her lip. He laughed softly, then brought his mouth back down to her skin. Faint wisps of chiaan slipped from her fingers, coating Raif in liquid gold. He shuddered as her power seeped into him and then there was just warmth, gods so much warm
th, and light and breath and she let go of everything except the delicious release that was pulsing through her, this unexpected grace of weightlessness.
Nalia gasped, her body filling with light. Raif’s fingers twined with hers and his lips moved to her inner thigh, then her knee. She looked down at him, eyes wide, and he laughed softly against her skin.
“Feel better?” he asked.
All she could do was nod. Raif crawled over the blankets and lay beside her, then pulled her to him.
There was a soft knock on the door. “You guys?” Zanari called. “I hate to do this, but the car’s outside waiting for us. Time to go.”
Raif groaned. “Five minutes,” he called.
His eyes traveled down Nalia’s body. She dropped her forehead to his chest and kissed the skin over his heart. She wanted this dream to be her reality, to pretend the past didn’t matter.
To pretend she deserved him.
8
MALEK SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE RANGE ROVER, directing the driver to get as close to the souks outside the Djemaa el-Fna as the narrow streets would allow. They’d have to go on foot the rest of the way, but luckily he could make it to Saranya’s shop in his sleep. His jinni contact had been practicing her magic in the same location for hundreds of years. Malek couldn’t count how many times he’d been in her home, drinking mint tea and talking for hours. But it’d been a while since he’d had the guts to knock on her door.
He stared out the window, frowning. The streets were filled with peddlers selling spices, elaborately embroidered slippers, and cone-shaped tagines. Ancient palaces and souks surrounded the Djemaa like the petals of a tightly packed rose. Malek held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, tapping out a nervous beat against his knee. Going to Saranya was a terrible idea, he knew, but there was no one else who could help them. Even if there were, he wouldn’t know if he could trust another jinni. Saranya would help, whether she wanted to or not.
Three years, he thought. It was hard to believe it’d already been that long. Every morning he woke up and the remembering would happen right away, the wound still fresh. Malek had told himself he’d never go back—how could he, after the terrible choice he’d made?—but he couldn’t risk losing his chance at the ring, and the sooner they got out of Marrakech and into the desert, the better.
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