Blood Passage

by Heather Demetrios

  Before they could say anything else, Saranya slipped out of the room, through a beaded curtain that led to what Nalia guessed was the kitchen.

  “In Morocco, it’s customary to discuss business over mint tea,” Malek said. “Things move more slowly here than where we’re from.”

  “We are not from the same place,” Nalia said.

  Malek frowned but before he could say anything, the front door opened and a teenage boy walked through, a leather book bag thrown over his shoulder. When he caught sight of Malek, the boy let out a cry of joy.

  “Uncle!” He threw his arms around Malek, beaming.

  Nalia stared. The resemblance between them was so close it was uncanny. Stranger still, Malek’s whole face lit up as he returned the boy’s crushing hug.

  “Tariq!” he said, holding the boy against him. He closed his eyes and Nalia looked away. The moment felt too private and it confused her, seeing Malek like this.

  Saranya entered the room carrying a tray with an elaborate silver tea service and several delicate glasses. “Tariq, let him breathe.”

  Her voice was soft as she set the tray down on a low table in the center of the room and her eyes glazed over, wet.

  Tariq let go of Malek. “But, Uncle, what are you doing here? We called so many times . . .”

  Malek looked away from the boy’s eager eyes. “It’s complicated, Tari. I’ve been . . . busy.” He glanced at the boy’s satchel. “What are you doing home so early?”

  “It’s nearly lunch,” Tariq said. “You’re staying, right?” Without waiting for Malek’s answer, he turned to his mother. “Mama, can he—”

  Saranya held up her hand. “We’ll see. Why don’t you tell your uncle about the prize you won in school?”

  Tariq launched into the story, his words tumbling over one another in their haste to get out. As Saranya prepared the tea, Nalia watched the Dhoma jinni. She seemed . . . kind. Nothing like the people Malek associated with on a regular basis. Nalia wondered what had made this woman decide to marry his brother, a pardjinn with limited powers who would stain the bloodline. She wondered what Malek’s brother was like. They obviously weren’t close if Malek’s being a master came as a surprise. Saranya set the glasses in a semicircle on the tray and began pouring the tea in Moroccan fashion, from several inches above the glasses.

  Once she’d finished pouring the tea, Saranya glanced at Malek. “I’m assuming you’re not simply here to introduce me to your friends,” she said.

  Malek glanced at Tariq. “It’s a delicate matter. Perhaps . . .”

  Saranya looked at her son and he started to protest. “Into the kitchen with you, gharoof,” Saranya said. “Maywir needs help with the salads, anyway.”

  Nalia’s breath caught. How many times had she called Bashil gharoof—little rabbit?

  Tariq gave a dramatic sigh as he turned to Malek. “You’re not leaving again, are you?”

  Malek hesitated, and the boy’s face fell. “I have something very important to do,” Malek said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “You’ll take good care of your mother, yes?”

  His nephew nodded, glum, then trudged into the kitchen. Malek watched him for a moment, a wistful expression on his face, and when he turned back and saw Nalia staring at him, he coughed uncomfortably.

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with all the Ifrit coming through the portal yesterday, does it?” Saranya asked.

  She put two sugars in a glass and handed it to Nalia with a small spoon.

  “It’s safer if you don’t know the details,” Nalia said. She accepted the glass Saranya handed her, then stirred in the sugar until the water absorbed the crystals. Nalia sighed as the scent of mint and sugar wafted up to her, and she drank gratefully.

  “What is it you need from me?” Saranya asked, once everyone had a glass of tea.

  “A guide,” Nalia said. “One who knows the desert as well as his own face. One who is discreet and loyal. Malek believes you may know someone like this.”

  “You are going to a specific place?”

  Nalia nodded. “Yes. But because Malek can’t evanesce, we need to travel the human way.” She glared at her former master. “It’s his third wish, the place we’re going. I won’t be free of him until I grant it.”

  Malek’s eyes hardened at free of him.

  Saranya gave Nalia a long look. “And this thing Malek has wished for—this is why the Ifrit have sent half an army to Earth?”

  “The Ifrit have nothing to do with the wish,” Malek said.

  “So they want you,” Saranya said, her eyes still on Nalia.

  Nalia nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “Do you know someone who can help us?” Zanari asked, clearly tired of the vague conversation. She sat on the couch, legs spread and a scimitar strapped to her back, a soldier unaccustomed to elaborate tea rituals and sitting in pretty living rooms.

  Saranya took a sip of her tea and slowly set it back on the table. “This is the wrong question to ask,” she said. “The question is, why would I help you? If it’s true that the Ifrit are looking for Nalia, then I’d be placing my life and my son’s life in far more danger than usual.” Saranya pursed her lips. “Tariq has already lost his father. What would he do if I were gone, as well? And Maywir and the others like her that live with me, where would they go?”

  Nalia looked from Malek to Saranya. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know about your husband. Hif la’azi vi.” My heart breaks for you.

  Saranya nodded her head in thanks at the simple words of condolence shared among the jinn.

  Is that why Malek had never spoken of his brother? Nalia’s eyes trailed to Malek and he stood, turning his back to the room.

  “I’ve lost people I love, too,” Nalia said. “The jinni who’s after me—she killed nearly my entire family.”

  Because Nalia continued to hide behind the disguise of Shaitan eyes, Malek’s sister-in-law had no way of knowing Nalia meant the Ghan Aisouri. Though Nalia’s loss was catastrophic, she wasn’t the only jinni who had suffered under the brutal Ifrit regime.

  Saranya remained silent, staring into her glass of tea as though it were an oracle.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Nalia said, standing. “I appreciate you taking the time to listen to our request.”

  Malek turned, a protest forming on his lips, but Zanari followed Nalia’s lead and stood as well. Nalia knew there was only one way she could convince this woman to help her. As she moved toward the exit, she reached out and covered Saranya’s hand with her own. As her chiaan connected with Saranya’s, the other jinni looked up, startled.

  “I need your help, Saranya,” Nalia said. “But I won’t beg you for it. Nor will I ask you to endanger your life without knowing fully what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “So you are the Ghan Aisouri I hear whispers about.”

  Nalia inclined her chin, but gave no response.

  “She’s the only chance we have of stopping the Ifrit,” Zanari said quietly.

  I just want to go home, Nalia was tempted to say. I want my brother. I want my land. But it seemed so selfish, those thoughts, in light of what was happening in her realm. It didn’t matter what she wanted; it never had.

  Malek and Saranya shared a long look. Nalia didn’t know what their silent conversation was about, but at the end of it, Saranya sighed.

  “Your guide will meet you here tomorrow morning, after the first prayer.”

  “We need to leave now,” Malek said. “The longer we stay—”

  “You want the best, am I right?” Saranya asked.

  “Yes,” Nalia said.

  “Well, the best is in Libya right now picking up a jinni who ran away from her slave trader. He won’t be able to return until morning.”

  The midday call to prayer sounded then, the muezzin’s voice from the human part of the souk cutting through the tension in the room.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” Saranya said, “I must pray.”

  “But this s
ong is for the human god,” Zanari said.

  “The jinn gods have never heard the cries of their people on Earth.” Saranya looked at Nalia as she said this. Nalia could almost feel those shackles on her wrists again. The weight of them. The shame. “How many more jinn need to be on the dark caravan or executed before people start to see the truth?” Saranya continued. “The gods of Arjinna don’t care about any of us. Maybe they never have.”

  For so long Nalia had forced herself to kill such thoughts: the gods were the gods and that was that. But more and more she found herself wondering: maybe it was true—maybe they didn’t care one bit.

  10

  ZANARI TRAILED BEHIND NALIA AND MALEK, HER HANDS at her sides, fingers tense and ready to channel chiaan, if need be. Earth confused her. It was so big, each place vastly different from the next. In the city where Nalia had lived, there were roads in the sky and people bought food in large, cold buildings. In Morocco, donkeys crowded the roads and skinned animals hung from hooks outside butchers’ stalls, flies buzzing around the meat.

  Earth had its problems, she knew: Zanari could see them in the beggars on the streets and the thin children in dirty clothing. But something about it called to her, made Zanari feel a sense of possibility. It buzzed inside her, heedless of her responsibilities to the tavrai and their cause. Zanari savored the sensation, a live thing, wild and exhilarating. What was the point of staying in Arjinna and dying for a lost cause? Maybe the Dhoma have the right idea, Zanari thought. She wondered what it would be like to stay on Earth and build a life far from the Ifrit. Then she immediately felt guilty. How could she even consider abandoning the dream her father had died for?

  She shook her head, scanned her surroundings. Now was not the time for idle thoughts.

  They were heading back to the human souk now, with nothing left to do but return to their riad and wait. Zanari didn’t know where or what Libya was, but she was having a hard time believing there hadn’t been another guide to help them get through the desert. She hated having to rely on so many strangers for help. She wondered if Raif would have been as trusting of one of Malek’s relatives. Saranya might be helping jinn on the dark caravan, but Jordif had helped a lot of jinn, too.

  There was a commotion up ahead and Zanari arched her neck to see what the jinn were shouting about. Moments later, a massive horse pulling a cart pushed past the crowd. The horse’s owner struggled to maintain control as the animal whinnied, straining against the reins. A little boy, not much older than five summers, was standing in the horse’s path, transfixed. The horse reared its forelegs, its hooves inches above the boy’s head. Someone screamed and then Zanari saw it—a burst of golden chiaan that shoved the boy out of the horse’s path, just as its hooves came crashing down on the cobblestone street.

  Nalia’s head scarf slipped down, her birthmark plainly visible as she bent to help the child. A shopkeeper across the street stared intently at Nalia’s face. The jinni walked a few paces away and sent a stream of chiaan in the air: red. An Ifrit signal.

  “Nalia!” Zanari shouted. She pointed to the signal in the sky.

  Malek was by Nalia’s side at once, pulling her into a side street. Zanari followed and they hurtled through the souk, not stopping until they found a lonely archway far from the main road.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Nalia was saying when Zanari caught up with them.

  “You should have let me help you put the damn thing on,” Malek said. Nalia’s scarf fell to the cobblestones at their feet.

  The air shifted, as though it were a dragon awaking from its nap.

  “Did you feel that?” Zanari murmured.

  “Fire and blood.” Nalia flexed her fingers. “Well, I guess they know we’re in Morocco.”

  The energy was scalding and everywhere all at once.

  “Do we have a plan?” Zanari asked.

  “Yes,” Nalia said. “Kill as many as you can.”

  “Winner buys drinks?”

  “Definitely.” For a second, it was like being back at home, just before a skirmish.

  Maybe Nalia could fit in with the tavrai.

  Around the corner, Zanari could see jinn fleeing in all directions. The vibrant market filled with shouts and the cries of young children. Tables laden with Arjinnan spices, spelled amulets, and bolts of sea silk crashed to the ground as the panicked crowd surged toward exits and doorways. The air became thick with rainbow clouds of evanescence as Djan, Shaitan, and Marid jinn evanesced from the souk. Most of them, Zanari guessed, had heard the stories of the carnage the Ifrit left behind, or they had witnessed it firsthand.

  The evanescence nearest them materialized into the body of an Ifrit soldier who was twice the size of the horse Nalia had just saved the child from. His eyes lit up as he recognized her.

  The Ifrit gave them a mock salute. “Got an order to capture or kill,” he said. His voice was gravel and the sound of things crushing. “I like to kill.”

  Nalia raised her hands, palms out. “So do we.”

  The Ifrit sent a ball of flame toward them before charging. Out of the corner of her eye, Zanari caught a blur of motion. Nalia.

  In seconds she was behind the Ifrit, lacerating his back with razor-thin bursts of chiaan. Her face glowed from the magic within her. It was the first time Zanari had seen Nalia in action. No wonder the Ghan Aisouri were able to rule us so easily.

  The Ifrit soldier didn’t stand a chance. He screamed and as he toppled forward, Nalia drove the point of her dagger into the beast’s neck. First flesh, then bone, gave way.

  Nalia grimaced as the blood poured out, but Zanari kicked the soldier for good measure as she pulled the knife out of the body. She wiped the blood on her pants and handed it to Nalia; one less monster to kill the tavrai.

  Malek was staring at Nalia as though he’d never seen her before. And it was true: he’d never seen this Nalia before.

  “Lucky for you she granted that amulet,” Zanari said to him. She had no doubt Nalia would have made short work of Malek if she could.

  Malek ignored her and moved toward Nalia. He’d noticed what Zanari hadn’t—Nalia’s pale face as she looked down at the dead Ifrit. “Are you all right?”

  This was a different Malek, softer—kind, even. Gods, he really cares for her, Zanari thought with disgust.

  At the sound of his voice, Nalia thrust her dagger back into its holster and gave a toss of her head. “I’m fine.”

  Up ahead, a wall of crimson smoke descended on the souk.

  “We need to evanesce,” Zanari said. The Ifrit were closing in, more than even Nalia would be able to handle—they had to get back to the human section of the medina.

  “I can’t.” Nalia gestured to Malek, who stood just behind her. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  “I know the city,” Malek said. “I’ll be fine. Distract them so I can get away and I’ll meet you back at the riad.”

  Nalia glanced from Malek to the Ifrit, then nodded. “Wait until we’ve got them running before you head back.” She turned to Zanari. “Ready to piss off some Ifrit?”

  Zanari manifested a second scimitar so that she held one in each hand. “That’s what I was born for.”

  Malek leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette as though he could care less that highly trained killers were a block away.

  Nalia rolled her eyes. “Let’s go.”

  They evanesced so that they stood on the opposite side of the street, just steps away from a trio of Ifrit.

  “Looking for us?” Nalia called to the nearest soldier.

  As expected, he gave chase. Zanari knew Malek was slipping down a side street, safe, while she and Nalia sprinted down a narrow cobblestoned alley, sending painful rays of magic over their shoulders every few seconds at the Ifrit who pursued them.

  “I can’t believe we’re trying to save his pardjinn ass,” Zanari said.

  Fire rained down as the Ifrit closed in on their prey. Nalia directed her chiaan into a well and the water flew out, c
reating a protective curtain that doused the flames.

  “Nice,” she said, taking in the wall of water. Zanari shook her head in awe—to have the power to channel every element!

  “I need more access to the wind,” Nalia said, motioning to a nearby roof. She evanesced, her body dissolving into the air just as an Ifrit charged through her wall of water. Zanari sent a stream of chiaan into the beast’s chest, an instant kill, then she shifted her body into a cloud of jade smoke and joined Nalia on the roof.

  “Well, you’ve made this easy,” a voice behind them said.

  Zanari turned. A group of Ifrit had assembled on the roof, and they hadn’t come alone.

  Goose bumps scattered across Zanari’s skin as she took in the beast that strained on the soldier’s leash. “Shit,” she muttered.

  The s’arawq were hideous creatures, half cobra, half scorpion, and the size of a lion. One bite could kill, and a lash from its tail could cut a jinni in half. The monster hissed, exposing needle-thin teeth framed by a thick, reptilian hood. Beside her, Zanari felt Nalia go very still.

  Rather than backing away from the beast, Nalia began moving toward it, her eyes locked on the creature while she mimicked its swaying movement. The Ifrit let go of the leash and the s’arawq snapped its neck back, then darted forward in a lightning-quick movement.

  But Nalia was faster.

  She launched into the air, slicing her dagger clean across the beast’s throat. As the s’arawq’s head detached from its body, Nalia landed beside its Ifrit caretaker and pushed him off the roof with a burst of chiaan. His scream ended with an abrupt thud. In seconds, she was beside Zanari. The other two Ifrit were still staring at her, dumbstruck.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Nalia said.

  She leaped over the gap between the roof they were on and the one beside it, her body floating through the air before landing gracefully on the other side. Zanari took a running start, catapulting to where Nalia stood waiting for her. As soon as she felt solid ground beneath her feet, Zanari started to run, following Nalia across the flat roofs of Marrakech. They ducked beneath clothing lines and jumped over chairs and strange discs that Nalia had once said were satellite dishes, whatever that meant, all the while dodging the bullets of chiaan the Ifrit sent their way.