Nahri thought that fairly obvious. “The largest in Cairo.”
“Then we don’t have much time.” He looked up and down the alley before turning back to her. “Answer me, and be quick and honest about it. Did you mean to call me here?”
“No.”
“Do you have any other family here?”
How could that possibly be important? “No, it’s just me.”
“And have you done anything like this before?” he demanded, his voice urgent. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
Only my whole life. Nahri hesitated. But terrified as she was, the sound of her native language was intoxicating, and she didn’t want the mysterious stranger to stop speaking.
And so the answer rushed out of her before she could think better of it. “I’ve never ‘called anyone’ before, but I heal. Like you saw.” She touched the skin on her temple.
He stared at her face, his eyes growing so bright she had to look away. “Can you heal others?” He asked the question in a strangely soft and desperate tone, as if he both knew and feared the answer.
The ground buckled, and the headstone between them crumbled into dust. Nahri gasped and looked over the buildings surrounding them, suddenly aware of just how ancient and unsteady they appeared. “An earthquake . . .”
“We should be so fortunate.” He deftly swept past the crumbled headstone and snatched her arm.
“Ya!” she protested; his hot touch burned through her thin sleeve. “Let me go!”
He gripped her tighter. “How do we get out of here?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” She tried to twist free and then froze.
Two thin, bowed figures stood at the end of one of the narrow cemetery paths. A third hung out a window, the smashed screen on the ground below. Nahri didn’t need to listen for the absence of their heartbeats to know all three were dead. The tattered remains of burial shrouds hung from their desiccated frames, the scent of rot filling the air.
“God be merciful,” she whispered, her mouth going dry. “What-what are—”
“Ghouls,” the man answered. He let go of her arm and shoved his sword in her hands. “Take this.”
Nahri could barely lift the damned thing. She held it awkwardly in both hands as the man pulled free his bow and notched an arrow.
“I see you’ve found my servants.”
The voice came from behind them, young and girlish. Nahri whirled around. Baseema stood a few paces away.
The man had an arrow aimed at the young girl in the blink of an eye. “Ifrit,” he hissed.
Baseema smiled politely. “Afshin,” she greeted. “What a pleasant surprise. Last I heard, you were dead, having gone completely insane in the service of your human masters.”
He flinched and drew the bow back farther. “Go to hell, demon.”
Baseema laughed. “Aye, there’s no need for that. We’re on the same side now, haven’t you heard?” She grinned and drew nearer. Nahri could see a malicious glint in her dark eyes. “Surely you’ll do anything to help the newest Banu Nahida.”
The newest what? But the term must have meant something to the man: his hands trembled on the bow.
“The Nahids are dead,” he said in a shaky voice. “You fiends killed them all.”
Baseema shrugged. “We tried. All in the past now, I suppose.” She winked at Nahri. “Come.” She beckoned her forth. “There’s no reason to make this difficult.”
The man—Afshin, Baseema had called him—stepped between them. “I will rip you from that poor child’s body if you come any nearer.”
Baseema gave a rude nod to the tombs. “Look around, you fool. Do you have any idea how many here owe debts to my kind? I have but to say a word and you will both be devoured.”
Devoured? Nahri immediately stepped away from Afshin. “Wait! You know what? Maybe I should just—”
Something cold and sharp grabbed her ankle. She glanced down. A bony hand, the rest of its arm still buried, held her tight. It yanked hard, and she tripped, falling just as an arrow whizzed over her head.
Nahri slashed at the skeletal hand with Afshin’s sword, trying not to accidentally amputate her own foot. “Get off, get off!” she shrieked, the sensation of bones on her skin causing every hair on her body to stand on end. From the corner of her eye, she saw Baseema collapse.
Afshin rushed to her side, pulling her to her feet as she crushed the hand holding her ankle with the hilt of the sword. She twisted free and swung the sword. “You killed her!”
He jumped back to avoid the blade. “You were going to go over to her!” The ghouls moaned, and he snatched back the sword before grabbing Nahri’s hand. “There’s no time to argue. Come on!”
They raced down the nearest lane as the ground shook. One of the tombs burst open, and two corpses flung themselves at Nahri. Afshin’s sword flashed, sending their heads tumbling.
He pulled her into a narrow alley. “We need to get out of here. The ghouls likely can’t leave the burial ground.”
“Likely? You mean there’s a chance these things might get out and start feasting on everyone in Cairo?”
He looked thoughtful. “That would provide a distraction . . .” Perhaps noticing her horror, he quickly changed the subject. “Either way, we need to leave.”
“I . . .” She glanced around, but they were deep in the cemetery. “I don’t know how.”
He sighed. “Then we’ll need to make our own exit.” He jerked his head at the surrounding mausoleums. “Do you think I can find a rug in any of these buildings?”
“A rug? How is a rug going to help us?”
The headstones near them shuddered. He made a hushing noise. “Be quiet,” he whispered. “You’ll wake up more.”
She swallowed hard, ready to throw her lot in with this Afshin if it was the best way to avoid becoming a meal for the dead. “What do you need me to do?”
“Find a rug, a tapestry, curtains—something fabric and big enough for us both.”
“But why—”
He cut her off, motioning with one finger toward the ghastly sounds coming from the opposite alley. “No more questions.”
She studied the tombs. A broom rested outside one, and its wooden window screens looked new. It was large, probably the kind that held a small room for visitors. “Let’s try that one.”
They crept down the alley. She tried the door, but it didn’t budge.
“It’s locked,” she said. “Give me one of your daggers, I’ll pick it.”
He raised his palm. The door burst inward, wooden splinters spraying the ground. “Go, I’ll guard the entrance.”
Nahri glanced back. The noise had already drawn attention; a group of ghouls rushed in their direction. “Are they getting . . . faster?”
“The curse takes time to warm up.”
She blanched. “You can’t possibly kill them all.”
He gave her a shove. “Then hurry!”
She scowled but hastily clambered over the ruined door. The tomb was even darker than the alley, the only illumination coming from the moonlight that pierced the carved screens and threw elaborate designs on the floor.
Nahri let her eyes adjust. Her heart raced. It’s just like casing a house. You’ve done this a hundred times. She knelt to run her hands over the contents of an open crate on the ground. Inside was a dusty pot and several cups, stacked neatly inside each other, awaiting thirsty visitors. She moved forward. If the tomb was set up for guests, there would be a place to visit. And if God was kind and the family of this particular deceased respectable, they would have carpets there.
She moved farther inside, keeping one hand on the wall to orient herself as she tried to guess how the space was laid out. Nahri had never been inside a tomb before; no one she knew would want someone like her anywhere near their ancestors’ bones.
The guttural cry of a ghoul pierced the air, rapidly followed by a heavy thump against the outer wall. Moving more quickly, she peered into the darkness, making out two s
eparate rooms. The first had four heavy sarcophagi crammed inside, but the next looked like it contained a tiny sitting area. Something was rolled up in one dark corner. She hurried over and touched it: a carpet. Thank the Most High.
The rolled carpet was longer than she was, and heavy. Nahri dragged it through the tomb but had gotten only halfway when a soft noise drew her attention. She glanced up, catching a mouthful of sandy dust as it blew past her face. More sand swept past her feet, as if it was being sucked from the tomb.
It had grown eerily quiet. A little worried, Nahri dropped the carpet and peered through one of the window screens.
The smell of rot and decay nearly overwhelmed her, but she caught sight of Afshin, standing alone among a pile of bodies. His bow was gone; in one hand he held the mace, covered in viscera, and in the other the sword, dark fluid dripping from the gleaming steel. His shoulders were slumped, his head lowered in defeat. Down the lane, she could see more ghouls still coming. By God, did everyone buried here owe a debt to a demon?
He tossed his weapons to the ground. “What are you doing?” she cried as he slowly raised his empty hands as if in prayer. “There are more . . .” Her warning trailed off.
Every particle of sand, every mote of dust in sight, rushed to meet the motion of his hands, condensing and swirling into a twisting funnel in the center of the lane. He took a deep breath and flung his hands outward.
The funnel exploded toward the rushing ghouls, a snap breaking across the air. Nahri felt a wave of pressure rock the wall, sand blasting her from the open screen.
And they shall control the winds and be lords of the deserts. And any traveler who strays across their land shall be doomed . . .
The line came unbidden to her, something she’d heard during her years of pretending to be wise about the supernatural. There was only one creature that line ever referred to, only one being that struck terror in hardened warriors and savvy merchants from the Maghrib to the Hind. An ancient being said to live for deceiving and terrorizing mankind. A djinn.
Afshin was a djinn. An honest-to-goodness djinn.
It was a distracting realization, one that made her momentarily forget where she was. So when a bony hand yanked her back and teeth sank into her shoulder, she was understandably caught off guard.
Nahri shouted, more in surprise than pain as the bite wasn’t deep. She struggled to get the ghoul off her back, but it wrapped its legs around her and knocked her to the ground, clinging to her body like a crab.
Managing to wrench an elbow free, she shoved it hard. The ghoul fell away but took a good piece of her shoulder with it. Nahri gasped; the burn of exposed flesh sent spots blossoming across her vision.
The ghoul snapped at her neck, and she scrambled away. Its body wasn’t too old; swollen flesh and a tattered burial shroud still covered its limbs. But its eyes were a horrifying, pestilent wreck of writhing maggots.
Nahri sensed movement behind her too late. A second ghoul yanked her close, pinning her arms.
She screamed, “Afshin!”
The ghouls dragged her to the ground. The first ripped a gash in her abaya, raking sharp nails across her stomach. It sighed with contentment as it ran a rough tongue over her bloodied skin, and her entire body shuddered in response, revulsion coursing in her blood. She thrashed against them, finally succeeding in smashing her fist into the second ghoul’s face as it leaned in toward her neck. “Get off me!” she screamed. She tried to hit it again, but it grabbed her fist, wrenching her arm away. Something popped in her elbow, but the pain barely registered.
Because at the same time, it tore into her throat.
Blood filled her mouth. Her eyes rolled back. The pain was receding, her sight dimming, so she didn’t see the djinn approach, only heard an enraged roar, the swoosh of a blade, and two thuds. One of the ghouls collapsed onto her.
Sticky, warm blood pooled on the floor beneath her body. “No . . . no, don’t,” she murmured as she was picked up off the floor and carried out of the tomb. The night air chilled her skin.
She was on something soft and then suddenly weightless. There was the faint sensation of movement.
“Sorry, girl,” a voice whispered, in a language that until today, Nahri had never heard another speak. “But you and I are not done.”
3
Nahri
Nahri knew something was wrong before she opened her eyes.
The sun was bright—too bright—against her still-closed lids, and her abaya clung wetly to her stomach. A gentle breeze played across her face. She groaned and rolled over, trying to take refuge in her blanket.
Instead, she got a faceful of sand. Sputtering, she sat up and wiped her eyes. She blinked.
She was definitely not in Cairo.
A shady grove of date palms and scrubby brush surrounded her; rocky cliffs blocked part of the bright blue sky. Through the trees, there was nothing but desert, gleaming golden sand in every direction.
And across from her was the djinn.
Crouched like a cat over the smoldering remains of a small fire—the sharp smell of burnt green wood filling the air—the djinn stared at her with a sort of wary curiosity in his bright green eyes. A fine dagger, its handle set with a swirling pattern of lapis and carnelians, was in one soot-covered hand. He trailed it across the sand as she watched, the blade glinting in the sunlight. His other weapons were piled behind him.
Nahri snatched up the first stick her hand landed on and held it out in what she hoped was at least a somewhat menacing manner. “Stay back,” she warned.
He pursed his lips, clearly unimpressed. But the motion drew her attention to his mouth, and Nahri was startled by her first good look at his uncovered face. Though there was nary a wing nor a horn in sight, his light brown skin shone with an unnatural gleam, and his ears twisted into elongated points. Curly hair—as impossibly black as her own—fell to the top of his shoulders, framing a sharply handsome face with long-lashed eyes and heavy brows. A black tattoo marked his left temple, a single arrow crossed over a stylized wing. His skin was unlined, but there was something ageless about his jewel-bright gaze. He might have been thirty or a hundred and thirty.
He was beautiful—strikingly, frighteningly beautiful, with the type of allure Nahri imagined a tiger held right before it ripped out your throat. Her heart skipped a beat even as her stomach constricted in fear.
She closed her mouth, suddenly aware it had fallen open. “Wh-where have you taken me?” she stammered in—what had he called her language again? Divasti? Right, that was it. Divasti.
He didn’t take his eyes off her, his arresting face unreadable. “East.”
“East?” she repeated.
The djinn tilted his head, staring at her like she was an idiot. “The opposite direction of the sun.”
A spark of irritation lit inside her. “I know what the word means . . .” The djinn frowned at her tone, and Nahri gave the dagger a nervous glance. “You . . . you’re clearly occupied with that,” she said in a more conciliatory tone, motioning to the weapon as she climbed to her feet. “So why don’t I just leave you alone and—”
“Sit.”
“Really, it’s no—”
“Sit.”
Nahri dropped to the ground. But as the silence grew too long between them, she snapped, her nerves finally getting the better of her. “I sat. So what now? Are you going to kill me like you killed Baseema or are we just going to stare at each other until I die of thirst?”
He pursed his lips again, and Nahri tried not to stare, feeling a sudden stab of sympathy for some of her more lovestruck clients. But what he said next put such thoughts out of mind.
“What I did to that girl was a mercy. She was doomed the moment the ifrit possessed her: they burn through their hosts.”
Nahri reeled. Oh, God . . . Baseema, forgive me. “I-I didn’t mean to call it . . . to hurt her. I swear.” She took a shaky breath. “When you killed her . . . did you kill the ifrit as well?”
“I tr
ied. It may have escaped before she died.”
She bit her lip, remembering Baseema’s gentle smile and her mother’s quiet strength. But she had to push away the guilt for now. “So . . . if that was an ifrit, then you’re what? Some kind of djinn?”
He made a disgusted face. “I am no djinn, girl. I am Daeva.” His mouth curled in contempt. “Daeva who call themselves djinn have no respect for our people. They are traitors, worthy only of annihilation.”
The hatred in his voice sent a fresh rush of fear coursing through her body. “Oh,” she choked out. She had little idea what the difference between the two was, but it seemed wise not to press the matter. “My mistake.” She pressed her palms against her knees to hide their trembling. “Do . . . do you have a name?”
His bright eyes narrowed. “You should know better than to ask that.”
“Why?”
“There is power in names. It’s not something my people give out so freely.”
“Baseema called you Afshin.”
The daeva shook his head. “That’s merely a title . . . and an old and rather useless one at that.”
“So you won’t tell me your actual name?”
“No.”
He sounded even more hostile than he had last night. Nahri cleared her throat, trying to maintain her calm. “What do you want with me?”
He ignored the question. “You are thirsty?”
Thirsty was an understatement; Nahri’s throat felt like sand had been poured down it, and considering the events of last night, there was a fair chance that was actually true. Her stomach rumbled as well, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything in hours.
The daeva removed a waterskin from his robe, but when she reached for it, he held it back. “I am going to ask you some questions first. You will answer them. And honestly. You strike me as a liar.”
You have no idea. “Fine.” She kept her tone even.
“Tell me of yourself. Your name, your family. Where your people are from.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why do you get to know my name if I can’t know yours?”
“Because I have the water.”
The City of Brass Page 4