Nalia mumbled something and turned over. Raif lay down and wrapped his arms around her. He breathed in the scent of amber that always clung to her, amazed that her smell had already begun to feel like home to him.
“No,” she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. “I don’t want . . .”
“Nal?” he whispered.
She whimpered, then mumbled something else, her breathing becoming rapid, irregular. Raif wasn’t sure whether he should wake her from the nightmare she was having or hold her through it until the dream fell away. He pressed his lips to her hair and tightened his arms around her.
“Shalinta, Shalinta,” she whispered.
Forgive me.
Nalia screamed. Raif sat up and gently shook her awake.
“Nal, it’s just a dream,” he said. Her eyes opened and she startled at his touch. “It’s me—you’re okay. It was just a dream.”
She stared at him as she sat up, something dark and uncertain brewing in her eyes. He reached across the bed and turned on the small lamp beside his pillow. She blinked at the light as though it pained her.
“Nal, you’re safe.” He reached for her, but she shrank away.
“It wasn’t just a dream,” she whispered.
“Rohifsa, you—”
“Don’t call me that,” she said. “You’re just making it worse.”
Song of my heart. Soul mate. Don’t call her that?
Raif ran his hands over his face, as though he could rub away the exhaustion. “Okay . . . what do you want? Something to drink? Maybe you need to eat, you didn’t have any dinner—”
“I killed him, Raif.”
“I know you did.” He wondered if Haran would always be a little alive, lurking in the dark corners of Nalia’s mind. “And he’s gone forever and can never hurt you again.”
She shook her head. “I’m not talking about Haran.” She took a breath. He’d never seen her like this—nervous and uncertain. “Kir,” she said softly.
“What about Kir?” he said. Had he told her about him? Raif couldn’t remember. There hadn’t been much time for conversations about the past.
“I . . .” Nalia bit her lip. Her eyes rose to meet his. “I killed him.”
Raif stared at her as the words hung in the air between them. At first, he didn’t understand—it was as though she’d told him a riddle, and he’d never been very good at solving those. But then the words crystalized and they were sharp and cruel, instruments fashioned to torture him. He stumbled out of bed, struggling to stand, as though the floor were the bottom of a swiftly sinking boat. The water was getting higher.
“That’s . . . no . . . but . . .” Words—they wouldn’t come; and breath, that wouldn’t come either.
She hadn’t said that, hadn’t meant it. Raif had heard her wrong. He was dead tired. Obviously he’d misunderstood her. Nalia had begun taking on the sins of the Aisouri, as though she herself had committed each and every crime of her race. That was it, that’s what Nalia had meant: she believed that being a member of the royal caste automatically made her complicit in Kir’s death. The realization was like a last-minute pardon when he’d expected to be executed. Raif sat on the edge of the bed, as close to her as she would allow.
“Gods, Nal. Don’t do that to me.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, delirious with relief. Her eyes were just as confused as his had been a moment before, and he gave her a small smile. When would she ever forgive herself for things that had been beyond her control?
“I thought you meant . . . never mind,” he said. “Listen, I know it feels that way.” She looked down, clasping her hands together. “When I lead my tavrai in battle and some of them die, I always feel like I’m the one who killed them. Like it’s my fault.” He rested a hand on her knee. Nalia didn’t flinch this time, but he could feel her trembling beneath him. “Just because a Ghan Aisouri killed Kir doesn’t mean you’re his murderer.” He shook his head. “I never thought I’d say this to a royal, but . . . I know his blood isn’t on your hands.” He scooted closer to her. “Nalia, you’re good. Your heart is so good and I know—”
“Stop,” Nalia whispered. She looked up at him then, her golden eyes filled with tears, two shimmering suns that called to him. Promised warmth, a glow to bask in.
“Raif.” She took in a shuddering breath. “I really killed him. I . . . it was me.”
He went still.
Kir, running ahead of Raif, through the maze of trees in the Forest of Sighs.
Kir, sneaking a bottle of savri from his father’s secret stash. “Do you think we’ll get drunk?” Raif asks. Kir grins. “I hope so.”
Kir, sticking out his tongue to catch the first drops of a rainstorm.
Kir, asking the prettiest jinni to dance at the harvest festival—his body moves with an unexpected grace.
Kir, pushing Raif away as the Ghan Aisouri close in on him.
Kir, falling, falling, falling to the bloody mud as they drag him away.
Raif could feel himself detaching, becoming the jinni who looked down at captured prisoners and informed them they were sentenced to die. He stood as chiaan rushed to his hands.
“Tell me everything.” The words were short, clipped. A general’s order.
Raif made himself look at her, this living, breathing reminder of what happens when you lose your focus, when you forget what you’re fighting for. Death was the cost of war. He knew that better than anyone else. But the way Nalia was looking at him now, this was a whole new kind of death. There would be no one but them to mourn what was lost.
“She made me! Raif, it was an order. My mother was my commanding officer and I had to obey, I had to.” She stood then, a dancer waiting for the next beat. He watched her, silent, as she came toward him with tentative steps. “I didn’t want to, I swear to all the gods in all the worlds, there was no choice—”
“There’s always a choice!”
His shout seemed to reverberate off the walls, magnifying the pain underneath all the anger. Raif grabbed his shirt off a nearby chair and threw it over his head. “Were you ever going to tell me? If you hadn’t had this dream—would you have just gone on pretending it had been someone else?”
She was sobbing now, the tears coming out in great, heaving gulps. But for the first time since he’d met her, he didn’t care. There was not one single part of him that wanted to comfort her, to take her pain away.
“I’ve tried . . . but I . . .” She took in a shuddering breath. “Yes, I was going to. Everything’s been so crazy and I was just waiting until I don’t know I . . . gods Raif, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” he said, his voice flat.
“I know it doesn’t mean anything, me saying that.”
He started toward the door, not really sure where he was going, just knowing he couldn’t be here with her.
“He would have died no matter what, Raif,” Nalia said, her voice thick with tears. “My mother said if I didn’t do it, she’d make it worse and so I was quick, so quick, and afterward—”
“Shut up,” he said.
Nalia fell to the bed as if he’d slapped her. For a moment, they stared at one another in the dim light of the room, hope crackling, then burning between them, like a love letter held above an open flame.
For once, the choice was obvious: he was going.
“I never want to see you again.” The words came out of his mouth, but he wasn’t here anymore, not really.
Going.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“No,” he said, “I don’t think you do. That’s not possible for your kind—I’d forgotten that.”
Gone.
14
NALIA OPENED HER EYES AS THE FIRST ADHAN SOUNDED. The dawn call to prayer dipped and swooped over Marrakech like a newly awakened bird. She’d been sitting on the hotel floor staring at nothing since Raif and Zanari had left the riad, hours ago. Malek had never showed and she had to assume the worst—he’d been captured by the Ifrit. She
wasn’t sure what that meant for his wish. Didn’t care.
She closed her eyes again as the longing in the muezzin’s voice tore through her.
As-salatu khayrun minan-nawm. Prayer is better than sleep.
Maybe she’d been praying to the wrong gods all along.
But then: a tug on her heart, insistent.
“Bashil,” she whispered.
Nalia lifted her hand and waited for her brother to send her an image. Seconds later, it came, a puzzle she’d have to put together.
First, his face.
Nalia smiled as tears dripped down her cheeks. She sent him an image of the broken bottle and her bare wrists. She hoped he would understand that she was coming soon.
The next images from Bashil came in quick succession: the portal between Earth and Arjinna, a desert, palm trees, the Djemaa-el-Fna.
“What?” she said aloud, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t hear her.
Bashil was in Morocco.
For the moment, Nalia didn’t care how or why, she just had to see him. She sent him a picture of a compass and he responded with a picture of an intricately carved door. The sign above read MEDERSSA BEN YOUSSEF and below that, in Arabic: YOU WHO ENTER MY DOOR, MAY YOUR HIGHEST HOPES BE EXCEEDED.
Nalia pressed her forehead to the ground, sobbing out her thanks to the gods she had begun to doubt. She sprang to her feet and changed into jeans and a sweater, then slipped on a pair of tennis shoes. She considered writing a note for Malek, but dismissed the idea as soon as it came to her head; it was a courtesy he didn’t deserve.
Nalia stood in the center of the room and closed her eyes, holding the image of the door in her mind. Her body began to unfurl, skin and bones transitioning to smoke. The scent of amber, then the minty coolness of evanescence overtook her, a slight chill that wrapped around her like an autumn wind.
Seconds later, she was standing in front of the door. Nalia looked up and down the deserted street. It was early, the dawn call to prayer having only just finished. It felt as if the entire souk was still asleep.
She put her hand against the ancient door, hesitating. Nalia had no idea who Bashil was with—a slave trader? How else would he have made it through the portal and onto Earth? It was possible that the darkness Zanari had come up against had been the bottle Bashil was being transported in. There wasn’t much time, then. The trader would want to sell her brother as quickly as possible so that he could return to Arjinna and collect more “cargo.” But there was also the chance that he had somehow escaped and this was a safe house on Saranya’s underground caravan.
She didn’t want to think of the last possibility—that Zanari had been wrong and that Bashil had been identified and taken prisoner by Calar. But this didn’t make sense, not anymore. Bashil would have conveyed that danger to her somehow, and he hadn’t. Still, she’d probably have to fight their way out of this.
Nalia slipped her dagger into her right hand. She could almost hear her mother’s voice as she thought, Everyone is an enemy until proven otherwise. The Ghan Aisouri mantra had always served her well. Turned out most jinn were her enemies. Even the ones she had fallen in love with. There was no doubt she and Raif weren’t on the same side anymore. Would he issue an order to have her killed?
“Stop it,” she whispered. Raif was gone, but the gods were giving her Bashil. It was a trade she’d make any day.
Nalia pressed against the door. It gave way, swinging inward, silent. She quickly stepped inside and shut it behind her, stealthy as a hunting gryphon. There was no sign of life, but she knew Bashil was here, somewhere. She wished there’d been more time for her to know exactly what she was getting into. She wished Raif and Zanari were here to back her up.
Wish. What a terrible little word.
It appeared as though Nalia were in some kind of historical building, now used for tourism. There was a small window to her left with a list of admission prices and guides in several languages. She hugged the wall and crept toward the huge double doors that led to a mesmerizing courtyard. It was too open, with a dozen windows looking down on it from the second story. A quick sweep of the area with her eyes told Nalia that Bashil wasn’t there. She retraced her steps, back to a stairway she’d passed that likely led to the second floor.
Almost as soon as she reached the top, Nalia heard a moan from behind a closed doorway. The door was locked from the outside and Nalia slid the bolt back, then peeked into the dim room, her dagger pointed out. Something—someone—was heaped in a corner, a pile of dirty clothes speckled with blood. But she recognized the expensive Italian shoes.
Nalia gasped. “Malek?”
His only response was a soft groan. Nalia closed the door behind her and sheathed her dagger, then rushed over and gently moved Malek onto his back. His eyes remained closed, but a pitiful whimper slipped past his lips.
Nalia stared. It was painful to look at him. It appeared as if the beating he’d undergone had been reserved exclusively for Malek’s head and face: there were deep bruises on his temples and dried blood like tear tracks crawled down his cheeks. Draega’s Amulet would keep Malek alive, but she didn’t know what kind of permanent damage he would sustain from the torture he’d been subjected to.
It scared Nalia, seeing Malek like this. The violence was so crude, so intentional. His skin was a collage of purples, his nose bloodied and broken, his lips swollen, shirt torn. It brought her no joy to see Malek suffer. Maybe a few weeks ago she could have left him to fend for himself, but not now. Not after everything she’d begun to understand about her former master. She didn’t love him, didn’t even like him, but she couldn’t leave him here, at the mercy of whoever had done this to him.
“Malek, wake up,” she whispered.
She had to get to Bashil, didn’t have time to carry around Malek’s dead weight. She could feel time running out, as though it were a tangible thing that could slip through her fingers.
“Malek, esh’a,” she said in Arabic.
Wake up.
“Hayati,” he groaned. My life.
It was the first time Malek had used that term of endearment for her since she betrayed him. Nalia couldn’t tell if he knew she was there or was calling out to her from that gray land she had traveled to the night Haran almost killed her.
“Nalia.” He said her name like a prayer he didn’t expect to be answered. “Nalia.”
She didn’t have to come when he called anymore. So why was she staying by his side? She should let Malek think he was alone in that dark place. She’d been there before, too. Because of him.
“I’m here,” she whispered, close to his ear. “Malek, I’m here.”
His eyes opened, or tried to. His hands reached for her, clumsy. She looked down and saw that they were tied together with thick cords.
“Hayati. Go. She’s coming for you.”
“Who? Who’s coming for me?”
But he cried out and was lost again to the ocean of pain that had swallowed him up.
“Malek?” His fingers loosened where he’d grabbed her arm and his breathing dipped; he was unconscious again.
She pressed her fingers against his neck; she barely felt his chiaan—he was as close to death as the amulet would allow him to be. There was only one way she could revive him.
Nalia sliced the cords off his hands with her dagger, then twined her fingers with his. She closed her eyes, pouring her chiaan into him. She barely felt him at first, a faint whisper in her veins, nothing more. But then he gasped, his chiaan suddenly awake, surging through him. She opened her eyes. He was still unconscious.
“Come on,” she whispered. “We have to go. Wake up. Wake the hell up.”
His eyes snapped open and his grip on her hands became firm. “Nalia? What are you—”
“No time. I have to get my brother. Have you seen him?”
“Yes, but Nalia, she—”
“I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”
She dropped his hands and stood. A glint of metal caught
her eye—a gun, abandoned in a corner of the cell. She grabbed it and pressed it into his hands. “Use this if you need to.”
“She’s here.”
But Nalia wasn’t listening as she slipped through the door and closed it behind her. She had to get to Bashil. Gods, what if he was in the same shape? Panic tore through Nalia and it was all she could do not to scream his name.
There were ten doorways on the second floor, all of them opening into empty cells. She was about to go downstairs when she saw one more door, tucked around a corner.
Please be in there.
Nalia slid back the iron bolt on the door, cursing as it singed her bare skin. She pressed her palm against the rough wood and the door swung open. It was too easy and yet . . . her head whipped to the right as she heard something scurry across the floor. There, hiding behind a chair, was a small boy. Bright golden eyes stared at her. As she came further into the room, he stood.
“Nalia-jai?” It had been so long since someone had used the familial suffix with her.
“How did you find me?”
“Gharoof. My little rabbit,” she whispered. He was so thin, gods—she fell to her knees and held out her arms.
His face broke open—relief, joy, everything Nalia was feeling. Bashil started toward her, then froze, his eyes wide.
Nalia turned.
“It’s been a long time, Ghan Aisouri.”
Blond hair, piercing ruby eyes. That stubborn tilt to the chin.
“Calar.”
How did you find me? Bashil had asked.
Nalia vaulted to her feet. “It was you contacting me. You took my true name out of his head!”
“It was just sitting there, out in the open.”
Calar looked past Nalia, her eyes narrowing. Bashil screamed, a terrible agonized cry that cut Nalia in two. She ran to her brother, shielding him with her body, but whatever was hurting him was faster than her. Bashil was clutching his head with his hands, his body convulsing as he fell to the stone floor. Blood was pouring out of his ears, his eyes, his nose.
“What are you doing to him?” Nalia screamed. She threw a hand up, sending a flood of chiaan toward Calar. The empress ducked and the room echoed with her cruel laughter and still Bashil screamed. Nalia launched herself at Calar, and their bodies clashed in a cloud of red and gold chiaan. She barely felt the pain of Calar’s magic as it lacerated her skin.
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