Blood Passage

by Heather Demetrios

  He stopped at the top of a low dune. “This way,” he said, “we have momentum, yes? Being stuck in desert not so good, my friends.”

  Nalia pushed open the car door and stumbled out. She fell to the sand, pressing her palms against the earth. Its warmth was all she felt—not magic, simply the heat of the sun. She closed her eyes, tried to find that quiet place within her. But it was only sand and skin, nothing more. She couldn’t feel the energy of the world around her, couldn’t sense the currents of magic that were usually hers for the taking.

  “Hayati—what is it?” She hadn’t noticed Malek kneeling beside her.

  “It’s gone,” she whispered. She looked up, hating the concern in his eyes, hating how grateful she was for it. “My chiaan. Malek, it’s gone.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  She held out her hands. “See for yourself.”

  Malek twined his fingers through hers so that their palms pressed together. After a moment he frowned, then gently squeezed her hands. Usually when he touched her, the fire inside Malek threatened to obliterate Nalia. Now she couldn’t feel a thing. He looked down, then raised her hands to his lips, kissing her fingers.

  “You just need to rest,” he said gruffly, letting go. “Come.”

  He helped her back into the car and she fell against the seat, silent tears streaming down her face.

  “You’re a Ghan Aisouri,” he said quietly in her ear as he pulled the seatbelt over her body. “Don’t forget that.”

  Without chiaan, Nalia might as well be dead.

  “How can you stand it?” she heard Malek ask Moustafa when he returned to the front seat. He gestured toward the dunes.

  In every direction there was nothing but sand, great rolling hills of it, broken up only by the occasional shrublike tree or cairn.

  “The desert can change you,” Moustafa said, above the roar of the engine. “Some people, they go crazy seeing all this sand. Others find Allah. Make no mistake, my friend, the desert wants you for itself. Either way, it will not let you go easily. You’ll see.”

  “Well, that’s damn ominous,” Malek muttered.

  Moustafa laughed. “Inshallah, we arrive safely at your destination and you can decide for yourself how long you want to stay.”

  Hours later, the sun dipping toward the horizon, Nalia saw a herd of wild camels making their slow way over the dunes. The sun cast their long shadows on the sand so that they created an undulating tableau. There were no such creatures in Arjinna and she could imagine how much Bashil would have liked to see them. She almost smiled. He would have insisted on riding one.

  It seemed like a sign.

  “Stop here,” she said. Nalia pointed to a flat-topped tree surrounded by dunes, not far from where the camels plodded toward a destination known only to them. “I’m taking him there.”

  Bashil would not have a Shaitan funeral; that required a mountaintop, and it had been too treacherous to take him to the top of the Atlas range in the middle of the night. The breeze blew strong and steady here, though, and she liked the idea of him being carried away by Grathali, returning to Arjinna in the arms of the goddess of air.

  Malek got out of the car and followed her to the rear of the SUV. “Let me help.”

  She pulled open the hatch and gently lifted Bashil’s body. “You’ve done enough.”

  He hadn’t killed Bashil, but he’d kept her from rescuing him for three years. In Nalia’s eyes, he was as much to blame as Calar.

  “Moustafa. I need your fire,” she said to the driver in Kada.

  The Ifrit Dhoma would think nothing of her request—her golden eyes marked her as a Shaitan, a jinni whose element was air, not fire. The guide nodded, his eyes somber, and followed Nalia.

  She pushed past Malek and carried Bashil over the dune, out of sight. When she reached the tree, she lay him beneath its spindly boughs. It was a strange specimen, the tree, more an overgrown shrub than anything else, but it felt like a marker of some kind. More permanent than the ever-changing dunes around her. Nalia longed to manifest a pyre of sweet-smelling cedar to lay Bashil’s body on and fistfuls of flowers to cushion his head and drape over his body. He deserved so much.

  “Are you ready?” Moustafa asked. He stood quietly beside her, gazing down at the shrouded figure at their feet.

  Nalia nodded.

  Moustafa lit one match, then placed it on the palm of his hand. His crimson chiaan covered the flame and it burst between his palms. He knelt, then gently lay the fire on top of Bashil, near his heart. Moustafa’s hands moved quickly over the flames, intricate movements Nalia didn’t understand. When he stood, she saw the kindness he had done her. Covering Bashil’s body was a flaming lotus, the color of a precious garnet.

  “Shundai,” Nalia whispered.

  Moustafa waved away her thanks. “Hif la’azi vi.” My heart breaks for you. It had been just yesterday that she’d spoken those same words of condolence to Saranya. The guide patted her shoulder, then left her alone.

  The sun fell through the sky, a blazing disk of fire that spilled tangerine rays over the dunes before disappearing completely. Nalia watched as the lotus flames licked Bashil’s body, thirsty. There was no smoke. The jinn had been created from smokeless fire and to smokeless fire they must return in order to enter the godlands. Nalia began whispering the prayer of the dead.

  Hala shaktai hundeer. Ashanai sok vidim. Ishna capoula orgai. Hala shaktai hundeer. Gods receive his soul. Fill it with grace and light. Grant entrance to your eternal temples. Gods receive his soul.

  Nalia said the prayer again and again as the fire had its fill of her brother’s body. Moustafa’s Ifrit fire was like no other flame. It consumed Bashil in less than an hour, burning brighter as time passed. In the gloaming, all that remained of him was a pile of cool ash. The lotus blazed once more, brighter than ever, then faded entirely.

  She raised her head, rubbing the ash into her forehead, mixing it with her tears in the Shaitan way. A furious gust of wind swept past her, and what was left of Bashil flew into the air in a sudden funnel, a swirl of dead evanescence in the arms of the Shaitan goddess. Nalia cried out as the last of her brother blew away.

  Then there was sand everywhere, raining down on her, drenching. Nalia turned, shading her eyes. A wall of sand was pushing across the desert, blocking out the sliver of moon that had crept into the sky. She stood still. Waiting.

  “Nalia!” Malek sprinted down the dune behind her, pointing at the sand that hurtled toward her. She watched Malek run, saw the look of terror on his face. He was a curious thing, this pardjinn who couldn’t die.

  “Sandstorm!” he shouted as he got closer.

  She faced the wall of swirling, hurtling earth. There was no chiaan quickening in her veins, no rush of power. She smiled at it, this merciful giant that would make everything stop.

  Nalia cried out as Malek threw himself over her, pushing her to the ground and shielding her from the storm with his body. She felt his palm against her mouth, meagre protection against the desert’s onslaught.

  The sand hit, a wave of shattered earth that crashed over them, wind everywhere, roaring like an ancient beast finally freed from its subterranean prison.

  “Bismillah.” Malek whispered his god’s word for protection over and over. “Bismillah.”

  It was the first time Nalia had heard Malek pray. She closed her eyes, hoping the sand would bury them both.

  18

  LIGHTNING.

  It burst from the night sky and stabbed the sand dunes below, over and over, like a crazed murderer.

  “Fire and blood,” Raif muttered.

  Beside him, Zanari grunted her assent. They’d been sitting on a low sand dune across from the cave for hours, waiting for the lightning storm to let up.

  They’d spent the previous day combing the area surrounding the cave, moving out in ever widening circles, like ripples in a pond. There’d been nothing but sand, as though the whole world were covered in fine, shifting grains that whisp
ered with each gust of wind. It wasn’t like Raif had been expecting a door he could simply walk through. But he thought there’d be something.

  “There’s a reason this cave’s been hidden for thousands of years,” Zanari said. “I mean, think about it: Malek knew this place existed. He’d considered it as a possible site for the sigil, but the lightning made it impossible for him to check it out.”

  “But we have a Ghan Aisouri’s blood,” Raif said, holding up the small bottle of Nalia’s blood that she’d given him in Los Angeles. “And he’s nothing but a pardjinn with too high an opinion of himself. Why in all hells can’t we get in there?” he fumed.

  He’d wasted precious drops of Nalia’s blood as he’d run his fingers through the sand, hoping the entrance to the cave would present itself. Nothing.

  They’d finally concluded that the entrance must be directly below the lightning storm. He and Zanari had spent the past twenty-four hours waiting for a break in the barrage of electric light, taking turns sleeping.

  Zanari counted under her breath. “Three seconds between lightning strikes. That’s all we get. Nalia’s blood won’t even help us—we’ll be dead before we can open the bottle.”

  Raif’s mouth tightened. Hearing her name hurt more than it had a right to. He stood up and began hiking up the moonlit dune, more a soft-boned mountain than a gentle rise in the sand.

  “Then I’ll have to be quick,” he said.

  He was tired of waiting and the longer they stayed outside the cave, the more likely it would be that Nalia and Malek would arrive. The thought of going through the cave with her was worse than the very real possibility of being struck by lightning.

  “Raif Djan’Urbi, you stop right where you are,” Zanari shouted. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Yes.

  He turned around. His sister stood below him, the lightning cutting into her fierce expression. With her head of braids, she looked like the statues of Grathali, goddess of air, that he’d seen in Shaitan temples. Strangely formidable.

  “Either I try to get in that cave or we go home with nothing,” he said. “It’s suicide either way.”

  “She already killed Kir.” The words hit him like an avalanche, rocks sliding down, into his heart, his lungs. “You walk into that lightning, then you’re letting her kill you, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Raif glared at his sister as the rocks continued to fall, weighing him down.

  “You’ve always taken risks, but this?” Zanari shook her head. “It’s an easy way out.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Like he’d kill himself over a Ghan Aisouri.

  Zanari stared at him. “Really?”

  He turned away from her, ashamed.

  “See what she’s done to you?” Zanari said. “Before you met Nalia, all you cared about was the revolution. And that worried me, so when you started to have feelings for her, I thought maybe that could be a good thing, you know? I wanted you to have a life, to have something to look forward to each day. But we were wrong about her. I thought she was different, that she was my . . . my friend. But Nalia’s just another salfit Aisouri—a killer, a liar. If you walk up that dune, you’re letting her win. You’re letting them all win.”

  Raif stared at the lightning. It blinded him, made it so all he could see were endless bursts of light. For once, night lost the battle: every time a bolt hit the earth, a new day dawned.

  He heard shuffling and panting and then his sister was beside him. “I’m sorry,” he said. How could he have spoken to her like that?

  She took his hand. “When Malek hypersuaded me, when he made me put that gun to my head, a part of me knew what was happening. But I couldn’t stop it. I was screaming inside, but my body wouldn’t listen. Love can be like that, too.”

  “Love is a gun to the head.” He snorted. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

  Zanari sighed. “We need to regroup. Okay? Find another way in.”

  “Zan, there is no other way.”

  “Then we wait for her. She has to let you in, she made a vow.”

  That was the moment. The vow. He’d never felt closer to another jinni in all his life. At the time, he’d refused to acknowledge that he was falling for Nalia. But a part of him had known. When another person makes you feel whole—even though you didn’t know you weren’t—that changes you.

  He pushed up the dune, closer to the lightning than he’d ever been before. He could see the surface of the sand just above the fiery bolts: a perfect circle burned black, smoking.

  There was a gust of wind, so strong it nearly blew him down the dune. Raif dug his heels into the sand and laid a hand on the ridge. It was warm, as though he weren’t standing on sand but a large, sleeping giant.

  “Raif!”

  He turned. Zanari had slipped down the dune and was struggling toward him. Every time the lightning flashed, twin bolts were reflected in her large, sad eyes.

  He couldn’t go back to the tavrai empty-handed. He couldn’t. But to wait for Nalia . . . Raif took another step toward the top of the dune. He could do this. He just had to throw the blood on the sand.

  “If you die, it’s over,” Zanari said. “No more second chances for the revolution. You said so yourself, when you insisted we come here in the first place.” She drew closer, her voice soft. He had to lean in, to hear her over the wind. It was gusting all around them now, pushing the sand into the air. “I’m sorry we were wrong about her, but you’ve got to buck up, little brother. Love sucks. Dying sucks more.”

  It’d been almost forty-eight hours since the moment Nalia told him she’d murdered his best friend. Before that, everything had been clear: he would choose Nalia, every time. No questions asked. Maybe the gods were punishing him for putting his desires before the revolution.

  Maybe the gods don’t give a damn. Weren’t they the ones that had given the Ghan Aisouri their power in the first place?

  “One more day,” he said, relenting. His sister was right: they had to wait a little longer. “Then I have to try. With or without Nalia. I can’t go home until I have the ring, Zan. It’s our last hope.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.” She clapped him on the back and started down the dune, then turned around after she’d gone a few steps. “Hungry?” Surprisingly, he was. Raif nodded.

  “How about I manifest us some of those cheeseburger things the humans were making in Los Angeles? I’ve been practicing—I think I might have it down.”

  He tried to smile. “Sounds good.”

  As Zanari started toward the small camp they’d set up, Raif grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at the spot the lightning kept striking. It had barely settled when the next bolt crashed into the dune again. He didn’t stand a chance. Raif turned to follow his sister when the earth began to tremble. The dune shifted, the sand suddenly rolling like an ocean in a storm.

  Zanari looked back at him, calling his name in a panicked shout. Raif hurried toward her as the ground beneath his feet heaved. He reached out, grabbing at the air for balance. He went down, rolling head over foot, Zanari just ahead of him. Raif squeezed his eyes shut tight as sand rained down on him. If he didn’t get up soon, he’d be buried alive.

  They reached the bottom of the dune just as the sand behind them crested, a tidal wave with the weight of an entire desert behind it. He grabbed Zanari’s hand and they sprinted across the sand, pushing their feet through the soft earth as the wave gained momentum. Raif realized with a sinking heart that it would be impossible to outrun it.

  “We have to evanesce,” Zanari shouted.

  But the sand would swallow them up before they could get airborne, their atoms pulling apart and entombed in a desert grave forever.

  He tried to answer, but sand filled his mouth. They dove to the side as the wave of fine sand crashed beside them.

  The grains began to take form, somehow conscious . . . aware. It looked like . . .

  “Oh, gods,” he whispered.

  The sand morph
ed into bodies that clawed their way out of the bowels of the desert, onto its surface. An arm, a leg, then a chest, the suggestion of a face.

  An army, shifting with the wind.

  Each flash of lightning brought out new details wrought in sand: ancient armor, spears, shields, horses made of sand that pawed at the ground. It reminded Raif of long days on the shore of the Arjinnan Sea, when he and Zanari and Kir used to make sand palaces. Each body, each weapon and horse was carved with expert precision, real in every way except material.

  It was an army that couldn’t bleed.

  The sound of each soldier emerging from the dunes was an unsheathed sword, the sand swirling into breastplates and spears and thick limbs. The soldiers moved forward, closing ranks. Their eyes were dark holes, their mouths open in a perpetual scream. They didn’t speak so much as roar, their voice the wind that gusted across the Sahara.

  Zanari cried out as one aimed its spear at her heart. She dove and the weapon soared past her. It dissolved into a harmless handful of sand as soon as it hit a dune, but its speed alone could have torn a hole through her flesh. Raif reached out and hauled her up while his other hand sparked with emerald chiaan.

  The soldier nearest Raif lunged and Raif stumbled back as a stream of chiaan shot from his hand. The soldier raised a sand shield, and the earth absorbed the magic. Indestructible.

  Raif pressed his palms to the sand, calling forth as much chiaan as he could from the earth. He didn’t know if Tirgan, patron god of the Djan, gave a shit that two of his jinn were about to die on Earth. Raif hoped so.

  The sand soldier pulled a scimitar out of its sheath and swung it once above its head before slashing at Raif’s chest. Raif ducked just before the weapon met its mark, then sent his chiaan across the sand, throwing the grains into the sky. A joyful battle cry escaped his lips as the sand rained down, burying the creature.

  “Nice, little brother!” Zanari shouted. She was wielding chiaan whips like a dragon hunter, her eyes gleaming in the jade light of her magic. The whips flicked against the soldiers, lobbing off body parts. It wasn’t killing the things, but it slowed them down.