Blood Passage

by Heather Demetrios

  The ranks continued to rise from the sand, at least fifty fighters in all. Above, a bird cried out, then two, then more. The insistent caws of a small group of birds filled the air as they flew in a circle, gathering speed before spreading out to cover the circumference of the army below. The sand soldiers looked up, roaring as one. The birds shrieked in response, a musical war cry. The army shot arrows of sand at the sky, but the creatures above plunged and dipped and swerved, moving targets that were impossible to hit.

  “What are they?” Zanari asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  They were huge: a cross between a crow and an eagle, with a shock of bright color on their breasts. The one with white feathers turned its head and stared at Raif, its eyes intelligent and a familiar bright blue. Marid blue.

  The flock darted toward the army below. Raif and Zanari were forgotten as the birds swooped through the ranks, disorienting the sand soldiers. Soon the army became a muddled sandstorm as the soldiers ran blindly through the dunes, their bodies reduced to gusts that pummeled the jinn in their midst. Sand flew into Raif’s eyes, nearly blinding him. He tried to cover his nose and mouth, but the sand got through, suffocating.

  Beside him, Zanari coughed as she fell to her knees and covered her head. He joined her, shielding her body with his own. The sand was a furious beast that kicked and bit, but Raif gritted his teeth and prayed they wouldn’t be covered by a dune. And then, just as suddenly as it came, the storm was over. The sand settled and the only sound was the strike, strike, strike of the lightning.

  Raif opened his eyes. The desert had shifted so that where once there had been gently rolling dunes there were now towering piles of sand. He and Zanari were in the middle of a valley that hadn’t existed just minutes ago. Before him, standing in a line across the top of a dune, perched seven birds. The moonlight caught the ebony sheen of their feathers, their massive beaks and jinn eyes.

  Fawzel: shape shifters.

  “Zanari . . .” he whispered.

  “I see, little brother.”

  The Dhoma had found them.

  Raif planted his feet and held his hands at his sides, ready. He didn’t know why the Dhoma had helped them, but it’d be foolish to assume they meant no harm. One of the fawzel unfurled its massive wings and flew toward Raif and Zanari while the others continued to perch on the sand dune, motionless sentries. Even from this distance, Raif could feel their collective gaze.

  Just before the bird reached them, it shot higher into the air and hung for a moment, suspended. Then it began to fall, slowly at first, then faster, spinning with the grace of a dancer. Evanescence began to swirl around its outstretched body, a tornado of Marid blue that hid the bird’s form as it drew closer to the little valley where Raif and Zanari stood. Moments later, the evanescence cleared and a Marid jinni stood before them, his blue eyes piercing. Raif caught the familiar scent of the sea: salt and the fishing villages of Arjinna. He wondered how a Marid fared in one of the driest places in the worlds.

  It was the same bird that had looked Raif in the eye during the battle: just like the feathers that covered the jinni’s body when he was a bird, his dark hair contained one white stripe that ran along his cheek and well past his shoulders. He was a large jinni and, like all male Dhoma, had a thick beard and wore his hair long.

  “Jahal’alund,” Raif said as he placed his hand against his heart in the traditional greeting.

  “Likewise,” the fawzel said. “What brings you to our land, wanderers?”

  Raif frowned, uncertain. He understood the jinni, but his Kada had strange inflections and, like the humans in Morocco, incorporated Arabic and French.

  “My sister and I mean no harm,” Raif said. “We’re new to Earth and we’re exploring its wonders. We thank you for assisting us with those . . . creatures.”

  Raif couldn’t risk the truth. Not now, not after they’d come so far. The Dhoma could easily turn him and Zanari over to Calar if they wanted to. The reclusive tribe was known for being unpredictable, especially if they felt threatened.

  The Dhoma cocked his head to the side, a birdlike gesture. “Several things tell me you’re lying. Shall I elaborate?”

  Raif raised his chin. “By all means.”

  For a split second, Raif considered fighting his way out of this. But the jinni before him was clearly powerful and he had six of his friends ready to swoop in and assist if necessary. If their performance earlier was any indication, they were more than up to the task. Already the birds on the dune were rustling their feathers, preparing for flight.

  The Dhoma pointed to Raif’s arm. “That symbol there—this is old magic. Powerful. It is said that the only jinn who have such markings are Ghan Aisouri and yet you, my friend, are most certainly not an Aisouri. There is a story there, yes?”

  Raif stared into the jinni’s eyes. Being cagey had never served him well. That first lie was a mistake.

  “Yes, there’s a story there.”

  The Dhoma inclined his head. “Next, I find it odd that your journeys with your sister should bring you to such a precise spot. The Sakhim don’t attack unless provoked. My guess is that you got very close to where the lightning struck. You weren’t, by any chance, looking for something . . . specific . . . were you?”

  He knows, Raif thought. How could he have learned the Ghan Aisouri’s best-kept secret?

  “We might have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Raif said.

  The Dhoma’s smile wasn’t kind. “I agree.”

  Keeping his eyes on Raif and Zanari, he whistled, a sharp order by the sounds of it. Immediately, the flock of shape-shifting Dhoma surged into the air. In seconds, they had Raif and Zanari surrounded, jinn spilling out of evanescence: Marid blue, Shaitan gold, Ifrit red, Djan green.

  “I’m thinking this is a bad thing,” Zanari said under her breath.

  “Yeah.” Raif angled his body so that he was shielding his sister. “Any ideas?”

  “Nope.”

  The jinn all wore human clothing Raif had seen in Marrakech: long, colorful robes, with expertly tied turbans that wound around their heads, then swept across their mouths so that only their eyes showed. He couldn’t tell which ones were male or female.

  “You will come with us, Raif Djan’Urbi,” the Dhoma leader said.

  Zanari snorted. “What did I say, little brother? I can’t take you anywhere.”

  Even here, they knew his face.

  “And if we refuse?”

  “It will be an uncomfortable journey,” the Dhoma said.

  In other words, there was no choice. They were clearly outnumbered. Raif glanced once more at the Erg Al-Barq. He’d been so close.

  “What do I call you?” Raif asked the jinni before him. “Only fair I know your name if you know mine.”

  “You may call me Samar, should you have a chance to call me anything.”

  “That doesn’t bode well,” Zanari said.

  Samar ignored her and raised his hands. Two coils of thick iron rope suddenly hovered over his palms. He looked at Raif and Zanari over the improvised shackles. “A necessary precaution, I’m afraid.”

  Raif held out his wrists and Zanari did the same. The rope tied itself, burning their flesh. If it stayed on for long, the iron would weaken him and Zanari considerably, possibly even kill them.

  “I hope this is just a temporary solution,” Raif said.

  “That depends entirely on you.” Samar nodded to one of the Dhoma, who immediately evanesced.

  Raif watched the Ifrit red of the jinni’s smoke as it spilled into the sky. That color had always been a harbinger of death and despair. He hoped it didn’t mean the same here in the depths of the desert.

  “I’m sure my people will be anxious to meet the jinn who dare to disturb our ancestors,” Samar continued.

  “Hold on right there, brother,” Zanari said. “We have nothing to do with your ancestors. We’re here for the revolution—we have no quarrel with the Dhoma.”

  Samar raised
his eyebrows. “You expect me to believe you didn’t know you were disturbing a mass grave?”

  “What mass grave?” Raif said.

  Samar pointed to the Erg Al-Barq. “That is the site of thousands of jinn slaves, buried alive by their master, King Solomon.”

  Before Raif could respond, Samar gestured for them to follow him.

  “Come,” he said. “We sail.”

  19

  THE STORM STOPPED ALMOST AS SUDDENLY AS IT BEGAN and yet it seemed to go on for an eternity as Malek sheltered Nalia’s body with his own. The desert threatened to entomb them, but there was nothing he could do but wait out the punishing winds.

  When the sand finally settled around them and the desert was calm once more, Malek wasn’t superstitious enough to think the bismillah had actually worked. But then again, he wasn’t going to rule it out.

  “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” he whispered as he sat up and took in the landscape.

  Nalia remained lying on the sand with her arms covering her head. Malek reached down and gently helped her sit up. She coughed, then turned away from him and spat into the sand.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I thought I would die.” She sounded disappointed.

  “I wasn’t going to let you,” Malek said as he stood.

  “Because you want the sigil.”

  “That’s not why, Nalia. And I think you know that.”

  She looked up at him with empty eyes, silent. He left her sitting there, unable to bear her brokenness. Saranya was right. She would never love him.

  The dunes had shifted so that they seemed to be in an entirely new desert. Malek turned in a slow circle, looking for the SUV. It was disorienting, this endless sea of sand.

  “Moustafa!” he called.

  The tree Nalia had burned Bashil under had been to Malek’s left when he’d run over the dune. Just the top of the tree was visible now and the dune beside it had disappeared.

  So had the SUV.

  “Shit.” Malek stalked across the sand to where Moustafa should have been. There was nothing there but sand, no hint that a vehicle filled with all their supplies and their driver lay under it.

  He heard Nalia gasp behind him.

  “Maybe the bastard evanesced,” he said. “Left us here to die.”

  Nalia shook her head. “Even if he had, that storm would have blown him apart.”

  Malek kicked at the sand, cursing.

  “Stop it,” Nalia said, her voice sharp. “You dishonor him.” She knelt on the sand. “Go.”

  He threw up his hands and headed back to the tree, the only marker for miles. A few moments later he heard Nalia’s voice as if she were standing beside him. He turned. Here, in the calm after the storm, the desert had no secrets. Her voice echoed clearly, the words of the prayer cutting into him, the same one she had said for Bashil. Malek didn’t know what the words meant, but he felt the lament as though it were his own.

  They were alone in the middle of the Sahara Desert without food, water, shelter, or transportation. He didn’t have a cell phone—not that he’d have any service—and he’d left his gun in the car. It wouldn’t be much help against the Ifrit, anyway.

  Nalia hadn’t eaten in nearly two days. She was barely standing after the sandstorm. If they didn’t get help soon, she’d die.

  “Bismillah,” he whispered.

  Nalia expected to drown in this desert. Soon, she would sink below its sandy waters, free of Malek’s pointless exercise in survival. The stars above were distant beacons, the lights of celestial ships that crossed the dark waves of the Saharan night. She and Malek were adrift and there was no hope of rescue.

  Nalia was fine with that.

  It was cold and the bitter wind cut through her thin clothing. She walked on and on, with no direction, no thought other than to follow where Malek led. He’d given up trying to talk, this shadow of hers. But she felt Malek’s resolve to keep watch over her. He wouldn’t let her go, no matter how much she begged him to leave her.

  Night claimed her grief like a prize, reveling in it, spoils from a bloody war. Sometimes the pain would hit Nalia all over again, as though she were hearing for the first time that Bashil was dead, and she would sink down to the sand, where her tears would water its unforgiving soil. She clutched it in handfuls or fell into it, curled up like a child for minutes, hours.

  After climbing their highest dune yet, Nalia collapsed. “I’m done,” she said.

  “I know.”

  A violent gust of wind swept past them and Malek, unthinking, pulled Nalia to him, taking the brunt of the wind’s temper. She buried her face in his chest as the sand swirled around them like angry ghosts. She could feel his heart speeding up, as though it wanted to finish the conversation it had started with hers long ago.

  Nalia pulled away from him just as another gust of freezing wind sliced into her. Malek slipped off his jacket and set it over her shoulders. She’d refused it before, but was too cold now to care. It was warm and smelled like him, a little bit spicy and all too familiar.

  “What happened with the others?” he asked again.

  “The others?” she said, her voice far away. She sank into the warmth of his jacket.

  “You know who I mean: Raif and Zanari.”

  Nalia lay on the sand, curled into a fetal position. “I killed Raif’s best friend. He found out.”

  “Well. I’m sure you had your reasons.”

  Nalia closed her eyes. “I did. They weren’t good ones.”

  The coat was warm and she didn’t care that Malek sat close because he shielded her from the cutting wind.

  “I’d love to clarify this situation—it’s not quite making sense,” Malek said. “Raif left you in Marrakech, a city occupied by an army that wants to kill you.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you still love him.”

  “Yes.”

  Malek struck a match and the scent of cloves filled the air.

  “For the record, I’m fine with you killing whomever you wish,” Malek said.

  She pressed her forehead into the sand and sobbed. For Bashil. For Raif. For Kir. How was it possible to have tears left to cry? She had left a trail of them behind her, a salty river that gouged the sand with her sorrow.

  Nalia didn’t protest when Malek pulled her onto his lap. She was a rag doll. He held her and spoke in a low voice, a monologue of old poems in Arabic. Once whispered in lush, ancient courtyard gardens, they were saffron words dipped in honey and cream.

  “My brother,” she kept saying, over and over. My brother.

  The night wore on, endless and cold, but there was warmth in the shelter of Malek’s arms. For once, he was the safe harbor, not the storm.

  20

  RAIF HAD NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT.

  When Samar had said we sail, Raif had assumed the Dhoma leader was fond of metaphors.

  Not so.

  First, the soft rustle of sand, then the snap of heavy fabric in the wind.

  Surging over the highest dune, a ship appeared, sailing the Sahara as though it were an ocean. It was massive, as big as one of the galleys the Marid used for fishing in the depths of the Arjinnan Sea. The wooden ship was exquisitely carved and had an alarmingly lifelike ghoul as its masthead. Her mouth had been fashioned into a perpetual, hungry O so that every time the fore of the ship plunged toward the sand, the ghoul seemed to tear into the desert’s grainy flesh.

  A crew of turbaned Dhoma were scattered about the ship, attending to duties or staring out at the desert expanse.

  “After you,” Samar said.

  Raif had never been on a ship before, but after only a few moments on the Saharan sea, he could see why his Marid compatriots never liked to be far from their vessels. The wind, the speed, the feel of the wood rocking underneath his feet—it did him good. Cleared his head.

  The Sun Chaser cut through the night, navigating the sands without effort. I
nstead of the splash of waves against the hull, there was the hiss of sand on wood. The wind carried soft desert scents instead of the salty tang of the ocean. Raif drank deeply.

  “I’m a little less bitter about being taken captive,” Zanari said as they stood at the railing.

  “Sure beats the palace dungeon,” Raif said, laughing. “The Marid tavrai would love this.”

  So would Nalia. The thought came, unbidden, and Raif gripped the railing as the fury and love and despair tore through him. It would pass. It would have to pass.

  Too soon, the Dhoma camp came into view. The Sun Chaser pierced through a thick bisahm as it neared the patch of light in the middle of the desert’s inky darkness. The thick shield shuddered, invisible except for a slight iridescent glint in the moonlight. It was a good shield, nearly as strong as the one Raif and his tavrai had created over the Forest of Sighs, the resistance’s Arjinnan headquarters. It wouldn’t keep out the Ifrit army, though.

  The ship glided to a stop in a natural sandy harbor filled with skiffs. From the bow, Raif had a good view of the Dhoma camp. Nomad tents spread across the sand, hundreds of elaborate structures of improbable height that only the jinn could have devised. Delicate glass Moroccan lamps hung from poles outside the tents’ entrances, colorful bursts of light that painted the sand. Fires crackled throughout the Dhoma camp and the smell of roasted lamb filled the air. A rapid-fire percussion of African beats with Arabic flair came from a nearby circle of Gnawa musicians. Raif had seen performers like this in the Djemaa—he only knew these ones were jinn because of the unique sound of their instruments.

  Samar gestured to the gangplank. “Follow me.”

  Raif turned to his sister. “You okay back there?”

  “I’m fine.” Zanari frowned at the Dhoma who held her elbow. “I can walk by myself, brother, thanks.”

  “All right, whatever you say.” The jinni let go as his body faded until it disappeared completely.

  “What in all hells?” Zanari turned in a circle as the invisible Dhoma laughed.

  Raif stared. Between the shape shifting and invisibility, he had no doubt that the rumors were true about the Dhoma possessing powers Arjinnans had yet to discover. Raif suspected that in his realm there were many jinn who, like Zanari, were afraid their powers would be used for ill by the ruling castes. It was a beautiful thing, to see free jinn express themselves so openly.