Blood Passage

by Heather Demetrios

  Feeling hurt like a bitch. No wonder he’d avoided it all these years.

  “The lightning is strong, no?” Samar said as he joined the circle forming around Nalia.

  “That’s a bit of an understatement,” Malek said.

  Phara swept past Malek, her healer’s robes billowing in the breeze behind her. “Nalia. What can I do?”

  Nalia smiled. “Nothing.” Her eyes filled as she held out her hand. Phara gasped when she touched Nalia’s skin.

  “So that’s a Ghan Aisouri’s chiaan,” Phara said.

  Nalia squeezed the healer’s hand, then crossed the blackened circle, no longer the site of an endless lightning storm, and stood before Samar.

  “Shundai,” she said. “I owe you my life.”

  Samar pressed his hand to his heart in reply. “The lives of my ancestors are payment enough.” He paused, searching Nalia’s eyes. “You really are a daughter of the gods.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good thing,” she said. But she didn’t deny it. That, Malek thought, was interesting. More than interesting.

  “What was it like?” Anso asked. Malek couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something wrong with that jinni, with her sallow skin and eyes too big for her face.

  A small smiled played on Nalia’s lips. “It tasted like spicy peppers.”

  Raif laughed.

  Malek’s eyes traveled to the shape on the sand. “I’ll be damned.” He knelt down and ran his hand along the nearest point of the star. “The khatem l-hekma,” he said, shaking his head. It was suddenly real, this ring he had dreamed of for so long. This ring he needed on his finger.

  A fawzel cried out in the sky and as it dove toward the dune, its body beginning to swirl in a flutter of ebony feathers and green evanescence. Moments later, Yezhud stepped onto the sand. Malek stared. It was the first time he’d seen the shape shifters change form.

  “Of course,” he whispered, suddenly understanding one of the Arabian Nights’ mysteries. “Solomon spoke the language of the birds.” Shape shifters. Solomon didn’t speak a magical bird language—he simply spoke to the birds as he would any of his jinn.

  The fawzel hurried across the sand and stopped before Samar. “The Ifrit are headed this way. One of their scouts must have seen the Sun Chaser.”

  “How are our people?” asked Samar.

  Yezhud shook her head. “They fight. Inshallah the Ifrit will leave once they see that the Aisouri and her companions are not in the camp.”

  The Dhoma around the circle were silent. Samar clapped his hands once. “Those coming with me, stay here. The rest of you, back to the camp. Jahal’alund.” He turned to his wife and spoke quietly to her.

  “No!” she said, her eyes flashing.

  “You must,” Samar said. “The fawzel need you.”

  “I need you,” Yezhud whispered, her bottom lip trembling.

  Samar drew his wife away and after a short, whispered conversation, he brushed the tears from her cheeks and kissed her forehead. Moments later, she was an ebony bird with a golden breast, rising into the sky.

  Malek studied the remaining jinn. There were five Dhoma, Raif, Zanari, and Nalia. Including himself, that made nine.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” Raif said as the Sun Chaser departed, its carved-ghoul masthead feasting on the sand.

  “I must protect her. She’ll be fighting, but at least outside the cave she can fly away. Escape.” Samar glanced at Nalia. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Raif nodded. “I do.”

  Malek turned away. He was the one who had saved Nalia’s life in Marrakech and, later, in the desert. It had been his body that never gave in to Calar’s torture, his arms that had protected Nalia from a sandstorm that would have buried her alive. But to all of them—the Dhoma, Raif, even Nalia—Malek was nothing but a slave owner. No one on Earth would ever believe that Malek Alzahabi understood what it meant to bleed for someone he loved. Or that he wanted to do it again. For her. Always for her. How else to atone for enslaving the person he cared most about in the world? How else to earn her forgiveness . . . her love?

  He scanned the top of the dune. All he could see was a patch of blackened sand that had been struck by lightning for thousands of years.

  “Where’s the entrance to the cave?” he asked.

  Malek wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but certainly more than this. The stories spoke of twenty-five gates made of obsidian and brass pillars that, from a distance, looked like twin flames.

  Nalia held up her left arm. It had the similar henna-like tattoos that were on her right arm and hands except for the eight-pointed star: the Seal of Solomon. It lit up, pulsing deep red, like an open vein. She looked at Raif and he held out his own arm, with its identical, glowing star.

  “We’re standing on the entrance,” Nalia said. “Everyone step away. I don’t know how this is going to open or what’s beneath the sand.”

  The jinn moved back, leaving just Nalia and Raif in the center of the star. She looked at Raif, but he shook his head.

  “I’m fine right here,” he said.

  The moon was high above them and as Nalia slipped her jade dagger out of the leather holster at her waist, Malek couldn’t help but think they were about to make a sacrifice to an ancient and terrible deity.

  Nalia whispered over the dagger, then held her palm above the sand. She slid the blade over her skin, quick and deep, her face calm. As her blood hit the ground, the dune began to cave in on itself, the black circle becoming a gaping hole, a mouth starved. Nalia tried to roll away as the dune shifted, but there was no time. Raif grabbed hold of her as they toppled into the hole, swept up in a whirlpool of sand. Malek’s feet flew out from under him as the ground gave way and his shout was lost in the roar of the deluge as it pulled him down, faster and faster. He tried to grab hold of something to slow his fall, but there was only sand, bodies slamming into his, and terrorized screams. Chiaan of every color swirled above him as the jinn attempted to evanesce, but the sand whisked the magic away.

  “Nalia!” he shouted, but his cries were lost in the Sahara’s skin.

  He hit the ground, hard, and a stream of Arabic curses flew from his mouth. It was pitch black, and the sliver of moon that had been in the sky disappeared as the dune rebuilt itself over the entrance.

  “Fire and blood!” he heard nearby.

  “Zanari?” he said.

  “Oh great, the pardjinn survived,” the irritable jinni muttered.

  “Immortal, remember?” Malek said.

  “Raif?” Nalia. Of course he’d be the first one she’d want to find.

  “I’m here.” Raif groaned. “Phara, I hope you’re good at setting broken ribs,” he called into the darkness.

  “It’s my specialty,” said the healer’s voice, a bit farther away. “And Nalia, let me take a look at your hand. It’ll get infected if I don’t heal it.”

  “I don’t suppose any of you thought to bring a flashlight,” Malek said.

  An orb of glowing light appeared in the palm of each jinni’s hand.

  “Bright enough for you?” Raif asked with a smirk. Little shit.

  “Er, right,” Malek said. “Now what?”

  Zanari pointed to a towering statue of a man seated atop a horse a few feet away. “Maybe he knows.”

  Malek gaped at the statue, a legend come to life. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we found Aladdin’s lamp while we’re down here,” he said.

  The jinn glanced at him, confused.

  “Magic carpets?” he tried.

  “I think the pardjinn hit his head on the way down,” Zanari said.

  Malek gave up. If this place was anything like it was in The Arabian Nights, they’d find out soon enough what the cave had in store for them. He looked at their little group—it was unlikely all of them would see the light of day again.

  He had no doubt Raif’s fellow jinn would back up him and his sister when they got to the ring. The last thing the Dhoma wanted was anot
her human Master King. He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, but Malek hoped the cave would kill them before he had to.

  Nalia hugged the darkness, watching as the others began inspecting the brass horseman. She desperately needed to be alone, to take in all that had just happened. The sphere of chiaan in Nalia’s hands cast violet shadows on the rocky walls beneath the dune and bathed her skin in its familiar, tingling sensation. It pulsed inside her, a river that raced through her veins, more power than she’d ever felt in her life. It seemed the gods had been listening to her prayers, after all.

  She could still taste the lightning.

  “Nalia. What do you think?” Malek was motioning her toward the statue.

  She moved closer and read the inscription at its base. For whosoever wishes to gaze upon the City of Brass, he need only offer me his hand and I will guide him thence.

  “In The Arabian Nights, the horseman leads the travelers into the City of Brass.” Malek shook his head. “I can’t believe this is actually here.”

  Nalia released the ball of light in her hand so that it lay suspended in the air above her as she walked slowly around the statue. On the tip of the horseman’s middle right finger there was a tiny eight-pointed star.

  “Here’s what we’re looking for,” she said, pointing to the star. The others drew closer. “This is the Seal of Solomon. Antharoe carved the seal throughout the cave beneath the City of Brass to guide us. Well, not us. Whatever Aisouri deemed it necessary to retrieve the ring.” Nalia narrowed her eyes at Malek. “Or whichever Aisouri was forced to retrieve the ring.”

  Malek nodded to Raif. “Seems to me there’s a lot of ways to force an Aisouri to do something you want.”

  “Enough,” Zanari said. “Gods, this is going to be a long trip.”

  “This is all we have?” said a low voice to Nalia’s left. Anso. In the darkness of the cave, her face had an almost ghoulish aspect, her skin stretched taut over the bones. “A few stars carved by a dead jinni? A map—now that’s helpful. Stars? Ridiculous.”

  “The stars are the map,” Nalia said. “There are eight of them—one for each of the points on Solomon’s Sigil. When we find the eighth star, we find the sigil.”

  “How are we going to get through a city covered in sand?” asked Phara.

  “There are passages under the dune leading to it,” Nalia said. “We just have to find the right one. I’m guessing this guy will help us.” She pointed to the brass statue. “And then the cave is below that. Vasalo celique.” Follow the stars.

  The wound on her hand was still raw from opening the cave’s entrance, so she passed her dagger to Raif and held out her other palm. “Please?” she asked.

  As he took her hand, Nalia felt the rush of his chiaan and their eyes locked. For a moment they were the only two people in the cave. She looked away from him, afraid of the feeling creeping into her face. She focused on Zanari’s words: What the two of you have—it’s reckless. How many people need to suffer before you see that?

  He turned her hand over, and gently ran his fingers over her palm. The dagger’s blade stung as it cut through her skin and when Raif let go, she pressed her bloodied palm against the horseman’s cold bronze hand. For whosoever wishes to gaze upon the City of Brass, he need only offer me his hand and I will guide him thence. The statue’s eyes snapped open, eyes of pure fire that stared at nothing, and the horse reared its legs. Nalia darted to the side, narrowly missing the horse’s hooves.

  The horseman’s hand pointed to the right. Then, just as suddenly as it had come to life, its eyes closed and the horseman was still once more.

  “Well, I’d say that was pretty clear,” Malek said.

  “Ready?” Raif asked Nalia, after she’d rubbed some of Phara’s cream onto her palm. He put his hand on her arm and she tried to ignore the joy that simple touch gave her.

  Nalia gently shrugged off his hand and nodded. “Yes. No time like the present.”

  She looked away from the hurt and confusion that flashed in his eyes. It cut her more deeply than her jade dagger ever could.

  Nalia led the way as the group headed in the direction the horseman had pointed, walking for what felt like hours on an ancient cobblestone road. A wall of sand stood to their right and an endless wall of black obsidian on their left, the top of which was covered by the underside of the dune. Every hour or so they would come upon an ornate gate carved into the wall, but no matter what magic Nalia tried, the gate wouldn’t open.

  “Remarkable,” Malek said, trailing his fingers along the stone. “Just like in the story. They’re locked from the inside. There’s no getting into the city through them.”

  Finally Nalia saw two pillars of flame in the distance. As she drew closer, she noticed that they were made not of fire, but brass that glowed with an otherworldly light. They stood on either side of an ornate gate, carved with a motif similar to those she’d seen in Marrakech: flowers and ancient script twisted together.

  As they neared, the gates opened with a soft whoosh. “That was easy,” Nalia muttered.

  Malek laughed with delight. “Welcome to the City of Brass.”

  28

  ZANARI LOOKED DOWN WHAT ONCE MUST HAVE BEEN the city’s main street. In the light emanating from the pillars behind her, she could make out arcaded porticos made of mud brick the color of bruised peaches that flanked either side of a dusty cobblestone road. Long-dead vines hung over balconies where desert flowers had once bloomed. A large building with columns and a domed roof made of gold—a palace or temple—stood at the end of the road. It was a maze, an ancient puzzle. And over all of it, a solid dome of sand.

  “It’s like a bisahm,” she said, pointing up at the improbable sand sky. It shouldn’t be there, suspended above them. It was hard to breathe, knowing Earth’s largest desert was lying on top of them.

  “Well, at least the Ifrit will have no idea we’re down here,” Raif said.

  Noqril made his way up to Zanari, standing closer than was necessary. He wrinkled his nose at the flecks of shimmering rock the flaming pillars brought out of the sky’s sand. “You’re sure the thing’s not going to cave in and bury us alive?” he asked.

  “It’s a little late to ask that question, brother,” Zanari said. She moved closer to Raif. “How are we going to find a ring here?” she asked him. “Or these godsdamned stars? They could be anywhere.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I have no idea. Where do you suggest we start?”

  “Stairways?” Nalia and Zanari said at the same time. She hadn’t even noticed Nalia standing there, her face a mess of shadows in the light from their chiaan and the bronze pillars.

  Zanari bit off her smile. She’d meant it when she’d told Nalia she could never forgive her for Kir’s murder. And if Nalia didn’t have a talk with Raif soon and end things with him, she wouldn’t forgive her for that, either. Zanari wanted her brother back, not this lovesick boy who ran headlong into death at the slightest provocation.

  Up ahead, Phara was pushing open the door of one of the small shops that lined the main street. Zanari hurried to catch up with the other jinni—anything to be away from Nalia and Raif and the confusion they caused her.

  “Find something?” Zanari asked.

  Phara looked up. “Honestly, I was just curious.”

  “Need some company?”

  Phara’s answering smile made Zanari turn warm inside, as though she’d just gulped half a bottle of savri.

  “Sure,” Phara said. “I hear you’re quite the warrior, so you must promise to defend me if there are ghouls inside.”

  Zanari laughed. “Who told you that?”

  “Nalia,” Phara answered. “She said you fought the Ifrit beside her in Marrakech and that you helped her kill a s’arawq.”

  Zanari frowned. “Oh.” That had been one of the proudest moments of her life, keeping up with a Ghan Aisouri.

  Phara was looking at Zanari like she wanted to keep looking. No one ever looked at her like that. She’d se
en plenty of jinn look at Raif like that. Male jinn with pretty lips, female jinn with doe eyes—they’d only ever seen her brother. And if they’d paid any attention to her, it was only to get closer to Raif. No one had ever just wanted Zanari.

  But Phara . . . she was only seeing Zanari.

  Which was totally weird and unnerving and somehow made Zanari want to run away and get closer to Phara at the same time.

  Fire and blood. Zanari looked at the ceiling. The door. The window. Finally, Phara caught Zanari’s eyes with her golden ones. “So?”

  “So what?” Zanari managed.

  “Will you protect me?” Phara blushed, a lovely pink that crept up her cheeks.

  Zanari took out the scimitar strapped to her back. Protect. Yes. She could do that. “Absolutely.”

  Phara pushed open the door and shone her golden chiaan into the tiny room.

  “It seems to be some kind of . . . home store,” Zanari said.

  The shelves were lined with earthenware jugs and simply designed plates and bowls. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.

  “Humans are so . . . I mean how do they do it?” Zanari said. “Their lives are so short, they can’t manifest anything, they have no chiaan. Can you imagine, having to buy plates and bowls?”

  “It’s true that their time and abilities are limited,” Phara agreed. “But think about what they’ve managed to do without chiaan. The knowledge they have, the skills. Have you ever tried to drive an automobile?”

  Zanari shook her head. “I’ve only been on Earth a few weeks.”

  “Well, it’s hard, trust me. You can’t make them do what you want, like with a camel. Well, actually, camels are stubborn as all hells but at least you can scold them. With automobiles, there are so many controls and other automobiles and humans in them and . . . You should have seen me trying to drive in Tangier. Gods, I was awful!”

  Zanari’s eyes slid over to where Phara stood near a shelf of vases. She was lovely, all gentle curves, elegant in her healer’s robes.

  “The sooner I can leave this realm, the better,” Zanari said. Every minute spent on Earth was a minute that her land plunged further into chaos and suffering, a minute where she questioned ever returning to her ravaged land. The guilt over wanting to abandon Arjinna was a thorny, thrashing thing inside her.