Something stirred in Raif, a niggling feeling. “A birthmark? You’re saying she had a birthmark?”
Jordif gave him a strange look. “Yeah.”
Fire and blood. That was how Haran was trying to find Nalia: tracking jinn with facial birthmarks. And he was killing the girls because he could.
“You okay over there, tavrai?” Jordif said.
Raif nodded. “Sure. Yeah. Just . . . tired, is all.”
Jordif stood up. “Speaking of . . . I better get some shut-eye before I head over to the portal. We’re supposed to be getting a group of refugees sometime tomorrow. Jahal’alund.”
Raif frowned as he watched his host shuffle toward the rooms on the other side of the loft. “Jahal’alund,” he said softly.
Zanari emerged out of a bank of shadows near the kitchen once Jordif was out of earshot.
“He’s lying,” she said.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
Raif closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. “Mom said we could trust him.”
“I’m not saying we can’t trust him. But Jordif’s definitely hiding something—I just don’t know what. Every time I try to get a read on him, I draw a blank. I mean, literally—no images, sounds, scents. Nothing. I can never figure out where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s with. He’s got some kind of shield that covers his ass all the time. It’s like trying to keep an eye on the palace.”
For once, Raif thought, it would be nice to trust someone who wasn’t related to him.
“Did you hear what he said about the missing jinn?”
“Haran, obviously,” Zanari said. “The birthmark—I never even thought of that. Maybe Nalia would be willing to glamour it.”
Raif bit his lip—it was unlikely. Birthmarks were considered a kiss from the gods—there were countless stories of a jinni being cursed because they’d decided to cover up their mark. He guessed Nalia would want the gods on her side now more than ever.
“Almost every time I sense Haran,” Zanari continued, “he’s surrounded by blood. A lot of it. Do you think he’s killing all those girls?”
Raif ran his hands over his eyes. “Dammit.” He wished he could protect Zanari from having to spend so much time watching Haran. “Yes—that’s all he does. Kill.” He knew he couldn’t save everyone, but it never got easier, hearing these kinds of things. “I don’t know what to do,” Raif admitted. “Nalia won’t give me the sigil. And there are only so many jinn on the dark caravan with birthmarks. Gods know how Haran’s finding them, but the more jinn he eliminates, the closer he gets to Nalia. Meanwhile, our people are dying.” He sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Us coming out here . . . never should have happened.”
Zanari shook her head. “I’ve changed my mind on that. She’ll help us.”
Raif looked up, hopeful. “Really?”
Zanari laughed softly. “I don’t need to be psychic to know that, little brother—not after seeing the way you two were tonight.”
Raif rolled his eyes. “Great. The fate of Arjinna rests on my dancing skills.”
“I wasn’t talking about your dancing.”
Nalia closed her bedroom door, thankful that Malek hadn’t summoned her. It was three a.m., but the light was on in his study—the only bright spot in the otherwise darkened house. She’d paused at the foot of the marble staircase, waiting, but his door had remained closed. She didn’t know if what she felt was relief or disappointment.
Nalia peeled off her clothes, then slipped on a nightgown, wincing at the bump on her head and the bruises braceleting her wrists. She should have tracked down a mage before she left Habibi, but she’d been so furious with Raif, so terrified that she’d lost her one chance to save her brother, that she’d evanesced almost as soon as Raif walked away. Instead, she’d spent the past hour driving up and down Pacific Coast Highway; the brisk sea breeze usually did the trick when she needed to clear her mind. Nalia had been hoping she’d come up with a miraculous way out of breaking her vow to the gods, but nothing had presented itself. She had nothing to barter—she was a beggar, hungry for scraps of kindness from a jinni who had every reason to let her starve. Raif didn’t owe Nalia a damn thing and she knew it. All she had to offer him was the sigil. And in return, she’d have her freedom and her brother. Had there ever really been a choice?
It had been one of the longest days of her life on Earth, even longer than the one when she met Malek for the first time, when he’d looked down at her and said, “I think you’ll do quite nicely.” The two hours of Sha’a Rho on the beach felt like a million years ago. She hoped her offerings to the gods kept Haran away, if only for another night or two. Ideally, she’d be able to rest before the fight of her life. Nalia had noticed the bisahm Raif had set over the house, but the shield gave her no comfort. The one made by the Ghan Aisouri over the palace hadn’t saved anyone. Like snakes, the Ifrit had a way of crawling into hidden places and biting you when you least expected it. Still, it was better than nothing. She used to have one over Malek’s property, just to be safe, but so many of his clients had jinn that it had become complicated. A client would summon his jinni, but because summoning was essentially forced evanescence, the jinni would only be able to get as far as the front gate. Getting through was worse than trying to breach airport security. By the time the jinni reached the house, their masters were in a rage. Eventually, Malek forced her to take it down.
Nalia stretched, then ran through the first hundred Sha’a Rho poses. This unconscious return to her nightly habit in the palace made her smile. Strange, that discovering a murderer was after you could feel so invigorating. But it did. After three years of captivity, of dreaming of an opportunity to cut her ties to Malek and wreak vengeance upon the Ifrit, Nalia would finally get to face the jinni who’d murdered her mother and enslaved her brother. There was a savage joy in knowing her time with Malek was now finite. It would end in death or freedom, but it would end, and soon.
Finished, Nalia stood before her open window and bathed in the gusts of wind that howled around the house. The only sound was the soft, papery friction of the palm leaves as the long stalks of trees clustered near her window bent dangerously in the wind. Off in the distance, a car alarm went off and she could hear the faint refrain of a pop song blaring inside the house across the street—the film director, having another one of his soirees. Nalia closed her eyes, startled by the change she noticed within her when she focused on her energy. Her chiaan felt different, fresh and earthy, as though she’d hung it out to dry in the sun. She wondered if it was the aftereffects of touching Raif so much. How could his energy feel so gentle when he was so awful? She’d always been taught that one’s chiaan was a direct reflection of their spirit, but she couldn’t reconcile the feel of Raif’s chiaan with the jinni himself. It was disconcerting and, at the same time, strangely soothing, to feel the thrum of new energy.
Nalia moved away from the window and pulled back the covers of her bed, then stood staring down at it, undecided. Haran could literally be here to kill her at any minute. Maybe she’d survive—she was a Ghan Aisouri, after all. But her powers were weakened by the shackles, and Haran would be using dark magic and guns. The combination had been powerful enough to kill all the Ghan Aisouri, so Nalia assumed her chances of survival were pretty low. And even if Haran failed, Calar would keep sending the Ifrit after her. As long as Nalia was a slave, Malek’s mansion would be a battlefield. And you didn’t go to bed in Egyptian cotton sheets on a battlefield. You strategized. You prepared. You rallied the troops.
Nalia desperately wanted to find a way to be free of the bottle without needing to give Raif what he wanted. But she didn’t have time to convince Malek to make a third wish—if she pushed, he might suspect she was playing him. She couldn’t even imagine the depth of rage he’d feel, after opening his heart to her, if he realized what she was up to. It could be centuries before he let her out again, and by that time the iron in the bottle would h
ave killed her. But she could get close enough to him to steal the bottle. She closed her eyes and pictured Bashil when he was happiest, running through the palace gardens. She’d been willing to give her body in exchange for his life—why not her soul? She’d never break a vow to the gods to save her own skin, but Nalia would sell out the entire jinn race in order to rescue her brother.
The gods may damn me, but I don’t have a choice. Bashil must survive.
She’d suggest a late-night swim—tomorrow. Her mind raced as she worked out the plan. Yes! Things didn’t need to go as far as she feared with Malek. As long as he was separated from the bottle, she’d be able to touch the chain that held it. He would take off the necklace to swim, maybe set it on one of the patio’s little glass tables. She’d distract him with absinthe and her lips, and when he finally passed out, she’d get the bottle and meet Raif. A reckless smile cut across her face as she pictured Malek waking up on a lounge chair, trying to figure out what had happened.
Nalia closed her eyes and willed her glamour to slip off, releasing the binds that held her disguise in place. The alterations she’d made to her eyes and the skin covering her tattoos floated away, particles of sparkling dust that hung suspended in the air like uncertain stars. The magic hadn’t cost much energy, but as the intricate markings of the Ghan Aisouri reappeared on her skin, Nalia felt as if a heavy bird had lifted off its perch on her shoulders and taken flight. She was lighter—herself. From her fingertips to her elbows, the henna-like tattoos of her race crawled over her cinnamon skin. They were the color of wet earth after an Arjinnan storm and formed an intricate pattern that only she could understand.
She pressed her fingers to the eight-pointed star on her left arm, then whispered the word of power that revealed the truth of things.
“Lefia.”
As soon as the word left Nalia’s lips, the star began to glow. A map that would allow her to evanesce to the cave where the sigil lay hidden. She looked up—bright violet eyes glowed back at her from the windowpane and she stared at them, uncertain. It had been so long since she’d seen her true reflection: it was getting harder to know which was the glamour. She rubbed her hands over the tattoos, muttering the ancient spell she’d used to hide her identity. Purple chiaan slipped from her fingertips like soft candlelight, gradually fading to a daffodil yellow as the glamour once again took hold. Soon she was back to the jinni the coup had forced her to be, hiding like a rat in a gilded cage.
But not for long, she thought.
Nalia changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then looked at the address Raif had written on the slip of paper he’d given her. It was in downtown LA, near an abandoned building where she often met with Malek’s clients. She held her palm up and a small puff of golden smoke appeared. She whispered Bashil’s true name and then his image was in her palm. He was asleep, lying on a dirt floor, his body curled into itself. She watched him for a moment, his eyes closed and his thin, pinched face free of worry. I’m coming, Bashil. Hold on. I’m coming. She brought her hands together, and the smoke vanished.
A tremor ran through her body as she began to evanesce. The room filled with a diaphanous cloud of honey-scented smoke. Nalia was about to sell out the entire jinn race. At least this time, it wouldn’t be like the coup: she knew exactly what she was doing.
“Hala shalinta,” she whispered. Gods forgive me.
13
NALIA STEPPED INTO THE ART DECO LOBBY OF THE address Raif had written down. The counter where a doorman might have sat was empty, but a small directory beside the tiny elevator listed Jordif’s loft on the top floor. The elevator doors opened and she stepped forward, hesitant. She wanted to evanesce, but glass windows covered the front of the building. Even though the streets were empty, she didn’t want to risk a human seeing her. The only reason jinn were able to live freely on Earth was because most humans thought they were a myth. Too many witnesses and she’d find herself on the cover of a tabloid. It wasn’t hard to imagine in the paparazzi-infested town.
The elevator doors started to shut and Nalia shoved between them and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The strange contraption, built long before Nalia’s time on Earth, shuddered and then began its slow ascent. She gripped the faded gold bars on the sides of the box. It was bigger than the bottle, but much too close. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe. Sweat bloomed on her upper lip and her heartbeat staggered. Nalia opened her eyes. She grasped for the calm she worked so hard to maintain, but the walls seemed to crowd her. Pressing, pressing, pressing closer.
“Forget it,” she muttered. She couldn’t do this the human way.
Nalia pictured the number eight on a panel like the one she’d seen on the first floor—since she’d never been to Jordif’s loft, she couldn’t evanesce to a door she’d never seen. With the image fixed in her mind, she evanesced, the elevator disappearing as her body teleported to the nondescript hallway above her. Nalia wiped the sweat off her face, then raised her hand to knock on the loft’s door. Just before her knuckles brushed the wood, the door swung open. The jinni Raif had pointed out at Habibi—his sister—stood in the doorway, a huge grin on her face.
“I told him you’d come.” She turned around and called over her shoulder, “You owe me fifty nibas, little brother.”
A ping sounded as the elevator reached the top floor. Zanari looked past Nalia, then motioned her inside.
“I don’t like that thing, either,” she whispered conspiratorially.
Nalia smiled, despite herself. She’d come here in a rage, ready to flay Raif, but Zanari had already reduced her anger to a low simmer. “I’m—”
“Nalia—I know.” She pointed to herself. “Zanari. Ghar lahim.” Nice to meet you.
“You, as well.”
Nalia glanced around the loft. It had Habibi’s glassy orbs of light that hung in midair and the club’s effortless elegance—no surprise, since Jordif was the owner. The first thing that drew her eye was the ornate altar that had been set up to honor the gods: an eternal flame burned for Ravnir, and a tiny, continuous downpour fell from the ceiling for Lathor, though the surface of the altar remained dry. For Tirgan, a bonsai tree circled slowly, suspended in midair, and for Grathali, the wind goddess, an invisible gust of wind fashioned a handful of diamond dust into glimmering, ever-shifting patterns.
All jinn had altars for their gods, but it was rare to see a jinni who honored all four. Nalia hadn’t expected Jordif to be so devout. From what she’d seen of him, he’d always seemed more interested in the potent concoctions Leilan made for him at Habibi’s bar than in paying homage to the gods. Of course, a jinni would be a fool not to show devotion to at least the god of his element: jinn who rejected the gods rejected their chiaan as well, for it was the gods who invested each element with its power. Nalia bowed before all four altars, her palms pressed together at her heart. She needed their help now more than ever.
To her left was a wall entirely composed of water—a freestanding sheet that made the sound of an ocean’s tide as it fell to the floor and back up to the ceiling. Jordif, she remembered, was a Marid. It was beautiful water magic, both soothing and powerful. She placed her hand in the water and let its energy flow into her. If she wanted, she could wield it into a sword or disappear inside it.
But that would just be showing off.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Zanari.
Nalia shook the water off her hand. “Yes, it is.”
“Changed your mind?” Raif was sitting on a couch, his arms folded across his bare chest. His feet were propped up on a coffee table, the picture of relaxation. If it hadn’t been for the muscle twitching in his jaw, Nalia would almost have believed his nonchalance.
She took in his smug expression; she couldn’t help the faint tendrils of golden chiaan that leaked from her fingertips, the only outward sign of her anger.
“Possibly,” she said.
“Raif, stop being a bully.” Zanari turned to Nalia. “Please excuse my brother’s extrem
e rudeness.” She shot a dark look at Raif as she said the last two words. “He gets a little ornery when he’s tired.”
Nalia glanced at him, then shrugged, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Well, if it’s a bad time . . .”
She started to walk away, but Raif shot up. “No!” he said, a little too loudly.
Nalia smirked. “I didn’t think so.”
Zanari gestured to a chair near the couch. “Tea?”
Nalia nodded. “Please.”
Zanari left the room and Nalia sat down in the chair, careful to keep her eyes from Raif’s chest. It wasn’t the bareness that was so distracting—his flesh was covered in scars and burn marks, reminders of an entire childhood lived under the whip of Shaitan overlords and on the front lines of a civil war. She didn’t want to care.
Raif sat back down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You’ll do it?” he asked.
Nalia slipped off her sandals and drew her legs to her chest. “First, I want to know how you even found out that we’re protecting the sigil.”
Not “we,” she thought, belatedly. There’s no “we” anymore—I’m the only one left. It was little moments like this that left her raw all over again.
“I’m not really interested in putting my sources in danger,” Raif said.
Nalia glared at him. “Well, I’m not really interested in giving you the most powerful magical object that exists and endangering the lives of every jinn in the realm—including my own. Or, for that matter, breaking a sacred vow. But here we are.”
Raif looked behind her, toward a closed doorway, then stood. “I don’t want to talk about this here.” He walked to the arch Zanari had gone through and leaned inside. After a whispered conversation, Raif turned to Nalia.