The fierce Santa Ana winds had blown the smoke across the sky, covering the entire city with an ominous black cloud. At first, Nalia didn’t think much of the tainted air. Every year, Los Angeles burned. The fires started for different reasons—drought, a cigarette thrown into a bush, the hazards of a desert climate. They were at their worst when the Santa Anas blew through LA’s concrete jungle, but this was unlike anything she’d ever seen. The flames were moving at an incredible speed and, as she looked closer, Nalia noticed something she hadn’t before: they were in the shape of giant writhing cobras that devoured the earth, cutting into it with poisonous teeth.
Haran had arrived; she closed the window against the encroaching blaze, a deranged calling card left just for her.
Nalia stood in the middle of her room, caught between her desire to comb the streets of LA for Haran and wheedle the bottle off Malek’s body. But she knew there wasn’t really a choice. With her shackles muting her power, a fight with Haran could easily end up with her dead. Nalia had to get that bottle. She looked at the wine Zanari had given her. All she needed were two glasses and a moment to slip the powder into one of them.
Her phone buzzed.
“Yes?”
“Nalia, it’s Zanari.”
“The fires—”
“I know. He’s in the city. I’m not sure where exactly.”
“What did you see?”
“I didn’t see him, but I saw a female jinni setting fire to a mountainside, which makes no sense—maybe he has an accomplice? I sensed him near, though, so she must have been doing it under his orders. I’m guessing he wants you to know he’s arrived,” Zanari said.
“I figured as much. But that’s so stupid. I could just run away.”
“Yes, but it’s Haran. In Arjinna, he always toyed with his victims. Never a quick death. Not,” Zanari rushed to say, “that he’s going to kill you. Or do it slowly. Um. It’s just that I’ve seen what he does.”
“Thanks, Zanari, that’s really helpful,” Nalia snapped.
“Maybe he hasn’t figured out where you live yet.” Zanari’s voice was hopeful. “He means to smoke you out—maybe literally. He might think you’ll go to him so that he doesn’t burn the whole city down.”
“Dammit,” Nalia muttered. The last thing she needed to deal with was an Ifrit pyromaniac. She wondered if Calar was sitting on the throne in Arjinna, waiting with bated breath for Arjinna’s true leader to go up in flames.
“What else did you see?” she asked.
“Those things that humans use as wagons—”
“Cars?”
“Yes.”
Great, she thought, that certainly narrows it down in Los Angeles.
“I smelled sea air, too.”
“Gods, Zanari, you can’t get any more specific?” Nalia growled. “There are hundreds of miles of coastline in California! That’s like saying you can smell a tree in the Forest of Sighs.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Sorry. It’s just—”
“If you have a better way of finding Haran, I’m more than happy to hear it,” Zanari said.
Nalia sighed. “Of course I don’t. I said I was sorry, all right?”
“Fine. As I was about to say, in my last vision, he was walking on a white road with yellow lines. It seemed like he was in a crowd.”
“White road with yellow lines? Not black?”
“No, white.”
A sidewalk? Nalia tried to think of where Haran could be. There were plenty of outdoor places filled with crowds—the Hollywood & Highland mall, the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, the farmer’s market near The Grove. A white road could be a sidewalk, okay, but yellow lines?
“A bike path!” she shouted.
“A what?”
“On this white road, did you see, um, humans riding small machines, like metal horses? They have two wheels . . .”
Zanari was quiet for a moment. “No. But I saw a human with shoes that had wheels.”
It was common to see people roller-skating on the bike paths, too.
“He’s at one of the beaches,” Nalia said. “That has to be it. There’s a bike path along the coast that starts in the Palisades, but it’s twenty-two miles long—gods, where is he?”
“Raif says to stay at Malek’s. You’ve got the bisahm and it doesn’t seem like Haran knows where you live yet. Or, if he does, he’s hoping to get you away from the house. Don’t fall into his trap, Nalia, he doesn’t play nice.”
“Don’t I know it.”
It annoyed Nalia that Raif was ordering her around through his sister, but he had a point: it’d be foolish to be out in the city, exposed. Haran could be anywhere.
Nalia looked at the antique clock beside her bed. “I’m going to start working on Malek. I’ll call you as soon as I get the bottle.”
“Jahal’alund,” Zanari said.
It wasn’t just the usual pleasantry. Nalia could sense that Zanari truly meant it: gods be with you.
“Jahal’alund,” she replied.
As soon as she hung up, Nalia fell to her knees before the altar in her room. It was nothing like Jordif’s grand affair—just a candle, a neat pile of sand, a small bottle filled with sea air, and a shallow bowl of water. She bowed low, her forehead pressed to the floor, whispering her prayers. She didn’t want to play the part of the lovesick girl tonight. More than ever, she wanted to make Malek hurt. Make him pay for thinking he could own her for a billion pieces of paper with pictures of dead Americans on them. These past few days, she’d almost believed that he had come to care for her. She hadn’t realized she was starving for kindness and affection and the feel of someone else’s skin on her own until Malek started giving her these things. It had awakened a hunger in her that Nalia hadn’t realized she’d had.
But how could she have let herself think he was more than the monster her very core had always known him to be? Malek didn’t love her, she knew that now—if he held even a sliver of real feeling for her, he would have set her free. And if he was worth one ounce of her affection, he never would have bought her in the first place. His recent attention had begun to lower the wall she had built between them, brick by brick. But knowing the price he had paid made the wall even higher than before. Stronger. As disgusted as she was by what needed to happen tonight, she tried to hold on to that wall. She would think of it every time his lips landed on hers, every time his hands traveled over her body.
Nalia was just about to change into something Malek would like—something alluring and irresistible—when she noticed the roses on her bed. Tucked inside the red blossoms was a thick, cream-colored card. Nalia opened it and after she read the message Malek had written in his elegant script, the expensive paper fell to the floor.
Hayati—
I have to go away on business for a few days. Delson will take care of anything you need. I’m sorry to miss our dinner—I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get home. I’ll call you after my plane lands.
M.
Nalia flew down the stairs. “Delson!” she shouted. “Delson!”
A few days, she thought. I’ll be dead by the time he returns. A paralyzing terror swept through her, threatening to pull her under its leaden current.
“Delson!” Her voice was a frenzied shriek. It reverberated off the marble walls and floors of the main room, the clang of a warning bell, furiously ringing.
Malek’s assistant came hurrying through the dining room’s double doors, an alarmed expression on his usually composed face.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” he wheezed. “Is it the fires?”
“When did Malek leave?”
“Forty-five minutes ago.”
“Is he on his jet?”
If he wasn’t in the air yet, Nalia would be able to evanesce to him, since she’d been inside Malek’s private jet several times. It was risky, with Haran in the city, but it would be the fastest way to get to her master.
“No. The plane is being repaired, so he rented another
jet.”
Nalia gripped the banister, her nails digging into the polished wood. “He’s at the airport still?”
Delson nodded. “Yes. But he’ll be leaving for Beirut quite soon.”
“What time is he scheduled to leave?”
“In half an hour.”
It was six o’clock—normally, rush hour would be in full swing, but it was a Saturday. She just might be able to make it.
“Call Malek and tell him to wait.”
“Oh, dear. I was afraid something like this would happen.” Delson slipped a hand into his pocket and held up Malek’s cell phone. “It was sitting on the dining-room table.”
Nalia stared. “Are you saying there’s no way to get in touch with him?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Fire and blood!”
Delson jumped back as Nalia pushed past him, toward the garage.
“Miss Nalia, the fires!” Delson called. “What am I to do if—”
She waved him away. “That’s what the fire department’s for.”
She had to get to the airport, and she couldn’t evanesce because she had no idea where Malek was. The airport was huge—she could spend hours looking for him. Evanescing without a specific place in mind was too great a risk: she was more likely to evanesce in front of a plane full of passengers than in a deserted corner. Making humans aware that jinn existed could put all the expatriate jinn in the city—in the world—at risk. Besides, she didn’t know what kind of dark magic Haran had at his disposal. For all she knew, he could capture her midflight. The magic of dreams was unknown territory for her. If he’d only seen her, she could have evaded him as long as necessary. But he’d marked her, cutting into her skin with his sharp nails until she bled. She wasn’t sure if her dream the night before had provided Haran with enough information to track her exact location, but there was really only one way to find out.
If Malek’s plane left before she intercepted him, her only choice was to hide like a cockroach until her master returned, unless Nalia could convince Malek to summon her once he’d landed. But again, she’d risk Haran picking up the trail of her chiaan. Like a hunting dog with a scent, Haran could find Nalia before she had a chance to steal her bottle. She longed to fight him, but she was hoping to do it after her shackles had fallen off.
Nalia ran into the garage and placed her hand on Malek’s Aston Martin, willing it to life. The engine roared; she jumped in and peeled out of the garage and down the drive, then swerved onto Mulholland. She raced down the hill, nearly killing herself as she passed too-slow cars. Sunset Boulevard was packed, as usual, and she maneuvered through the traffic and onto the freeway. It seemed mercifully clear until suddenly a wall of red taillights rose before her.
“No!” she screamed.
Nalia slammed on the brakes. All around her, cars stopped until the freeway was one long, stagnant river of brake lights. Traffic was at a complete standstill. Her body shaking, Nalia turned on the radio, flipping through the stations until she came to one where there was no music, only talking.
“Firefighters are still trying to control the blazes that have been raging through Malibu Canyon and the Pacific Palisades since early this afternoon. There are reports that the fire has now spread to the Hollywood Hills,” said a male voice. “Authorities think it could be arson, but it’s still too early to tell. The governor has declared a state of emergency, and mandatory evacuations have begun. We’ll continue to follow the story as it develops, but now, to Shelly Grant with the traffic report.” There was a musical chime and a cool female voice spelled out Nalia’s fate: “There’s a SIG alert on the 101 and the 110, with heavy traffic from downtown LA to Long Beach. Expect long delays. A three-car pile-up has traffic stalled. It may be up to an hour before traffic flow resumes its normal—”
Malek’s plane was leaving at six thirty. It was now six twenty. Even if she evanesced, she’d never be able to find him in time. Nalia hugged the steering wheel and screamed as loudly as she could. Her failure was so epically, utterly complete. The scream turned into a sob that came from deep inside, painful bursts of agony that gutted her. Soundless at first, then raw and choking, the ancient tears spilled down her cheeks, a cascade of suspended grief.
Voices. Car doors slamming. The sounds of Earth cut into Nalia’s lament. She raised her head from the steering wheel and stared out the windshield with dazed, blurred eyes. Drivers all around her were getting out of their cars and staring forlornly at the blocked freeway. In all the traffic jams she’d been in, this had never happened before. The sky had turned the color of dried blood, an apocalyptic twilight, and the scent of the fires ravaging the city was overwhelming. It sneaked through the Aston Martin’s vents, erasing the scent of Malek’s cologne that had filled the car. Nalia wiped her eyes. She had to focus. She knew Haran wouldn’t hesitate to hurt any innocent humans who happened across his path. Every moment she sat in this car, another human’s life or home was lost to Haran’s endless malice.
He means to smoke you out, Zanari had said.
Malek was gone and, with him, her immediate chance of getting the bottle. The gods had made it clear: she would face her enemy, bound in the shackles his violence had led her to. If she died, so did her brother. So did the resistance: Raif, Zanari, all of them. But there was another way to save them. She’d just been hoping things wouldn’t have come to that.
Nalia closed her eyes and pictured a small, clear bottle. It appeared in her hand and she set it on the dashboard while she pull her jade knife out of her boot. She whispered the words to take the paralyzing spell off the blade, then, before she could change her mind, she slid the knife across her wrist and held it above the open bottle, ignoring the throb of pain. Her blood, hot and thick and infused with her magic, poured inside. When it was full, she drew her fingers across the cut to close the wound, then sealed the bottle. There was more at stake—much more—than her freedom or her life.
She picked up her phone to call Raif, but just as she was about to dial, the phone began to ring: Delson.
“Did you get ahold of him?” she asked, before Delson could say a word.
“Miss Nalia! Oh, thank God.” Delson’s voice was faint, but she could detect the panic in it. “No, Mr. Malek has not called—I’m sure he’s well on his way to Beirut now, but there’s a more pressing concern. The fire department’s here and they’re making the servants and me evacuate. Security, as well. You must come back at once. The fire is only a few houses away. If anything happens to the property, Mr. Malek will—”
“I’m on my way. Just go ahead and do what the fire department is telling you. I’ll take care of the house.”
It was better this way. Not only would there be no witnesses to the storm she was about to produce, but the evacuation had the additional advantage of keeping Delson and the servants out of harm’s way once Haran broke through the bisahm.
“Please be safe, Miss Nalia. If anything happened to you, Mr. Malek would—”
“I know, Delson. Now get out of there.”
She hung up and put the bottle of blood in her pocket, then patted the dashboard of the Aston Martin. Who knew what would happen to it sitting abandoned on the freeway?
Before evanescing, she dialed Raif’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “You have it?”
Nalia’s world was on the verge of collapse but it was Raif, not Haran or Malek, that threatened to tip everything over. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
“Nalia?”
“Yes, I’m here. Sorry. I don’t have the bottle—it’s a long story. Listen, I need you to meet me at Malek’s. There’s a glass house in the back of the property with flowers inside. Can you be there in thirty minutes?”
“What happened?”
“I want to change the terms of our agreement.”
VENICE BEACH, CALIFORNIA
THE GHOUL WATCHES THE MARID JINNI. HE’S WAITING FOR her to leave the crowded path full of wishmakers so that they can be alone.
The Marid stands with her back to the boardwalk, her bright blue eyes lingering on the first stars. The ghoul has been waiting for her since the sun stained the beach’s sand red. It was a beautiful sight, as though an invisible battle had been fought there and all that remained was the blood of the slain. It reminded the ghoul of a recent skirmish with Marid resisters. He and his Ifrit soldiers had turned the sand red then, too.
Good eating, that.
To the left of the ghoul, kites whip through the air, their neon colors like exotic birds dipping and whirling through the slowly darkening sky. The evening has turned cool and he watches the Marid shiver—she is not wearing enough clothing. Her turquoise blouse is too thin for the chilly Pacific nights, and the goose bumps on her skin make his mouth water. The wind grows stronger, smelling of burning and death and the tang of the sea. The ghoul takes a deep breath and smiles. He has been busy this day. Calar will be pleased.
The Marid unfolds the paisley silk scarf the Aisouri had given her earlier that day and ties it over her red hair, looking every bit the jinn peasant. Her fingers brush the soft fabric and the ghoul wonders what they taste like. Peaches? Steak? So many possibilities.
It had been hard to watch the Aisouri with this Marid. Hard not to run at her and swallow her up, then and there. But after such a long journey, the ghoul wanted to enjoy his royal prey. His little mouse. He’d eat slowly. Make it hurt. Keep her fresh until the very end.
It was important to savor such a rich meal, not gobble it down like a snack. It would be his last chance at a royal banquet.
The sun finally sinks below the horizon and the boardwalk’s crowd thins. There will be humans traipsing up and down it for several more hours, but the Marid appears to hurry as she packs up her stand, as if she has some pressing engagement. The ghoul, of course, knows otherwise. This jinni will be going nowhere else tonight. The Marid stacks her paintings. The ghoul’s stomach growls and he grows impatient, his claws itching for that fine swath of skin.
Once the paintings are secure, the Marid places them on a rolling cart and, with a wave to the artists on either side of her, walks through the crowd and onto a side street. The ghoul follows, slowly. He is a hunter, stalking his prey. No need to hurry.