Nalia didn’t know how long she hovered between the world of the living and the land of the dead. Sometimes she heard voices above and around her, felt the warmth of a body pressed against hers. Heard her name repeated over and over, like a chant to the gods. But there, at the in-between, she wandered, restless and uncertain. Drawn to the mercy of obliteration but pulled back into the hurt by that voice and those arms that wouldn’t let her go.
Waking up was like finding water after walking across the desert. Finding it, but not being able to drink. One minute, she was in the mist, the next, she was burning, her body consumed by flames.
“Give her more.” A voice—male. She knew him, she was certain of it.
“I’m not sure if it will help.” A female voice that Nalia didn’t recognize. “Her body is rejecting the herbs—”
“Give. Her. More.”
Nalia felt something cool against the burning and then someone was prying open her mouth, forcing a bitter tonic that tasted like death down her throat. She gagged, but when she thrashed, strong hands held her down. When it was over, the hands released her.
“That’s all I can do for her,” said the female voice. “It is up to the gods now.”
There was the sound of a door closing.
“You should get some sleep,” said another female voice, gentle and weary. Nalia couldn’t remember who it belonged to, but she liked her, she was certain of it.
“No.”
“All right, little brother. Wake me if you need help,” said the girl.
There was some murmuring, then the sound of a door closing again. She felt a hand close over her own.
Raif.
She recognized him in the warmth of his chiaan, the way it supplied the missing piece of her. She squeezed his hand, hoped it would keep her out of the mist and the darkness.
There was a sharp intake of breath and then she felt his grip tighten. “Welcome back,” he whispered.
She felt something flutter against her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. Warm and soft. She leaned into the touch, then fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.
Sunlight streamed through Nalia’s window and stole over her bed, like a lover trying not to wake his beloved. She opened her eyes, squinting at the brightness. For one blissful moment, she felt nothing but its warmth. She took in the room and she was surprised, and not surprised, to be back in Malek’s mansion. The bedroom hadn’t suffered too badly from the earthquake, though the paintings had fallen to the floor, and her altar to the gods was nothing more than a mess of sand. New glass bottles sat on her bedside table, nearly empty of their liquids, beside a stack of white bandages. She could still smell smoke and the charred remains of the neighborhood, though the window was closed.
Then there was pain.
Nalia gritted her teeth and looked down at the source. She couldn’t see the extent of the damage from her fight with Haran because a mountain of blankets covered her body, but everything below her neck throbbed and when she tried to move, a searing pain shot through her, as though her stomach were ripping apart. Nalia closed her eyes and rode out the wave of agony. When it was only a soft, ever-flowing current, she opened her eyes again. She didn’t want to return to the darkness she’d fought so hard to escape.
Nalia looked at her hands, small and pale, with dried blood under the fingernails.
Not my blood, she thought. Haran’s.
She stared at the Ghan Aisouri tattoos that swirled over her fingers. Her hands clenched at the memory of the ghoul’s body on top of hers, those excruciating, magicless moments. The feel of the knife cutting into his heart. The seawater, drowning them both.
Nalia’s eyes blurred and spilled over, two overflowing violet pools. There was no joy in this victory, no peace. Leilan was dead, Calar would soon be sending more assassins after Nalia—if she hadn’t already. And Malek still had her bottle.
Malek.
A jolt of panic surged through her, but when she tried to sit up, all she felt was that lacerating pain in her stomach and along her left side. The bullet wound. Haran’s poisoned fire. The clock on her bed said it was early afternoon. How long did a flight to Beirut last? Malek had left at six thirty the night before—he was most certainly there now. Which meant she had missed his call. He’d be furious.
She had to get out of bed, had to call Malek before it got any later or he tried to summon her. In her condition, she might not survive the summons turning her body into scraps of atoms that flew across the earth.
She heard a small sigh and then a soft puff of breath blew across her cheek. Nalia turned her head: Raif lay beside her, sleeping, his body curled toward her. She took in the dark circles under his eyes, the cuts from the vashtu that covered his arms and hands. He smelled like the ocean and blood and the journey she’d taken into that other, shadowy realm. She knew now that she’d traveled through death in his arms, so familiar was the scent of him. Seeing Raif there, a vague memory surfaced of his voice leading her away from the mists and ghosts that had filled the past several hours.
As if he could sense Nalia watching him, Raif opened his eyes. They’d been the last thing she saw before the nothingness.
So green.
A smile spread across his face.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hey.” He reached out his hand and tucked Nalia’s hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek as he gently wiped away her tears.
“You stayed here all night.” It wasn’t a question. Every fiber of her being remembered his presence calling her home.
“It was the least I could do, after you killed the most evil jinni that ever existed.”
“I did, didn’t I?” She smiled. “I might have had a little help, though.”
Raif shook his head. “Not really. Haran was dead the minute he landed on the beach.” His eyes roamed over her face, as though he were memorizing her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I could feel you. Even though I was so far away, you brought me back.”
Raif scooted closer, as though by touching her he could somehow make those hours between life and death cease to exist. Nalia turned slightly toward him, but just that simple movement caused her stomach to explode in pain, where Haran’s bullet had entered just a few hours ago. She gasped, clutching at the blankets until the pain dimmed. She pulled them back and saw a pristine bandage covering her stomach. There wasn’t any blood soaking through, though it had felt like she’d torn open the wound. Then she noticed that the only thing she wore was a bra and a pair of underwear. Her face warmed and she hurriedly put the blankets down.
“The healer gave us some medicine,” Raif said, looking away, his face just as red. “She said the wounds look healed, but inside you’re still torn up.”
He got out of the bed and crossed to the table full of medicine. “I have to remember which one is—”
Somewhere outside her bedroom, Nalia heard a phone ring.
“Zanari’s here,” Raif said, with a nod toward the door. “She brought the healer—you were unconscious by then, but she knew this was your room. You know, with all her . . .” He made a whirling motion around his head to indicate Zanari’s psychic abilities. Nalia remembered that Zanari had seen her bedroom in one of her visions; Malek sitting on her bed, kissing her cheek.
She was about to ask one of the dozen questions waiting on her lips when the bedroom door flew open and Zanari held a ringing phone out to Nalia.
“It’s Malek. I know you need your rest, but this is the tenth time this phone has rung.”
Nalia stared at her cell phone. Zanari must have found it in the pocket of her jeans—how it had survived her fight with Haran, she’d never know. Technology was human magic she couldn’t begin to understand.
She’d have to pretend that she hadn’t almost died or killed a ghoul or shared her bed with the leader of the Arjinnan revolution. She took the phone and answered it.
“Malek?”
“Hayati,” he breathed—shocked. Relieved.
r /> Then he started yelling at her in rapid-fire Arabic.
Nalia pulled the phone back from her ear. Raif tensed beside her, but she put a hand on his arm.
“I’ve been trying to call you for hours. Where the hell have you been?” Malek was shouting.
“I—”
“Are you hurt, bleeding, where are you—”
“Malek. I’m fine. Stop yelling. Gods.”
“Stop yelling? Stop yelling?” Now he was back to English. “I called Delson from the plane a few hours after we took off. Couldn’t find my phone anywhere. He said everyone had been evacuated because of the fire, but that you were protecting the house. Then he told me there’d also been a goddam earthquake, then a tidal wave in Malibu and that he’d tried to call you, but hadn’t been able to get through. The police wouldn’t let him or anyone else up the hill, but they sent an ambulance and you weren’t there. I tried to summon you and when nothing happened—”
Nalia gripped Raif’s arm. “You tried to summon me? When?”
Raif stared. What? he mouthed, eyes wide.
She heard the faint clink of ice cubes going into a glass on Malek’s end and wondered how many drinks he’d had since his phone call with Delson. “Right after Delson told me about the fire. It would have been the middle of the night for you.”
Nalia knew she’d been on the razor’s edge, that somehow the choice to live or die had been her own. Malek hadn’t been able to summon her because she’d gone beyond his reach. Maybe, she thought, that is the only way to be free of him. But she couldn’t bear the thought of returning to that dark landscape full of ghosts. She remembered Bashil, how he’d been more transparent than the others. Maybe her brother wasn’t dead after all. Maybe he was still deciding. The thought wasn’t much comfort.
Malek took a breath and even through the terrible phone connection she could hear how hard it was for him to control his emotion. His cleared his throat before he spoke again.
“I thought you were dead,” he said, more quietly, “under a pile of rubble, burned to a— Goddammit, Nalia, I’ve been losing my mind over here.”
She felt a tug in her stomach and gasped. Raif pulled her to him, as though he could somehow hold her in that room.
“Malek, no,” she said. “I’m hurt, you can’t—”
Immediately, she felt his summons stop. The room went in and out of focus and she leaned her head against Raif’s chest as the pain swelled.
“How hurt?” She heard the panic in Malek’s voice, the fear.
She didn’t answer—how could she explain?
“Nalia. How hurt?”
“I got trapped under something heavy after the earthquake. I’ll be all right. It just took me a while to . . . get free.”
Not even a lie—her body remembered the weight of Haran, crushing her under the waves. Beads of sweat broke out over her body and she trembled. Raif motioned for Zanari and she hurried over and poured the contents of one of the bottles into a small glass.
Malek was saying something, but she couldn’t concentrate. Raif propped up some pillows and she took the glass, downing the vile liquid in one swig. She choked and held the phone away.
“Just tell him you have to go,” Raif whispered.
Malek’s voice shouted through the phone. “Nalia, what’s happening? Are you—”
“It’s okay,” she said, putting the phone back to her ear. “I just had to take some medicine, that’s all.”
“I’ll have Delson send for help—”
“Malek, I’m a jinni, remember? A healer already came, I’ll be fine. I’m just too weak to evanesce right now, is all.”
“I’m coming home,” he said. She could hear him begin moving around the hotel room, zippers opening, wardrobe doors slamming.
“Didn’t you just get there?”
“I’ll videoconference the rest of my meetings,” he said. “I had the important one already. The rest of it can wait. I need to see you.”
She felt Raif’s fury before she saw the look on his face. She couldn’t have this conversation with Raif sitting beside her. She had to be a different person with her master, and it shamed Nalia to have Raif see her play that part.
“Can you hold on a minute? I—just got out of the shower.”
“All right.”
Nalia covered the phone with the palm of her hand and motioned for Raif and Zanari to leave.
Why? Raif mouthed. He stared at the phone, one fist curling as though he were considering hitting it.
Nalia looked to Zanari, her eyes wide with exasperation. The other girl understood, and she grabbed Raif’s arm and dragged him from the room, softly shutting the door behind her.
“Okay,” she said into the phone. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
“Sometime tomorrow evening. How’s the house?”
“Fine,” she lied.
“All right. Just stay in bed. The fire department said Delson could return after six o’clock.”
Nalia looked at the clock beside her bed. It was already noon. Zanari and Raif would have to repair the damage her earthquake had caused; she was still far too weak. She had to get the bottle as soon as possible, and if the house was in shambles, Malek would be too distracted for her sweet words and poisoned wine.
“I . . . I miss you,” she said.
There was a long pause, heavy with unspoken words. Nalia felt uneasy, as though Malek could somehow see the lie on her face all the way from Beirut.
“Do you?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m glad.” She could hear the longing in his voice. “I’ll see you soon, hayati.”
The connection died and she lay back down on the pillow, closing her eyes. The pain clawed at her insides, a trapped prisoner, and she looked longingly at the mysterious medicines beside her bed.
There was a soft tap on the door, and Zanari poked her head through. “All clear?”
Nalia nodded.
Zanari came in and shut the door behind her. “We need to talk, sister.”
28
ZANARI CROSSED THE ROOM AND STOOD OVER NALIA’S bed.
“I sent my brother away so you could take a bath. Think you’re up for it?”
Dirt and blood caked her body, and the sheets smelled of sweat and sickness. “Absolutely.” Nalia pointed to the bottles on her bedside table. “But I need a serious dose of that stuff first.”
“We’ll do the tonics and then I’ll help you rewrap the wounds after your bath,” Zanari said. She handed Nalia a bundle wrapped in cloth.
“I thought you might want this.”
Nalia pulled back the cloth; it was her dagger, the hilt and blade dark with Haran’s dried blood. She looked at it for a long moment.
“It’s the only thing that’s mine,” she whispered.
Zanari picked up a bottle and read the small handwritten label pasted to its front. “What do you mean?”
“I brought it with me from Arjinna. Everything else—everyone else—is gone.” She hugged the blade to her chest. “I would have died without it. Thank you.”
“Well, it was no fun taking it out of a ghoul’s heart, but I had a feeling you’d miss it.” Zanari handed her a bottle. “Plug your nose and just knock it back, sister.”
Nalia drank from the bottles Zanari handed her, each one more disgusting than the last. When she was finished, Zanari helped her up.
“Let me do whatever you need, okay?”
Nalia frowned at her own helplessness but let Zanari guide her to the door that led to her private bathroom.
Zanari lifted her hand, and steaming water began to pour from the faucet.
Nalia leaned against the doorway, already spent. “Fire and blood,” she muttered. “I’m wrecked.”
“Being almost-murdered by a psychotic cannibal will do that to you,” Zanari said.
Nalia gripped Zanari’s arm. “Listen,” she said. “You two need to get to the cave. Now. Haran may be dead, but Calar will send more ass
assins after me, you know that. Raif has the map and my blood, and I don’t care what he says, you don’t have time to wait—”
“Nalia. My brother just risked his life so that he could save yours. Do you really think he’s going anywhere near that cave without you?”
“But—”
Zanari’s eyes flashed. “Raif has made up his mind and, trust me, neither of us are going to change it. I’ve been keeping an eye on the portal and, so far, I don’t think the Ifrit know Haran is dead. We have some time. So just . . . drop it.”
Nalia sighed. She’d try to win the argument later, when her body didn’t feel like it had been through a war.
“Let’s get you into the bath,” Zanari said.
Nalia allowed the other girl to help her take off what little clothing she had and the bandage that covered the wound that ran diagonally from her hip to her belly button. Because of the healer’s magic, it was already beginning to close up. Though the healer could have made Nalia’s skin smooth, it would have been a dishonor. The jinn believed in keeping one’s scars, so that your body could tell the story of your life. She gently ran her fingers along the raw, red mark. This, she thought, will be quite a story. Haran’s burns, however, had not left a mark, though the skin felt tender.
“The healer used herb poultices that drew out the dark magic in the burns. She said that by the end of today, the pain should be gone.”
“Who healed me?”
“The Shaitan from Habibi who Raif got the sleeping powder from.” Zanari hesitated.
“What?”
“She saw your tattoos, felt your chiaan when she was fixing you up. You never opened your eyes, but she knew you were a Ghan Aisouri.”
Nalia swallowed. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. Calar’s going to send more of her soldiers here, anyway. We just have to hope I can get my bottle back before they arrive. Did the healer . . . say anything?”