Blood Passage

  “Noqril, show our guests some basic courtesy, please,” Samar said.

  The jinni reappeared a breath away from Zanari, closer than before. Not only was he invisible, but the braided strip of orange hair swinging over his shoulder marked him as a fawzel. A formidable opponent, that one.

  That didn’t keep Zanari from shoving him away from her. “You’re not my type.”

  Noqril raised his eyebrows, leering. “We’ll see.”

  Raif laughed. “Good luck with that, brother.”

  As they walked through the improvised village, the Dhoma stopped what they were doing to watch the new arrivals. Their clothing was strange, Moroccan Berber with a jinn twist. The men wore embroidered kaftans over loose linen pants. The women wore thick leggings or wide cotton pants under layers of shawls and tight-fitting tunics covered with thick strands of amber necklaces. From what he could see of their hands in the lamplight, they were covered in henna, much like Nalia’s Ghan Aisouri tattoos. Most of the males and females wore turbans or loose head scarves, the ends of which they moved over their faces when Raif and Zanari passed.

  “What, do they think we’re Ifrit spies or something?” Zanari asked.

  “I think they’re just really private,” he said.

  Samar stopped before a large tent in the center of the village, and the jinni standing guard reached over and pulled open the flap. Raif and Zanari followed Samar inside. Thick rugs covered the sandy floor. Samar slipped off his leather slippers and motioned for Raif and Zanari to do the same before venturing further into the tent.

  “This is our council room,” he said. “The representatives of the Dhoma will be joining us shortly. They will have many questions for you and I suggest you answer them honestly. If not, I promise it won’t go well for you or your sister.”

  Raif nodded. “You’ve made that clear.”

  Raif and Zanari sat on two of the thick cushions scattered around a low wooden table. A chandelier hung above it with dozens of candles that shivered in the wintry breeze that blew through the open flap.

  Raif raised his wrists. “I don’t suppose you could take them off of us?”

  Already the iron from the rope was entering his system, weakening his chiaan and making his head throb. The nausea would set in soon.

  “I will, as a courtesy,” Samar said. “For now. You should know that this tent is spelled so that no one can evanesce into or out of it. I wouldn’t recommend attempting an escape.”

  He nodded to another Dhoma guard who stood just inside the tent flap. The jinni sheathed his scimitar and crossed to where Raif and Zanari sat. His hands hovered over the ropes and after a moment they began to unravel.

  Raif let out a sigh and rubbed his wrists as the rope fell to the table. His skin was bright red, as though he’d been branded.

  “You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome,” his sister said, as she inspected her own wrists.

  The guard ignored her as he made his way back to his post and Samar left the tent without a word.

  Zanari stretched her arms above her head and moved her neck in a slow circle. “Fire and blood, I’m sore. What in all hells was that sand army?”

  “I have no idea,” Raif said, “but I’m really not looking forward to dealing with them again. I’m guessing the Sakhim are Solomon’s security system.”

  Worry gnawed at him. He hated what Nalia had done, but he knew it’d be nearly impossible for her to fight that army on her own. Malek would be of no help. Raif didn’t want to see or speak to her again—but he didn’t want her to die, either.

  He turned to his sister. “Where’s Nalia now? If we can give the Dhoma an idea of how close she and Malek are, they might be more willing to listen.”

  Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “This has nothing to do with a broken heart, does it? Because the sooner you forget about her—”

  “Zan. Malek stands a good chance of getting that sigil. We need to know what kind of progress he’s making.”

  “All right, all right, give me a minute. That iron rope really did a number on my chiaan. I don’t think I’ll get much, but we’ll see.”

  Zanari closed her eyes and her breath turned shallow. She leaned forward, as though she were trying to see something better, something far beyond the room they sat in. It was several moments before she spoke.

  “Cold. Really, really cold.” Zanari gripped the edge of the table. “She’s in the desert. I see . . . sand . . . it smells like . . . cloves. Malek’s smoking.”

  So they got out of Marrakech. He wondered where Malek had disappeared to and how Nalia had found him.

  “Nalia’s lying on the sand. Malek’s trying to wake her up but she won’t, she can’t . . . something’s wrong, he’s upset . . . He’s shaking her, but she’s . . .”

  Zanari opened her eyes. “I can’t get any more. I’m sorry.” She swayed a little and Raif put an arm over her shoulders.

  It was just like last week, when Raif was certain he was going to leave Nalia, but then Zanari had a vision of Haran in Nalia’s house. That night, standing on Jordif’s roof in LA, Raif was evanescing before he was even conscious of leaving. I choose her. Every time.

  But not this time. He couldn’t. And it was killing him. She’d murdered his best friend, but the thought of her lying in the middle of the Sahara, sick, with no one but a slave master to watch over her . . .

  Zanari waved her hand over the table in front of them and a bottle of wine and two earthen mugs appeared. She poured Raif a glass and pushed it into his hand.

  “Drink up,” she said. “You look like hell.”

  He was so transparent. Gods, was it that obvious, how completely Nalia affected him? He sighed. “How sick is she?”

  Zanari downed her glass and poured another. “I couldn’t tell. It was strange. I could sense Malek—even though he’s a pardjinn, his chiaan is strong enough. But I only felt him—not her. If I hadn’t seen her, I would have thought Malek was alone.”

  “How is that possible? If anything, Nalia has more chiaan than she can handle.”

  Her skin under his. Just let go. Nalia’s hands gripping his hair. The taste of her. Golden chiaan drenching his body.

  “Fire and blood,” he growled.

  Zanari jumped. “What?”

  He waved his hand, swatting at the air. “Nothing.”

  There was the sound of raised voices outside the tent, then Samar ducked through the flap. The room quickly filled as ten Dhoma took their places around the table, Samar among them. Behind them, Raif recognized the shape shifters, four women and two men. There was something different about them, a hawklike intensity to their gaze, their shoulders thrust back as though some part of them was still in flight. Each of them had a thick, colorful strip of hair that contrasted with the rest of their long locks, just like the feathers of their bird forms.

  Once everyone was seated, a tray with a large silver teapot appeared before an old jinni sitting opposite Raif and Zanari. He began pouring the tea into small, colorful glasses as Samar spoke.

  “Before we ask you any questions, Raif Djan’Urbi, the council would like to hear why you’ve trespassed onto our land and, more specifically, why you and your sister were attempting to enter the Erg Al-Barq.”

  Raif looked at Zanari and she nodded. “We are here to retrieve Solomon’s sigil so that we can dethrone Calar and bring peace to our land and equality for all jinn,” Raif said. He leaned back in his chair, soaking up the silence.

  “Not one to mince words, are we?” Zanari murmured.

  The old jinni pouring the mint tea froze. “The khatem l-hekma?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  Raif furrowed his brow. “I don’t know these words.”

  “The ring of wisdom. It is what the Moroccans call Solomon’s Seal—the sigil you speak of,” Samar said. He leaned forward. “You came to our land and risked your life for something that’s been hidden for three thousand years? The greatest mages on Earth—jinn and human—have not been able to find it. What
makes you think you can?”

  Raif pointed to the tattoo of the eight-pointed star on his arm. “You were right. This is old magic: Ghan Aisouri magic. It led me here, to the Erg Al-Barq. You said there’s a mass grave of your ancestors under the lightning—that may be true, but it’s more than a burial ground. It’s the City of Brass spoken of in the stories. And somewhere in there is the sigil.”

  “The Ghan Aisouri are dead,” the jinni beside Raif said. She was his mother’s age, handsome, with wide Marid eyes. “Even if what you say is true, they are the only ones who have enough power to get inside it.”

  “That’s where our story gets really interesting,” Zanari said.

  “I’ll put this in the simplest terms,” Raif began. “There is one Aisouri who lives. She’s the jinni who gave me this tattoo, which brought me to the Erg Al-Barq. Though she’s promised to lead me to the sigil once we’re inside the cave, she owes her pardjinn master his third wish, which, unfortunately, is that she take him to the sigil as well. She is with him as we speak. Without her, we cannot enter the cave.”

  “A Ghan Aisouri was on the dark caravan?” a jinni across the table asked, shocked.

  “She was the only survivor of the coup and a slave trader rescued her,” Raif said. “He pretended to help her and took advantage of her weakened condition. That was how he was able to get her into a bottle in the first place.”

  “And you were able to free her?” Samar asked.

  Raif paused, remembering that night in the canyon. “I think, in the end, she freed herself,” he said quietly. He’d never forget the terror of Nalia slipping back into the bottle and the despair when his spell failed to work.

  “Where exactly is this Ghan Aisouri?” The jinni who spoke waved his hand, as though Raif had conjured Nalia out of thin air. Sometimes he wished he had. Then he wouldn’t have to love her.

  “In the desert.”

  “The desert is very big,” said a jinni with dark skin and bright emerald eyes. She had a strip of gold hair, similar to Samar’s: a fawzel, then.

  “It is,” Raif agreed. He turned to the shape shifters. “I’m sure you’d be able to find them. We believe they might be lost.”

  “I see no problem with that,” the same jinni said, her eyes flashing.

  “What I think my wife, Yezhud, is trying to say,” Samar began, gesturing to the jinni who’d spoken, “is that we see no reason why our ancestors’ graves should be disturbed. Your problem has nothing to do with us. We Dhoma keep to ourselves. Surely you know that.”

  Raif bristled. “Trust me, the last thing you want is for this pardjinn to get ahold of the sigil. He’s an evil man and will bring suffering to every jinni on Earth. If I don’t get the ring, he will. She has to grant his wish. If Malek Alzahabi puts on that ring, this will have plenty to do with you.”

  Samar sat up straighter. “Malek Alzahabi?”

  Raif nodded. “Do I have your attention now?”

  The jinn were silent, but from their worried expressions he could tell that they knew exactly who Malek was and what he was capable of.

  “You can stop the act, brother,” Raif said. “You wanted honesty and I gave you honesty. I expect the same from you. We both know you at least have an idea of what’s in that cave. Otherwise you wouldn’t have called this meeting.”

  The Dhoma leader looked at the jinni beside him, a wizened man with a hunched back and arthritic hands. The elderly jinni nodded.

  “What do you know of the sigil?” Samar asked.

  “It’s a powerful ring, worn by the human king Solomon,” Raif said. “Anyone who wears it will be able to control all the jinn in his or her realm. Solomon wore it for many years, and the jinn under his rule built his temples and palaces, fought his wars, and obeyed his every command.”

  “Before the Ghan Aisouri were killed in the coup, we learned from one of our spies in the palace that the legend of Antharoe is true,” Zanari said. “She was the one who took the ring off Solomon’s finger when he died. Then she brought it to the City of Brass and hid it, protecting it in a cave beneath the city so that no one but a Ghan Aisouri could enter.”

  “And burying our ancestors forever!” cried one of the council members.

  “You see,” Samar said, “there’s a bit more to the story than what you know. It is true that Solomon wore the ring and enslaved all the jinn on Earth. But some of them rebelled. As punishment, he sent thousands of his jinn from Jerusalem to the land we live in now. He wanted them to build a great city in the west—the Medina al-Nouhas, the City of Brass. On the day the city was finished, the jinn disappeared. No one has seen them since. Some say they are imprisoned inside the city, in brass bottles.”

  “Gods,” Zanari said.

  Samar leaned forward. “This is why we are called the Dhoma—the forgotten: because when our ancestors cried out to Arjinna, begging the Ghan Aisouri to help us find our brethren, they refused. They said it was our fault we left Arjinna and that this was what happened to jinn who chose Earth. By the time Solomon died and the remaining jinn on Earth were free to find their loved ones imprisoned in the City of Brass, it had already been covered by a great sandstorm, unlike any Earth has ever seen. We’ve tried to move the sand around the dune, but no matter how many Djan pour their chiaan into it, not a grain will move.”

  Raif knew exactly what had happened—a great sandstorm? No way. It was Antharoe, the Ghan Aisouri protectoress of the ring, who’d seen fit to cover the city with the Erg Al-Barq. The lightning dune. Brilliant. Evil, he thought, but brilliant.

  “And then, of course, there are the Sakhim,” Samar continued, “put there as a punishment by Solomon to be the eternal guardians of his city. They were a group of human soldiers led by a man named Sakhr who stole the ring and wore it for a short time before Solomon managed to retrieve it. We’ve lost many Dhoma in the attempt to rescue our ancestors because of those cursed humans.”

  “The Ifrit are no better,” Raif said. “They are just as cruel as the Ghan Aisouri, crueler even. They love nothing more than to spill innocent blood. They even use ghouls. If we can get the sigil—”

  “And what?” a council member across the table asked. “Then you can wear the ring?”

  “I wouldn’t wear it,” Raif said. Not unless I have to. “If Calar knows it’s in my possession, she’ll have no choice but to return to Ithkar with her soldiers.”

  “But she’ll be back—or some other enemy will take the Ifrit’s place,” Samar said. “This is the way of jinn nature—human nature, too. The ring—”

  “You don’t know what it’s like over there!” Raif roared. He stood, glaring down at the Dhoma before him. The guards in the back moved forward, their scimitars gleaming in the candlelight. Raif paid them no mind. “The people of Arjinna are nothing more than frightened mice hiding in whatever hole they can find. The Ifrit have already exterminated one race and they won’t hesitate to get rid of the rest of us. My tavrai can’t hold on any longer. It’s the end.”

  “Then come to Earth,” one of the jinn sitting at the council table said. Raif turned. She was young and wore the robes of a healer. A Shaitan, with almond eyes and chestnut skin. “This is why our ancestors left Arjinna in the first place, when the Ghan Aisouri gained control. They refused to swear allegiance and were given a choice: death or banishment. They chose Earth.” She swept her arm out, toward the entrance to the tent. “As you can see, we are a safe and happy people now. Join us.”

  “You have to hide in the middle of a desert, living in a village protected by a bisahm,” Raif said. “I have it on good authority that the Ifrit regularly raid your Dhoma camps, looking for slaves on the dark caravan, even stealing some of your own jinn to sell to human masters. You’re in this war, whether you like it or not. Help the revolution so that we can all go home.”

  It was silent, save for the patter of sand blowing against the tent.

  “He speaks truth,” said the old jinni. “Our peace has been shattered many times in recent years. Ou
r way of life is dying. Maybe it is time, as the young jinni warrior says, to return to the land of our gods.”

  There was an uproar as every voice in the room battled to be heard.

  “I’d say this is going well,” Zanari said under her breath.

  “As well as can be expected.”

  Samar stood, towering over the table. “Silence!” Immediately, the room quieted. He turned to Raif. “This Ghan Aisouri. She is certain she can enter the cave?”

  Raif nodded. “Yes.”

  The council members looked at one another. Despite being Dhoma, this meant something to them. Raif needed to capitalize on that somehow.

  “Why is this Ghan Aisouri willing to help you?” Yezhud, the jinni with the Djan eyes and dark skin, asked. She wasn’t on the council, but that didn’t seem to stop her from speaking, most likely because she was Samar’s wife and was accustomed to having her voice heard.

  “We made a deal,” Raif said. “I agreed to help free her from her pardjinn master in exchange for the sigil.”

  “It seems to me,” a jinni near the end of the table said, “that what our focus should be is on keeping this Ghan Aisouri out of the cave.”

  “I think you’re not seeing something, brother,” Raif said, an idea suddenly forming. “If we get into the cave, then your ancestors—the ones in the bottles—we can free them.”

  “They’re long dead,” said one of the council members. “No one can survive a bottle that long.”

  “Not if the bottles weren’t lined with iron,” Samar said, his voice becoming excited. “Bottle magic is complicated, but I know this much: a jinni stops aging the moment they’re placed in a bottle. They can live in there indefinitely. It’s the iron that kills them.”

  “You’re saying that you think we can go into that cave and I’ll be able to find my great-grandfather as a young jinni, with his whole life ahead of him?” one of the council members asked.