I choose her. Every time.
He sat in the chair beside the bed and reached under the blanket for Nalia’s hand. He remembered what Zanari had said, about Nalia’s chiaan disappearing, but this . . . Raif hadn’t expected the shock of feeling nothing when he touched her. It was wrong, absurd. Like touching a human—no hint of magic under that skin, nothing but the dim beat of her pulse. This was a girl who had more power than any jinni he’d ever known, a girl whose chiaan had gotten inside him and burned down every wall he’d ever built. That first night when he’d danced with her, it was as if he’d taken a drug, so overwhelming was the feel of her inside him.
And now there was nothing.
It was as if Haran had tried to kill her all over again. Raif couldn’t bear it if this time the darkness won. He kicked off his boots and pulled back the blanket, then lay beside her, his hands gripping both of her own.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you and I will never leave you again.”
Nalia smelled like the desert, her hair drenched in the healer’s herbs. Fine grains of Saharan sand still clung to her skin and he gently brushed them away. He pressed his lips to her cheeks, her neck, and then poured his chiaan into her, just as he had done the night Nalia stole the bottle. He felt a tiny flicker, a faint echo of the power he knew Nalia had locked away inside her. His heart quickened and he tried to latch onto her chiaan, to join them, but it retreated, like a frightened creature.
“You’re not alone, rohifsa,” he said, his lips against her skin. “I’ll be right here when you’re ready to come back.”
He held her, eventually falling asleep. When he awoke, she still lay there, suspended between life and death.
Phara was sitting across the room, carefully mixing a poultice. “It’s time for her medicines,” she said.
Raif sat up. “What do they do?”
“They keep her alive while she decides if she wants to go to the godlands or not.” She picked up a small vial filled with an orange liquid. “Do you want to help?”
That night, when they were alone in the tent, Raif told Nalia about the life they would have one day, when the war was over. He described the house he would manifest for them in detail, imagined the faces of their children.
“We’ll laugh every day and at night we’ll make love in our field, under the light of the Three Widows. We’ll swim in the Infinite Lake and climb the Qaf Mountains. Wake up, rohifsa. We can start over. We can start now.”
Nothing.
He told Arjinnan tales he’d heard around fires and stories from his mother’s lips. He sang the love songs of his people. He whispered prayers to the gods. He gave her his chiaan as though it were a tonic.
She remained empty, her chiaan hidden away.
It hurt to look at her, and Raif stared at the canvas ceiling of the tent, focusing on the shadows the candlelight threw against the fabric. He reached up a hand and used the slight trickle of chiaan left in him to turn the shadows into constellations, an old trick of his from childhood, when he couldn’t fall asleep: B’alai Om, the Great Cauldron, Tatarun, the mage who’d traveled to the godlands to learn the secrets of alchemy.
“You forgot Piquir’s sword.”
Raif’s hand fell and he turned, his breath catching. Her eyes were open. They stared not at him, but at the ceiling above her.
“Nalia.”
She turned to look at him. She didn’t smile and her violet eyes had turned a dull gray. Raif was afraid to touch her, afraid to send her back to wherever she’d been hiding.
“Did I get what I deserved?” she whispered.
“No.” Raif pulled her to him, his eyes damp. “Oh, no, my love, don’t think that way.” He pressed his lips against her hair. “I’m sorry, rohifsa. I’m so sorry. For all of it. Everything.”
She went still against him and he held her face in his hands.
“I love you,” he said. “I love you so godsdamn much.”
He leaned closer, his lips longing for hers, but Nalia slid away from him, clutching the blankets to her chest. He stared at her, bewildered.
“Nal?”
“You should have let me die.”
23
TEARS SLIPPED DOWN NALIA’S FACE AS SHE TRIED TO run the brush through her hair. It was a stupid thing, really. Just a tangle of knots left over from the sandstorm, nothing to get upset over. Yet somehow her inability to perform this one simple task threatened to break her. Bashil, Raif, her dead chiaan, the awful wish she still had to grant—
Nalia grabbed a hunk of hair and forced the brush through it with vicious strokes. Her scalp throbbed and strands came out in snarled chunks and still her head was a mess of knots. She growled and tried again. The bristles caught, the tears came thick and fast. She tore the brush out of her hair and threw it across the room. It hit the soft tent wall, impotent.
She snatched a pillow off her bed and screamed into it. It felt good to burn her throat, to sound the rage that had been building inside her from the moment she’d woken up. She threw the pillow down. Took a breath. Then she crossed to the table where Phara kept her medical supplies. Sitting beside a ceramic washbasin was a large pair of silver shears. Nalia picked them up. It was a satisfying sound, this soft kiss of metal against hair. The long tresses that Raif had once curled around his fingers fell to the thick rug that covered the desert floor.
“For you, Nalia-jai.” Bashil hands her a vixen rose. She takes it from his chubby fingers and breaths in its heady scent.
“Shundai, gharoof. It’s beautiful. What shall I do with it?”
He motions for her to kneel and she does. They are eye to eye. She kisses his baby cheek, quick, before their mother can see.
Bashil holds out his hand and Nalia returns the flower. He reaches up and threads the stem through the long braid that encircles her head. He bites his lip in concentration, so serious.
“There,” he says proudly. He runs his fingers across the braid, making sure the rose is secure.
Nalia looks at her reflection in the fountain beside them. “More beautiful than a jewel,” she says.
Nalia set down the shears with shaking hands, then stood before a small mirror near her bed. If it hadn’t been for the birthmark that bled onto her cheek below her right ear, she might not have recognized herself at first glance. She reached up and ran her fingers through the short, boyish cut. She felt lighter, like she could float away.
Phara came through the flap. “It’s almost time for . . .” The words died on her lips as she stared at Nalia.
“I didn’t want to brush it anymore,” Nalia said. She crossed to the shelf where a bottle of wine sat and poured herself a glass. It was thick and sweet, the way jinn liked it.
“Actually, it becomes you,” Phara said.
Nalia raised the bottle and the healer smiled. “Just a small glass. Can’t have you drinking alone.”
Nalia poured the wine and they drank in silence. The healer was the only person she’d allowed in the tent since she’d woken up the night before. The jinni’s cool voice and calm demeanor demanded nothing of her. She didn’t know anything about Nalia, had no access to her dark past and bleak future. To Phara, Nalia was a patient. No more, no less.
Phara finished her glass, then stood up. The hair on the ground disappeared with a sweep of Phara’s palm. Nalia watched her. How much more of herself would she leave behind in this desert?
The healer crossed to the small table where the shears lay. “Let’s just . . . get this a little more presentable, shall we?”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Nalia said, her voice hollow.
“Well, one of my hobbies is beauty magic, so indulge me.”
For the next few minutes, Phara fussed over Nalia’s hair. It was a relief to be touched without chiaan. Nalia never thought she’d feel that way, but it was true. She didn’t have to read Phara or worry that too much of herself was being revealed to the other jinni. There was only the feel of gentle fingers moving through her hair, cutting aw
ay the evidence of Nalia’s grief.
“I wonder what Raif will think,” Phara said softly.
Nalia said nothing.
Bashil. Bashil. Bashil. Her mind empty but for that one word that gutted her.
“Come,” Phara said. “The council is waiting.”
Phara had already told Nalia the new plan for getting past the lightning over the Erg Al-Barq. The Dhoma had decided that as soon as Nalia’s chiaan returned, she would lead Raif, Malek, Zanari, and a small group of Dhoma into the cave. In exchange for allowing Nalia and the others onto their sacred ancestral land, Raif would help free the imprisoned Dhoma.
Nalia took a deep breath of fresh air as she stepped outside the tent for the first time since waking up. It was hot, the intense heat of the day burning off the nighttime chill. The sun felt good and Nalia curled into herself, guilty. She didn’t deserve to feel pleasure.
“How do they know Solomon’s Dhoma are even in these bottles?” Nalia asked as Phara ducked out of the tent behind her. She wondered if the healer could tell that Nalia was going through the motions of being alive, having a conversation only because that was what was expected of her. Inside there was only: Bashil, Bashil, Bashil.
“The stories are how they know.” Nalia turned at the familiar voice. Malek stood beside the tent, a cigarette in one hand and an ancient copy of The Arabian Nights in the other. “Welcome back, Nalia. Nice hair, by the way—it’s quite fetching.”
She wasn’t fooled by his casual greeting. He looked at her hungrily, unable to mask the feeling in his eyes.
She let out a breath. “Malek. What are you doing outside my tent?”
“We have an agreement, you and I. Third wish and all. I have to protect my investment.”
He was thin, gaunt even, and he’d abandoned the sleek perfection that had once been as much a part of him as breathing. Clothed in the garb of the Dhoma, Malek looked nothing like himself. And yet, there was still that arrogant half-smile.
Nalia looked away and followed Phara toward the large tent in the center of the camp. Malek kept pace.
“So, these jinn. We just find the bottles and . . . open them?” Nalia said to Phara. It was a nice thought, freeing thousands of slaves. Bringing life back into the world. For a moment, she felt something like hope stir in her chest.
“It’s likely the bottles were inscribed with the same seal on Solomon’s sigil,” Malek said. “That way, only Solomon himself could release his prisoners. According to my research—which is vast, I assure you—the sigil has enormous magical properties. Controlling jinn is probably just the beginning. Solomon was a master alchemist, one of the wisest humans that ever lived. No doubt he learned every secret of the jinn he could. It will take ages to discover all that the ring can do.”
“You know what, Malek? I don’t care about the ring,” Nalia said. Her head was pounding and she wanted her brother and why couldn’t they all see that she was a walking corpse? “I don’t care about what it can do. I don’t care who gets it.” Her voice rose, flitting on the edge of sanity. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.”
“What about Raif?” he said quietly.
“I. Don’t. Care.”
Malek raised an eyebrow. “Well, that changes things.”
“No it doesn’t.”
Love is a weakness, her mother had said. It turned out, Mehndal Aisouri’Taifyeh had been right. Calar had found that weakness in Nalia and used it for all it was worth. She’d done better than kill Nalia: she’d left her alive so she could feel Bashil’s loss over and over, knowing it was her fault he was dead.
They reached the tent, and a large jinni standing guard pulled the flap back. Phara slipped off her shoes before stepping inside and Nalia followed suit. Malek hovered near the entrance, but the guard stepped in front of him.
“I’m part of this expedition,” Malek said.
“They don’t want you in here, slaver,” the guard growled.
Malek stalked off with a muttered curse.
Eleven jinn, including Raif and Zanari, were seated at a large wooden table in the center of the room. About a dozen other jinn stood around the perimeter. A chandelier filled with candles and the sunlight from the open tent flap provided the only light. Raif’s emerald eyes met Nalia’s in a silent plea. She looked away. He didn’t understand and she couldn’t begin to explain.
I’m dead inside, she wanted to say.
A jinni with a dark beard and a thick stripe of white in his long hair stood and gestured to the empty cushion on the floor at the head of the table.
“Welcome, Nalia Aisouri’Taifyeh. We have heard much about you and thank the gods for your recovery. I am Samar, one of the council members.”
Nalia settled on the cushion, while Phara took the last empty seat at the table. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“We understand that your chiaan has yet to return,” said an older woman to Nalia’s left.
“Yes, unfortunately that’s true.”
Nalia slipped her hands into the wide pockets of the Dhoma pants she’d been given to wear. Without her chiaan, her hands were nothing more than minimally useful appendages. She wondered if human soldiers felt this way, when they fought their wars and came home without legs or arms. Her fingers brushed against Bashil’s worry stone and she gripped it.
“Phara?” Samar looked to Nalia’s healer.
“We’ve tried many things,” Phara said. “So far, Nalia has been unable to replenish her chiaan.” She cast a sympathetic look in her direction. “She’s still weak from her illness, though. She just needs time.”
Nalia wasn’t so sure. She’d heard of this happening, of jinn losing all connection with the elements. Sometimes it was because of grief or illness. Sometimes black magic, a curse. There was no cure. Either the jinni recovered her chiaan, or she didn’t.
“Time is not something we have a lot of,” Zanari said. “The Ifrit offensive has decimated our troops. Our tavrai report that they’re barely holding on to our headquarters in the Forest of Sighs. We need the sigil and we need it now.”
She looked at Nalia, her face a collage of anger and hurt, sadness. Nalia didn’t have to guess why Zanari looked at her with such distaste: Nalia had killed Kir and had broken Raif’s heart several times over. She doubted his sister could ever forgive her. It hurt, this loss of a sister-friend. First Leilan, then Zanari.
“What about the pardjinn?” asked an elderly jinni seated near Raif.
“I don’t think we need to worry about him,” Raif said. “It’s true that Nalia must grant his wish, but I believe I’ll be able to secure the ring without a problem. I’m a full jinni and trained soldier. Malek’s nothing more than a violent aristocrat.”
Nalia wondered if she was the only one who heard the uncertainty in his voice. Her eyes shifted to Raif, but darted away when he looked at her. She hoped for all of their sakes that Raif had a plan to ensure he was the one with the ring. Maybe he was just bluffing, hoping to secure the Dhoma’s permission to trespass on sacred land.
“Why do we continue to discuss this?” said a female council member. “The presence of these jinn endangers our people. The Ifrit are rounding up Dhoma in Marrakech—why are their lives less valuable than these Arjinnan swine?” She swept her hand around the table to indicate Raif, Zanari, and Nalia.
“Do you believe we should allow our ancestors’ punishment to continue for an eternity?” Samar asked, his voice cutting.
The jinni he spoke to looked down, chastened.
The Dhoma leader folded his hands and continued. “So the question remains: how will we get inside the cave if Nalia’s chiaan doesn’t return?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Nalia said.
Raif stared at her. “That’s a death wish.” As soon as the words left his mouth, understanding dawned on his face. He turned to Samar, his voice panicked. “She’s incapable of thinking clearly right now. Her brother’s death—”
“—is not the issue,” Na
lia said. “If the Ifrit are already targeting Dhoma in Marrakech, they will come here next. Staying here risks everyone’s life. I can’t evanesce. I have no chiaan to fight with. Where would I go that they wouldn’t find me right away? Zanari’s right. We’re running out of time.”
“The lightning will kill you, Nalia,” Raif said. “Right now you’re as vulnerable as a human.”
“My only value to anyone here is my ability to open the entrance to the cave,” she said. “If I can’t do that, then there is no point to me being alive, anyway.” She paused. “I’d rather die trying to open the cave then die at the hands of the Ifrit.”
Raif stood. “Her soul is on your conscience if you consent to this,” he said to the council.
The jinn around the table remained silent. Raif turned to Nalia, his eyes burning into hers. She forced herself to meet his gaze.
Raif threw the council a look of contempt and stalked out of the tent. “Ma’aj yaqif-la.”
I wash my hands of it.
“All those who believe the Aisouri should lead the mission tomorrow, show your favor,” Samar said.
Of the ten Dhoma on the council, eight placed a hand on the table, palm up.
Samar nodded. “Jahal’alund, then, Nalia Aisouri’Taifyeh. We will journey at dawn.”
Nalia bowed her head slightly, then stood. She couldn’t tell if the look on Zanari’s face was satisfaction or pity.
Nalia walked out of the meeting tent and didn’t stop until the camp was a distant speck. She searched until she found what she was looking for: a flat stretch of sand atop one of the dunes. She didn’t care about the ring, didn’t care about much of anything anymore—except Raif and Zanari. She had to make sure they got that sigil. Otherwise, them coming to Earth and Raif risking his life for her—it would have meant absolutely nothing.
She placed her palms on the sand, every inch of her searching for the electric connection between the natural world and her body. Bashil’s face came to mind, but she pushed it away. She couldn’t give in to her grief, not now. In the earth’s silence, she tried to recreate that fusion of self and element in her memory—the tingling heat, the rightness of it. Willing it to manifest inside her.