Blood Passage

Malek smiled and drew her close to him. “You can have a girl’s night some other time.”

  Then he kissed her.

  It wasn’t a kiss for polite company: it looked hungry and a little punishing. With Fareed looking on, Zanari knew Nalia was helpless. She couldn’t afford to make a scene, not when they were pretending to be humans on holiday.

  Nalia gently pushed Malek away. “My dear husband, let’s not be rude now.”

  Malek chuckled and gave Fareed a wink. “How can I resist?” he said.

  Fareed gave a small bow. “How indeed?” He gestured toward the velvet couches in the alcove. “Please. Sit. Refresh yourselves while I have the rooms prepared.”

  As soon as Fareed was out of sight, Nalia turned to Malek. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, you bastard.”

  “Now, is that any way to talk to your husband?” he said.

  Nalia turned away from him as wisps of chiaan slipped past her fingertips.

  “I’m going to find the restroom, Zanari,” she said, her body shaking with anger. “Don’t look in his eyes.”

  Zanari nodded, motioning for Nalia to leave. It wouldn’t be so easy for Malek to hypersuade her again. “I can handle the pardjinn, sister. I learned my lesson with him the hard way. You go . . . take a breather.”

  Nalia hurried across the courtyard, and Malek watched her for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a box of clove cigarettes. He lit one, and the ember glowed in the dim light from the colorful lamp that hung above them. It was in the shape of a top, the body made of tiny glass panes that had been fused together. Malek blew the smoke up toward the ceiling, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

  “You really are a piece of work, you know that?” Zanari said.

  “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you’ll understand a bit more,” Malek said as he tapped the cigarette against the rim of a gold ashtray on a side table. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Twenty-one summers.”

  Malek nodded. “But your brother is younger. I wonder, why are you so eager to play Follow the Leader with him?”

  Zanari picked up the teapot and poured some of the fragrant brew into a delicate red glass. It was a question she was only too happy to ignore.

  “Ah, I’ve hit a nerve, I see.” Malek gestured toward the tea with his hand. “I recommend two sugars. Pairs well with the mint.”

  “My brother is an excellent leader,” she said. One sugar. She wanted two, but it was the little victories that counted.

  “Really? Because I get the feeling things are a bit dire over in your utopian headquarters. Seems like a problem with the management to me.”

  Zanari hadn’t lied; she supported nearly everything Raif did and she believed he was the best jinni to lead the jinn to freedom. Better than she would have been, if only because he enjoyed the fight. But sometimes she had to ask herself: was she fighting for her brother, or Arjinna? The longer she spent on Earth, away from the conflict in her realm, the more Zanari began to have questions she’d never thought to ask. Meeting Nalia had shown her that some of the truths she’d clung to her whole life were wrong. Not all the Ghan Aisouri had been evil, just most of them. And seeing the way Nalia fought, the enormity of her powers, had gotten Zanari wondering: if Nalia wasn’t supposed to rule, why had the gods given her such power?

  “Your attempt at sabotage is pretty obvious,” Zanari said. “Divide and conquer, right? It’s not going to work, pardjinn.”

  She hated that there was a kernel of truth to what Malek was saying; was it possible that she and her brother had been just as brainwashed as Nalia? No one had ever asked Zanari if she wanted to fight, to have a life controlled by hatred.

  Malek leaned forward and poured himself a glass of tea, then slowly stirred in his two cubes of sugar with a small silver spoon.

  “I’m merely making conversation,” he said mildly.

  “I prefer silence.”

  Zanari felt a tug—hahm’alah. She crossed to the other end of the alcove and held up her hand. A puff of jade smoke slipped out of her palm and she saw her brother’s face. She sent him an image of the alcove so that he’d be able to picture it and evanesce directly inside. Moments later, Raif was standing near the fireplace.

  “What’d I miss?” he said.

  “Apparently Nalia and Malek are married,” Zanari said. “And you should have two sugars in your mint tea.”

  4

  NALIA LEANED AGAINST ONE OF THE MARBLE COLUMNS in the courtyard, gazing at the splash pool. It was a shallow rectangle of water, inlaid with blue, yellow, and red tiles in the popular zillij pattern of overlapping eight-pointed stars. The shape was everywhere in Morocco; it was as though the whole country were part of one vast constellation.

  Somewhere inside its borders lay Solomon’s sigil, buried deep in the Sahara. Nalia ran her finger over the tattoo on her forearm, just one of the many Ghan Aisouri symbols that covered her hands and arms. Her skin held the memory of her mother pressing the needle into it:

  “You are now old enough to keep our greatest secret,” her mother says as she cuts the star’s lines into Nalia’s skin. Drops of blood slip out of the points like tears. “This is how you will find Solomon’s sigil if, the gods forbid, we are ever in need of its power. The Aisouri are the only thing standing between that ring and the enslavement of our race. We can only use it if our very existence is threatened.” Nalia grits her teeth against the pain. If she cries, her mother will press harder. “Vasalo celique,” Mehndal Aisouri’Taifyeh says. “That’s all you need to know. Follow the stars.”

  Nalia thinks she will never need to trace Antharoe’s path beneath Earth’s sandy floor, where her ancestor left stars as clues. Who is more powerful than the Ghan Aisouri? When her mother finally puts the needle away, Nalia shivers as the weight of the mark on her skin settles over her. If she wanted, Nalia could take the ring for herself. Make her mother bow before her. As if Mehndal can hear her thoughts, she takes Nalia’s chin in her hand, her fingers squeezing. “The gods will punish you if seek out the sigil for any reason other than to save our race,” she says. “Do you understand?” Nalia nods, then backs out of the room as soon as her mother loosens her grip. Once dismissed, Nalia runs to the temple. She will make the vows required of her now that this secret is in her blood. She will not break them, not for anything.

  Vasalo celique, she repeated to herself. Follow the stars. Much easier said than done.

  Nalia looked up. The sky was clear and the stars shone brightly overhead. If she hadn’t been here before, she never would have guessed that such loveliness lay within the medina’s darkened streets. It was one of the things she’d always liked when she’d visited Morocco with Malek: the whole city was a treasure map of wonders.

  Malek. That forced kiss of his still burned, nothing like the searching gentleness of Raif’s. Malek’s kiss wanted to possess, consume. They hated her a little, those lips. She could feel Malek’s chiaan, the fire of it. Even now it boiled inside her.

  Godsdamn him.

  Her eyes strayed to the red and pink rose petals that floated on the pool’s surface, and she took a deep breath of the amber-scented air. The oil burned nearby, the rich smoke wafting throughout the courtyard. It made her think of the palace, and the ripple effect of remembering the loss of her home turned Nalia’s mind to the greatest loss of all: Bashil. She shouldn’t care about Malek’s mind games when her brother’s life hung by such a thin thread.

  Nalia lifted her hand and whispered Bashil’s true name into the smoke that appeared on her palm. No matter how many times she called him, the smoke refused to show her his face. She pressed her hand against the marble column beside her and rested her head against the stone. Her lips moved in a silent prayer, one to each of the gods: Please let him be alive. Please let me go home soon.

  She had to stop letting Malek control her emotions—his power over her was limited to her obligation to grant his wish. That was all. She had to stay focused for Bashil’
s sake.

  The door to the riad opened and Nalia turned, expectant. But instead of Raif, a well-dressed couple stepped through the foyer. Fear began to bloom in her stomach. She should never have let Raif go off on his own. Nalia hurried back to the alcove, intent on suggesting Zanari go with her in search of him, when she heard Raif’s voice—Zanari must have sent him their location.

  “There’s no way you’re sharing a room with her,” Raif was saying as she neared the private room. “Nice try, though.”

  Nalia slipped through the doorway and Raif immediately reached for her. She gave him a chaste hug, then stepped away. “The staff thinks you’re my brother,” she said softly.

  “Yes, these displays would be a little too Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia, wouldn’t they?” Malek set his empty tea glass on the table, which now held four covered tagines. The scent of lamb and cardamom filled the room.

  “Princess who?” Raif looked to Nalia and she sighed.

  “Star Wars. Human thing. Don’t worry about it.”

  Fareed poked his head through the archway. “A small surprise for my honored guests.” He motioned for Nalia, Raif, and Zanari to be seated. All Nalia wanted to do was sleep, but this was not how things were done in Morocco. A guest must feel welcome, and, in North Africa, welcoming took time.

  When they were settled on the couches, two musicians strode through the archway and took up positions on cushions in the far corner of the large alcove. As the drummer began to play, two women wearing sheer harem pants and tight bodices that ended well above their hips slinked into the room. The gold coin belts wrapped around their waists made a soft tinkling noise as their hips swayed in time to the sound of the tabla. Their movements were snakelike—darting, then slow and sensual.

  But their eyes were unfocused, glazed over in a way that was sickeningly familiar to Nalia. Though their bodies were present, the women weren’t there. A memory slithered through her: the small, smoky room in Istanbul. A slave auctioneer. Standing under a spotlight in nothing but a chemise, the drugs that weakened her power pumping through Nalia’s veins. Malek, sitting in a dark corner, watching her with hungry eyes.

  Nalia didn’t realize she was trembling until Raif put a hand on her knee and leaned close.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  She shook her head. One word, one look at him, and she’d fall apart. Nalia could feel herself slipping out of her own grasp, like sand clutched in a palm. The past was too present, with Malek in this room, his wish hanging over her head.

  “Fareed, we’re not damn tourists. Send them away,” Malek said, oblivious.

  Nalia’s eyes flew to the girls’ hands as they rose above their heads to brush the air. They each wore thick silver cuffs on both wrists.

  “Ah, but these are not just any belly dancers. Please, enjoy.” Fareed closed a curtain across the alcove’s entryway and as soon as he did, the dancing changed. Slowly, the dancers’ bodies began to evanesce, but not in any way Nalia had ever seen. Their smoke began at their feet—Marid sapphire and Djan emerald—and wound around their bodies like vines. As the tempo of the music behind them quickened, the smoke swirled more rapidly until their dance could only be seen between wisps of evanescence: a hand, gracefully flicking the air, the curve between ribs and hip, gold coins, scars on whipped backs.

  “Enough,” Nalia said in Kada. The musicians’ hands slid from their instruments and they stared at her, shocked. They hadn’t known she was a jinni until she spoke in the jinn tongue. Immediately, the smoke cleared and the belly-dancing jinn stood in the center of the room, a light sheen of sweat covering their bodies.

  Nalia stood, crossing to the girls. “Is Fareed your master?”

  The jinn looked at one another, fear slipping and sliding across their features. Nalia knew how hard it was to process things in that state: the blur of it all, that hummingbird heartbeat, the disorientating sensation of being disconnected from your chiaan. Human drugs did not mix well with jinn energy. Nalia pushed up her sleeves and showed them the scars on her bare wrists.

  “You’re among friends,” she said softly.

  Malek stood. “Nalia, move.”

  She turned. “Stop ordering me around. You’re not my—”

  “Master,” he snapped. “I’m aware of that fact. But unless you want them telling our Ifrit friends about this little encounter, you’ll let me handle this.” Malek looked at the musicians. “You two. Over here. Now.”

  The belly dancers shrank at the authority in Malek’s voice and the musicians scrambled to their feet.

  “Sir,” the Djan dancer said, “I’m not sure how we’ve upset you, but our master, he’ll . . . What I mean to say is, I’m sure there’s . . . something we can do to bring pleasure to your evening.” She trailed a hand down Malek’s arm, her lips curling suggestively.

  Nalia’s heart broke and she reached for the girl. “That’s not necessary.”

  Unthinking, she touched the girl’s bare skin and the jinni gasped. “Ghan Aisouri,” she breathed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Malek said. “Nalia, you’re as bad as the boy wonder over there. What part of incognito do you jinn not understand?”

  But Nalia wasn’t hearing him. All she could feel was the poison in the jinni’s blood, a sick-making sludge that strangled the girl’s chiaan. The jinni pulled away from Nalia, her face filling with shame.

  “He commands us,” she said, so that only Nalia could hear. “There’s a needle three times a day . . .”

  Nalia turned to Malek. “Your friend Fareed is drugging them,” she spat. “Did you know about this?”

  “No,” he said. “But what he does with his slaves is his business. Sometimes it’s the only way to . . . maintain control.”

  Nalia’s chiaan reared up inside her, ready to attack. “You disgust me,” she said.

  There was a pause, then, pregnant with all the things she wanted to say.

  “Sometimes I do, yes,” he finally said. His eyes bore into hers. “But not always.”

  “Did you do this to Nalia?” Raif asked. Quiet. Dangerous.

  “No,” Malek said. He had the gall to appear offended.

  “He didn’t have to,” she whispered.

  The spotlight, so hot on Nalia’s skin. She can’t feel her chiaan, the poison the trader told her was medicine is eating her blood, scraping her bones and she’s so so thirsty. The wishmakers raise their hands and call out prices, but each time the man in the corner with the clove cigarettes bids higher.

  “Going . . . going . . . gone,” the auctioneer says. “Sold to Malek Alzahabi for . . .”

  The belly dancers moved toward the door. “I think it’s best if we leave,” the Marid said.

  Malek turned to the slaves. “Look at me.” The jinn’s eyes locked onto Malek’s, which burned scarlet as his chiaan pulsed with his dark power. Nalia made no move to stop Malek from hypersuading the jinn. He had no choice. The slaves knew who she was.

  “You’re happy because the human tourists gave you a large tip.” Malek’s voice slipped into its hypnotic tone: a warm tropical beach, rich red wine, silk sheets. “You want to go to bed now. It’s late and you’re tired.”

  The jinn nodded and Malek slipped a few large bills in the top of the prettiest jinni’s bodice. He patted her cheek.

  “Now be a good girl and get the hell out of here,” he said.

  The jinn left.

  Malek dusted his hands, as though he’d been engaged in an unpleasant task, then sat down. “Speaking of . . . we need to make our plans for tomorrow. I know someone in the city who can help us.”

  Nalia stared after the jinn. She was desperate to go home and save her brother and yet every part of her ached to steal those girls’ bottles and set them free.

  But she couldn’t do both.

  Raif narrowed his eyes. “You know ‘someone.’ I’m not sure we want to work with the kinds of contacts you have, Malek. And now’s a good time to remind you that there’s us”—he pointed to himsel
f, Zanari, and Nalia—“and then there’s you. Dead weight: that’s all you are.”

  Nalia felt a stab of guilt. She knew Raif was only here because he didn’t want her to face the Ifrit alone. If it weren’t for her, he’d be at the cave already, searching for the sigil. She’d given him the map—an enchanted tattoo of an eight-pointed star that matched her own—and a bottle filled with her blood, necessary for passage through the cave. But he’d refused.

  Malek lit a fresh cigarette and took a long drag, then set it on an ashtray before digging into the fragrant tagine. “I suggest an attitude adjustment on your part, boy.” He nodded toward the archway the slaves had exited through. “You’ve seen what I can do.”

  “Yes,” Raif said, “I have.” He leaned forward. “But a dark power isn’t necessary to manipulate people, and anyone can pull a trigger. So I’m wondering, Malek, what am I supposed to be so scared of? I’m a full-fledged jinni—you’re a human with one magic trick up your sleeve.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” Malek said quietly. “Nalia’s the most powerful creature in this room and she’s bound to me, to grant my wish. It’s not me you’ll be up against when we get to that sigil: it’ll be her.”

  “Enough,” Nalia said. Her voice rang with quiet authority. Malek and Raif both looked to her, silent. She focused on Malek, eyes blazing. “You should know that I’ll be doing everything in my power to ensure that Raif gets that ring.”

  He smiled. “No, Nalia, I’m afraid you won’t. In this case, your power is spoken for.”

  Was it? She wouldn’t know until they were standing in front of the sigil just how long the wish bound her to Malek.

  “Your wish only requires me to take you to the location of Solomon’s sigil. Once we’re there, you’ll be outnumbered by three jinn trained since birth to fight,” she said. “This journey is nothing more than a sightseeing trip for you, Malek.”

  “We’ll see,” he said softly.

  Zanari clapped her hands. “Okay, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m exhausted. We need to eat, then sleep. So, tomorrow: what’s happening?”