Blood Passage

  But that wasn’t the truth, not really. He could lie to himself all he wanted, but the real reason he was willing to endure Saranya was that even now, after everything she’d done to him, he couldn’t bear the thought of Nalia being captured by the Ifrit. They would kill her and Malek wasn’t sure he wanted to live in a world where Nalia didn’t exist. After she’d betrayed him, he’d told himself Nalia deserved to suffer, that he would make her suffer. But after sitting up all night watching her toss and turn in her sleep, having one nightmare after the other, the resolve to punish her had crumbled.

  Khatem l-hekma, he chanted to himself. Khatem l-hekma. It was what the Moroccans called Solomon’s sigil, a ring described time and again in their ancient texts, most of which filled the shelves of the study in his Hollywood Hills mansion. Though he’d combed Earth in search of the ring, Malek had always believed it would be somewhere in Morocco. The place seemed to draw the jinn, whether they were conscious of it or not, and it wasn’t just because the portal to Arjinna was located within Morocco’s borders. There was something else, a dash of magic in the air, like a seductive mystery just waiting to be solved.

  “Arrêtez ici,” Malek said to his driver as they neared their destination. Stop here. Moroccans moved between French and Arabic as seamlessly as if they were the same language. Sometimes it was easier for Malek to speak French here than the perfect Saudi Arabic he was so accustomed to. Moroccan Arabic was like a dance he’d learned long ago, the steps both familiar and strange.

  “Oui, monsieur.” The driver stopped and Malek turned around.

  “Ladies, follow me. You,” he said, looking at Raif, “stay out of sight.”

  Much to Raif’s frustration and Malek’s delight, they’d decided that it would be impossible for Raif to join them on their meeting with the guide. He was far too recognizable. He’d insisted on waiting for them in the car, hidden behind the tinted windows. Raif whispered something in Nalia’s ear and she laughed softly.

  Malek slipped out of the car without so much as a backward glance at the others. They’d catch up.

  Business in the Djemaa was well under way, thick with late morning crowds. Malek pushed into the river of women in head scarves, tourists, and donkeys, barely sparing a glance for the treasure trove of goods that spilled out of shop fronts. Every detail reminded Malek of years past when he and Amir would get lost for hours, people watching and stealing sweets off the carts pulled by old men. A sudden stab of longing for his twin hit Malek—it was to be expected, here of all places. But it wasn’t welcome.

  At a tiny wooden sign tacked high on a wall that read SOUK D’ÉPICES, Malek swung right. Huge cones of spices came into view outside shops with walls taken over by glass jars containing mysterious powders and herbs. The air was full of the scent of musk, frankincense, and sandalwood.

  “So who is this jinni contact of yours, exactly?” Zanari asked as she and Nalia caught up with him.

  “An old friend,” he said.

  She frowned. “How do we know we can trust this jinni? If they work with you, they can’t possibly be someone with our best interests in mind.”

  Zanari’s Medusa-like braids spilled over her shoulders, and her eyes were lined with dark kohl. She wore human clothes: a sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes. But there was something about her that remained exotic—the glint in her eye, maybe. She wasn’t half-bad looking, a young Cleopatra, but her eyes were too like Raif’s.

  Despite how infuriating it was to have the Djan’Urbis around, Malek couldn’t deny how useful Zanari’s psychic gifts were. Already, her ability had made it fairly easy for them to evade Ifrit detection.

  “I trust her with Nalia’s life,” he said.

  Nalia looked up at the sound of her name. Malek’s eyes settled on her golden ones, as light as his were dark. “Is that enough assurance for you?” he asked, directing the question to Nalia.

  “I suppose it will have to be.”

  “Of course,” he added, the hurt surfacing, “the value of your life depreciates considerably once I have that ring. You’re a means to an end.”

  Nalia paled, then gave him a small smile. “As were you, Malek.”

  Her words were a door slammed in his face. Malek shoved his hands in his pockets and fingered the lapis lazuli necklace.

  They kept walking, through keyhole-shaped arches, the twists and turns painfully familiar. Malek kept expecting to see Amir around each corner, biting into a fig or bargaining for the spices his wife wanted. A phantom brother, come back to haunt him.

  They left the spice souk behind and turned into a dim alleyway. It was cold here, and quiet. The only sounds were their footsteps and the flutter of pigeons’ wings. The air smelled of the musty dampness of drying wool and the amber oil that burned in lamps all over the city. The doors they passed here were bolted shut, faded and peeling as though they hadn’t been opened for centuries, markers on this journey he had taken so many times.

  Malek made a left after the last of the closed-up shops, onto a dead-end street. The closer he got to their destination, the more he regretted coming to the souk. It would be all too easy for Nalia to learn about the very darkest part of him, the incomprehensible depth of his depravity. Even he couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t forgive it.

  Zanari’s voice slashed the silence. “Where in all hells are we going, pardjinn?”

  Malek said nothing as he neared the door built into the peach tadelakt wall at the far end of the deserted street. No more beautiful than the rest of Marrakech’s wondrous entrances, the door nevertheless demanded one’s attention. An arch composed of the ubiquitous eight-pointed star zillij tiles bordered the door with symbols representing the four elements carved into the stone above the arch. Each symbol was inlaid with lapis lazuli, the distinctive blue stone of the Qaf Mountains of Arjinna. A brass knocker in the shape of a hamsa sat in its center, an outward-facing palm that seemed to bar their entrance. It was a distinctive shape, with the three middle fingers fused together, while the stylized pinkie and thumb pointed outward. Intricate swirls and flowers wrought into the metal made up its surface.

  Nalia pointed to the hand. “What’s that? I keep seeing it everywhere.”

  “It’s a powerful ancient symbol that humans use for protection,” Malek said. “It creates a kind of shield around them that’s impossible for a jinni to break through.”

  “So you’ve taken us to a door that won’t open for jinn? Great, Malek,” Zanari said.

  He made a big show of raising his hand and placing his palm over the door knocker so that his fingers lined up with those of the hamsa.

  “This particular hand won’t harm us. The real hamsas—the ones human mages have put spells on—are priceless heirlooms, passed down by Moroccans from generation to generation. This one is magical, though: it can sense whether or not the hand touching it belongs to a jinni. If it does . . .”

  He waited until he felt the slight tingling of the magic as it latched onto his chiaan—he didn’t possess as much as a full jinni, but it was enough to gain entrance. The door fell away as though it had never been there. Malek stepped through the stone arch.

  “Welcome to the jinn souk.”

  It was the closest to Arjinna Nalia had been since she was stolen from her homeland.

  The souk spread out before her, as far as the eye could see. At first glance, it looked like the human souk they had left behind: narrow cobblestone streets lined by tiny stalls that crowded against one another, huddling like beggars in the cold as their occupants cried out to passersby. But what the stalls held had no place in the human markets. Goods overflowed into the tiny pathways: baskets of dried widr leaves, known to cure all manner of small ills, boxes of dried sugarberries, yards of sea silk, a glossy, infinitely soft fabric made from deep-sea plants that Marid jinn gathered and wove. Chunks of volcanic rock from Ithkar used for dark magic sat beside bundles of gaujuri, the hallucinogenic herb smoked with water pipes. The air smelled of Morocco, but also of home—essence of vixen
rose and the spicy scent of elder pines found deep in the Forest of Sighs.

  A jinni burst out of his stall, holding up bottles of cloudy water. Nalia stifled a laugh as he called out, “Sacred oasis water—good for strengthening Marid chiaan. Try it, you’ll see!”

  “People don’t actually believe him, do they?” she whispered to Zanari. “A sacred oasis?”

  She shrugged. “Arjinnans are desperate. They’re not buying dirty water—they’re buying hope.”

  Malek wove through the stalls as though he were on autopilot, pushing them deeper into the souk.

  “Trick the humans and protect yourself from slavery! Fake shackles, one size fits all!”

  “How did I not know about this?” Nalia said. Neither Malek nor Zanari heard her above the clatter of the buy and sell.

  “Come in, come in, a pretty sawala for a pretty jinni.”

  Nalia stepped forward and ran her hands over the fabric of the sawala. Gold and deep blue, almost purple, the clothing she’d worn every day in court seemed suddenly . . . foreign. The tunic had two high slits on either side and came with wide-legged pants made of fine, thin sea silk that caught the light like the scales of a fish. She could almost remember the feel of those pants against her skin, a caress. It had always been a welcome change from the Ghan Aisouri leathers and heavy cape she’d worn outside the palace.

  “You like, yes?” an old jinni said to her. He wore the square cap of a tailor, the tassel swinging beside his cheek. “I give you good price—democratic price.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely. But I can’t. Thank you, I—”

  The jinni pressed a belt made of antique jinn coins into her hand. “Seven thousand dirhams, sister. Or, twenty-one thousand nibas—give or take.”

  Nibas. Of course Arjinnan currency would be used here—it was the only coin that could not be manifested, and was thus of true value to the jinn.

  “Forget it, grandfather. She’s not buying.” Zanari pulled Nalia away from the tailor.

  “He would have kept you there all afternoon, if you’d let him,” she said once they were further down the crowded lane.

  Nalia smiled. “Thanks. I don’t have much practice with this sort of thing.”

  “Let me guess: the Ghan Aisouri didn’t do much of their own shopping.”

  “I didn’t touch money until Malek explained American dollars to me,” Nalia confessed.

  Zanari rolled her eyes. “When we get home, I’m sending you out to the markets.”

  When we get home.

  There were still so many ifs. If they got home. If she could rescue Bashil. If Raif’s tavrai didn’t convince him to hate her. If he could forgive her, once he learned about Kir.

  “We’ll see,” was all she said.

  Malek turned down a dark corridor off the main road and, moments later, stopped in front of a small shop. Unlike the stalls they’d been passing, this shop had a proper door and windows, both of which were closed. A star-shaped lamp made of multicolored glass panes hung above the door, though, and its light emanated a cheerful glow. A sign on the door in Kada read: POTIONS AND SPELLS: INQUIRE WITHIN.

  Malek raised his hand and knocked on the door. After a few moments, it swung open, and a jinni with glossy black curls that fell to the waist of her blue embroidered kaftan stared at him, her golden Shaitan eyes wide with shock. Then she shook her head, as though waking from a dream.

  “Well, if it isn’t my long-lost brother-in-law,” the jinni said.

  9

  NALIA STARED. “BROTHER-IN-LAW?”

  “So, what,” the jinni said, ignoring Nalia and pushing her finger into Malek’s chest, “you think it’s okay to just disappear, right when we need you the most?”

  Malek frowned. “Saranya.” The name sounded familiar, but Nalia wasn’t sure why.

  “It wasn’t like I was here all the time, before . . .” Malek trailed off, his eyes looking anywhere but at his sister-in-law. “It’s been hard for me, too, you know.”

  Saranya snorted. “Oh, I’m sure it has.”

  “We’d make good coin selling tickets to this show,” Zanari said under her breath.

  Nalia bit back a smile. It wasn’t often she got to see someone give Malek a dressing-down. She rather liked seeing him scramble to defend himself.

  “Well?” Saranya said to Malek. “Are you just going to stand on the street?”

  She turned and started into the house.

  “Lovely to see you, too,” he called after her. He turned to Nalia and Zanari, gesturing for them to follow him inside. “Yalla.”

  Let’s go.

  Nalia stepped through the doorway, thankful to be once removed from the icy conversation that immediately started up between her former master and his sister-in-law. They spoke in a mixture of rapid-fire French and Arabic, Saranya listing her grievances and Malek trying unsuccessfully to defend himself. Clearly it’d been a while since Malek had visited. He ran a hand through his hair, crossed his arms—small tells that he was agitated.

  “What in all hells is going on?” Zanari muttered.

  Nalia shrugged. “I have no idea.” It was a whispered argument that she could only catch snatches of.

  Malek had never mentioned a sibling to her. Nalia’s mind reeled as she tried to make sense of what this meant, that there might actually be people in the world who loved Malek.

  “We should leave,” she murmured to Zanari as Malek and Saranya continued their argument, oblivious to the two jinn that hovered near the front door. “We’re putting this woman in danger by being here.”

  Zanari leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “I don’t know. This is the most fun I’ve had in days.”

  “Saranya, this is Nalia,” Malek said, motioning toward her. “My—” He stopped, and Saranya raised her eyebrows.

  “Your nothing,” Nalia said, glaring at Malek. Three years was enough time to suffer Malek’s proprietary air. She placed her right hand over her heart and bowed her head.

  “Ghar lahim,” she said, the Kada equivalent of nice to meet you. “I used to be Malek’s slave, but circumstances, thank the gods, have recently changed.”

  Malek winced and Saranya whirled around. “Your slave?” she yelled at him. “Amir would be sick if he heard that. You know how involved he was in my work. How could you have a slave when he spent his life fighting against everything the dark caravan stands for?” She shook her head. “He’d be so ashamed of you.”

  A look of pain shot through Malek’s eyes, but it quickly disappeared, replaced with his usual detached amusement. “That wouldn’t have been anything new, now would it?”

  Amir—his brother?

  The hurt and anger in Saranya’s eyes deepened. “Unbelievable.” She turned to Nalia and Zanari. “Jahal’alund,” she said. “Batai vita sonouq.”

  It had been so long since Nalia had heard those words: My home is yours.

  Nalia and Zanari touched their palms to their hearts.

  “Forgive me for my rudeness,” Saranya said, motioning for them to follow her. “I wasn’t expecting . . .” She waved her hand in the air. “Well, you know how he is, I guess.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Nalia said.

  Malek grunted, but Nalia ignored him as she followed Saranya into a spacious sitting room decorated with Moroccan textiles, ceramics, and overstuffed sofas covered with vibrant pillows. A young girl, not much more than ten summers old, sat in the corner. At the sight of the three strangers, she jumped up, a book of jinn poetry slipping to the floor and landing face up. An illustrated dragon hovered above the pages, its flames spilling over the spelled paper. The little jinni’s eyes filled with fear, and Saranya crossed to her, wrapping her thick arms around the child.

  “It’s all right, sweet one,” she whispered. Saranya looked up. “This is Maywir,” she said as she turned to Malek, her eyes cold. “She’s staying with me while we find a permanent home that is suitable for a child rescued from the dark caravan.”

  “But she’s so youn
g!” Zanari cried out. She looked at Maywir, horrified.

  Now Nalia knew where she’d heard that name before. “Saranya,” she said. “I’ve met jinn that you’ve sheltered.” Nalia bowed low. “You honor the slaves with your selfless sacrifice.”

  Nalia had learned of the underground caravan two years ago, after meeting a young jinni at Habibi, the jinn club once run by Jordif Mahar. With the increase in trafficking, a network of jinn had grown all over the world to shelter slaves who had been rescued before they could be sold to a human master. The jinn who cared for them were risking their lives. The slave traders and the Ifrit weren’t known for letting their “cargo” slip away without a fight, not to mention the humans who had a vested interest in the multibillion-dollar industry.

  “Yes, my Dhoma sister-in-law is quite the humanitarian,” Malek said, his mouth turning up in a smirk for Nalia’s benefit. “Or in this instance, would we say jinnitarian?”

  Nalia reddened at his emphasis on the word Dhoma. She hoped he wouldn’t bring up their conversation in the riad. How could she have been so certain she couldn’t trust them? Here was this jinni, risking her life to save jinn just like Nalia. Every day she spent on Earth showed Nalia just how flawed the Ghan Aisouri teachings had been.

  Saranya gestured for Nalia and Zanari to sit on a couch pushed against one of the green tadelakt walls. It was a colorful room, cozy and lived in. It wasn’t a shop so much as a home: not the kind of place Nalia expected any relatives of Malek Alzahabi to have. His mansion had been extravagant, yes, but cold, like a catalogue display. This place felt lived in. Love existed there, and happiness. Sadness, too, but Nalia couldn’t figure out where that came from, other than the dark caravan refugees who passed through Saranya’s doors.

  “Please,” Saranya said. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right back with tea.” She turned to Maywir, who stared at them with wide, shy eyes. “Come, sweet one.”