Blood Passage

  The Atlas Mountains loomed in the distance and the sun was high and in Zanari’s face, making it difficult to see. The city became a sea of flat roofs with occasional rectangular minarets that stood between them, like strange buoys. As soon as they could, they jumped back down, into the bustle of the human souk, heading toward the riad.

  “I think we lost them,” Nalia said. She glanced at Zanari, her eyes bright and a carefree grin on her face. “Why didn’t you tell me you could fight like that?”

  Zanari returned the smile. “Sister, you never asked.”

  11

  MALEK HURRIED THROUGH THE JINN SOUK, PAST CLOUDS of red smoke and screaming women who held their babies tightly to their breasts. The arrival of so many Ifrit had created utter chaos in the crowded market. The shopkeepers’ banter and touting had been replaced by angry shouts and bursts of defensive chiaan. A table stacked with bottles of savri had been tipped over in the shoppers’ need to find cover, and the wine from the broken bottles made it seem as though the streets ran with blood. Everywhere jinn were evanescing. Some corridors were so thick with their smoke that Malek could barely see in front of him. When he finally came upon the souk’s entrance, he stumbled through it, coughing as he retraced his steps through the human markets. Though it was true the Ifrit were searching for Nalia, they knew he was her master. From what Malek had heard, they still had guards posted at his mansion in Hollywood. It would be best to get out of sight, and fast.

  Soon he was back in the throng of Moroccans and tourists that filled the streets surrounding the Djemaa. The day had grown cold and Malek pulled his cashmere scarf more tightly around his neck.

  It’s not grief I see on your face . . . it’s guilt, Saranya had told him before he left the house. The others had been too far away to hear, thank God.

  But Saranya was wrong about that—there was grief. Mountains of it. Malek just hadn’t allowed himself to feel anything for so long. The problem with falling in love with Nalia wasn’t just that she didn’t return his feelings; it was that, for the first time in years, Malek was letting his heart be more than an organ that kept him alive. That wasn’t his first mistake where Nalia was concerned, but it would be his last. He’d wanted Nalia for a few months. The sigil? He’d wanted that for a lifetime. If nothing else, Malek Alzahabi knew what his priorities were.

  He turned down a deserted street, where the only sound was an old man in a kaftan speaking softly to his donkey. Then: crimson smoke everywhere, a heavy, sulphuric fog that made it impossible to see. There was a roar and, before he could register what was happening, someone was shoving Malek from behind toward a sleek black SUV that materialized out of thin air, barely wide enough to navigate the souk’s streets.

  “What the fu—”

  Malek struggled against his captors, trying to reach for the gun tucked into his waistband. One of them said something to him in the language Nalia sometimes spoke with Raif and Zanari—Kada. He didn’t understand, but the harshness of the voice and the burn of the rope one of his captors was tying around his wrists told Malek everything he needed to know.

  As he was being pushed into the backseat, he caught a glimpse of red eyes and a sneering mouth before rough hands pulled a black sack over his head. There was the slam of the car door being shut and then Malek fell back against the seat as they sped off. The only sound was heavy breathing and the thrum of the engine. There were so many turns, he had no idea where they were, but the slow speed suggested they were still in the cramped quarters of the medina.

  “This is unnecessary,” Malek said, his voice calm. Pinpricks of light filtered in through the sack’s fabric, but that was all he could see. “I’m one of your arms distributors, for Christ’s sake. And I have ample resources—whatever you need on Earth, it’s yours. I promise I’ll cooperate.”

  And he would—until he got the sigil and could muster a team of jinn to track down and kill whoever was holding him captive.

  A cool voice spoke from the front seat, female. Amused. “Ample resources? I highly doubt you can tempt me with anything Earth has to offer, pardjinn.”

  “I assure you, I can.”

  She laughed then, a sultry, strangely ominous sound. “We’ll see.”

  It was hours before Malek’s captors took the sack off his head, well after the third call to prayer had come and gone. The first thing he saw was an ancient courtyard, empty but for a few birds that drank from the rectangular splash pool cut into the stone floor. He’d been expecting something more sinister, an abandoned warehouse or basement, but the Ali ben Youssef Mederssa was one of Marrakech’s most popular tourist attractions. Since it was after business hours, the fourteenth-century school was deserted. He glanced up as his Ifrit guards shoved him into the airy, elegant space. The sun had nearly set and the sky was a bruised peach, soft and darkening. He wondered if he’d ever see it again.

  The dying sunlight cut across the zillij tiles that covered the imposing pillars that bordered the courtyard, a starburst of geometric shapes and colors that repeated on the portico walls behind them. It was Solomon’s seal, winking back at him. It taunted Malek, this symbol. It was as if Morocco were holding the sigil just out of his reach, no matter how fast he ran toward it. The dusty orange stone that made up most of the walls was covered in dense Arabic script, carved into it centuries ago. Malek wasn’t a religious man, but the mederssa made him want to be—at the moment, anyway.

  It would be nice, he thought, to have a shred of peace. Just a shred. To pray and think that someone would listen.

  His eyes scanned the tiny arches that overlooked the courtyard from the second story. Each one contained an Ifrit guard that stared down at him with menace in his eyes. Malek’s guards pulled him away from the courtyard and into the halls of what used to be the school’s dormitories on the second floor. They pushed him toward one and he ducked through the thick wooden doorway and into the tiny, dank cell. It was nothing more than four whitewashed walls and a rickety wooden chair. There wasn’t a light, but a small window near the ceiling showed a patch of sky through wrought-iron bars.

  One of the guards pointed gruffly to the chair in the corner. Malek sat, if only because the ceiling was so low it brushed the top of his head. The door to his cell slammed shut. It was a medieval thing, with steel studs and an iron handle.

  “Hell,” he muttered.

  The mederssa was at the very edge of the central souk, in a quiet, fairly abandoned quarter. He’d already seen how well guarded it was and even if he screamed his head off, who would help him? He wasn’t sure if Nalia would ever find him here, or if she’d even bother to look. He certainly hadn’t given her much incentive. Though she was under an obligation to grant his third wish, she couldn’t very well be blamed for not granting it if he was nowhere to be found.

  The mosques began their battling calls to prayer: the fourth of the day. Maghrib: sunset. The words rolled over him, for once soothing. Tonight he felt the muezzin’s plaintive wail to the heavens as it throbbed against the sky. He needed a miracle, a power beyond his to intervene. It’d been a long time since he’d felt that way. Nalia worshipped her gods with reverent devotion. Malek envied her that simple belief. For him, Allah had always been a question mark. A faceless uncertainty that never heard his cry for help. Why would tonight be any different?

  Malek unrolls his prayer mat. His body bends in supplication, but his will refuses to submit. Amir whispers the words beside him.

  They press their foreheads to the ground. Malek keeps his eyes open.

  The minutes ticked by as the room descended into velvet darkness, and soon the only light came from a sliver of moon that shone through the bars. When the fifth and final call to prayer sounded, Malek closed his eyes and went through the motions of the prayer in his head, his lips forming the words in silence. It brought no comfort, and as the last note of the muezzin’s song faded away, he stood and began pacing the room, sneering at the darkness.

  Finally the cell’s door opened and a female jinn
i walked through it, followed by an Ifrit carrying an old-fashioned steamer trunk that he placed in the center of the room. The female formed a sphere of crimson chiaan between her hands, then tossed it toward the ceiling. It lay suspended above them, a glowing coal that cast the room in an eerie bloody wash. She wore a form-fitting red gown covered with a simple black cloak. A bit formal for the surroundings, but Malek never pretended to understand the jinn.

  “Leave us,” she said to the guard. Malek recognized the voice—the jinni from the car. “I’ll call when I have need of you.”

  The proud tilt of her chin, the straightened spine, and the way the Ifrit backed out of the room before closing the door behind him told Malek enough: here was the jinni who’d ordered his capture.

  Malek waited until the guards left the room, then pulled his gun out from where he’d tucked it into his waistband. They hadn’t bothered to search him.

  Amateurs, he thought. He might not have been a full jinni, but he was Malek Fucking Alzahabi and no one kidnapped him and got away with it.

  “Who are you?” he said, pointing the gun at her.

  The jinni laughed, the sound surprisingly rich for such a tiny creature. She gave a toss of her blond hair before narrowing her eyes at him. “I’ll forgive your rudeness just this once. However, point a weapon in my face again and I’ll have it shoved down your throat.”

  “My dear, you have no idea who you’re dealing with,” he said softly. There was a faint click as he turned off the gun’s safety.

  The jinni’s eyes glinted, a predator with an invisible net. “Neither do you.”

  And then the world exploded and there was just red and blinding light and pain, pain, pain.

  It was as if an ice pick had been shoved into the back of Malek’s skull. All that existed was this excruciating sensation, an endless flood of agony, and then her voice in his head: Let me properly introduce myself. I am Calar, empress of Arjinna and leader of the Ifrit.

  It felt as if there were an actual presence in his brain, a slithering evil that hunted through the secret caverns of his mind. Pushing, pushing, but never finding what it was looking for. Malek cried out, clutching at his head, shaking it. He’d take a hammer to it if he could: anything, anything to get her out.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the pain vanished, and Malek was once again in control of his senses. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he’d fallen to his knees, an unwilling supplicant to the cruel mistress before him. His gun lay in a corner and there was a dull throb behind his eyes. He looked at her, unbelieving.

  She was young: Nalia’s age or not much older. He’d always imagined Calar as a towering Ifrit who’d spent centuries plotting the demise of the Ghan Aisouri, ancient and consumed with bitterness. Yet the crimes Calar had ordered were all the more chilling because of her youth; if she was like this now, what would her reign look like when she grew in her abilities?

  Nalia. He had to get to her, warn her somehow. There was no other reason why Calar would deign to meet with him.

  “I don’t understand,” Calar said to herself. She stood looking down at him with the emotional detachment of a scientist. “Did someone train you to do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Protect your thoughts. It’s like a fortress, that mind of yours. And you’re only a pardjinn.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” he said.

  Malek closed his eyes for a moment, then rose to his feet in one single, graceful movement. He frowned at his dirtied hands and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, dusting them off before throwing the square of linen to the floor. He’d lived too long and dealt with too many adversaries to show just how terrified he was, but there was only the thinnest veneer hiding the panic that had bloomed in his gut. She’d been in his head. How the hell had she done that?

  “I want Nalia,” Calar said, her voice hard. “You’re going to summon her. Now.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Malek spread his hands, a mock apology. “She’s a free agent now. No more shackles. No more bottle.”

  For a moment, Calar looked taken aback, but she rallied quickly, one eyebrow raised. “Then you will bring me to her.”

  “Perhaps if you asked nicely,” Malek said. Arrogance was his default and though he didn’t want another demonstration of Calar’s psychic power, he wasn’t ready to admit defeat. He stepped closer, the pain in his skull so great that the room seemed to flicker in and out, like a flashing light bulb. “You may be empress of Arjinna, but this is my realm. My kingdom.”

  Malek fixed his eye on the empress’s. Would his hypersuasion work on her? It’d be risky to try, but he might have to.

  Before he had the chance to call forth his power, Calar smiled and waved her index finger with a tsk-tsk. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

  “I thought you couldn’t read my mind.”

  “I can’t. But I have a few hypersuaders in my employ and I know the look they get, just before they’re about to use their power. It won’t work on me, anyway.”

  He wondered if jinn with psychic abilities were as rare as Nalia had thought.

  “I like you, Malek Alzahabi.” Calar drew closer, her voice low and playful. “I imagine we’re not so very different.” She smelled like a campfire and something else—a dark, sinful scent, dangerously intoxicating.

  “That might be a bit of a stretch.” He tilted his head to the side, studying her. “You’re quite something, I’ll give you that.”

  A year ago, he might have been tempted by her pale skin and dark red lips. The way her eyes glinted like rubies and fresh blood. He used to like bad girls, the ones with the cruel smiles and rough kisses. But not anymore.

  Her lips turned up, a carnal invitation. “You have no idea.”

  Calar reached out and before he could do anything, her hands were pressing against his temples. Malek jolted at the unexpected sensation of the empress’s skin, a burning energy he’d never encountered before. The only jinni he’d ever physically interacted with was Nalia—the feel of her skin against his own had been pure, unadulterated pleasure, something inside him calling to something inside her, satiating a hunger neither of them knew they’d had. But Calar was an entirely different matter. Her chiaan was like being thrown into a volcano, a deluge of malicious energy pulsing into him, igniting his Ifrit nature. Under her skin the worst of him unfurled until all he felt was the anger and the hate and the pleasure that came with winning, no matter the cost. Calar crushed her lips against his. She tasted like the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep and anything, anyone, would do.

  She laughed as her poison-apple lips pulled away. As the connection broke, Malek came back to himself. He stumbled, falling against the wall, drunk with chiaan, his body shaking from the overdose of energy.

  “Where is she?” Calar purred. She walked slowly toward him, feline. Her eyes glinted with a manic light. What the hell had just happened to him?

  “This is absurd,” Malek said. What was Calar’s game? “You’re a jinni, an empress. Surely you can find one girl?”

  “I’m sure you’ll agree that she’s remarkably good at keeping herself hidden.”

  “I’m afraid none of your jinn squabbles concern me.”

  “I could just kill you,” Calar said softly. “But I hate breaking pretty things.”

  Malek shook his head. “Death threats aren’t an effective way to persuade me.”

  Calar leaned close to him, her lips inches from his own. “You’ve felt what I can do.”

  “The answer will always be no,” he said. “I’ll never take you to her. Besides,” he added, “I’ve never liked blondes.”

  Understanding dawned in her eyes. “Love.” She said the word with scorn as she turned away from him. “How very boring. I expected better from you.”

  Bravery wasn’t something he’d needed much of in his lifetime, not with his powers and his general aptitude for cunning. But he was going to need it now.

  Malek shrugged. “I
seem to be disappointing the women in my life a lot lately.” He turned to go, absurdly impossible, yes, but he wasn’t going to just stand there. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  She threw her chiaan against him, its force throwing Malek across the room. He hit the wall before slumping to the ground. The agony came even quicker this time, a hot poker pressing into his skull. His animal scream was a distant roar and he clutched at his head as the lacerating pain intensified until the world turned black and fell away completely. When he came to, Calar was reclining on a velvet settee she’d manifested, a thoughtful expression on her face. The pain was still present, just down enough notches for him to remain conscious.

  “I rather thought that would end you,” she said.

  “I’m pretty hard to kill.”

  Calar stood then, her hands bleeding chiaan. “Usually, I have to be . . . gentle . . . in order to keep my prisoners alive. But you.” She smiled. “I don’t need to be gentle, do I?”

  Malek spit out the blood pooling in his mouth, then grinned. “Just how I like it.”

  It was a game of chicken. He wanted to be the one that didn’t swerve.

  12

  NALIA STOOD AT THE TINY WINDOW IN RAIF AND ZANARI’S room, looking down onto the darkened street below. Malek should have arrived hours ago, but it was too dangerous to go looking for him. They couldn’t risk leading the Ifrit to Saranya’s home, and with soldiers all over the city, the likelihood of finding him without being discovered was small. She and Zanari had managed to fight off the Ifrit in the souk, but they might not be so lucky next time.

  Raif’s sister had already tried to find Malek with her voiqhif, but all she could see was a wooden door, white walls, and a trunk of some kind.

  “He and Saranya are probably just reminiscing over old times,” Zanari said. She was lying on one of the beds, throwing a ball of chiaan up and then stretching it like taffy when it came down.