Blood Passage (Dark Caravan Cycle #2) (10 page)

Malek and Saranya shared a long look. Nalia didn't know what their silent conversation was about, but at the end of it, Saranya sighed.

“Your guide will meet you here tomorrow morning, after the first prayer.”

“We need to leave
now
,” Malek said. “The longer we stay—”

“You want the best, am I right?” Saranya asked.

“Yes,” Nalia said.

“Well, the best is in Libya right now picking up a jinni who ran away from her slave trader. He won't be able to return until morning.”

The midday call to prayer sounded then, the muezzin's voice from the human part of the souk cutting through the tension in the room.

“Now if you'll excuse me,” Saranya said, “I must pray.”

“But this song is for the human god,” Zanari said.

“The jinn gods have never heard the cries of their people
on Earth.” Saranya looked at Nalia as she said this. Nalia could almost feel those shackles on her wrists again. The weight of them. The shame. “How many more jinn need to be on the dark caravan or executed before people start to see the truth?” Saranya continued. “The gods of Arjinna don't care about any of us. Maybe they never have.”

For so long Nalia had forced herself to kill such thoughts: the gods were the gods and that was that. But more and more she found herself wondering: maybe it was true—maybe they didn't care one bit.

ZANARI TRAILED BEHIND NALIA AND MALEK, HER HANDS at her sides, fingers tense and ready to channel
chiaan
, if need be. Earth confused her. It was so big, each place vastly different from the next. In the city where Nalia had lived, there were roads in the sky and people bought food in large, cold buildings. In Morocco, donkeys crowded the roads and skinned animals hung from hooks outside butchers' stalls, flies buzzing around the meat.

Earth had its problems, she knew: Zanari could see them in the beggars on the streets and the thin children in dirty clothing. But something about it called to her, made Zanari feel a sense of possibility. It buzzed inside her, heedless of her responsibilities to the
tavrai
and their cause. Zanari savored the sensation, a live thing, wild and exhilarating. What was the point of staying in Arjinna and dying for a lost cause?
Maybe the Dhoma have the
right idea,
Zanari thought. She wondered what it would be like to stay on Earth and build a life far from the Ifrit. Then she immediately felt guilty. How could she even consider abandoning the dream her father had died for?

She shook her head, scanned her surroundings. Now was not the time for idle thoughts.

They were heading back to the human souk now, with nothing left to do but return to their
riad
and wait. Zanari didn't know where or what Libya was, but she was having a hard time believing there hadn't been another guide to help them get through the desert. She hated having to rely on so many strangers for help. She wondered if Raif would have been as trusting of one of Malek's relatives. Saranya might be helping jinn on the dark caravan, but Jordif had helped a lot of jinn, too.

There was a commotion up ahead and Zanari arched her neck to see what the jinn were shouting about. Moments later, a massive horse pulling a cart pushed past the crowd. The horse's owner struggled to maintain control as the animal whinnied, straining against the reins. A little boy, not much older than five summers, was standing in the horse's path, transfixed. The horse reared its forelegs, its hooves inches above the boy's head. Someone screamed and then Zanari saw it—a burst of golden
chiaan
that shoved the boy out of the horse's path, just as its hooves came crashing down on the cobblestone street.

Nalia's head scarf slipped down, her birthmark plainly visible as she bent to help the child. A shopkeeper across the street stared intently at Nalia's face. The jinni walked a few paces away and sent a stream of
chiaan
in the air: red. An Ifrit signal.

“Nalia!” Zanari shouted. She pointed to the signal in the sky.

Malek was by Nalia's side at once, pulling her into a side street. Zanari followed and they hurtled through the souk, not stopping until they found a lonely archway far from the main road.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” Nalia was saying when Zanari caught up with them.

“You should have let me help you put the damn thing on,” Malek said. Nalia's scarf fell to the cobblestones at their feet.

The air shifted, as though it were a dragon awaking from its nap.

“Did you feel that?” Zanari murmured.

“Fire and blood.” Nalia flexed her fingers. “Well, I guess they know we're in Morocco.”

The energy was scalding and everywhere all at once.

“Do we have a plan?” Zanari asked.

“Yes,” Nalia said. “Kill as many as you can.”

“Winner buys drinks?”

“Definitely.” For a second, it was like being back at home, just before a skirmish.

Maybe Nalia
could
fit in with the tavrai.

Around the corner, Zanari could see jinn fleeing in all directions. The vibrant market filled with shouts and the cries of young children. Tables laden with Arjinnan spices, spelled amulets, and bolts of sea silk crashed to the ground as the panicked crowd surged toward exits and doorways. The air became thick with rainbow clouds of evanescence as Djan, Shaitan, and Marid jinn evanesced from the souk. Most of them, Zanari guessed, had heard the stories of the carnage the Ifrit
left behind, or they had witnessed it firsthand.

The evanescence nearest them materialized into the body of an Ifrit soldier who was twice the size of the horse Nalia had just saved the child from. His eyes lit up as he recognized her.

The Ifrit gave them a mock salute. “Got an order to capture or kill,” he said. His voice was gravel and the sound of things crushing. “I like to kill.”

Nalia raised her hands, palms out. “So do we.”

The Ifrit sent a ball of flame toward them before charging. Out of the corner of her eye, Zanari caught a blur of motion. Nalia.

In seconds she was behind the Ifrit, lacerating his back with razor-thin bursts of
chiaan.
Her face glowed from the magic within her. It was the first time Zanari had seen Nalia in action.
No wonder the Ghan Aisouri were able to rule us so easily.

The Ifrit soldier didn't stand a chance. He screamed and as he toppled forward, Nalia drove the point of her dagger into the beast's neck. First flesh, then bone, gave way.

Nalia grimaced as the blood poured out, but Zanari kicked the soldier for good measure as she pulled the knife out of the body. She wiped the blood on her pants and handed it to Nalia; one less monster to kill the
tavrai.

Malek was staring at Nalia as though he'd never seen her before. And it was true: he'd never seen
this
Nalia before.

“Lucky for you she granted that amulet,” Zanari said to him. She had no doubt Nalia would have made short work of Malek if she could.

Malek ignored her and moved toward Nalia. He'd noticed
what Zanari hadn't—Nalia's pale face as she looked down at the dead Ifrit. “Are you all right?”

This was a different Malek, softer—kind, even.
Gods, he really cares for her,
Zanari thought with disgust.

At the sound of his voice, Nalia thrust her dagger back into its holster and gave a toss of her head. “I'm fine.”

Up ahead, a wall of crimson smoke descended on the souk.

“We need to evanesce,” Zanari said. The Ifrit were closing in, more than even Nalia would be able to handle—they had to get back to the human section of the medina.

“I can't.” Nalia gestured to Malek, who stood just behind her. “You go ahead. I'll catch up.”

“I know the city,” Malek said. “I'll be fine. Distract them so I can get away and I'll meet you back at the
riad
.”

Nalia glanced from Malek to the Ifrit, then nodded. “Wait until we've got them running before you head back.” She turned to Zanari. “Ready to piss off some Ifrit?”

Zanari manifested a second scimitar so that she held one in each hand. “That's what I was born for.”

Malek leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette as though he could care less that highly trained killers were a block away.

Nalia rolled her eyes. “Let's go.”

They evanesced so that they stood on the opposite side of the street, just steps away from a trio of Ifrit.

“Looking for us?” Nalia called to the nearest soldier.

As expected, he gave chase. Zanari knew Malek was slipping down a side street, safe, while she and Nalia sprinted down a narrow cobblestoned alley, sending painful rays of magic over their
shoulders every few seconds at the Ifrit who pursued them.

“I can't believe we're trying to save his
pardjinn
ass,” Zanari said.

Fire rained down as the Ifrit closed in on their prey. Nalia directed her
chiaan
into a well and the water flew out, creating a protective curtain that doused the flames.

“Nice,” she said, taking in the wall of water. Zanari shook her head in awe—to have the power to channel every element!

“I need more access to the wind,” Nalia said, motioning to a nearby roof. She evanesced, her body dissolving into the air just as an Ifrit charged through her wall of water. Zanari sent a stream of
chiaan
into the beast's chest, an instant kill, then she shifted her body into a cloud of jade smoke and joined Nalia on the roof.

“Well, you've made this easy,” a voice behind them said.

Zanari turned. A group of Ifrit had assembled on the roof, and they hadn't come alone.

Goose bumps scattered across Zanari's skin as she took in the beast that strained on the soldier's leash. “Shit,” she muttered.

The
s'arawq
were hideous creatures, half cobra, half scorpion, and the size of a lion. One bite could kill, and a lash from its tail could cut a jinni in half. The monster
hissed, exposing needle-thin teeth framed by a thick, reptilian hood. Beside her, Zanari felt Nalia go very still.

Rather than backing away from the beast, Nalia began moving toward it, her eyes locked on the creature while she mimicked its swaying movement. The Ifrit let go of the leash and the
s'arawq
snapped its neck back, then darted forward in a lightning-quick movement.

But Nalia was faster.

She launched into the air, slicing her dagger clean across the beast's throat. As the
s'arawq
's
head detached from its body, Nalia landed beside its Ifrit caretaker and pushed him off the roof with a burst of
chiaan.
His scream ended with an abrupt thud. In seconds, she was beside Zanari. The other two Ifrit were still staring at her, dumbstruck.

“Let's get out of here,” Nalia said.

She leaped over the gap between the roof they were on and the one beside it, her body floating through the air before landing gracefully on the other side. Zanari took a running start, catapulting to where Nalia stood waiting for her. As soon as she felt solid ground beneath her feet, Zanari started to run, following Nalia across the flat roofs of Marrakech. They ducked beneath clothing lines and jumped over chairs and strange discs that Nalia had once said were satellite dishes, whatever that meant, all the while dodging the bullets of
chiaan
the Ifrit sent their way.

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.”

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 jinni 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.