Blood Passage (Dark Caravan Cycle #2) (17 page)

“It is,” Raif agreed. He turned to the shape shifters. “I'm sure you'd be able to find them. We believe they might be lost.”

“I see no problem with that,” the same jinni said, her eyes flashing.

“What I think my wife, Yezhud, is trying to say,” Samar began, gesturing to the jinni who'd spoken, “is that we see no reason why our ancestors' graves should be disturbed. Your problem has nothing to do with us. We Dhoma keep to ourselves. Surely you know that.”

Raif bristled. “Trust me, the last thing you want is for this
pardjinn
to get ahold of the sigil. He's an evil man and will bring suffering to every jinni on Earth. If I don't get the ring, he will. She has to grant his wish. If Malek Alzahabi puts on that ring, this will have plenty to do with you.”

Samar sat up straighter. “Malek Alzahabi?”

Raif nodded. “Do I have your attention now?”

The jinn were silent, but from their worried expressions he
could tell that they knew exactly who Malek was and what he was capable of.

“You can stop the act, brother,” Raif said. “You wanted honesty and I gave you honesty. I expect the same from you. We both know you at least have an idea of what's in that cave. Otherwise you wouldn't have called this meeting.”

The Dhoma leader looked at the jinni beside him, a wizened man with a hunched back and arthritic hands. The elderly jinni nodded.

“What do you know of the sigil?” Samar asked.

“It's a powerful ring, worn by the human king Solomon,” Raif said. “Anyone who wears it will be able to control all the jinn in his or her realm. Solomon wore it for many years, and the jinn under his rule built his temples and palaces, fought his wars, and obeyed his every command.”

“Before the Ghan Aisouri were killed in the coup, we learned from one of our spies in the palace that the legend of Antharoe is true,” Zanari said. “
She
was the one who took the ring off Solomon's finger when he died. Then she brought it to the City of Brass and hid it, protecting it in a cave beneath the city so that no one but a Ghan Aisouri could enter.”

“And burying our ancestors forever!” cried one of the council members.

“You see,” Samar said, “there's a bit more to the story than what you know. It is true that Solomon wore the ring and enslaved all the jinn on Earth. But some of them rebelled. As punishment, he sent thousands of his jinn from Jerusalem to the land we live in now. He wanted them to build a great city in the west—the
Medina al-Nouhas, the City of Brass. On the day the city was finished, the jinn disappeared. No one has seen them since. Some say they are imprisoned inside the city, in brass bottles.”

“
Gods
,” Zanari said.

Samar leaned forward. “This is why we are called the Dhoma—
the forgotten
: because when our ancestors cried out to Arjinna, begging the Ghan Aisouri to help us find our brethren, they refused. They said it was our fault we left Arjinna and that this was what happened to jinn who chose Earth. By the time Solomon died and the remaining jinn on Earth were free to find their loved ones imprisoned in the City of Brass, it had already been covered by a great sandstorm, unlike any Earth has ever seen. We've tried to move the sand around the dune, but no matter how many Djan pour their
chiaan
into it, not a grain will move.”

Raif knew exactly what had happened—a great sandstorm? No way. It was Antharoe, the Ghan Aisouri protectoress of the ring, who'd seen fit to cover the city with the
Erg Al-Barq.
The lightning dune. Brilliant.
Evil,
he thought,
but brilliant.

“And then, of course, there are the
Sakhim
,” Samar continued, “put there as a punishment by Solomon to be the eternal guardians of his city. They were a group of human soldiers led by a man named Sakhr who stole the ring and wore it for a short time before Solomon managed to retrieve it. We've lost many Dhoma in the attempt to rescue our ancestors because of those cursed humans.”

“The Ifrit are no better,” Raif said. “They are just as cruel as the Ghan Aisouri, crueler even. They love nothing more than
to spill innocent blood. They even use ghouls. If we can get the sigil—”

“And what?” a council member across the table asked. “Then
you
can wear the ring?”

“I wouldn't wear it,” Raif said.
Not unless I have to.
“If Calar knows it's in my possession, she'll have no choice but to return to Ithkar with her soldiers.”

“But she'll be back—or some other enemy will take the Ifrit's place,” Samar said. “This is the way of jinn nature—human nature, too. The ring—”

“You don't know what it's like over there!” Raif roared. He stood, glaring down at the Dhoma before him. The guards in the back moved forward, their scimitars gleaming in the candlelight. Raif paid them no mind. “The people of Arjinna are nothing more than frightened mice hiding in whatever hole they can find. The Ifrit have already exterminated one race and they won't hesitate to get rid of the rest of us. My
tavrai
can't hold on any longer. It's the end.”

“Then come to Earth,” one of the jinn sitting at the council table said. Raif turned. She was young and wore the robes of a healer. A Shaitan, with almond eyes and chestnut skin. “This is why our ancestors left Arjinna in the first place, when the Ghan Aisouri gained control. They refused to swear allegiance and were given a choice: death or banishment. They chose Earth.” She swept her arm out, toward the entrance to the tent. “As you can see, we are a safe and happy people now. Join us.”

“You have to hide in the middle of a desert, living in a village
protected by a
bisahm
,” Raif said. “I have it on good authority that the Ifrit regularly raid your Dhoma camps, looking for slaves on the dark caravan, even stealing some of your own jinn to sell to human masters. You're in this war, whether you like it or not. Help the revolution so that we can all go home.”

It was silent, save for the patter of sand blowing against the tent.

“He speaks truth,” said the old jinni. “Our peace has been shattered many times in recent years. Our way of life is dying. Maybe it is time, as the young jinni warrior says, to return to the land of our gods.”

There was an uproar as every voice in the room battled to be heard.

“I'd say this is going well,” Zanari said under her breath.

“As well as can be expected.”

Samar stood, towering over the table.
“Silence!”
Immediately, the room quieted. He turned to Raif. “This Ghan Aisouri. She is certain she can enter the cave?”

Raif nodded.
“Yes.”

The council members looked at one another. Despite being Dhoma, this meant something to them. Raif needed to capitalize on that somehow.

“Why is this Ghan Aisouri willing to help you?” Yezhud, the jinni with the Djan eyes and dark skin, asked. She wasn't on the council, but that didn't seem to stop her from speaking, most likely because she was Samar's wife and was accustomed to having her voice heard.

“We made a deal,” Raif said. “I agreed to help free her from her
pardjinn
master in exchange for the sigil.”

“It seems to me,” a jinni near the end of the table said, “that what our focus should be is on keeping this Ghan Aisouri
out
of the cave.”

“I think you're not seeing something, brother,” Raif said, an idea suddenly forming. “If we get into the cave, then your ancestors—the ones in the bottles—we can free them.”

“They're long dead,” said one of the council members. “No one can survive a bottle that long.”

“Not if the bottles weren't lined with iron,” Samar said, his voice becoming excited. “Bottle magic is complicated, but I know this much: a jinni stops aging the moment they're placed in a bottle. They can live in there indefinitely. It's the iron that kills them.”

“You're saying that you think we can go into that cave and I'll be able to find my
great-grandfather
as a young jinni, with his whole life ahead of him?” one of the council members asked.

Raif nodded. “That's exactly what he's saying. But if we don't hurry, that Ghan Aisouri I was telling you about? She's sick and if she doesn't get help soon, none of us are getting into that cave.”

MALEK HELD NALIA IN HIS ARMS AS THE SUN ROSE OVER the dunes. Ripples of sand surrounded them, as though they were stranded in the middle of a golden sea, the last two living creatures on Earth.

“Wake up,
hayati
,
please,” he whispered.

He'd been saying that for hours. She wouldn't. Sometime in the frigid night she'd fallen asleep curled against him, then retreated into some hidden place within herself that he couldn't reach.

He watched the sunlight spread across her pale face. She looked at peace and there was really no point in waking her. If she opened her eyes, he'd have nothing to offer: no food, no water, no shelter. Maybe it was better this way. The last time he'd watched Nalia sleep was after she'd had a nightmare about Haran, the
ghoul that had nearly killed her. Strange that after living so long the happiest night of his life had only been a week ago. He'd believed that she wanted him, needed him. All lies, he knew that now. But it had felt so real. For nearly an hour, he'd watched her, breathless and terrified because no one had ever had such an effect on him. He'd known it was foolish, to let himself feel that way, but he'd been powerless against the pull of her
chiaan
. The feel of her in his arms.

Their only hope was that someone other than the Ifrit would find them, and soon. A Berber nomad, one of the Dhoma. Unless, by some miracle, Nalia woke and her
chiaan
returned, there was nothing to be done. It was pointless to walk. Though he had a vague sense of direction based on the sun, he could only carry her for so long.

A shadow swept across the sand and Malek looked up—a flock of strange desert birds. They circled over him, like vultures spying carrion.

“Off with you!” Malek shouted. He grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it at the creatures, but they swooped out of range, then settled on the ridge of a nearby dune. Seven birds. One of them flew off, in the opposite direction of the sun. It was eerie, these huge black beasts that stared him down. As if he needed any more problems.

Once the sun crested over the horizon, Malek picked Nalia up and carefully descended the dune they'd hiked up to late the night before. He found some shade, then lay against the dune, holding her to his chest. He pulled off the kaffiyeh
that had been twisted around his neck and draped the checkered scarf over
them. It was meager protection against the elements, but it was all he had. Malek closed his eyes and waited for sleep, focusing on the beat of Nalia's heart and her faint breath on his neck.

Zanari stood over the sleeping couple. She was glad Raif wasn't here to see this: Malek holding Nalia, her head on his chest. Samar had insisted on one of the Djan'Urbis staying at the camp as insurance against escape. Raif had been more than happy to let Zanari be the one to go, though she could tell by his restlessness that he was worried. Nalia had killed his best friend but it was eating him up, not knowing if she would be okay.

The
salfit
and the slave owner,
she thought.
They deserve each other.
Zanari lifted her foot and sent the toe of her boot into Malek's ribs.

He jolted up with a shouted curse in Arabic, the kaffiyeh
slipping from his face. Nalia fell to the sand, her eyes remaining closed. Zanari couldn't tell what was wrong with her. She didn't look injured.

“Get up,” she said. She wore a pair of sunglasses the Dhoma had given her, in order to more easily avoid any chance of Malek making use of his hypersuasion again.

“Where the hell have you
been
?” he growled. His voice was raspy, his lips chapped. He wore dirty jeans and a torn T-shirt. She'd never seen him look like anything less than the most powerful human in the world.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Zanari said. “I had no idea you'd miss us,
what with you trying to kill me and all.”

Malek looked down at Nalia and gently lifted her into his arms. She hung, limp and lifeless.

“What's wrong with her?” Zanari said.

Just a few days ago she and Nalia had been fighting side by side. Willing to bleed for one another. But Nalia had broken Raif's heart and killed someone Zanari had loved. There was no going back from that. So why did it hurt to see Nalia like this?

“I'm not saying another word until you give me water,” Malek said. “A lot of it.”

Zanari turned and motioned for him to follow her to the
Sun Chaser
.

“A
ship
?” Malek said as they neared the lowered gangplank.

“I thought you weren't saying another word until you had water. I liked that policy.”

“Enjoy your little power trip while it lasts, Zanari. I assure you it'll be short lived.”

Zanari turned and flicked her thumb across the tip of her nose, the jinn version of flipping someone off.

“I always thought you Djan were a classy bunch,” Malek said.

She was surprised he knew what the gesture meant. Then again, it wasn't hard to imagine Malek giving the jinn he encountered cause to do the same.

“It's a Dhoma sand ship,” she said. “I'm taking you to their camp. There's a healer there, and you'll be safe from the Ifrit until Nalia recovers.”

“You're guests of the Dhoma?”

“That's one way of looking at it,” she said.

Samar leaned over the railing of the ship. “What's wrong with her?” he asked.

Malek sighed. “Water. Then I'll explain.”

They set sail immediately. The Shaitan Dhoma on the crew raised their hands to the sky, their palms turning the color of burnished gold as they called for the power of air. A steady gale whipped over the desert and as the sails caught the wind, Zanari leaned against the mast, using it to keep her balance as the ship navigated the dunes.

Malek drank as much water as the Marid jinn on the ship would manifest for him, then poured it over his face and head. Nalia lay on a pile of blankets beside him, still and lifeless.

“Thought you'd be in the cave by now,” Malek said, once he'd finally finished.

“Turned out to be a little more difficult to get inside than we thought,” Zanari said. “Don't think that gives you an advantage,
pardjinn.
”

He raised his eyebrows. “I always have the advantage.”

“Really? Sitting in the middle of the Sahara, waiting to die?”

“I can't die.” He smiled and pointed his index finger at her. “That's an advantage, wouldn't you say?”

Zanari snorted. “Your arrogance knows absolutely no bounds. One of these days, the gods are gonna catch up with you.”

“Then they'll have to be a lot faster than they've been thus far.”

Zanari shook her head. “Okay, you've had enough time to blaspheme the gods and drink a lake's worth of water. Now tell me what happened. You're supposed to have a Dhoma guide and
a functioning Nalia, and I see neither,” she said.

Malek counted off on his fingers, his eyes darkening as he described each new horror. “Calar spent the better part of a day torturing me—lovely woman, I can see why your realm is doing so well right now. Apparently, she's a bit like you.”

“Like me? What the hell's
that
supposed to mean?”

“A
voiqhif
of sorts. Has some mental magic. Basically she can get in your head and fuck it all up to hell.”

Zanari stared. “I knew she could read minds after Nalia recognized her in my drawing, but . . . fire and blood
.
”

“Well, blood and a little bit of fire, later on, but I'm getting ahead of myself,” Malek continued. His voice was tight, like he was stretched thin, ready to break. All the calm and swagger was gone, leaving only a man on the verge of a breakdown. “Nalia's brother paid a visit to my cell.”

“Wait.
Bashil
is in Morocco?”

“
Was
,
not
is.
”

As Malek narrated the events of the past day in a brief, strained monologue, Zanari finally understood why Nalia wasn't waking up.

“What can I say?” he finished. “It's been a pretty shitty twenty-four hours, Zanari.”

Zanari closed her eyes. She hated how much it hurt, hearing what had happened to Nalia. She wanted to think it was fair, that somehow the gods had seen fit to dole out their own form of justice, linking Kir and Bashil. But the cruel, gruesome death of an innocent boy was never something to feel satisfaction over. Gods, if she'd lost Raif that way . . .

They passed the rest of the journey in an uneasy silence as the
Sun Chaser
glided across the Sahara. The
fawzel
flew in two formations: one ahead of the ship and one behind. Zanari hoped they could make it to the Dhoma camp before any Ifrit patrolling the desert caught sight of them.

The peaks of the Dhoma's tents came into view, a burst of life and color on the barren landscape. Zanari still had trouble believing the structures were made of canvas. Some were two or three stories and leaned like drunken men. Many had smoke from cooking fires coming out of the roofs or jinn calling to one another from their windows. And over it all, the shimmering
bisahm.

“We're here,” Zanari said.

“Will your brother be gracing us with his presence?” Malek asked.

Zanari glanced at Nalia.
He's going to lose his mind.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she said.

The Shaitan sailors calmed the wind, and Samar threw an anchor over the side of the ship. At the bottom of the gangplank stood the jinni from the council room who'd worn the white robes of a healer.

“I'm told we have a Ghan Aisouri in need of care,” she said. Her raven hair was pulled back in a loose bun and she reached out a hand as Malek neared with Nalia.

“The injury is in her mind, I think,” Zanari said. “She lost her brother.”

“I'll do what I can.” The healer's golden eyes caught on Zanari's, and Zanari blushed, suddenly breathless. “I'm Phara, by the way,” the healer said.

Zanari placed her hand over her heart in greeting. “Zanari. Um. Djan'Urbi.”

“I know.” Phara smiled once more, then turned to Malek, frowning. All the Dhoma knew he'd been a slave owner. Their camp was a stop on the underground caravan, so this didn't sit well with them. “Follow me.”

Zanari walked behind them, dazed. She didn't need this kind of distraction, a jinni who made her light-headed just by looking at her. Besides, it never ended well. Male, female, it didn't matter. Anyone Zanari thought she'd had a connection with turned out to want her brother and his power more.

She scanned the village for Raif. She found him sitting in their tent, his head in his hands.

“Hey, little brother.”

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “How is she?”

Zanari sat on the floor opposite him. “I'll tell you, but I want you to promise me something.”

“Zanari—”

“Listen. I know you still love her. Of course you do, love doesn't just go away like that.” She snapped her fingers. “But you can't forget who she is and what she's done.”

“How. Is. She?”

“It's bad.” She took his hand. “Her brother. Calar killed him in front of Nalia. It was really awful, Raif. She's alive, but . . . she hasn't woken up. Malek says her
chiaan
has disappeared.”

She could feel Raif's own
chiaan
plummet, as though someone had cut him, bleeding the magic out.

“I shouldn't have left,” he whispered. “Why did I—”

“Because
she's a murderer.
Because you need to be the leader of the revolution now, not a lovesick boy.” Zanari stood up, suddenly enraged. She was tired of Nalia, tired of the power she had over Zanari's family. “Her brother died.
All
your brothers are dying.”

She swept past him, out of the tent, and across the camp. She didn't stop until she reached the lake, that impossible body of fresh water nestled between two mountain-high dunes.

It had always been like this, their whole lives: Zanari keeping her brother sane, Zanari doing whatever her brother wanted, Zanari cleaning up his messes.

She was the eldest Djan'Urbi child. But the
tavrai
hadn't given a second thought to passing over Zanari, not to mention her mother. Raif had only been fifteen summers old when Dthar Djan'Urbi died, but he was chosen as the next leader without question. He'd always felt everything too much, had never been comfortable in their father's shoes. Every day he was trying to impress a ghost.

It didn't matter that Zanari had a power few jinn possessed. It didn't matter that she was far more levelheaded or a better strategizer or the only one in her family capable of making the tough choices. What mattered was that she wasn't a son. The Djan had always been patriarchal—even the barbaric Ifrit had no qualm choosing a young female to lead them in the bloodiest stage of the war yet.

She thought about what Phara, the healer, had said in the council meeting the night before:
Join us.

The Dhoma were free jinn, living in relative peace. What was stopping Zanari from leaving Arjinna forever, just as they had? She wasn't sure she knew anymore.