Blood Passage (Dark Caravan Cycle #2) (7 page)

Raif pointed to the gloves on Jordif's hands. They were made of solid iron, painful and highly effective. It kept him from accessing his
chiaan
and had the added side effect of intense nausea.

“Those gloves,” Raif said, “are
nothing
compared to what the jinn on the dark caravan deal with. Stuffed into bottles lined with iron, drugged, raped—gods know what else happens to them. Do you know how many jinn die on the journey through the portal alone?”

Young jinn were especially sensitive to iron. Many of the children sold on the dark caravan didn't have the strength to evanesce out of the bottle when their masters summoned them. They remained in their tiny prisons, slowly starving to death.

“And the ones who do survive—you might as well be running a prostitution ring,” Raif continued, his anger rising. How could he have overlooked the dark caravan all this time? It had taken falling in love with one of its victims to open his eyes to just how
bad things were. “Have you heard of what their masters do to them?” he said.

He thought of the way Malek looked at Nalia, like she was a meal he wanted to savor.

Jordif's eyes grew hard. “You're just a
boy
, you know nothing about what it takes to survive centuries of Ifrit and Ghan Aisouri oppression.” Jordif struggled forward, but Raif's soldiers held him back. “I did what I had to do to save the few jinn who'd managed to escape. If I hadn't, there'd be nowhere to run. The Ifrit wanted control of Earth; I convinced them to let it remain free. Everything has a price among us, you know that. Someone had to pay it. So go ahead and kill me, you little
skag.
But all you're doing is unleashing total Ifrit control on Earth.”

Jordif hurled a wad of spit in Raif's direction, but it landed short. Raif turned to one of the jinn holding on to Jordif and gave a slight nod. The jinni's fist landed on Jordif's nose, breaking it. Jordif cried out as blood gushed down his face.

“String him up,” Raif said.

“No trial, huh?” Shirin murmured as the
tavrai
pulled Jordif toward the gallows.

“Fuck it.”

Shirin gave him a sidelong glance. “Missed you,” she said, an approving smile on her face. “Thought all this Ghan Aisouri business had made you soft.”

“I have my priorities.”

But this thing with Jordif was personal and he knew it. A shred of doubt crept in and for a second, as his soldiers placed the noose over Jordif's neck, Raif wondered if he'd made the wrong
decision. Was he making life worse for the jinn who'd sought Earth as a refuge?

Then he thought of Nalia, huddled inside a bottle Malek had worn around his neck so that he could carry her with him like some exotic pet. Nalia, taken from her home, her brother.

“You've become the monsters you're fighting,” Jordif gasped. “Your father would be ashamed of you, Raif Djan'Urbi.
Ashamed.
”

“My father believed in justice,” Raif said, his face expressionless. “This is the people's justice.” Hatred, hot and thick, ran through him, taking over his senses, drowning his
chiaan.
“May the gods never forgive you.”

His resolve hardened, strong enough for him to watch as his soldiers cut off the older jinni's hands. Jordif screamed, his eyes never leaving Raif's.

One of the
tavrai
stepped forward. “It's time for the last words.”

Jordif opened his mouth to speak, but Raif stepped forward and kicked the stool out from under the traitor's feet.

“That's a privilege he doesn't deserve,” Raif said.

They'd tied the rope so that Jordif's neck wouldn't break right away. Raif watched as the dying jinni struggled against the rope, his bloodied stumps splattering the soft sand below him. There were the gurgling, choking sounds of death, the bulging eyes that Raif forced himself to look into. Then it was over.

Jordif's body swayed under the flat-topped tree just as the sun broke over the surrounding sand dunes, bathing the desert in golden light. Raif let out the breath he'd been holding and looked away, to where the glowing orange disk burst into the sky.

You've become the monsters you're fighting.
Was it true? It couldn't be, not if Nalia loved him. But the words had burrowed under his skin.

“Breakfast?” Shirin asked brightly.

NALIA WALKED ALONG THE BALCONY THAT BORDERED the second-floor rooms, one hand skimming the smooth wooden railing. Down below, a small group of tourists ate breakfast, chattering in various languages. Nalia eyed the buffet table set up near the splash pool: Moroccan crepes,
fried and thick, fresh yogurt with pomegranate seeds, and an assortment of cheese and olives. Her stomach growled, but she ignored the hunger. First, she had to assure Raif that she'd survived her night with Malek unscathed. She shivered and rubbed at the goose bumps on her flesh, angry all over again about her body's betrayal last night. Malek's words, taunting:
when you shivered just now—it wasn't because you were cold
. She didn't want Malek, and the idea that he thought she did sickened her. After a lifetime of not being touched, her body was hungry for affection and it didn't care
where that came from. But Nalia cared. She wanted Raif's skin against her own,
his
hands on her body. No one else's.

But she was a murderer. Maybe all she deserved was the touch of Malek's equally bloody hands.

You have to tell him,
Nalia thought. The knowledge that she'd killed Raif's best friend weighed heavily on her. She'd made the connection on the tarmac, just as they were about to leave LA. The Kir her mother had forced her to kill was the Kir that had been like a brother to Raif. It was all she'd thought about on the flight to Morocco, but they hadn't had a chance to be alone and it wasn't a conversation Nalia wanted an audience for. She knew it would be smart to wait until they'd gotten the sigil, but she couldn't bear to have this between them. Every time she was near Raif, Nalia felt like she was lying to him. She didn't deserve the tender look he gave her when no one was looking or the unspoken promises that lay beneath all their conversations.

Now she stood before the door to his room, suddenly nervous. Except for a few stolen moments in Malek's mansion as they were preparing to flee the oncoming Ifrit, Nalia hadn't been alone with Raif since before she stole her bottle from Malek. So much had happened since then—the unbinding, their flight to Morocco, killing an Ifrit in the Djemaa.

Before she could knock, the door swung open and Zanari motioned her inside.

“How long were you going to stand there?” Zanari asked.

“I was testing your psychic powers.”

“Uh-huh.”

Zanari was a remote viewer; she could see things happening
thousands of miles away, so it wasn't hard for her to know someone was standing outside her door. Nalia was glad Zanari couldn't read minds, especially now, when her confession about Kir was all Nalia could think about.

“Where's Raif?” Nalia asked, glancing around the room. It was similar to the one she shared with Malek, steeped in the lush elegance of Moroccan decor: bright, handwoven carpets, carved bedposts, and colorful lamps.

Zanari nodded toward the closed bathroom door. “He just got back from his meeting and now he's in the shower. Should be finished soon.”

“His meeting?”

Zanari sat on one of the unmade beds as she tied the laces on her boots. “Revolution stuff. I asked, but he didn't want to talk about it.” She grasped the velvet pouch around her neck and held it open as she waved her hand over a circle of earth on the room's wooden floor. The dirt shot into the pouch, a rainbow of earth.

In order to best access her
voiqhif,
Zanari sat in a
chiaan
-infused circle of earth that magnified her ability to follow the signal lines connecting her to her targets. For Zanari, it was as though the universe were composed of intersecting highways that her psyche could travel along, stopping whenever she saw someone or something of interest.

“See any movement from the Ifrit?” Nalia asked.

“There are several still in Los Angeles—they've posted a guard at Malek's house, much good it will do them. There are definitely soldiers in Morocco who are focused on finding you, but nobody seems to have any leads, thank the gods. They have a
picture of you in their minds, but it's an old one, from before the coup. They're mostly looking for a jinni with your birthmark—just like Haran.”

Nalia glanced at the bathroom door. Raif had refused to consider going on ahead, but maybe Zanari would listen to reason. “You guys have to leave us—get the sigil. It's probably only a matter of time before they find me. And the longer Raif stays in Marrakech, the more likely it is he'll be recognized. We can't fight off the whole Ifrit army.”

Zanari sighed. “Honestly? I totally agree with you. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd feel terrible leaving you alone with Malek, but the thought of him getting the sigil instead of Raif . . .”

“I know. What Malek said last night—it's true,” Nalia said. “The wish's magic is in
his
favor, not Raif's. I honestly have no idea what will happen in that cave.”

“Gods. I keep picturing them both running toward the damn thing,” Zanari said.

“Please tell me you two have some kind of plan.” Nalia held up her hand. “
Don't
tell me the plan. Just tell me you have one.”

Zanari grimaced. “Um. We're working on that. It involves running and hitting.”

Nalia closed her eyes. “Why is he so godsdamned stubborn?”

“I think my brother's afraid that if he leaves you now, he'll never see you again. I think that would kill him.”

Nalia wanted to deny it, but all she could do was nod. Nothing was guaranteed. She'd be lucky to get out of Morocco alive.

Zanari stood and grabbed her room key, then turned toward
the door. “I'm going downstairs to get some food—want anything?”

Nalia's eyes flicked to the closed bathroom door, panicked. “I'll come with you. I hardly ate any dinner.”

Coward,
she thought. If she was alone with Raif, she'd have to tell him about Kir. And she couldn't bear to have him look at her with disgust or hatred. Nalia wasn't ready for that. Not ever, but especially not now, when everything in her life was so uncertain.

Zanari rolled her eyes. “Sister, you don't have to play the blushing maiden, okay? When you and Raif are ready, come find me.” She gave Nalia a wave and was out the door without another word.

Nalia sat on the edge of Zanari's bed, staring at the bathroom door.
Raif
. Tendrils of steam snuck out from beneath it, like the tentacles of a jellyfish
.
A war raged inside her: tell him, don't tell him. She didn't know what to do. She longed for Thatur, her gryphon, who had always counseled her.

She stood, restless, and crossed to the window that looked onto the street below. Children on bicycles clattered over the cobblestones, women clothed in bright kaftans carried shopping bags heavy with fresh bread. Shopkeepers began raising the metal shutters that covered their stores, where Nalia caught a peek of bolts of cloth and mannequins wearing head scarves. A little boy skipped by, singing a song in Arabic. His smile reminded her of Bashil, and the hole inside her grew wider, deeper.

The bathroom door opened, and the room filled with the scent of the
riad
's
rich musk soap. Nalia could feel Raif behind
her, his heat and energy whispering to her in a wordless language only they knew. She was suddenly terrified to turn around. If she looked at him, she wouldn't be able to say what she needed to.

I killed your best friend,
she thought.
I killed Kir.
No.
I was
forced
to kill—

“I was going crazy last night, imagining him in that room with you,” Raif whispered, his lips against her neck. His hands slid down her arms and Nalia leaned into him, even though she knew she shouldn't. Her confession retreated as his
chiaan
connected to hers, electric. Raif turned her around so that she was facing him. He made no effort to disguise the want in his eyes.

Nalia rested her hands on Raif's bare chest, a thrill running through her as she felt his heart beating fast and sure under her skin.

“Raif, nothing happened.”

“What if he'd tried—”

Nalia reached up and pressed a finger against his lips. “I've got a pretty good uppercut. You never need to worry about me around him.” She had a flash of Malek pushing her onto her back, his lips a breath from her own. “Now that he's not my master, Malek is nothing but a
pardjinn
I owe a wish to
.
”

It was true that she was stronger than Malek, but her former master didn't fight like other people; he fought the mind and heart. He would use the worst parts of Nalia against herself, like he had last night.

Now,
she thought. She'd tell Raif the truth and he'd hate her for it but at least it'd finally be out in the open.

“Raif—”

“They found Jordif,” he said softly.

She stiffened. “Where?”

“Someplace called South America,” he said. “We executed him this morning.”

Nalia's eyes widened. “That fast?”

Raif nodded. She let that sink in for a moment. It was something like justice, but it didn't satisfy. She wasn't sure if anything would.

“You know what an evil part of me wishes?” she said.

The Ifrit part,
she thought to herself. As the only jinni left that had access to all four elements, it meant that Nalia shared the fire her enemies drew strength from.

“Hmm?” Raif tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, his rough fingers grazing her cheek.

She looked at the scars around her wrists, reminders of her slavery that would never go away. “I wish you had put him on the dark caravan. Made him a slave to someone like Sergei Federov.
That's
what he deserves. Death is too easy.”

How many times had she wished for her own death? Haunted by the massacre of her people, forced to obey Malek's every whim and subject to the torture of the bottle—death had always seemed kind. A black-cloaked angel of mercy.

“Who's Sergei Federov?”

“One of Malek's business partners. He's . . .” She shivered. Eyes like the Taiga in winter, soul like the bottom of a deep well.
Yes,
she thought,
that would be justice.

“Jordif received a traitor's death,” Raif said. “His punishment will never end.”

Nalia's breath caught. To have your body pecked at by birds, to forever roam the shadowlands, deprived of the ritual burning that set your soul free . . . she almost felt sorry for Jordif. But then she thought of the horror of slavery, of the bottle, and of all the masters who took advantage of their jinn. Nalia had been one of the only jinn she knew whose master hadn't forced her to sleep with him—in that, at least, she'd been lucky. Malek could be cruel, but he wasn't a rapist. Though last night, she hadn't been so sure, not at first.

“Laerta,”
Raif whispered.
Come here.

He drew her to him so that her heart pressed against his chest. He smelled like the Forest of Sighs, where the revolutionaries made their home: grass and trees and good, clean dirt.

“I'm so tired of everything,” she said. “I just want to get my brother.”

“I know,” he whispered against her hair.

“I wish . . .” Nalia sighed. Not even she could get herself out of having to fulfill Malek's wish.

She felt Raif's
chiaan
wrap around her like a soft blanket, a bright, restless energy that had begun to feel like home. Nalia pressed closer to him, all too aware that they were finally alone. He gasped a little as her
chiaan
slid into him and he tightened his arms around her.

She'd never forget the moment when they first exchanged energy. At the time, Nalia had thought the intensity of feeling him inside her was because she'd spent so many of her years on Earth trying not to touch any jinn. The texture of her
chiaan
, so different from the other castes, would have instantly marked her
as a Ghan Aisouri, as it had the night before, with Fareed's slave. The only reason Nalia had been able to avoid being killed by the Ifrit during her three years of captivity on Earth was because Calar had thought all the Ghan Aisouri were dead. When Raif's
chiaan
had surged through her, exploring, it felt like she'd peeled back the layers of her skin to show him what was underneath. But now she knew she hadn't just been responding to the sensation of another jinni's
chiaan
mingling with her own; it was encountering Raif himself, the force of him, that had been so disorienting
.

Still was.

“I don't know if I'm ever going to get used to this,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“What about this?” she whispered, brushing her lips against his.

“Definitely not.”

He returned her kiss and when he opened his mouth, she tasted the sweet mint of Moroccan tea, felt the warm earthiness of his
chiaan
collide with her own. His kiss enveloped her in warmth, his want matching perfectly with her own. Raif was a rule meant to be broken, a promise made in starlight and darkness.

She forgot about Kir. She forgot about everything.

They tumbled onto one of the beds and the room melted away as Raif's whole being seeped into her. He'd risked everything for Nalia—the revolution, his life. He'd offered himself up like a sacrifice to a fierce and lovely goddess and she had let him.

You don't deserve this,
she thought as his hands snaked under her shirt.
You don't deserve
him.

Nalia grabbed his hands. “We have to go soon,” she whispered. “To meet Malek's contact, remember?”

Raif's hair was still damp from his shower, a dark halo around his face as he looked down at her, like the images of Tirgan, the god of earth that graced the palace's temple. “Zan won't come in, you don't have to worry about that,” he said.

How could she explain without explaining? She had no right to take any more from him than she already had.