Blood Passage (Dark Caravan Cycle #2) (8 page)

I killed your best friend
.

“It's just . . . everything's so complicated right now—”

Coward. Tell him the truth. TELL HIM.

“It's actually pretty simple: I love you,” he said. She sucked in her breath. “And you love me.” Raif trailed a finger along her jaw. “Right?”

She nodded.
So so much.
Nalia pulled away.

“What's wrong?” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck.

“Nothing,” she lied.

He traced her collarbone, a thoughtful expression on his face as he looked down at her. “Did I tell you about my home in Arjinna?”

She shook her head and he shifted to his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “It's in the middle of a
widr
tree, built right into the branches, a little ways away from the other
ludeen.
There's a pond nearby and honeysuckle grows beneath the windows year round. You'll love it.”

She tried to imagine it: waking up beside Raif every morning, smelling the sweet Arjinnan air. Falling asleep beside him each
night. They'd never had time to discuss what would happen in Arjinna. There had simply been that promise, when they were still enemies: they wouldn't kill one another when they reached their native land, and Nalia wouldn't try to steal the ring, nor could Raif use it against her. That was all.

But so much had changed since then.

It hurt, this love he had for her. Soon it would be gone. Once he found out the truth, he'd never look at her like this again.

“Raif—”

He stopped her words with a soft kiss. “Just for the next few minutes, can we pretend we're there already?” he said. “We have the rest of the day to deal with Malek and fight Ifrit and get to the cave. I want you to myself before I have to share you.”

The space between hope and reality was growing wider, a chasm they wouldn't be able to bridge for long. Anything but right now, this moment, felt like a hazy, half-remembered dream. She wanted to hold on to it a little longer before it wasn't real anymore.

“So if we were in your
ludeen
, what would be doing?” she asked, suddenly distracted by his finger as it traveled down her neck and settled on the top button of her shirt. She stopped breathing, her entire being concentrating on where his finger rested.

Raif smiled. “Relaxing.” He undid the button, his eyes never leaving hers. “Last night I was thinking about how worried you've been about everything, how you can never get out of your head.”

Another button.

“Uh-huh,” she whispered.

His eyes were filled with a secret kind of knowing. “And I thought maybe you'd feel better if you could just . . . let go.”

Another button. His hair fell forward, brushing against her cheek, and her
chiaan
vibrated—she actually felt it
tremble—
as though Raif's closeness had struck a chord inside her, one that kept playing the same sweet note over and over and over.

“I . . . um . . . I'm not sure . . . let go?”

Another button.

Raif lay his palm against her stomach and Nalia felt his
chiaan
push through her skin, right into the knot he was unraveling inside her.

“Right now,” he murmured, “there's nothing in the whole world but you and me.”

The last button.

Nalia reached her hands up, her fingertips skimming the scarred surface of his chest, where Ifrit bullets and Shaitan whips had cut into his flesh. He closed his eyes as she touched him. Rays of sunlight peeked through a lattice screen, creating a golden pattern against his skin.

He leaned down and brought his mouth to her chest, taking a leisurely path to her stomach. Her hands gripped his shoulders, his hair. Dust motes swirled around them, a motorcycle went by on the street below, someone in the hotel was playing Arabic love songs. Her breathing quickened the lower he got, and she could feel Raif smile against her belly. It was becoming impossible to hold the magic inside her, to keep herself in check. Control: it was all she knew, all she had.

“Just let go,” he whispered.

“Raif . . .”

But it was a weak protest, her hands grasping his hair as his lips seared her skin. His fingers undid the drawstring of the loose-fitting pants she wore.

“What?” he said, his lips turning up at the shocked expression on her face. “This isn't how they do things at the palace?”

She shook her head. She couldn't speak, couldn't think.

“I might be a good guy, Nalia,” he said. “But I never claimed to be well behaved.”

He pulled the fabric down and smiled—a devilish upturn of the mouth that made Nalia bite her lip. He laughed softly, then brought his mouth back down to her skin. Faint wisps of
chiaan
slipped from her fingers, coating Raif in liquid gold. He shuddered as her power seeped into him and then there was just warmth, gods so much warmth, and light and breath and she let go of everything except the delicious release that was pulsing through her, this unexpected grace of weightlessness.

Nalia gasped, her body filling with light. Raif's fingers twined with hers and his lips moved to her inner thigh, then her knee. She looked down at him, eyes wide, and he laughed softly against her skin.

“Feel better?” he asked.

All she could do was nod. Raif crawled over the blankets and lay beside her, then pulled her to him.

There was a soft knock on the door. “You guys?” Zanari called. “I hate to do this, but the car's outside waiting for us. Time to go.”

Raif groaned. “Five minutes,” he called.

His eyes traveled down Nalia's body. She dropped her forehead to his chest and kissed the skin over his heart. She wanted this dream to be her reality, to pretend the past didn't matter.

To pretend she deserved him.

MALEK SAT IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE RANGE ROVER, directing the driver to get as close to the souks outside the Djemaa el-Fna as the narrow streets would allow. They'd have to go on foot the rest of the way, but luckily he could make it to Saranya's shop in his sleep. His jinni contact had been practicing her magic in the same location for hundreds of years. Malek couldn't count how many times he'd been in her home, drinking mint tea and talking for hours. But it'd been a while since he'd had the guts to knock on her door.

He stared out the window, frowning. The streets were filled with peddlers selling spices, elaborately embroidered slippers, and cone-shaped tagines. Ancient palaces and souks surrounded the Djemaa like the petals of a tightly packed rose. Malek held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, tapping out a nervous beat
against his knee. Going to Saranya was a terrible idea, he knew, but there was no one else who could help them. Even if there were, he wouldn't know if he could trust another jinni. Saranya would help, whether she wanted to or not.

Three years,
he thought. It was hard to believe it'd already been that long. Every morning he woke up and the remembering would happen right away, the wound still fresh. Malek had told himself he'd never go back—how could he, after the terrible choice he'd made?—but he couldn't risk losing his chance at the ring, and the sooner they got out of Marrakech and into the desert, the better.

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.