Blood Passage (Dark Caravan Cycle #2) (16 page)

It was the same bird that had looked Raif in the eye during the battle: just like the feathers that covered the jinni's body when he was a bird, his dark hair contained one white stripe that ran along his cheek and well past his shoulders. He was a large jinni and, like all male Dhoma, had a thick beard and wore his hair long.

“Jahal'alund,”
Raif said as he placed his hand against his heart in the traditional greeting.

“Likewise,” the
fawzel
said. “What brings you to our land, wanderers?”

Raif frowned, uncertain. He understood the jinni, but his Kada
had strange inflections and, like the humans in Morocco, incorporated Arabic and French.

“My sister and I mean no harm,” Raif said. “We're new to Earth and we're exploring its wonders. We thank you for assisting us with those . . . creatures.”

Raif couldn't risk the truth. Not now, not after they'd come so far. The Dhoma could easily turn him and Zanari over to Calar if they wanted to. The reclusive tribe was known for being unpredictable, especially if they felt threatened.

The Dhoma cocked his head to the side, a birdlike gesture. “Several things tell me you're lying. Shall I elaborate?”

Raif raised his chin. “By all means.”

For a split second, Raif considered fighting his way out of this. But the jinni before him was clearly powerful and he had six of his friends ready to swoop in and assist if necessary. If their performance earlier was any indication, they were more than up to the task. Already the birds on the dune were rustling their feathers, preparing for flight.

The Dhoma pointed to Raif's arm. “That symbol there—this is old magic. Powerful. It is said that the only jinn who have such markings are Ghan Aisouri and yet you, my friend, are most certainly
not
an Aisouri. There is a story there, yes?”

Raif stared into the jinni's eyes. Being cagey had never served him well. That first lie was a mistake.

“Yes, there's a story there.”

The Dhoma inclined his head. “Next, I find it odd that your journeys with your sister should bring you to such a precise spot.
The
Sakhim
don't attack unless provoked. My guess is that you got very close to where the lightning struck. You weren't, by any chance, looking for something . . . specific . . . were you?”

He knows,
Raif thought.
How could he have learned the Ghan Aisouri's best-kept secret?

“We might have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Raif said.

The Dhoma's smile wasn't kind. “I agree.”

Keeping his eyes on Raif and Zanari, he whistled, a sharp order by the sounds of it. Immediately, the flock of shape-shifting Dhoma surged into the air. In seconds, they had Raif and Zanari surrounded, jinn spilling out of evanescence: Marid blue, Shaitan gold, Ifrit red, Djan green.

“I'm thinking this is a bad thing,” Zanari said under her breath.

“Yeah.” Raif angled his body so that he was shielding his sister. “Any ideas?”

“Nope.”

The jinn all wore human clothing Raif had seen in Marrakech: long, colorful robes, with expertly tied turbans that wound around their heads, then swept across their mouths so that only their eyes showed. He couldn't tell which ones were male or female.

“You will come with us, Raif Djan'Urbi,” the Dhoma leader said.

Zanari snorted. “What did I say, little brother? I can't take you anywhere.”

Even here, they knew his face.

“And if we refuse?”

“It will be an uncomfortable journey,” the Dhoma said.

In other words, there was no choice. They were clearly outnumbered. Raif glanced once more at the
Erg Al-Barq.
He'd been so close.

“What do I call you?” Raif asked the jinni before him. “Only fair I know your name if you know mine.”

“You may call me Samar, should you have a chance to call me anything.”

“That doesn't bode well,” Zanari said.

Samar ignored her and raised his hands. Two coils of thick iron rope suddenly hovered over his palms. He looked at Raif and Zanari over the improvised shackles. “A necessary precaution, I'm afraid.”

Raif held out his wrists and Zanari did the same. The rope tied itself, burning their flesh. If it stayed on for long, the iron would weaken him and Zanari considerably, possibly even kill them.

“I hope this is just a temporary solution,” Raif said.

“That depends entirely on you.” Samar nodded to one of the Dhoma, who immediately evanesced.

Raif watched the Ifrit red of the jinni's smoke as it spilled into the sky. That color had always been a harbinger of death and despair. He hoped it didn't mean the same here in the depths of the desert.

“I'm sure my people will be anxious to meet the jinn who dare to disturb our ancestors,” Samar continued.

“Hold on right there, brother,” Zanari said. “We have nothing to do with your ancestors. We're here for the revolution—we
have no quarrel with the Dhoma.”

Samar raised his eyebrows. “You expect me to believe you didn't know you were disturbing a mass grave?”

“What mass grave?” Raif said.

Samar pointed to the
Erg Al-Barq.
“That is the site of thousands of jinn slaves, buried alive by their master, King Solomon.”

Before Raif could respond, Samar gestured for them to follow him.

“Come,” he said. “We sail.”

THE STORM STOPPED ALMOST AS SUDDENLY AS IT BEGAN and yet it seemed to go on for an eternity as Malek sheltered Nalia's body with his own. The desert threatened to entomb them, but there was nothing he could do but wait out the punishing winds.

When the sand finally settled around them and the desert was calm once more, Malek wasn't superstitious enough to think the
bismillah
had actually worked. But then again, he wasn't going to rule it out.

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,'”
he whispered as he sat up and took in the landscape.

Nalia remained lying on the sand with her arms covering her head. Malek reached down and gently helped her sit up. She coughed, then turned away from him and spat into the sand.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I thought I would die.” She sounded disappointed.

“I wasn't going to let you,” Malek said as he stood.

“Because you want the sigil.”

“That's not why, Nalia. And I think you know that.”

She looked up at him with empty eyes, silent. He left her sitting there, unable to bear her brokenness. Saranya was right. She would never love him.

The dunes had shifted so that they seemed to be in an entirely new desert. Malek turned in a slow circle, looking for the SUV. It was disorienting, this endless sea of sand.

“Moustafa!” he called.

The tree Nalia had burned Bashil under had been to Malek's left when he'd run over the dune. Just the top of the tree was visible now and the dune beside it had disappeared.

So had the SUV.

“Shit.” Malek stalked across the sand to where Moustafa should have been. There was nothing there but sand, no hint that a vehicle filled with all their supplies and their driver lay under it.

He heard Nalia gasp behind him.

“Maybe the bastard evanesced,” he said. “Left us here to die.”

Nalia shook her head. “Even if he had, that storm would have blown him apart.”

Malek kicked at the sand, cursing.

“Stop it,” Nalia said, her voice sharp. “You dishonor him.” She knelt on the sand. “Go.”

He threw up his hands and headed back to the tree, the only marker for miles. A few moments later he heard Nalia's voice as if
she were standing beside him. He turned. Here, in the calm after the storm, the desert had no secrets. Her voice echoed clearly, the words of the prayer cutting into him, the same one she had said for Bashil. Malek didn't know what the words meant, but he felt the lament as though it were his own.

They were alone in the middle of the Sahara Desert without food, water, shelter, or transportation. He didn't have a cell phone—not that he'd have any service—and he'd left his gun in the car. It wouldn't be much help against the Ifrit, anyway.

Nalia hadn't eaten in nearly two days. She was barely standing after the sandstorm. If they didn't get help soon, she'd die.

“Bismillah,”
he whispered.

Nalia expected to drown in this desert. Soon, she would sink below its sandy waters, free of Malek's pointless exercise in survival. The stars above were distant beacons, the lights of celestial ships that crossed the dark waves of the Saharan night. She and Malek were adrift and there was no hope of rescue.

Nalia was fine with that.

It was cold and the bitter wind cut through her thin clothing. She walked on and on, with no direction, no thought other than to follow where Malek led. He'd given up trying to talk, this shadow of hers. But she felt Malek's resolve to keep watch over her. He wouldn't let her go, no matter how much she begged him to leave her.

Night claimed her grief like a prize, reveling in it, spoils from
a bloody war. Sometimes the pain would hit Nalia all over again, as though she were hearing for the first time that Bashil was dead, and she would sink down to the sand, where her tears would water its unforgiving soil. She clutched it in handfuls or fell into it, curled up like a child for minutes, hours.

After climbing their highest dune yet, Nalia collapsed. “I'm done,” she said.

“I know.”

A violent gust of wind swept past them and Malek, unthinking, pulled Nalia to him, taking the brunt of the wind's temper. She buried her face in his chest as the sand swirled around them like angry ghosts. She could feel his heart speeding up, as though it wanted to finish the conversation it had started with hers long ago.

Nalia pulled away from him just as another gust of freezing wind sliced into her. Malek slipped off his jacket and set it over her shoulders. She'd refused it before, but was too cold now to care. It was warm and smelled like him, a little bit spicy and all too familiar.

“What happened with the others?” he asked again.

“The others?” she said, her voice far away. She sank into the warmth of his jacket.

“You know who I mean: Raif and Zanari.”

Nalia lay on the sand, curled into a fetal position. “I killed Raif's best friend. He found out.”

“Well. I'm sure you had your reasons.”

Nalia closed her eyes. “I did. They weren't good ones.”

The coat was warm and she didn't care that Malek sat close
because he shielded her from the cutting wind.

“I'd love to clarify this situation—it's not quite making sense,” Malek said. “Raif left you in Marrakech, a city occupied by an army that wants to kill you.”

“Yes.”

“But you still love him.”

“Yes.”

Malek struck a match and the scent of cloves filled the air.

“For the record, I'm fine with you killing whomever you wish,” Malek said.

She pressed her forehead into the sand and sobbed. For Bashil. For Raif. For Kir. How was it possible to have tears left to cry? She had left a trail of them behind her, a salty river that gouged the sand with her sorrow.

Nalia didn't protest when Malek pulled her onto his lap. She was a rag doll. He held her and spoke in a low voice, a monologue of old poems in Arabic. Once whispered in lush, ancient courtyard gardens, they were saffron words dipped in honey and cream.

“My brother,” she kept saying, over and over.
My brother.

The night wore on, endless and cold, but there was warmth in the shelter of Malek's arms. For once, he was the safe harbor, not the storm.

RAIF HAD NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT.

When Samar had said
we sail
,
Raif had assumed the Dhoma leader was fond of metaphors.

Not so.

First, the soft rustle of sand, then the snap of heavy fabric in the wind.

Surging over the highest dune, a ship appeared, sailing the Sahara as though it were an ocean. It was massive, as big as one of the galleys the Marid used for fishing in the depths of the Arjinnan Sea. The wooden ship was exquisitely carved and had an alarmingly lifelike ghoul
as its masthead. Her mouth had been fashioned into a perpetual, hungry
O
so that every time the fore of the ship plunged toward the sand, the ghoul
seemed to tear into the desert's grainy flesh.

A crew of turbaned Dhoma were scattered about the ship, attending to duties or staring out at the desert expanse.

“After you,” Samar said.

Raif had never been on a ship before, but after only a few moments on the Saharan sea, he could see why his Marid compatriots never liked to be far from their vessels. The wind, the speed, the feel of the wood rocking underneath his feet—it did him good. Cleared his head.

The
Sun Chaser
cut through the night, navigating the sands without effort. Instead of the splash of waves against the hull, there was the hiss of sand on wood. The wind carried soft desert scents instead of the salty tang of the ocean. Raif drank deeply.

“I'm a little less bitter about being taken captive,” Zanari said as they stood at the railing.

“Sure beats the palace dungeon,” Raif said, laughing. “The Marid
tavrai
would love this.”

So would Nalia.
The thought came, unbidden, and Raif gripped the railing as the fury and love and despair tore through him. It would pass. It would
have
to pass.

Too soon, the Dhoma camp came into view. The
Sun Chaser
pierced through a thick
bisahm
as it neared the patch of light in the middle of the desert's inky darkness. The thick shield shuddered, invisible except for a slight iridescent glint in the moonlight. It was a good shield, nearly as strong as the one Raif and his
tavrai
had created over the Forest of Sighs, the resistance's Arjinnan headquarters. It wouldn't keep out the Ifrit army, though.

The ship glided to a stop in a natural sandy harbor filled with skiffs. From the bow, Raif had a good view of the Dhoma camp.
Nomad tents spread across the sand, hundreds of elaborate structures of improbable height that only the jinn could have devised. Delicate glass Moroccan lamps hung from poles outside the tents' entrances, colorful bursts of light that painted the sand. Fires crackled throughout the Dhoma camp and the smell of roasted lamb filled the air. A rapid-fire percussion of African beats with Arabic flair came from a nearby circle of Gnawa musicians. Raif had seen performers like this in the Djemaa—he only knew these ones were jinn because of the unique sound of their instruments.

Samar gestured to the gangplank. “Follow me.”

Raif turned to his sister. “You okay back there?”

“I'm fine.” Zanari frowned at the Dhoma who held her elbow. “I can walk by myself, brother, thanks.”

“All right, whatever you say.” The jinni let go as his body faded until it disappeared completely.

“What in all hells?” Zanari turned in a circle as the invisible Dhoma laughed.

Raif stared. Between the shape shifting and invisibility, he had no doubt that the rumors were true about the Dhoma possessing powers Arjinnans had yet to discover. Raif suspected that in his realm there were many jinn who, like Zanari, were afraid their powers would be used for ill by the ruling castes. It was a beautiful thing, to see free jinn express themselves so openly.

“Noqril, show our guests some basic courtesy, please,” Samar said.

The jinni reappeared a breath away from Zanari, closer than before. Not only was he invisible, but the braided strip of orange hair swinging over his shoulder marked him as a
fawzel.
A
formidable opponent, that one.

That didn't keep Zanari from shoving him away from her. “You're not my type.”

Noqril raised his eyebrows, leering. “We'll see.”

Raif laughed. “Good luck with that, brother.”

As they walked through the improvised village, the Dhoma stopped what they were doing to watch the new arrivals. Their clothing was strange, Moroccan Berber with a jinn twist. The men wore embroidered kaftans over loose linen pants. The women wore thick leggings or wide cotton pants under layers of shawls and tight-fitting tunics covered with thick strands of amber necklaces. From what he could see of their hands in the lamplight, they were covered in henna, much like Nalia's Ghan Aisouri tattoos. Most of the males and females wore turbans or loose head scarves, the ends of which they moved over their faces when Raif and Zanari passed.

“What, do they think we're Ifrit spies or something?” Zanari asked.

“I think they're just really private,” he said.

Samar stopped before a large tent in the center of the village, and the jinni standing guard reached over and pulled open the flap. Raif and Zanari followed Samar inside. Thick rugs covered the sandy floor. Samar slipped off his leather slippers and motioned for Raif and Zanari to do the same before venturing further into the tent.

“This is our council room,” he said. “The representatives of the Dhoma will be joining us shortly. They will have many questions for you and I suggest you answer them honestly. If not, I
promise it won't go well for you or your sister.”

Raif nodded. “You've made that clear.”

Raif and Zanari sat on two of the thick cushions scattered around a low wooden table. A chandelier hung above it with dozens of candles that shivered in the wintry breeze that blew through the open flap.

Raif raised his wrists. “I don't suppose you could take them off of us?”

Already the iron from the rope was entering his system, weakening his
chiaan
and making his head throb. The nausea would set in soon.

“I will, as a courtesy,” Samar said. “For now. You should know that this tent is spelled so that no one can evanesce into or out of it. I wouldn't recommend attempting an escape.”

He nodded to another Dhoma guard who stood just inside the tent flap. The jinni sheathed his scimitar and crossed to where Raif and Zanari sat. His hands hovered over the ropes and after a moment they began to unravel.

Raif let out a sigh and rubbed his wrists as the rope fell to the table. His skin was bright red, as though he'd been branded.

“You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome,” his sister said, as she inspected her own wrists.

The guard ignored her as he made his way back to his post and Samar left the tent without a word.

Zanari stretched her arms above her head and moved her neck in a slow circle. “Fire and blood,
I'm sore. What in all hells was that sand army?”

“I have no idea,” Raif said, “but I'm really not looking forward
to dealing with them again. I'm guessing the
Sakhim
are Solomon's security system.”

Worry gnawed at him. He hated what Nalia had done, but he knew it'd be nearly impossible for her to fight that army on her own. Malek would be of no help. Raif didn't want to see or speak to her again—but he didn't want her to die, either.

He turned to his sister. “Where's Nalia now? If we can give the Dhoma an idea of how close she and Malek are, they might be more willing to listen.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “This has nothing to do with a broken heart, does it? Because the sooner you forget about her—”

“Zan. Malek stands a good chance of getting that sigil. We need to know what kind of progress he's making.”

“All right, all right, give me a minute. That iron rope really did a number on my
chiaan.
I don't think I'll get much, but we'll see.”

Zanari closed her eyes and her breath turned shallow. She leaned forward, as though she were trying to see something better, something far beyond the room they sat in. It was several moments before she spoke.

“Cold. Really, really cold.” Zanari gripped the edge of the table. “She's in the desert. I see . . . sand . . . it smells like . . . cloves. Malek's smoking.”

So they got out of Marrakech.
He wondered where Malek had disappeared to and how Nalia had found him.

“Nalia's lying on the sand. Malek's trying to wake her up but she won't, she can't . . . something's wrong, he's upset . . . He's shaking her, but she's . . .”

Zanari opened her eyes. “I can't get any more. I'm sorry.” She swayed a little and Raif put an arm over her shoulders.

It was just like last week, when Raif was certain he was going to leave Nalia, but then Zanari had a vision of Haran in Nalia's house. That night, standing on Jordif's roof in LA, Raif was evanescing before he was even conscious of leaving.
I choose her. Every time.

But not this time. He couldn't. And it was killing him. She'd murdered his best friend, but the thought of her lying in the middle of the Sahara, sick, with no one but a slave master to watch over her . . .

Zanari waved her hand over the table in front of them and a bottle of wine and two earthen mugs appeared. She poured Raif a glass and pushed it into his hand.

“Drink up,” she said. “You look like hell.”

He was so transparent. Gods, was it that obvious, how completely Nalia affected him? He sighed. “How sick is she?”

Zanari downed her glass and poured another. “I couldn't tell. It was strange. I could sense Malek—even though he's a
pardjinn
,
his
chiaan
is strong enough. But I only felt him—not her. If I hadn't seen her, I would have thought Malek was alone.”

“How is that possible? If anything, Nalia has more
chiaan
than she can handle.”

Her skin under his.
Just let go.
Nalia's hands gripping his hair. The taste of her. Golden
chiaan
drenching his body.

“Fire and blood,” he growled.

Zanari jumped. “What?”

He waved his hand, swatting at the air. “Nothing.”

There was the sound of raised voices outside the tent, then Samar ducked through the flap. The room quickly filled as ten Dhoma took their places around the table, Samar among them. Behind them, Raif recognized the shape shifters, four women and two men. There was something different about them, a hawklike intensity to their gaze, their shoulders thrust back as though some part of them was still in flight. Each of them had a thick, colorful strip of hair that contrasted with the rest of their long locks, just like the feathers of their bird forms.

Once everyone was seated, a tray with a large silver teapot appeared before an old jinni sitting opposite Raif and Zanari. He began pouring the tea into small, colorful glasses as Samar spoke.

“Before we ask you any questions, Raif Djan'Urbi, the council would like to hear why you've trespassed onto our land and, more specifically, why you and your sister were attempting to enter the
Erg Al-Barq.
”

Raif looked at Zanari and she nodded. “We are here to retrieve Solomon's sigil so that we can dethrone Calar and bring peace to our land and equality for all jinn,” Raif said. He leaned back in his chair, soaking up the silence.

“Not one to mince words, are we?” Zanari murmured.

The old jinni pouring the mint tea froze. “The
khatem l-hekma
?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Raif furrowed his brow. “I don't know these words.”

“The ring of wisdom. It is what the Moroccans call Solomon's Seal—the sigil you speak of,” Samar said. He leaned forward. “You came to our land and risked your life for something that's been hidden for three thousand years? The greatest mages on
Earth—jinn and human—have not been able to find it. What makes you think you can?”

Raif pointed to the tattoo of the eight-pointed star on his arm. “You were right. This
is
old magic: Ghan Aisouri magic. It led me here, to the
Erg Al-Barq.
You said there's a mass grave of your ancestors under the lightning—that may be true, but it's more than a burial ground. It's the City of Brass spoken of in the stories. And somewhere in there is the sigil.”

“The Ghan Aisouri are dead,” the jinni beside Raif said. She was his mother's age, handsome, with wide Marid eyes. “Even if what you say is true, they are the only ones who have enough power to get inside it.”

“That's where our story gets really interesting,” Zanari said.

“I'll put this in the simplest terms,” Raif began. “There is one Aisouri who lives. She's the jinni who gave me this tattoo, which brought me to the
Erg Al-Barq
. Though she's promised to lead me to the sigil once we're inside the cave, she owes her
pardjinn
master his third wish, which, unfortunately, is that she take him to the sigil as well. She is with him as we speak. Without her, we cannot enter the cave.”

“A
Ghan Aisouri
was on the dark caravan?” a jinni across the table asked, shocked.

“She was the only survivor of the coup and a slave trader rescued her,” Raif said. “He pretended to help her and took advantage of her weakened condition. That was how he was able to get her into a bottle in the first place.”

“And you were able to free her?” Samar asked.

Raif paused, remembering that night in the canyon. “I think,
in the end, she freed herself,” he said quietly. He'd never forget the terror of Nalia slipping back into the bottle and the despair when his spell failed to work.

“Where exactly is this Ghan Aisouri?” The jinni who spoke waved his hand, as though Raif had conjured Nalia out of thin air. Sometimes he wished he had. Then he wouldn't have to love her.

“In the desert.”

“The desert is very big,” said a jinni with dark skin and bright emerald eyes. She had a strip of gold hair, similar to Samar's: a
fawzel
,
then.