Blood Passage (Dark Caravan Cycle #2) (13 page)

“NALIA.” MALEK WRAPPED HIS ARMS AROUND HER. “
Hayati
,
we have to go. Come.”

It was as if she couldn't hear him at all. The fierce girl who'd intimidated his drug lord clients and the presidents of corrupt governments had disappeared. This Nalia clutched at her brother's body, her cries deep and guttural. She stared at Bashil's face, begging him to wake up, fingers gently tracing his lips, cheeks, closed eyelids.

It broke his heart.

“We have to go,” he whispered again. “To Saranya's. We'll be safe there. Please, Nalia.”

His own brother's face came to mind, unbidden. Had Amir been alone when it happened? Was there anyone to hold him, as Nalia held her brother? Malek pushed the thought away. He
didn't deserve to grieve, to feel the ocean of sadness inside him.

Grief was a luxury murderers couldn't afford.

“Give me the boy,” he commanded.

Her only response was to hug Bashil tight against her. Malek tried to pry him from her arms, but her limbs had turned to stone and he was in no state to fight her; he could barely stand as it was.

There were screams outside from the humans in the souk. The Ifrit had arrived. Malek grabbed her chin and held it. Gods, if he could only hypersuade her. She'd learned some Ghan Aisouri mind trick as a child, though. Strong enough to keep him out.

His fingers pressed into her skin. “Look at me. Calar's soldiers are here. We are leaving. Now.”

She nodded and he helped her stand.

“It's rude to leave the empress's presence without her dismissal,” said a voice behind him.

Malek turned. Calar was leaning against the table that had knocked her out, a self-satisfied smirk on her face. “Should have killed me,
pardjinn.
Look where love gets you.”

So fast he barely registered it, Nalia grabbed the gun out of his hand and pointed it at Calar. With one arm still wrapped around Bashil, she pulled the trigger, but it missed Calar's heart, only hitting the Ifrit's arm. Nalia aimed for her head, but Calar was faster than the bullet. Her crimson smoke filled the room and then she was gone, the bullet lodged in the plaster wall.

Nalia's hand shook and the gun clattered to the floor. Malek picked it up. She'd used the last bullet, so he shoved it into his
waistband, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“Don't worry,” he said. “We'll kill that bitch first chance we get.”

Nalia just stared at him with dead eyes.

“Come,” he said softly. He pulled her down the hallway, glancing out one of the arches at the courtyard below. Dead Ifrit littered the stone floor. Swirling plumes of crimson smoke blanketed the sky above the mederssa's courtyard, like a red sandstorm.

He led Nalia down a narrow stairway and searched until he found a back door. Nalia moved as though she were in a trance, barely conscious of her surroundings. Malek put an arm around her, leading her out of the mederssa and down a side street that wasn't far from Saranya's home in the jinn souk. That was his only bit of luck, that Calar had chosen a prison just a few blocks from the only place in Morocco that would open its door to a
pardjinn
,
a dead child, and the jinni at the top of Arjinna's Most Wanted list.

“We'll be there soon,
hayati
,” he whispered as he placed his hand on the
hamsa
of one of the three entrances to the jinn souk. His hand warmed as red
chiaan
poured from his palm and the
hamsa
glowed. When the door disappeared, revealing the souk beyond, he pulled Nalia through the entrance. She stumbled and the child nearly slipped from her arms.

“Give him to me.”

She stood in the middle of the street, sobbing as she clutched her brother. “Bashil,” she said, over and over again—a question, a prayer, a mourning cry.

Malek reached out his arms. “Let me carry him. I need you to be able to use your
chiaan
if we get surrounded.”

She shook her head. “I . . . can't . . .”

“Is this how it all ends?” he said. “You want to give that sadistic jinni the satisfaction of watching the last royal die in the mud of the jinn souk?”

There it was—a small spark in her eyes.

“No,” he said softly. “What you want is to kill her, yes?”

Nalia nodded.

“Then live long enough to do it.” He held out his arms again and this time, she let him take the boy.

Malek dragged Nalia further into the souk, past already bustling teahouses and bakeries selling freshly manifested sweetbreads. He stole two kaftans from a display in front of a tailor's shop, then drew her into an alcove.

“Put it on,” he said.

Her shirt was covered in blood, as was his. She obeyed, numb. The garment was too big for her, but there was nothing to be done for it. He handed Bashil to Nalia while he pulled the homespun kaftan over his head. He kept the pointed hood up, hoping it would cover some of the wounds on his face. When he looked over at her, Nalia was gently rocking Bashil, her lips moving in a soundless song.

Saranya's door was in sight. Malek grabbed Nalia's elbow and led her closer to the main street. He waited in the shadows until a squad of Ifrit passed, then stepped into the light. He forced himself to walk slowly toward the familiar door of his brother's home, as though he were simply out for a stroll with his family.
No one gave them a second look. He rapped on Saranya's door three times, waited a beat, then knocked twice more. The old signal from when Amir was alive.

It opened immediately. Saranya stared at them, sucking in her breath as her eyes fell on the dead child.

“We need your help.”

MALEK STOOD AS SARANYA CAME OUT OF HER BEDROOM. The living room stank of the cigarettes he'd chain-smoked, waiting as his sister-in-law attended Nalia. As the door closed behind her, he saw Bashil's body laid out on a high table. He was naked from the waist up, rib bones sticking out like a gutted fish. Nalia stood beside him, a wet cloth in her hand. She looked up, her face ravaged by grief. The door closed.

Saranya had already explained the ritual to him. When a jinni died, the family washed the body in scented water and special oils. A priest of the jinni's caste would often come and say the prayers of the dead, though in this case, that wouldn't be possible. Not with Calar and her soldiers combing the souk for a dead boy and his Ghan Aisouri sister.

“How is she?” he asked as Saranya drew closer. He already
knew the answer, but he had to fill the heavy air. It was pressing against him, all this death and despair. Waking up his memories.

“Her brother is dead, Malek. How do you think she feels?”

The look she gave him, the one that said
you should know
,
cut him. Malek stared at the worn rug at his feet and gripped the lighter in his fist as though it were a
hamsa
that could protect him from the truth.

“How did it happen?” The question was past his lips before he knew he was asking it.

Saranya's eyes became a darker shade of gold, like sand at sunset. “With Amir?”

He nodded. The room was closing in. Why was he doing this to himself, now, when he needed his strength more than ever? He'd spent three years avoiding the thought of his brother's death.

“For my first wish,” Malek says, “I'll have Draega's Amulet.”

The jinni's eyes widen, but she says nothing.

“I know what it is, child,” he says. “Furthermore, I know you can do it.”

“First, my name is Nalia. Second, I'm not a child—I'm fifteen summers old. And, no, I can't give you the amulet. That magic is far too powerful for me.” But even as she says the words, her body begins to contract. She cries out in pain.

Malek smiles. “You are new to granting, new to Earth. Perhaps you aren't yet aware of the rules. If it's in your power to grant a wish, you have no choice. Need I remind you that you're mine? My slave. And you will do as you're told.”

A defiant blush blooms across the girl's cheeks. She is lovely,
his little slave. But young and foolish. Stubborn. He'd have to break her, like the Arabian horse he'd recently won in a card game with a Saudi prince in Monaco. She'd been wild, too.

Malek pulls the bottle out of his pocket. He'd have to get a chain for it soon, wear it around his neck. “In you go, then.”

Nalia swallows, then shakes her head. “No. I can do it.”

Malek raises his eyebrows. “I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right. ‘I can do it . . .'”

“Master,” she finishes. She spits the word out, as if it is meat that has been left in the sun to spoil. “I can do it, Master.” Then she smiles, a wicked little upturn of the mouth. “But you must pay the price. This wish is not for free.”

“He was sitting in that chair.” Saranya pointed to a carved wooden chair near the kitchen. “He was laughing about something Tariq had said and then suddenly he just . . .” Saranya took in a shaking breath. “There was no blood. No
anything.
It was as if his soul had run away.”

“So he wasn't alone?”

She shook her head.

Malek turned away, ashamed—
afraid—
of the unexpected wetness in his eyes.
“Alhamdulillah.”

Thank God.

“But
we
were,” she said softly, with a glance at the closed doors the dark caravan refugees slept behind. “Tariq and I.”

Again, they'd reached an impasse. For years he and Saranya had been traveling on this road: her, asking the same questions. Him, gliding past them, searching for the curve up ahead.

But it always came to this: why had Amir's death made Malek a stranger?

Saranya crossed to the window and looked through the curtains at the bustling street outside. It was the lunch hour, and jinn were on their way to the teahouses or their homes for the afternoon meal.

“As soon as she's finished, you two need to move on. It's not safe for any of us with you here.”

“I know.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped Nalia's necklace, the metal warm beneath his skin. “What about the child?”

“She needs to burn the body. You'll have to take him with you into the desert. There's nowhere to do it here. Nowhere the Ifrit won't see.”

“We're not dragging a corpse around the Sahara,” Malek hissed. “There has to be another way to take care of this—the boy. To take care of the boy.” He frowned, glancing at the door. “Can't we leave him with a jinn priest or something?”

Saranya brought her face close to Malek's. “First of all, I'm not an undertaker. Second, this is her
brother.
You think she's just going to leave his body behind so you can get whatever wish you've forced her into granting?”

“The wish is irrelevant,” Malek said.

“Knowing you, Malek, I doubt that very much.”

“Goddammit, Saranya, I've spent the past twenty-four hours being tortured and watching Nalia . . . watching . . .”

Malek turned away, wiping at his eyes. “Fucking hell.”

The room was silent, but if he listened closely, he could hear
Nalia's voice through the closed door. Singing. From the soft lilt of the song, he knew it was a lullaby, even though he didn't understand a word of it. He'd never been able to learn Kada
.
Never cared before now.

“You really love her.” Saranya's voice was full of wonder.

Malek kept his back to his sister-in-law when he answered. “Irrelevant.”

She sighed and held out her hand. “Give me that shirt.”

“What?”

“Your shirt. It's covered in blood. You're the same size as Tariq—you can wear something of his while I wash this.”

He'd forgotten about the blood. It had dried hours ago. He undid the buttons, cursing his shaking hands. What was wrong with him?

It took a while, but he finally got the shirt off. He turned around and held it out to Saranya—the most idiotic thing he'd ever done.

She stared at the amulet on his chest. To a human, it would simply look like an intricate tattoo over his heart, a combination of Celtic knots and script in ancient Kada. He'd told the women he'd taken to bed—before he started sleeping alone, his thoughts on Nalia—all manner of exotic stories about how and where he'd gotten the tattoo, what it meant. But Saranya was a jinni. She knew better.

“Draega's Amulet,” she breathed.

He could see her do the math: forehead creasing, biting her lip. Then he looked into her eyes: flashing gold, drenched in fury, betrayal, and then a deep sadness that was all too familiar.

“How could you?” Her voice was low, cold as the snow atop the Atlas Mountains. “He was your brother. Your
twin
brother. He had a son—” Saranya's voice broke.

“I know the price. Now grant the wish.”

“Are you sure you're capable of love?” Nalia asks. “The gods will know if you're lying. You must give them that which you love the most.”

“When I want commentary, I'll ask for it. Now grant the damn thing.”

She sighs, a deep regretful sound that tears at the resolve in his chest.

“As you wish,” she whispers.

This was why he'd stayed away, why he drank too much and smoked too much and never slept a whole night through. The amulet seemed to burn his skin, scratch at the heart underneath it. The heart that had been protected by a thick wall of ice until Nalia burned through it with her
chiaan
and her smile and the way she felt in his arms.

Saranya stared at Malek, silent, her hands clutching the long sleeves of her kaftan. Her
chiaan
sparked, then golden tendrils of magic twined around her fists like loving eels. Malek knew it wasn't words she was at a loss for. She needed a knife, a gun, a flaming torch she could shove down his throat. But no matter what she did to him, he wouldn't die. Not unless he wanted to.

A sob broke the silence and they turned as one to the door that Nalia mourned behind. The midday call to prayer began outside,
the muezzin's voice from a nearby mosque as full of longing as Nalia's cries. The front door opened and Tariq stepped through, his school bag slung over his shoulder. He looked around, expectant, and when he saw Malek he turned into an excited, bouncing thing, all smiles and brightness. He'd left for school just after Malek had arrived with Nalia, Saranya rushing him out before he knew what had happened.

“You're still here!” His eyes landed on the amulet. Malek turned from the boy's curious stare, terrified he'd ask about it.

Saranya threw Malek's bloodied shirt on the floor. “Your uncle and his friend will be leaving soon. You should say your good-byes.” She stalked out of the room.

Tariq looked at the shirt, then back at the closed door. “What happened?”

I killed your father.

It was like looking into a mirror and seeing a younger, softer version of himself. Malek and his brother had been identical twins, but there'd been small differences. Tariq had Amir's full lips and wide fawn eyes, that guileless expression that had frustrated Malek to no end. He had Amir's good heart and large, strong hands that made beautiful things.

Malek stepped toward his nephew. “Tariq,” he began. “I . . . you should know that . . .”

What to say to the boy? Malek knew, without a doubt, that he would never see him again. Even if Saranya never told him the truth, there was no way she'd allow the man who'd murdered her husband to be in her son's presence. He couldn't remember why he'd ever thought the amulet was worth the price.

Saranya swept back into the room. Her eyes were red, but she was otherwise composed.

“Lunch is in the kitchen,” she said.

“Can I—?” Tariq began, but one stern look from his mother silenced the boy.

Tariq rolled his eyes and shuffled into the kitchen. Outside, an engine revved and honked once, then twice.

“The guide is here,” Saranya said. “Tariq can give you some clothes and then I want you gone.” She stepped closer to Malek. “Never show your face here again.”

“Why are you helping?”

“I'm not helping you.” Saranya pointed to the door. “I'm helping
her.
Now get the hell out of my house.”

The door opens. Just a slight push against the thick rug that covers the bedroom floor, but Nalia hears it. In seconds, she's awake, her jade dagger clutched in her hand. The Three Widows beam their moonlight into the room so that it's bright enough to see the shadow near the door.

“I am awake and I am not afraid to kill,” Nalia says.

This is a lie. She has just had to kill a boy and it has unmade her. She no longer knows who she is. Who the Aisouri are. But the intruder doesn't need to know this. The elder Aisouri have turned the palace into a fortress since one of the servants slit his Aisouri lover's throat in the middle of the night. Most likely a
tavrai
carrying out orders from the child general
Raif Djan'Urbi. Nalia hasn't slept well since.

“Nalia-jai?” Bashil. His voice catches, as though he's trying hard not to cry.

She drops the dagger and pulls back her covers.
“Laerta, gharoof. Laerta.”

Come here, little rabbit.

He pushes the door shut and walks slowly to her bed, sheepish. His tear-stained cheeks glimmer in the Three Widows' light.

“What happened?”

She reaches down and helps him onto the bed. He is five summers old and is supposed to sleep in the dormitory with the other
keftuhm
. Nalia hates the word: blood waste. As if Bashil is worth nothing because he was not born a girl. As though any jinni not born a Ghan Aisouri is a waste of good royal blood and effort.

“It happened again,” he says. Then promptly bursts into tears.

“Shhhh.” Nalia holds him against her while he cries.

He was dreaming of fire, of the flames the resistance touched to their father's home and lands. He is dreaming of almost dying.

“
Gharoof
, no one can hurt you here. That's why you and Father have come to court. It's the safest place in all of Arjinna.”

He looks up at her, his eyes fountains that leak tiny streams. “Will you kill them, Nalia-jai? All the bad jinn—will you?”

Nalia swallows. “I will kill anyone who tries to hurt you.”

This is not a lie. She is afraid to kill, but not afraid to protect her brother.

She reaches across him to the small table beside her bed and hands him the stone Thatur had given her years ago, when she,
too, was a small, scared child. The calming spell worked into the stone was a subtle, yet effective, magic that had gotten her through the many trials of growing up Aisouri.

“I think it's time you had this,” she says.

Bashil's eyes grow wide. “Your worry stone? Really?”

It is a flat piece of polished lapis lazuli from the Qaf Mountains, the size of a large coin. A groove has been worn into its center, large enough to rub his thumb over.

“Yes,” she says. “It helped me so much that I don't need it anymore. It will help you, too, I promise.”

He rubs his tiny fingers over the gold-flecked stone.

“Whenever you're scared or worried,” she continues, “just rub this with your thumb and, I promise, you'll feel a little better.”