The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,15

the air—the djinn stared at her with a sort of wary curiosity in his bright green eyes. A fine dagger, its handle set with a swirling pattern of lapis and carnelians, was in one soot-covered hand. He trailed it across the sand as she watched, the blade glinting in the sunlight. His other weapons were piled behind him.

Nahri snatched up the first stick her hand landed on and held it out in what she hoped was at least a somewhat menacing manner. “Stay back,” she warned.

He pursed his lips, clearly unimpressed. But the motion drew her attention to his mouth, and Nahri was startled by her first good look at his uncovered face. Though there was nary a wing nor a horn in sight, his light brown skin shone with an unnatural gleam, and his ears twisted into elongated points. Curly hair—as impossibly black as her own—fell to the top of his shoulders, framing a sharply handsome face with long-lashed eyes and heavy brows. A black tattoo marked his left temple, a single arrow crossed over a stylized wing. His skin was unlined, but there was something ageless about his jewel-bright gaze. He might have been thirty or a hundred and thirty.

He was beautiful—strikingly, frighteningly beautiful, with the type of allure Nahri imagined a tiger held right before it ripped out your throat. Her heart skipped a beat even as her stomach constricted in fear.

She closed her mouth, suddenly aware it had fallen open. “Wh-where have you taken me?” she stammered in—what had he called her language again? Divasti? Right, that was it. Divasti.

He didn’t take his eyes off her, his arresting face unreadable. “East.”

“East?” she repeated.

The djinn tilted his head, staring at her like she was an idiot. “The opposite direction of the sun.”

A spark of irritation lit inside her. “I know what the word means . . .” The djinn frowned at her tone, and Nahri gave the dagger a nervous glance. “You . . . you’re clearly occupied with that,” she said in a more conciliatory tone, motioning to the weapon as she climbed to her feet. “So why don’t I just leave you alone and—”

“Sit.”

“Really, it’s no—”

“Sit.”

Nahri dropped to the ground. But as the silence grew too long between them, she snapped, her nerves finally getting the better of her. “I sat. So what now? Are you going to kill me like you killed Baseema or are we just going to stare at each other until I die of thirst?”

He pursed his lips again, and Nahri tried not to stare, feeling a sudden stab of sympathy for some of her more lovestruck clients. But what he said next put such thoughts out of mind.

“What I did to that girl was a mercy. She was doomed the moment the ifrit possessed her: they burn through their hosts.”

Nahri reeled. Oh, God . . . Baseema, forgive me. “I-I didn’t mean to call it . . . to hurt her. I swear.” She took a shaky breath. “When you killed her . . . did you kill the ifrit as well?”

“I tried. It may have escaped before she died.”

She bit her lip, remembering Baseema’s gentle smile and her mother’s quiet strength. But she had to push away the guilt for now. “So . . . if that was an ifrit, then you’re what? Some kind of djinn?”

He made a disgusted face. “I am no djinn, girl. I am Daeva.” His mouth curled in contempt. “Daeva who call themselves djinn have no respect for our people. They are traitors, worthy only of annihilation.”

The hatred in his voice sent a fresh rush of fear coursing through her body. “Oh,” she choked out. She had little idea what the difference between the two was, but it seemed wise not to press the matter. “My mistake.” She pressed her palms against her knees to hide their trembling. “Do . . . do you have a name?”

His bright eyes narrowed. “You should know better than to ask that.”

“Why?”

“There is power in names. It’s not something my people give out so freely.”

“Baseema called you Afshin.”

The daeva shook his head. “That’s merely a title . . . and an old and rather useless one at that.”

“So you won’t tell me your actual name?”

“No.”

He sounded even more hostile than he had last night. Nahri cleared her throat, trying to maintain her calm. “What do you want with me?”

He ignored the question. “You are thirsty?”

Thirsty was an understatement; Nahri’s throat felt like sand had been poured down it,