robe and pulling him in the direction of the sea. Below he could hear sailors cursing and running to secure ropes and tools.
Fiza hauled him to his feet, ignoring his protests. “Forget the beach. I’m taking you to your Nahid.”
But they’d only just gone around the bend when it became very clear the direction of the castle offered no refuge.
The western sky was a cauldron, storm clouds churning and boiling like foam on an unwatched pot. The land was going darker by the moment, as though someone had upset a great well of black ink across the horizon.
“The monsoon rains,” Ali asked, “are they supposed to look like that?”
Fiza had paled. “No.” She turned around and then abruptly let go of him. “Your eyes …” Horror swept her expression. “There’s something wrong with them.”
“My eyes?” On instinct, Ali went to touch his face, but the sight of his hands stopped him. Tendrils of water were dancing over his fingers. It looked like the kind of marid magic Ali himself used to summon.
But Ali wasn’t doing this.
No. Oh, no. “Fiza,” he said, dread washing over him. Run.
But Ali didn’t get to finish the word. A presence burst into his head, both alien and terribly familiar. It seized him, stole him, and then without willing his limbs to move, Ali grabbed Fiza by the arm and smashed her against the nearest tree.
She crumpled to the ground, blood running down her face and mingling with the rain.
“YOU BETTER NOT BE DEAD,” THE MARID WARNED, speaking through Ali’s mouth and eyeing the mortal girl lying still in the grass. “My people grow weary of these debts.” They tossed a leafy branch over the girl’s body to better conceal her. One could never take too many precautions.
The marid closed the eyes of the djinn they’d taken, ignoring the whispers of the wind trying to tempt them back to the clouds. They’d been sent to investigate other whispers, the sightings of worried creek sprites and gossiping ocean swells.
And so they did, plunging into the djinn’s memories.
It didn’t take long. Not when the first vision of Sobek was the river lord charging out of the Nile to protect two mortals who should have meant nothing. Not when the notoriously cold crocodile so determinedly coached one of the mortals through seizing a current and then warned him to flee, genuine alarm in his ancient, brutal visage.
“Oh, cousin,” the monsoon marid murmured as they bit down on the djinn’s lip, tasting his blood. “What have you done?”
30
NAHRI
Nahri berated herself as she made her way back to her room.
You naive little fool. Did you really think that because you call him “brother” now, all differences between you would be erased? Jamshid was a Daeva noble who’d spent a decade in the Temple and believed up until a few months ago that simply speaking with a shafit was forbidden. He was Kaveh’s son—God only knew what kind of things he’d grown up hearing.
What he still quietly believed.
If you continue lying to him, he’s not going to be inclined to think well of you or the shafit either. Nahri stomped up the stairs. She was so very tired of secrets.
The corridor was dark when she emerged from the stairwell, rain lashing the open balustrade and the sky thick with purpling clouds. A pair of women were chatting excitedly in Ntaran by the windows, looking out at the storm, but they fell abruptly silent when they spotted Nahri and hurried away.
Loneliness sliced through her. I want to go home. But both of her homes were very far away, neither offering a safe or easy return.
Her room was dark when she entered, cold and unguarded—Nahri was not expected back yet, and the lamps hadn’t been lit. The only light came from the makeshift fire altar she and Jamshid had cobbled together in one corner, glowing steadily against the wild storm outside … as well as the storm inside. The balcony door had blown open, and half the room was drenched, with more waves of rain batting through.
“Didn’t have to deal with monsoons in Cairo,” Nahri muttered, crossing to assess the damage. She unpinned the cowrie shell clip holding her shayla in place, tossing the silk scarf to a dry spot on the bed and shaking out her hair. The delicate scarf was a recent gift from Hatset, probably a reminder of what else Nahri could get if she agreed to marry Ali and set up a kingdom in Ta Ntry. But if Hatset thought