the Quarter, a strange smell began to permeate the air. It didn’t come and then fade, like when they passed a garbage pile or an open sewer. It stayed as they ran…and grew stronger the closer they approached the hideout. The stench was terrible, like rotten meat, filth, decaying corpses, all mixed in the heat of the sun.
Aladdin shook his head and tried to focus on running. The four of them had to veer to the left quickly to avoid hitting a Peacekeeping Patrol head-on. The patrol turned to follow them—but in the same ominous, constant-yet-slow pace they walked through the rest of the city.
Aladdin and Jasmine barged through the secret entrance of the hideout first, sliding down into the main room. The horrible smell was stronger here, almost overpowering in the close quarters.
Jasmine held her nose and hurried into her war room. Aladdin pulled his vest up over his face and followed close behind.
The map of Agrabah was gone.
It had been completely erased from the floor. The pebble buildings were strewn across the room like a giant wind had taken them. The Mark of Rajah on the wall was ominously blurred, like someone had tried to wipe it off.
Aladdin frowned—either someone from Jafar’s camp had been there or the Street Rats had tried to destroy everything to keep anyone from seeing their plans. It was impossible to tell.
Morgiana and Duban entered their lair by other secret means and ran through the rooms at their end to meet up with Aladdin and Jasmine.
“It’s empty,” Duban announced, trying not to breathe.
“Everybody already godd oudd?” Jasmine suggested doubtfully through a pinched nose.
“What is that smell?” Morgiana asked, gasping.
Aladdin had no idea. But he didn’t like the way things were adding up. Something was off about the whole place.
And still Jafar’s voice echoed through the walls.
“I’m afraid…that until we have quelled this terrorist group, I will just have to keep a closer eye on everyone. I’ve tried the carrot, and now it’s time for the stick. And just in case you’re wondering how serious I am about your safety, please come by the palace gates and see what’s left of some Street Rat sympathizers we caught.”
Jasmine turned white. Duban looked sick. Morgiana spat in anger. Aladdin wondered how bad it was—if what he imagined was worse than what Jafar had actually done.
“We should gedd oudd of here,” Aladdin said, choking on the stench.
They didn’t even bother trying to keep their noises and movements small; the bad guys already knew where they were. The four friends burst out of the entrance with daggers drawn, ready for an attack.
Down the street, palace guards were heading toward them, rising up into the air.
“What the…” Duban said, rubbing his eyes.
“Is this more of Jafar’s trickery?” Morgiana demanded.
The guards eerily hovered above the buildings, hands at the ready over their swords.
Without even seeming to try, they arranged themselves in military formation, two by three. Their uniforms were slightly different from those of the rest of the red-and-black guards; each wore thick, colorful cuffs on the ends of their sleeves that were strangely patterned for a military group.
“Oh, no,” Aladdin said with horror, recognizing the design.
“It’s the magic carpet,” Jasmine whispered.
“Jafar must have cut him—it—up.” Aladdin felt sick with shame. Despite the carpet being just that—a carpet, magicked into being able to fly and having a rudimentary understanding of the world around it—Aladdin felt like he had betrayed a friend.
Abu chittered sympathetically on his shoulder.
Jafar had taken another mysterious, beautiful thing and destroyed it, twisting it for his own purposes. Everything he touched he desecrated.
And the guards stank. They were the source of the terrible smell. What was Jafar doing now—forbidding baths?
Jasmine pointed to the captain of the flying soldiers. He was large and maneuvered silently into place at their lead.
“Ra-Rasoul,” she stammered in disbelief. “He was dead. He died that day.…”
Aladdin bit back a cry.
It was Rasoul leading the phalanx. His eyes were red. A dead black-red that somehow made them look smaller and infinitely deeper than they should have. His skin was white, like a grub or old nail clippings or the fat of a long-butchered sheep. His arms and legs hung, unmoving, by his sides.
“He is…risen from the dead,” Morgiana said. For the frst time perhaps ever, Aladdin heard fear creeping into her voice.
Aladdin had never meant to kill Rasoul. And the guard certainly didn’t deserve this. To be turned into a ghoul. Was he in pain? Did he have any control over his actions? Did