He realized Hakim was staring at him from the other side of the table, brows lowered. Are you all right? the look said. Mazen responded with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Hakim did not look convinced. But before he could voice his concerns, he was pulled into conversation by one of the sultan’s councillors, a kindly man who always complimented Hakim on his maps. He was one of the only court officials who treated Hakim with respect.
Only a few spaces down, the head of the council—the sultan’s ancient-looking wazir—sat watching the conversation with blatant displeasure. Mazen did not like the man, but then, he did not like many of the councillors. He was glad his interactions with them were mostly limited to these gatherings.
He was uninterested in eavesdropping on Hakim’s conversation and was relieved when a distraction presented itself. The lanterns above them dimmed, and he turned his attention to a pair of performers mounting the stage with flaming swords. Golden coins and trinkets hung from their silk clothing, winking like stars as they ascended the darkened stairs. They were a captivating sight, and yet—Mazen found his eyes wandering, unbidden, to the jagged shadows they cast.
His stomach knotted with nerves. You are safe. The jinn would never come here.
He had tried to reassure himself of this last night as well, but to no avail. He’d barely slept for fear that the shadows in his room would choke him when he closed his eyes.
“Why the long face, akhi? I thought you enjoyed decadent celebrations.” Mazen startled as Omar slid onto the recently vacated cushion beside him. “Could you perhaps have had other plans?” He leaned forward. “Maybe you were thinking of going to a certain tavern to see a certain storyteller?”
Mazen’s mouth went dry. He had not brought up his plans to anyone, not even Hakim. So Omar could not have known unless…
“How long were you spying on me?”
“I have better things to do with my time than spy on you. You simply underestimate the skill of the ears I have in the souk.” Omar paused to watch the female performer twirl a flaming sword above her head. “Honestly, it is a good thing you’re not at the tavern tonight. Father has already set his plan in action, after all.”
Mazen stopped mindlessly poking at his fattoush and looked up. “Plan?”
“His plan to find the Midnight Merchant.” When Mazen simply stared at him, Omar smiled and said, “The sultan has learned from an invaluable source that there is a secret entrance to the illegal underground market in Dahlia bint Adnan’s tavern. The Midnight Merchant will be there.”
A secret entrance? Did Old Rhuba know about this? Did Layla? These were questions he couldn’t ask Omar, wouldn’t ask Omar. “What does Father plan on doing?” he asked instead.
Omar raised a brow. “Worried for your woman, are you?”
“She’s not my woman—” Too late, Mazen realized his mistake.
Omar chuckled. “Ah, so you did go out to see her?”
“I didn’t…” The stage, wrapped in so many shadows, began to blur. Mazen felt his eyelids droop, his shoulders slouch. He reached for the threads of his consciousness, only for them to snap beneath his fingers. The present faded. There was just darkness. Ruby-red eyes. A soft, lulling voice. I would chase you to the ends of the world if that were what it took.
“You look a little flushed, akhi.” Omar’s voice was strangely distant. “Have you had too much wine?”
Mazen gripped the edge of the table. He was vaguely aware of how warm his fingers—his iron rings—were. The world became a haze of muted color.
“Could it be that you’re angry at me? What have I done to deserve your ire?”
Mazen did not want to be terrified of his brother. But how could he not be? His brother was a cold-blooded murderer. He had killed jinn and killed her lover. He was a monster and she wanted nothing more than to gouge out his eyes and… Mazen blinked.
His mind was… foggy.
“Ah, I know why you are mad. You are frustrated by your incompetence.” Omar was looking right at him, expression solemn. Mazen was overcome with the sudden, violent urge to attack him. “You’re a coward,” Omar continued. “You are too scared to speak your mind, so you hide in shadows. You bottle up your anger and let it consume you.”
Mazen glanced at Omar’s shadow. It was a good shadow, he thought. Much better than its owner. He glanced at his own shadow, which inexplicably had eyes—slits of pale moonlight.
Omar was still talking. “So, what will you do?”
Mazen thought of his father and his curfews, of Layla and the shadow jinn and of the hunter stabbing her beloved, over and over and over again. When he was done, he turned to her and said, “I never knew jinn were such cowards.” He laughed as she struggled against the iron chains he had used to bind her. Tears clouded her eyes as she looked at the vibrant green space where her husband’s body had been.
I will find you, hunter, she thought. Even if it takes me years. Even if I have to cross the whole damned world. She had never been so certain of anything in her life.
“Ah,” Omar said. His voice sounded as if it were coming from the depths of the ocean. “I had my suspicions, but it seems you really were hiding in my brother’s shadow.”
Distantly, Mazen was aware of his legs shifting, his heart pounding, his head throbbing. But he observed these things from a distance. His body was numb, all senses dulled except for his sight. And then even his vision blurred, and all he saw was Omar. Omar, looking at him with murder in his eyes. Omar, gripping a knife he’d slid out from his sleeve.
Mazen smiled a smile that was not his. “I promised I would find you, murderer.”
Everything that happened next was a shade darker than his worst nightmare. His vision expanded until he was looking at the whole diwan. He had not one eye, but many, all of them hidden in the darkness around him. His ringed fingers were suddenly cold, but every other part of his body was unbearably hot, as if fire ran through his veins. Someone was saying his name—“Mazen, Mazen, Mazen”—but he did not respond. Could not respond. He lifted a heavy hand.
And called the shadows to him.
They sighed and hissed as they stretched toward him, blotting out moonlight, devouring flame, and cackling with pleasure as the humans began to scream.
Mazen turned to Omar and smiled. I have won, he thought. Even a heartless hunter would not attack his own brother.
Mazen flicked his wrist, and the nearest shadow shoved Omar to his knees, grabbed his knife, and held it to his throat. Even then, the hunter had the audacity to laugh. “You would go so far as to possess my brother for revenge, jinn? You truly are a coward.”
Mazen’s rage was a tangible thing. It made even his shadows quiver with fear.
“A coward that will have her revenge,” he said softly. “Goodbye, hunter.”
He snapped his fingers, and the shadows lunged.
10
LOULIE
“I’ll pay you fifty gold coins for it.”
The young man who had been eyeing the eternal hourglass finally stepped in front of Loulie’s stall. In his hand he held a bag of coins. Presumably fifty of them.
Loulie made a show of eyeing the bag, then the hourglass. The man stared at her, ignoring the murmurs of the crowd. Loulie counted down in her head, waiting.
Sure enough, another man, this one significantly more marked by time, stepped in and raised a bag of coins that was, presumably, heavier. “Sixty,” he said.
And so it starts. Loulie was glad for her shawl, for it hid her devious smile.
She loved bartering, but more than that, she loved watching customers argue amongst themselves. It was even more amusing when they fought over useless magic like the hourglass. When she and Qadir had first found the relic in a den of ghouls, she had thought it might reverse time or perhaps slow it down.
“No,” Qadir had said in response to her speculation. “It just endlessly refills.”
“We battled our way through a horde of ghouls for this? It’s worthless!”
Qadir had just raised his brows and said, “You should know by now that magic will sell simply because it is magic.”
He was right. The bid was finalized at 120 coins.
The hourglass was the last thing she sold that night. Now that she’d met her personal quota, she was eager to see if she could catch one of Old Rhuba’s stories. If she was lucky, Yousef would be there.