Loulie stepped down too hard and stumbled over Ahmed’s foot. He gripped her hand and caught her before she fell. She looked away from his face as he helped her up, and caught sight of the letters tattooed around his wrist like a shackle. Four letters: a meem, a kha, a lam, and a saad. Mukhlis—loyal. Loyal to his gods, he had once told her. And then he had looked at her and said, And if you will have me, loyal to you. He’d shown her the tattoo when he proposed to her, and now she could not stop looking at it, searching for it.
Four months ago he had proposed, and for four months she had not answered him. It was cruel of her to leave the question unanswered for so long. Even crueler to try to forget it when she was not in Dhyme, but—Ahmed bin Walid was a jinn hunter. A politician. He was everything she hated. And yet she found herself inexplicably drawn to him. You and I are the same, he had once said. We suffer from wanderlust and find excuses to leave home.
Only, while Loulie searched the desert for treasure, Ahmed hunted jinn. He killed them because it was his duty, he said. It was for his gods, his people. He even prayed for his victims. Loulie had always told herself he meant well, that she could make him see the error of his ways. She hated that she thought he was worth the effort. That on those nights when it was just the two of them trading stories, she saw him not as a hunter, but as a kindred spirit. A man, not a monster.
“No.” She could barely say the word, tight as her throat was. “Not yet.”
Ahmed was, as always, emotionally unscathed. “I understand; you’ve been busy.” He pulled her closer as another pair of dancers swept by.
Loulie caught hold of his sleeve to keep her balance. The motion turned her toward him, and she realized, suddenly, how close they were standing. Close enough she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough she could have reached up to cup his face and—
Her heart hitched. She quickly readjusted herself to stand beside rather than in front of him, then refocused on matching his steps.
Cross, kick, stomp. Cross, kick, stomp.
Her legs felt unsteady, like they might give way beneath her at any moment. It was impossible not to fixate on the warm press of his palm, on the firm but gentle curve of his fingers through hers.
“Midnight Merchant.” Ahmed leaned in close enough to whisper in her ear. She shuddered at the warmth of his breath against her neck. “I hope you know I do not mean to be overbearing. If ever you wish to speak to me about this or anything else, my doors are always open. Remember that my home is your home, if you wish it.”
Your home. Loulie swallowed. “You are too kind.”
Perhaps someday, she would find the confidence to reject Ahmed bin Walid outright and stop hoping for something that tore her heart in two. But—the thought of losing her connection with him was just as terrifying as putting a name to it in the first place. She’d always told herself it was easier to walk away from someone when she buried her feelings for them; she couldn’t lose anyone she didn’t commit herself to.
And yet for months, she had been reluctant to cast off Ahmed.
Loulie was so distracted by her thoughts she did not realize the other guests had swapped dance partners until she noticed them eyeing her and Ahmed, curiosity plain in their raised brows and upturned lips. Loulie was accustomed to attention, but not this kind of attention. She abruptly pulled her hand out of Ahmed’s and stepped away.
Concern flashed over the wali’s face. “Lou—?” He paused, suddenly noticing her bandaged hand. “What happened to your hand?”
Instinctively, she hid it behind her back. “Just a minor injury,” she mumbled.
His eyes warmed with hope as he stepped toward her. “Tell me about it? We can catch up tonight, once everyone is gone?”
For a few moments, she hesitated. She considered staying and recounting her quest to him. She would tell him about the shadow jinn and the Queen of Dunes, the sandstorm and the sinking ruins. And then she would grow drowsy enough to let her guard down. She would lean into his touch and soak in his warmth without feeling ashamed.
And she would wonder, as she always did, what it would be like to accept his proposal. To share a life with someone and be so open with them that they knew all her secrets and feelings.
The musing made a wild terror rise up inside her. “No,” Loulie said. It was her longing for that fragile, frightening vulnerability that pulled her away. “Not tonight.”
She rushed through the crowds and out the diwan before he could call her back.
27
MAZEN
Mazen had never liked Ahmed bin Walid.
His dislike went back many years, to the first time Ahmed had come to Madinne with his father, the then wali of Dhyme. Mazen, only ten years old at the time, had been commanded by his father to watch over Ahmed. He’d taken the responsibility very seriously. Ahmed, who had been a scrawny child of thirteen years with a too-wide smile, had not. Mazen had quickly discovered Ahmed was what people called a free spirit, a sprightly boy who preferred to do anything other than what he was ordered.
Unlike Mazen, who got in trouble for disobeying his father’s orders, Ahmed was never chastened. Every time he disappeared and Mazen tracked him down, the older boy would smile innocently and say, Ya Mazen! I thought you were behind me this whole time! Where have you been? Later, when Ahmed offered that explanation to the adults, they forgave him and turned their ire on Mazen.
Smiles were Ahmed’s preferred currency. With them, he could buy anything he wanted: affections, possessions, even connections. Everyone was taken in by his smiles—everyone except Mazen.
Even now, sitting before Ahmed in Omar’s body, he could not shake his dislike. It was the wali’s godsdamned smile. It was too wide, too bright—a strained, jovial mask. He was wearing that smile now as they sat in his diwan the morning after the gathering and spoke at length about things Mazen did not care about. “You remember the hunter with the sweet tooth? Issa? He came to see me before he traveled north.”
Mazen supposed if he were Omar, he would know what Ahmed was talking about. This was why he pretended to listen, nodding his head and offering a comment when he thought it safe. But his mind was elsewhere. It had been ever since the incident in the dune. He could not stop thinking about the collar. He was still trying to convince Aisha to dispose of it.
Earlier, when he confessed to her that he’d nearly been possessed, Aisha had just rolled her eyes and said, “You are always almost possessed.” She told him that collecting relics for Omar was part of her responsibilities as a thief. And then she ignored him. She was still ignoring him, which was why she had opted to wait for him on the diwan steps rather than join him inside.
“But enough about me.” Ahmed reclined on his divan, lips curled in a satisfied smile. “Tell me about your recent journeys, sayyidi. I see you’ve found a new relic?” Mazen nearly choked on his breath when he realized Ahmed was eyeing the enchanted bangle on his arm.
“If only.” He pressed his fingers to it. “I’m afraid this is just a flashy family heirloom.”
Ahmed laughed—a soft, breezy sound that made Mazen bristle. “And here I thought you favored utility over sentimentality. The only flourish I’ve ever seen you allow yourself is your earring.” He tapped his ear, raised a brow. “Have you traded one piece of jewelry for another?”
Mazen swallowed a nervous laugh. Omar had insisted no one would notice the missing earring, but of course the annoyingly attentive wali of Dhyme was an exception. “You are as sharp-eyed as always. I removed it when we were traveling to the city; we had to weather a sandstorm, and I thought the earring was safer where the elements couldn’t reach it.”
It was a spontaneous and shoddy fiction, so Mazen was relieved when the wali grinned and said, “Ah, a sandstorm. A great way to start a quest, to be sure. I hope the rest of your journey has been more pleasant?”
It’s been hellish. Mazen cleared his throat. “It’s been, ah, tedious.”
“Oh?”
“I told you yesterday. We ran into some trouble on our way here.”