His eyes sparkled with murder as he grabbed a knife and struck at Aisha. The first blow bounced off her shamshir. The second knocked the blade from her hands. The third struck her face and drew a scream from her lips. The fourth ripped a gash into her shoulder.
Imad struck again and again, until the sand beneath Aisha was stained with her blood.
Imad flipped the dagger, raised it into the air, and—
“Stop!” The prince slid in front of Aisha, arms held out. “Please.” His voice cracked.
Imad halted. He glared so hard at the prince, Loulie feared he would kill him. But then slowly, he sheathed his dagger and barked an order at the ghouls.
The last thing Loulie saw was Prince Mazen crouched over Aisha’s limp body, desperate tears in his eyes. Then Loulie was struck in the head. She experienced a pain so terrible it knocked the breath from her lungs. And then finally, blissfully, darkness.
40
MAZEN
Mazen woke in what looked like the ruins of a prison cell. Moonlight filtered into the chamber through holes in the ceiling, illuminating the dust on the floor and turning it an ominous bone white. The cell was barren, surrounded by three walls of stone and one made of thick iron bars. Behind them stood Imad and beside him, a ghoul.
“Sabah al-khair, Prince.”
“What…?” Mazen sat up slowly. He’d expected to be bound and gagged, but there were no shackles on his arms or legs.
“Sleep well?” Imad raised a brow.
Mazen blinked. He opened his mouth—and froze when his memories came rushing back. He remembered Qadir, dead. Loulie, screaming his name. Aisha, bleeding out on the sand. He approached the bars, heart beating in his throat. “What have you done with Aisha?”
The last thing he remembered was shaking her, begging her to hold on, hold on—she was one of Omar’s forty thieves, and how could she be killed by some random murderer? And then: pain and darkness.
“Bint Louas is in one piece,” Imad said. “Injured, but alive. She is lucky. I ought to have punished her more severely.” He reached out and curled his fingers around one of the bars, and Mazen saw the bloody wounds Aisha had ripped into his bandages.
He took a cautious step back. “What do you want from us?”
Imad’s lips quirked. “Truly? I never wanted anything from you. But now that you are here, it seems I must change my plans.” He leaned closer to the bars, close enough for Mazen to make out the details of his face in the moonlight. He was at least as old as the sultan, with harsh wrinkles etched into his sun-scorched skin, and gray-white hair dusting his cheeks and chin.
Do not underestimate a man based on his appearance. It was the advice his father offered when they were dealing with scheming court politicians.
Imad was an old blade but not a dull one.
Mazen paused, recalling their earlier conversation. “You were looking for my brother?”
“That is correct. The moment I heard Omar bin Malik was leading the Midnight Merchant in this direction, I decided to investigate. And yet…” He raised a pointed brow. “It is not the high prince I see before me, but his younger brother. How did this come to be?”
Idiot that I am, I allowed myself to be blackmailed. Mazen swallowed a laugh. He truly was a fool. To have thought this tromp through the desert was preferable to suffering the consequences for escaping the palace. To have thought it would be an adventure.
“It was advantageous for my brother and me to switch places.”
“Is that so? It hardly seems so now, does it?”
Mazen couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch himself or Imad more. “No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t.” He looked long and hard at the man, then said, “Why chase rumors of my brother in the first place? What do you want with him?”
Imad’s expression hardened. “You mean to tell me you do not know who I am?”
“I don’t think we’d be having this conversation if I did.”
Imad hissed. At first, Mazen thought it was a response meant for him, but then he noticed the ghoul behind Imad shift. It handed him a key ring.
“How are you…?” Mazen looked between Imad and the ghoul. “How are you controlling them?” In his mother’s stories, the ghouls were free-roaming terrors, not obedient soldiers.
Imad raised a brow. “I shall let you ponder. It will give you something to think about while we wait for your brother.”
The reality of his situation began to sink in. Mazen combed desperately through his memories, trying to recall Imad’s words. If he knew both Omar and Aisha…
“Are you a thief?”
“I am not just a thief, boy. I am one of the legendary forty thieves.” Imad stepped forward, black eyes narrowed to slits. “Once, I even worked with the sultan.”
Mazen balked. So Imad was not one of Omar’s thieves—he was one of his father’s. But how? His father had proclaimed his thieves had died in some tragic incident long ago, when Omar first took over as King of the Forty Thieves.
“If you were one of my father’s thieves, why are you holding a grudge against Omar?”
Imad smiled thinly. “That is between us and does not concern you. Your only job, Prince, is to sit here and wait while I send the ransom note.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “However. Though you are my prisoner, you need not be treated like one. Tell me one thing, and I shall make you comfortable until his arrival.”
Mazen eyed him warily. “What?”
Imad reached into his pocket. Mazen expected him to withdraw a weapon—instead, he pulled out the bangle. He clasped it to his wrist, and a heartbeat later, he wore Omar’s skin. Mazen gaped at him as he flexed his fingers, which were no longer malformed. “Truly remarkable.” He looked at Mazen. “I am familiar with your family’s story and already know this is a jinn king’s relic. But I want to know: Does your brother possess other kings’ relics?”
Mazen hesitated.
Why does it matter? he wanted to ask, but he knew Imad would not answer. When he remained mute, the thief sighed and said, “I don’t know who you think you’re protecting, but know this: you may idolize your brother”—Mazen nearly laughed aloud—“but he is not a good man. Whatever he did to convince you to take his place, he did it because he has ulterior motives.”
Mazen frowned. There was a connection between the kings’ relics and Omar’s “ulterior motives,” he was sure, but he refused to dig deep enough to find it. Omar was insufferable, but he was still his brother. He would have to be insane to trust a killer over him.
“Ask my brother your question,” Mazen said. “This is none of my business, after all.”
He didn’t know where he dredged up the courage to say the words, but he was evidently more surprised than Imad, who simply stepped away with a shrug. “You are lucky I need you alive, Prince. But remember, any discomfort you”—his eyes flashed—“or your companions experience is your fault.”
All that came out of Mazen’s mouth was a weak sound of protest. Imad ignored him. He spoke a word of command to the ghoul, who obediently stepped in front of Mazen’s cell door, a sword in its hand.
“Try not to irritate the guard.” Imad turned and walked away.
“Wait!” Mazen grasped the bars. “Don’t hurt Aisha or the merchant. Please.”
But Imad never even looked back. Mazen called his name again, but the only response he received was his own voice, echoing back at him from the dreary infiniteness of the corridor.
Belatedly, he realized the ghoul was staring at him. He took one look at its ghastly, torn-up face and doubled back until he was pressed against the wall. Breathe, he commanded himself, and he did. Slowly. In. And out. He suppressed the wild urge to scream at the walls.
He could not stay here. That much was apparent. Also apparent: the impossibility of escaping. He had no weapon, no plan. His eyes drifted across his cell. The holes in the ceiling were too high for him to reach. As for the ghoul—even if he could somehow coax it into his cell, he had no weapon to face it. And even with one, he was useless. His only talents included sneaking, running, hiding…
He stopped. And stared at his shadow on the floor.
Oh.