“Mani!” I scream. “Mani!”
I scramble past Japa toward where I left Mani sleeping only a few hours ago, but I slip and slam my elbows into the floor. I try to claw my way to my feet, but the stairs are slick with fluid and I can’t get purchase. I half crawl, half stumble down to the safe room. Blood covers my hands and knees, and I’m terrified that it’s not just Japa’s blood.
“Mani!” I shove boxes out of the way, sending them flying to the ground smeared with bloody stripes from my stained fingers. Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe he saw Gopal coming, got scared and hid somewhere in this room. Maybe there’s still a shred of hope. But no matter how many boxes fall to the ground, I can’t find him. I tear through the rest of the bookshop calling Mani’s name, but only sickening silence answers.
I can’t stop staring at Japa. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, sitting on the floor of the bookshop with my knees pulled to my chest. It feels like hours, but I don’t know for sure because time seems twisted out of shape by the fear pulsing through me, by my worry for Mani.
I long to squeeze my eyes shut, to block out the image of Japa’s prostrate body. Of his once-kind face now frozen in an expression of perpetual shock that makes him look like a stranger. But my eyes won’t obey me. They stay fixed on him, as if looking away will force me to acknowledge that it’s real—that Japa met the same fate as every other man who has gotten too close to me. That Mani is really gone.
But the longer I sit here, the more my panic and grief fade away, and cold calm comes over me. Iyla was right; my love for Mani made it effortless to control me. I’ve been so desperate to protect him that I would do anything, be anything, to keep my brother safe. But by taking Mani, Gopal has twisted that love into something far more powerful.
Now it will be the weapon I use to destroy him.
I stand up and slide Japa’s eyes closed with my fingertips. It feels wrong to leave him here all alone, but I have no choice. I have to find out where the Naga took my brother. And to do that I have to find out what Deven did that made them want him dead.
This time I don’t hesitate outside Deven’s flat. There’s something liberating about knowing he already hates me, about realizing I don’t need to measure my words. I climb his steps and pound on the door with the flat side of my fist.
He doesn’t answer right away, and a shiver of fear snakes down my spine at the thought that the Naga might have gotten here first. I pound harder.
“Deven?” I shout. “Open up.”
The door opens just a crack. “Did you come to finish me off?”
The question should enrage me, but I’m flooded with stupid relief at the sound of his voice. He’s alive. There’s still a chance of saving someone today.
“If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. I need information, but first we need to leave. I’ll ask you questions on the way.”
He snorts. “Do you honestly think I’d go anywhere with you? Leave, Marinda. I can take care of myself.”
“Japa is dead.”
The door swings wide and the horror on Deven’s face sends a fresh wave of pain through me. “What?” He takes in my tearstained face, and his gaze drifts down the length of my body, lingers on my hands. Suddenly I realize I’m still covered in Japa’s blood. It’s smeared across my sari, caked under my fingernails.
Deven presses the back of his hand to his mouth. “Did you…”
I don’t wait for him to finish the question—that he would even need to ask if I hurt Japa stings like a slap. “They took Mani,” I tell him, and my chest aches at the thought of my tiny brother suffering at Gopal’s hands. “They’ll be coming for you next. We need to leave now.”
He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment I worry that he’ll refuse to come with me. But then he gives a resigned sigh. “Come in while I get a bag ready.” I follow him into the house and he reaches around me to push the door closed. My nose is filled with the scent of him—wood carvings and cinnamon and indifference. It’s hard to breathe. Without my permission, my fingers reach to stroke the cricket in my pocket.
The inside of Deven’s house looks completely different than I pictured it. While Iyla’s living space was filled with oversized chairs, glossy dark wood and sumptuous fabrics, Deven’s is barely furnished at all. Directly to my left is a threadbare sofa, and on the far side of the room sits a rickety table flanked by two chairs. Other than that, the room is empty. It scarcely looks lived in. I stand awkwardly in front of the door while Deven pulls a bag from a shelf in the closet and starts filling it with supplies.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “We just need to get as far away as possible.”