“No, I did that as part of some foolish ceremony.” She paused. Not so foolish after all; Yaqub had been right about the dangers of interfering with traditions that weren’t her own. “I sang one of the songs in Divasti—I had no idea what would happen.” Saying it aloud did little to alleviate the guilt she felt about Baseema, but she pressed on. “Aside from what I can do, I’ve never seen anything else strange. Nothing magical, certainly nothing like you. I didn’t think such things existed.”
“Well, that was idiotic.” She glared at him, but he only shrugged. “Were your own abilities not evidence enough?”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand.” He couldn’t. He hadn’t lived her life, the constant rush of business she had to bring in to keep herself afloat, her bribes paid. There wasn’t time for anything else. All that mattered were the coins in her hand, the only true power she had.
And speaking of which . . . Nahri looked around. “The basket I was carrying—where is it?” At his blank look, she panicked. “Don’t tell me you left it behind!” She jumped to her feet to search but saw nothing besides the rug spread out in the shade of a large tree.
“We were fleeing for our lives,” he said sarcastically. “Did you expect me to waste time accounting for your belongings?”
Her hands flew to her temples. She’d lost a small fortune in a night. And she had even more to lose stashed in her stall back home. Nahri’s heart quickened; she needed to return to Cairo. Between whatever rumors would undoubtedly fly around after the zar and her absence, it wouldn’t be long before her landlord sacked the place.
“I need to get back,” she said. “Please. I didn’t mean to call you. And I’m grateful you saved me from the ghouls,” she added, figuring a little appreciation couldn’t hurt. “But I just want to go home.”
A dark look crossed his face. “Oh, you’re going home, I suspect. But it won’t be to Cairo.”
“Excuse me?”
He was already walking away. “You can’t go back to the human world.” He sat heavily on the carpet under the shade of a tree and pulled off his boots. He seemed to have aged during their brief conversation, his face shadowed by exhaustion. “It’s against our law, and the ifrit are likely already tracking you. You wouldn’t last a day.”
“That’s not your problem!”
“It is.” He lay down, crossing his arms behind his head. “As are you, unfortunately.”
A chill went down Nahri’s back. The pointed questions about her family, the barely concealed disappointment when he learned of her abilities. “What do you know about me? Do you know why I can do these things?”
He shrugged. “I have my suspicions.”
“Which are?” she prodded when he fell silent. “Tell me.”
“Will you stop pestering me if I do?”
No. She nodded. “Yes.”
“I think you’re a shafit.”
He had called her that in the cemetery too. But the word remained unfamiliar. “What’s a shafit?”
“It’s what we call someone with mixed blood. It’s what happens when my race gets a bit . . . indulgent around humans.”
“Indulgent?” She gasped, the meaning of his words becoming clear. “You think I have daeva blood? That I’m like you?”
“Believe me when I say I find such a thing equally distressing.” He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “I never would have thought a Nahid capable of such a transgression.”
Nahri was growing more confused by the minute. “What’s a Nahid? Baseema called me something like that too, didn’t she?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she caught a flicker of emotion in his eyes. It was brief, but it was there. He cleared his throat. “It’s a family name,” he finally answered. “The Nahids are a family of daeva healers.”
Daeva healers? Nahri gaped, but before she could respond, he waved her off.
“No. I told you what I think, and you promised to leave me alone. I need to rest. I did a lot of magic last night and I want to be ready should the ifrit come sniffing for you again.”
Nahri shuddered, her hand instinctively going to her throat. “What do you mean to do with me?”
He made an irritated sound and reached into his pocket. Nahri jumped, expecting a weapon, but instead he pulled free a pile of clothing that looked too big to have fit the space and tossed it in her direction without opening his eyes. “There is a pool near the cliff. I suggest you visit it. You smell even viler than the rest of your kind.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Because I don’t know yet.” She could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “I’ve called someone for help. We will wait.”
Just what she needed—a second djinn to weigh in on her fate. She picked up the bundle of clothes. “Aren’t you worried I’ll escape?”
He let out a drowsy laugh. “Good luck getting out of the desert.”
The oasis was small, and it wasn’t long before she came upon the pool he had mentioned, a shadowy pond fed by the steady trickle of springs from a rocky ledge and surrounded by scrubby brush. She saw no sign of horses or camels; she couldn’t imagine how they’d gotten here.
With a shrug, Nahri pulled off her ruined abaya, stepped in, and submerged.
The press of the cool water was like the touch of a friend. She closed her eyes, trying to digest the madness of the past day. She’d been kidnapped by a djinn. A daeva. Whatever. A magical creature with too many weapons who didn’t seem particularly enamored of her.
She drifted on her back, tracing shapes in the water and staring at the palm-fringed sky.
He thinks I have daeva blood. The idea that she was in any way related to the creature who’d summoned a sandstorm last night seemed laughable, but he had a point about ignoring the implications of her healing abilities. Nahri had spent her entire life trying to blend in with those around her just to survive. Those instincts were warring even now: her thrill at learning what she was and her urge to flee back to the life she’d worked so hard to establish for herself in Cairo.
But she knew her odds of surviving the desert alone were low, so she tried to relax, enjoying the pool until her fingertips wrinkled. She scoured her skin with a palm husk and massaged her hair in the water, relishing the sensation of being clean. It wasn’t often she got to bathe—back home, the women at the local hammam made it clear she was unwelcome, perhaps fearing she’d put a hex on the bathwater.
There was little that could be done to save her abaya, but she washed what remained, stretching it out on a sunny rock to dry before turning her attention to the clothing the daeva had given her.
It was obviously his; it smelled of burnt citrus and was cut to accommodate a muscular man, not a chronically famished woman. Nahri rubbed the ash-colored fabric between her fingers and marveled at its quality. It was soft as silk, yet sturdy as felt. It was also completely seamless; try as she might, she couldn’t find a single stitch. She could likely sell it for a good sum if she escaped.