She looked back at the ifrit. He was lying on the rocks, blood leaking from his mouth. His eyes, beautiful and terrified, met hers. “No . . . ,” he panted. “We had a deal . . .”
He hit me. He threatened to kill Dara. Acting on a rush of cold hate and instinct that likely would have frightened her if she had given it more thought, she kicked him hard in the stomach. He cried out, and she dropped to her knees, pressing her dagger against his throat.
“Who did you make a deal with?” she demanded. “What did they want with me?”
He shook his head and took a rattling breath. “Filthy Nahid scum . . . you’re all the same,” he spat. “. . . knew it was a mistake . . .”
“Who?” she demanded again. When he said nothing, she slashed her hand open and pressed her bloody palm against his wound.
The sound that came from the ifrit was unlike any she could imagine: a screech that tore at her soul. She wanted to turn away, to flee into the river and submerge herself, escaping all this.
Nahri thought again of Dara. Over a thousand years as a slave, stolen from his people and murdered, given over to the whims of countless cruel masters. She saw Baseema’s gentle smile, the most innocent of innocents gone forever. She pushed harder.
With her other hand, she kept the dagger against his throat, though judging from his shrieks, it wasn’t necessary. She waited until his cries turned to a whimper. “Tell me, and I’ll heal you.”
He squirmed under her blade, his eyes briefly dilating black. The wound bubbled, steaming like an overfilled cauldron, and a terrible liquid sound came from his throat.
“Nahri!” Dara’s voice rose from somewhere in the dark, a distant distraction. “Nahri!”
The ifrit’s fevered gaze fixed on her face. Something flickered in his eyes, something calculating and vile. He opened his mouth. “Your mother,” he wheezed. “We made a deal with Manizheh.”
“What?” she asked, so startled that she nearly dropped the knife. “My what?”
The ifrit started to seize, a rattling moan coming from somewhere low in his throat. His eyes dilated again, and his mouth fell open, a haze of steam rushing past his lips. Nahri grimaced. She doubted she’d get much more information from him.
His fingers scrabbled on her wrist. “Heal me . . . ,” he begged. “You promised.”
“I lied.” With a sharp and vicious motion, she slashed her hand back and cut his throat. Dark vapor rose from his maimed neck and stifled his cry. But his eyes, fixed and hateful, stayed on her blade, watching as she raised it over his chest. The throat . . . Dara had once instructed, the weaknesses of the ifrit one of the few things he would tell her.
. . . the lungs. She brought the blade back down, plunging it into his chest. It didn’t go in easily, and she fought the urge to vomit as she leaned her weight into the dagger. Viscous black blood gushed over her hands. The ifrit convulsed once, twice, and then fell still, his chest lowering like she’d emptied a sack of flour. Nahri watched another moment but knew he was dead, felt the lack of life and vigor immediately. She had killed him.
She stood; her legs trembled. I killed a man. She stared at the dead ifrit, transfixed by the sight of his blood seeping and smoking over the pebbly ground. I killed him.
“Nahri!” Dara skidded to a stop in front of her. He took one of her arms as his alarmed eyes raked over her bloodied clothing. He touched her cheek, his fingers grazed her wet hair. “By the Creator, I was so worried . . . Suleiman’s eye!”
Spotting the ifrit, he leaped back, pulling her protectively behind him. “He . . . you . . . ,” he stammered, sounding more shocked than she had ever heard him. “You killed an ifrit.” He whirled on her, his green eyes flashing. “You killed an ifrit?” he repeated as he took a closer look.
Your mother . . . The ifrit’s final claim taunted her. She couldn’t forget that strange flicker in his eyes before he spoke. Was it a lie? Words meant to haunt the enemy who would kill him?
A hot breeze swept past her cheeks, and Nahri lifted her eyes. The cliffs were on fire; the wet trees snapped and cracked as they burned. The air smelled poisonous, hot and seeded with tiny burning embers that swept across the dead landscape and twinkled above the dark river.
She pressed one of her bloody hands against her temple as a wave of nausea swept over her. She turned away from the dead ifrit, the sight of its body triggering a strange sense of rightness that she didn’t like. “I . . . he said something about . . .” She stopped speaking. More black smoke was coming down the cliff, twisting and slithering through the trees and growing into a thick roiling wave as it neared them.
“Get back!” Dara yanked her away, and the smoky tendrils flattened with a low hiss. Dara took the opportunity to shove her toward the water. “Go, you can still get to the river.”
The river. She shook her head; even as she watched, an enormous tree branch shot past like it had been fired from a cannon, and the water roared as it crashed against the boulders littering its banks.
She couldn’t even see the opposite shore—there was no way she could cross. And Dara would probably dissolve.
“No,” she replied, her voice grim. “We’ll never make it.”
The smoke surged forward and began to separate, swirling and piling into three distinct shapes. The daeva snarled and drew his bow. “Nahri, get in the water.”
Before she could reply, Dara gave her a hard push, knocking her into the cold current. It wasn’t deep enough for her to submerge, but the river fought her as she climbed back to her feet.
Dara released one of his arrows, but it sailed uselessly through the nebulous forms. He cursed and shot again as one of the ifrit flashed with fiery light. A blackened hand grabbed the arrow. Still holding it, the ifrit burned back into its solid form, followed immediately by the other two.
The ifrit with the arrow was even larger than the one Nahri had killed. The skin around his eyes smoldered in a rough band, black and gold. The other two were smaller: another man and a woman wearing a diadem of braided metals.
The ifrit rolled Dara’s arrow between his fingers. It began to melt, the silver winking as it dripped into the dirt. The ifrit grinned, and then his hand smoked. The arrow was gone, replaced by an enormous iron mace. The spikes and ridges of its heavy head were dull with blood. He hoisted the horrific weapon up on one shoulder and stepped forward.
“Salaam alaykum, Banu Nahida.” He gave her a sharp smile. “I have so looked forward to this meeting.”
The ifrit’s Arabic was flawless, with just enough of Cairo’s flavor to make her flinch. He inclined his head in a slight bow. “You call yourself Nahri, yes?”
Dara drew back another arrow. “Don’t answer that.”
The ifrit lifted his hands. “There is no harm. I know it’s not her real name.” He turned his golden gaze back to Nahri. “I am Aeshma, child. Why don’t you come from the water?”