“Right. We can do this. No problem.” His tone is a little high, but he grabs my hand. “Let’s go!”
I must lean on Aladdin, and not only for show—the closer we get, the harder it is for me to hold out. The air feels like knives, the ground like burning coals. It seems all the elements bend themselves toward crushing me, repulsing me, grinding me into the earth. Somehow, his heartbeat gives me strength. Perhaps it helps to hide my jinn nature from the wards. Either way, I can feel myself gaining a little more control of my own body. I burst forward, and together we run for the gates. They’re seconds away from shutting entirely.
“We won’t fit,” I say.
“Yes, we will,” Aladdin replies through clenched teeth, as if he can will them open with sheer stubbornness.
“If you wish for it—ugh!” As we pass through the stone gryphons, their stare seems to hone in on me. The Eskarr glyphs seem to glow. The power behind them pushes at me with the force of a hundred horses, seeking to trample me into the earth.
“My wife!” Aladdin cries to the guards. “She’s going to give birth! Stop the gates!”
The men exchange looks but remain resolute. The space between the doors shrinks until it seems not even a cat could slip through. But Aladdin remains undeterred. He sprints ahead, gasping, his shoulder crimson with blood. I don’t have to fake my own pain, as if I’m being speared from the front and hooked from behind. Everything in me screams, Turn around! Run away! But I force myself to keep moving. Spots dance across my eyes. Every thought I have is bent on maintaining human form. I ache to shift into smoke just to stop the pain.
And then we reach the gates. Aladdin stops, pushing me through first. I can hardly see at this point, and I realize I’m sobbing aloud. Ordinarily I’d be mortified at such a display of weakness, but I don’t have a thought to spare for my pride. It hurts too much.
All I can do is force myself not to shift, not to give us away. I feel Aladdin’s hand in mine, his voice in my ear, but the words make no sense. There’s shouting, arguing. Everything swims around me. I am a twig caught in a flood.
With a moan, I collapse, the false pregnant belly dissipating. Instead of hitting the ground, though, I drop into Aladdin’s arms. He lifts me and holds me against his chest, then begins running. The scent of him overwhelms me: fresh figs from this morning, goats’ milk soap he last washed his cloak with, smoke from the ruins of Neruby, wind, and sea salt. Human smells, rich and heady. I can sense his pain through his pulse, but he doesn’t slow or stop. He must be hurting as much as I am. Why doesn’t he let me go? Why doesn’t he leave the lamp and save himself? Or make a wish—if I could even grant it in this state.
With a shudder, I feel myself slip, as if from a tall tower, and I plummet into darkness with one last thought:
But I was so close . . .
Chapter Six
WHEN I COME TO, I’m lying beneath stars, my back on a hard, cold surface. I startle awake, all at once, and bolt up into a sitting position.
“Whoa, easy there, Smoky.”
I turn and see Aladdin sitting beside me, eating roasted lamb speared on a small stick. We’re sitting on top of a building, with an expansive view of the sea beyond the city walls. I turn around and study Parthenia from above. The buildings rise where the land swells to the north, a domed palace sitting at the city’s highest point. Even on this nearly moonless night, it glows like a pearl in the darkness. Zhian is somewhere out there, raging unheard in a tiny bottle or jar. The thought, which amused me earlier, now only fills me with grim determination. I stretch out my sixth sense, probing the night, but it doesn’t reach far, and I catch not a glimmer of him.
“What happened?” It’s rare for me to black out like this, and it frightens me more than I like to admit. I don’t know how humans do it every night—falling asleep, letting darkness swallow them.
“You passed out. I had to carry you.”
“How is your shoulder?”
He’s wearing a fresh bandage, but it’s been sloppily applied. “Had to redo it. Tough with just one hand. And I grabbed these.” He pulls two little clay pots from his pocket. “There’s an herbalist one street over, so I made a run while you were out. I hope they’re for wounds and won’t, you know, cause warts or something.”
I hold out a hand, and he drops the pots into my palm. I open them and sniff. “This one is for soothing women’s birthing pains.”
Aladdin winces.
“But the other one should do the trick.” I hand them back. “It’s a cinnamon-and-clove mixture and will stop any disease from spreading in your wound.”
He pockets that pot and leaves the other behind as he stands. “You feeling better, then? Or want to take a ride from here?” He pats his cloak, and a dull ting tells me the lamp is still tied to his belt.
I try not to sound too desperate when I reply, “I’d rather walk. Where are we going?”