He is sitting very close. My throat goes dry, and I stop to swallow, overly conscious of his warmth and the minty smell of the soap he used to wash his face this morning.
“Finally, the gods struck them with infertility—no new jinn could be born. But Havok, the god of rebirth, took pity on the jinn and allowed them to replenish their ranks only with humans who were given over to them. These sacrifices were meant to appease the jinn, and they were taken and turned into ifreets and sila, maarids and ghuls. A few were even made shaitan.”
“Human sacrifices?” Aladdin’s voice is thick with disgust. “I’d heard that in other parts of the world, they still leave children and girls and warriors for the jinn, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“You should. It is the easiest way to ensure that the jinn won’t burn your crops or sicken your livestock. After the gods abandoned the world, temples called alombs became shrines to the jinn, places where people could leave their sacrifices and buy another year of protection.”
“Zahra . . . were you sacrificed?”
I haven’t thought about that day in a long, long time. It was a thousand and one lifetimes ago. Ignoring the question, I point to the north, to the mountain sitting in the distance behind a screen of haze. “There is one such alomb on the summit of that mountain.”
He watches me, fully aware of my evasion, but he doesn’t press me further. His gaze turns north. “We don’t use it. It’s forbidden. That’s why our city is starving. Few cities will trade with us, because they think we should make offerings to the jinn as they do.”
I nod. “Roshana was the first Amulen queen to outlaw sacrifices. It was a bold move, but it infuriated the jinn.”
He leans into me, nudging me softly with his shoulder. “So? What about you? What’s it like being a shaitan?”
I stare at him. “What makes you think I am a shaitan?”
“I’ve seen you grant wishes, and the way you change your form . . . Well? You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I admit. I am part of a dying breed, one of only three left in existence. Of the other two, one resides in Ambadya, ruling the jinn, and the second is likely somewhere beneath my feet, trapped in a bottle.
“Were you in Ambadya before it was destroyed?” Aladdin asks.
“Of course not. I’ve been a jinni for four thousand years. Ambadya was razed long, long before that.”
“Who were you? Where did you live?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I stand up, dropping the lemon, and turn to look down on the city. “It’s too hot out here. Let’s go inside. I’ll teach you how to properly enter a room based on who is already there, and whether they are sitting, standing, or eating.”
Aladdin groans. “I’m sick of playing prince. Let’s pick pockets.”
“No.”
“Wait a minute, Smoky . . .” He leans in close to study me, mimicking Jalil’s habit of raising one eyebrow ridiculously high when suspicious. I can’t help it—his expression makes me giggle—actually giggle, like a little girl. “Do you even know how to pick pockets?”
“Of course I do,” I lie. “I’ve picked a thousand and one—”
“Yes, yes, you’ve done it all a thousand times, I get it.” He raises a doubtful brow. “So prove it.”
? ? ?
“Him,” Aladdin murmurs. “The one with the feather on his hat. He’s got a pipe in his left pocket.”
We’re in the palace gardens, pretending to admire a massive statue of King Malek. Many nobles are out today, lounging around the pools and fountains, strolling beneath the shade of the trees. Nearly as vast as the palace itself, the gardens spread in a luxurious carpet of green, organized in perfect symmetry. One could walk for hours out here and never find the end of them.
Our target is a man a bit older than Aladdin, walking in our direction. We stand in a more secluded spot. Our back is to him, and when he passes behind us, Aladdin coughs.
I turn and run straight into the man and quickly slip my hand into his pocket, but the pipe is too deep to reach.
“You clumsy wench—Gods above! Are you trying to rob me, girl?” The nobleman seizes my wrist and yanks it from his pocket. My hand comes up with the pipe clenched in it. I stare at him, horrified.
“I . . .”
We’re standing by a tall, neatly trimmed hedge, and without another word I grab the nobleman and drag him into the bushes with me; we burst through the other side into a private clearing populated with small, half-tame deer, which startle and flee. Surrounded by tall shrubs and trees, we’re hidden from view of anyone else walking by.
“I’ll have your head for this!” the man rages. “I’ll have you whipped!”
Aladdin climbs through the hedge after us. I’m gripping the man by his coat, while he spits curses at me, his face turning bright red and his beard flecked with spittle.
“What are you doing?” hisses Aladdin.
“I don’t know!” I stare at him helplessly. “I panicked!”
Rolling his eyes, Aladdin turns to the man. “Shut it, will you?”
“I’ve never been so—mph!”