And so they did, plunging into the djinn’s memories.
It didn’t take long. Not when the first vision of Sobek was the river lord charging out of the Nile to protect two mortals who should have meant nothing. Not when the notoriously cold crocodile so determinedly coached one of the mortals through seizing a current and then warned him to flee, genuine alarm in his ancient, brutal visage.
“Oh, cousin,” the monsoon marid murmured as they bit down on the djinn’s lip, tasting his blood. “What have you done?”
30
NAHRI
Nahri berated herself as she made her way back to her room.
You naive little fool. Did you really think that because you call him “brother” now, all differences between you would be erased? Jamshid was a Daeva noble who’d spent a decade in the Temple and believed up until a few months ago that simply speaking with a shafit was forbidden. He was Kaveh’s son—God only knew what kind of things he’d grown up hearing.
What he still quietly believed.
If you continue lying to him, he’s not going to be inclined to think well of you or the shafit either. Nahri stomped up the stairs. She was so very tired of secrets.
The corridor was dark when she emerged from the stairwell, rain lashing the open balustrade and the sky thick with purpling clouds. A pair of women were chatting excitedly in Ntaran by the windows, looking out at the storm, but they fell abruptly silent when they spotted Nahri and hurried away.
Loneliness sliced through her. I want to go home. But both of her homes were very far away, neither offering a safe or easy return.
Her room was dark when she entered, cold and unguarded—Nahri was not expected back yet, and the lamps hadn’t been lit. The only light came from the makeshift fire altar she and Jamshid had cobbled together in one corner, glowing steadily against the wild storm outside … as well as the storm inside. The balcony door had blown open, and half the room was drenched, with more waves of rain batting through.
“Didn’t have to deal with monsoons in Cairo,” Nahri muttered, crossing to assess the damage. She unpinned the cowrie shell clip holding her shayla in place, tossing the silk scarf to a dry spot on the bed and shaking out her hair. The delicate scarf was a recent gift from Hatset, probably a reminder of what else Nahri could get if she agreed to marry Ali and set up a kingdom in Ta Ntry. But if Hatset thought Nahri too principled to take fancy gifts without following through on the attached strings, well, that was her mistake.
Nahri froze at the foot of her bed. She wasn’t alone.
“Ali?” she asked, shocked to see Ali standing on her balcony in the pouring rain. He had his back to her and was soaked to the bone, his hands spread on the railing like he was surveying some sort of kingdom of the drowned. “What are you doing here? What are you doing there?”
He didn’t turn around. “I wanted to see you and got caught in the rain. I figured that I might as well enjoy it.”
“You’re going to drown standing up.”
Ali’s eyes were still closed, but he turned just enough that Nahri could see the side of his mouth curve in a grin. “Always so worried about me.”
“Someone has to be. You court death with far too much persistence.”
“Considering how you’ve been avoiding me, I’m surprised to hear you mind such courtship.”
Nahri flinched. The remark was more acerbic than usual, but also deserved—she had been avoiding him.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “It’s complicated.” She looked at Ali again, still standing in the rain. “But it’s good to see you,” she admitted, some of her loneliness lifting. “Don’t let it go to your head, but, Creator forgive me, I think I’ve actually missed your company.”
“Then join me.”
“No, thank you. I’ve had enough of water for several lifetimes.”
Ali lifted his hands as if to embrace the storm, tilting his face to the sky. “Come on, Banu Nahida,” he teased. “Live a little.” His eyes were still shut, and the rain had soaked through his white dishdasha, making it cling to the broad line of his shoulders and the planes of his back. Ali’s head and feet were bare, water streaming over his closely shaved hair and glistening as it coursed down the nape of his neck.
He looked beautiful, standing there against the storm-churned sky. He was beautiful—that was something she’d thought even from the first day they’d met and she’d wanted to shove him in the canal. But it had been a distant fact, the same way she might admire a lovely sunset.
Nahri wasn’t thinking about Ali like a sunset right now. She had a very sudden desire to touch him, to trace the path of the rain running down his body and see what he did in response.
He’s smitten with you. Damn Hatset and her poisonous, lingering words. But linger they had, going to a part of herself Nahri had buried when she signed her betrothal contract long ago, binding her life to a fiancé who’d spat at her feet.
What might it be like to be with a person who was smitten with her?
For Muntadhir certainly hadn’t been, even if his hatred had faded by the time they were finally married. They’d slept together, and Nahri had enjoyed it—she would challenge anyone upon whom her husband turned his well-practiced talents to remain indifferent—but it had been transactional. There was nothing of the sweet fumblings about which she’d overheard blushing new brides whisper, or the laughing, scandalous advice of older married women. Muntadhir had been in Nahri’s bed because his family had defeated hers, and his father wanted a Nahid grandchild.
And that had been enough to smother any inklings she’d had of desire or affection. But now Ghassan was dead, and Nahri was
