“So it will be vengeance for Sakhr instead.”
Qandisha had no sooner spoken than a boulder rose in the air, dripping with mud. She threw out her hand, and it flew toward them.
And then, even faster, a glistening wave erupted from the Nile like a wet shield. The momentum of the water was enough to slow the boulder, and it landed in the river before it could smash their boat, the splash drenching them.
Ali.
The djinn prince held out his hands. He was gasping, his face pained with the effort the marid magic must have cost him.
“You talk too much,” he grunted, and then, sweating and shivering, he jerked his hands down. The water around the ifrit’s ankles dashed up, pulling her into the shallows. Ali hissed, clutching his chest, but their boat was already moving.
Qandisha recovered more quickly than Nahri would have expected, however, climbing back to her feet and looking as angry as a wet cat.
“Another time that might’ve intrigued me,” the ifrit said, fire rasping in her mouth. “But I did warn you not to interfere.”
Qandisha snapped her fingers, and the sail burst into flames, fire rushing down the mast with malicious speed.
The bodies in the river jerked back to life.
If Nahri thought Vizaresh’s control of ghouls was powerful, the other ifrit had nothing on Qandisha. The murdered human men, their eyes veiled in ashen gray, moved in fast, spasmodic motions, swarming the boat in seconds. But they didn’t go for Nahri.
They went for Ali, mobbing him so thoroughly that he’d barely managed a cry before he vanished beneath the mass of hungry dead flesh.
Nahri lunged for him, but the burning mast cracked before she could take two steps. The weight of the sail dragged it down, smashing the deck and ripping their boat open.
In an instant the water was at her chest, ropes tangling around her legs. Nahri wrenched them away, kicking madly as the felucca fell apart beneath her. Debris snagged the bottom of her dress, dragging her under the water.
She ripped it away and resurfaced. “Ali!” Nahri screamed his name, but she could see nothing except fiery debris and choking smoke. There was no response from Ali save the wet grunting of ghouls and a horrible, awful crunching.
No, Creator, no. Nahri scrambled at the remains of the boat. “Ali!”
“Oh, wouldn’t Anahid be proud of your spirit.” Qandisha laughed. “But she chose mortality for you all, and well, that only ends one way.”
From the haze obscuring the river came three murky shapes, bloated and gray.
Ghouls.
Nahri didn’t even get a last gulp of air. The ghouls seized her and pulled her down, the river closing over her head again.
NO. She fought wildly, kicking and scratching at dead flesh, writhing against their arms. It made no difference. In seconds, they were at the bottom, Nahri pinned against the murky mud and terrified out of her wits. Her chest throbbed, aching for air.
Focus, Nahri! She was the con artist of Cairo, the stealthy thief. This couldn’t be how things ended for her, drowned beneath the Nile. She had to have a plan, a quick turn of hand.
But this time, Nahri had nothing.
This is how Dara died. Dara’s memories, shared so long ago, surged back into her mind. Thrown down a well by a laughing Qandisha. His desperate struggle, the panic and despair when he realized he couldn’t escape the dark water …
She was losing her ability to fight, her strength leaving her in waves. Daevabad flashed before her eyes and, with it, all the people Nahri had failed. The hospital courtyard filled with her celebrating friends. Nisreen guiding her hands through a new procedure. Ali coaching her through reading a sentence in the magnificent palace library. Jamshid and Subha’s cautious first meeting.
A warrior pulling himself upon the stage of a crumbling amphitheater, his green eyes blazing.
Darayavahoush! Darayavahoush e-Afshin is my name.
Darkness beckoned at the edges of Nahri’s vision. My name. A sunlit room in a small mudbrick home, a name she couldn’t remember called aloud. Warm brown eyes and a blanket tucked around her shoulders. A kiss on her nose.
A boat of fishermen, pulling her aboard with strong hands. What is your name?
And then the water surged past her lips, and Nahri remembered no more.
15
ALI
Ali thrashed against the ghouls, kicking and cutting and smashing his head into the press of dead flesh and sharp nails. He gagged on the aroma of rot, desperate to free himself. To stop moving would be to die; to be still for even a second would give the ghouls that same second to tear him apart. Ali clutched his khanjar and zulfiqar so tight it hurt. If he lost his blades, he was finished.
A bony wrist shoved against his throat, cutting off his air and silencing his grunts. Beyond, Nahri was screaming his name.
Ali choked, trying to call out to her. There was the sound of splintering wood, crashing, the sensation of falling. The ifrit was laughing, but her words were drowned out by the blood pumping in his ears and the moans of the ghouls.
Nails ripped at his stomach, blunt teeth gnawing at his shoulder. Abruptly aware he was moments away from being eaten alive, he welcomed the cold touch of water at his ankles like the hand of a savior. To hell with this; his heart exploding would at least be a quicker way to die than being torn apart by the dead.
Ali called to the river with everything he had.
The water leapt to his aid and then Ali howled, the scorching lash in his chest causing him to nearly black out. The river reared up like a beast, hungry devouring tongues of water ripping the ghouls from his body. Ali screamed, his body seizing …
His grip on the marid magic shattered, and then it was over. Ali lay on broken pieces of floating wood,
