Ali floated peacefully in warm darkness, wrapped tight in the embrace of the water. It smelled of salt and mud, of life, gently teasing and tugging at his clothes. A pebbly soft tendril stroked his cheek while another twined around his ankle.
A throbbing at the back of his head slowly brought him to the present. Dazed, Ali opened his eyes. Darkness surrounded him. He was submerged in water so deep and so clouded by muddy silt that he could barely see. Memories came to him in pieces. The watery beast. The Citadel’s tower tumbling through the air …
The lake. He was in Daevabad’s lake.
Sheer panic tore through him. He thrashed, trying desperately to free himself from whatever held him. His robe, he realized, blindly fumbling. The crumbled remains of some sort of brick wall had pinned it to the lake bed. Ali wrenched it off, kicking madly for the surface. The smell of ash and blood grew thicker on the water, but he ignored it, fighting past floating debris.
He finally broke through. He gasped for breath, pain surging through him.
The lake was in chaos.
Ali might as well have emerged onto a scene from the darkest circle of hell. Screams filled the air, cries for help, for mercy, in all the djinn languages he knew. Layered over them were moans, feral, hungry sounds that Ali couldn’t place.
Oh, God … and the water. It wasn’t just debris that surrounded him, it was bodies. Hundreds of djinn soldiers, floating dead in their uniforms. And when Ali saw the reason, he cried out, tears springing to his eyes.
Daevabad’s Citadel—the proud symbol of Zaydi al Qahtani’s rebellion, of the Geziri tribe, Ali’s home for nearly two decades—had been destroyed.
Its once mighty tower had been ripped from its moorings and dragged into the lake, only a crumbled hump remaining above the water. Jagged gashes, as if from the claws of some massive creature, had raked through the remaining buildings, through the soldiers’ barracks and across the training yards, making furrows so deep that the lake had filled them. The rest of the complex was on fire. Ali could see skeletal figures moving against the smoke.
Tears ran silently down his cheeks. “No,” he whispered. This was a nightmare, another awful vision from the marid. “Stop this!”
Nothing happened. Ali took in the sight of the bodies again. Djinn murdered by the marid’s curse did not remain floating upon the water; they were torn apart and swallowed by its depths, never to be seen again.
The curse on the lake was gone.
“I see someone!”
Ali turned toward the voice to spot a makeshift boat, one of the carved wooden doors of the tower, making its way toward him, crewed by a pair of Ayaanle soldiers wielding broken beams as oars.
“We’ve got you, brother,” one of the soldiers said, hauling him aboard. His golden eyes went wide when he glanced at Ali. “Aye, praise God … it’s the prince!”
“Bring him over!” Ali heard another man cry from some distance away.
They paddled awkwardly through the water. Ali had to turn away from the sight of the door pushing through the thick clutter of bodies, his fellows in uniform, too many of their faces familiar.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real. But it didn’t feel like one of his visions. There was no alien presence whispering in Ali’s head. There was just bewilderment, grief, and carnage.
As they neared the ruins of the Citadel, the remains of the toppled tower grew larger, rising from the lake like a lost island. A shattered section of its exterior shielded the few dozen warriors who’d gathered there. Some were curled around themselves, weeping. But Ali’s gaze immediately flew to the ones who were fighting, several soldiers fending off a pair of thin, wraith-like creatures whose tattered shrouds clung wetly to their wasted bodies.
One was Lubayd, swinging his sword wildly. With a disgusted cry, he decapitated one of the leering creatures and kicked the body back into the lake.
Ali could have wept with relief. His best friend, at least, had survived the Citadel’s destruction.
“We found the prince!” the Ayaanle soldier at his side cried. “He’s alive!”
Lubayd whirled around. He was there by the time they arrived, yanking Ali to his feet and throwing his arms around him in a tight hug.
“Ali, brother, thank God …,” he choked out. “I’m sorry … the water came so fast, and when I couldn’t find you in the room—”
Ali could barely manage a response. “I’m all right,” he croaked.
A scream cut the air, a plea in Geziriyya. “No, don’t! God, please!”
Ali lurched to the edge of the ruined tower, catching sight of the man who’d cried out: a Geziri soldier who’d managed to make it back to the beach only to be mobbed by the skeletal beings. They surrounded him, dragging him to the sand. Ali saw teeth and nails and mouths bearing down …
And then he couldn’t watch, his stomach rising. He spun back around as the djinn’s guttural cry was cut short.
“They … are they—” He couldn’t even say the word.
Lubayd nodded. He looked shattered. “They’re ghouls. It’s what they do.”
Ali shook his head in denial. “They can’t be ghouls. There are no ifrit in Daevabad to summon ghouls—and certainly no dead humans!”
“Those are ghouls,” Lubayd said firmly. “My father and I came upon a pair devouring a human hunter once.” He flinched. “It’s not a sight one forgets.”
Ali felt faint. He took a deep breath; he couldn’t fall apart. Not now. “Did anyone see what attacked the Citadel in the first place?”
Lubayd nodded, pointing to a thin Sahrayn man rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. “He was the first one out, and the things he’s saying …” He trailed off, looking nauseated. “You should talk to him.”
His heart in his throat, Ali approached the Sahrayn man. He knelt at his side, laying a hand on his shivering arm. “Brother,” he started softly. “Can you tell me what you saw?”
The man kept rocking, his eyes bright with terror. “I was keeping watch on my ship,” he whispered. “We were moored over there.” He pointed to the ruined pier where a broken Sahrayn sandship had been driven up onto the shattered docks. “The lake … the water … it spun itself into a monster. It attacked the Citadel. Ravaged it, pulling what it could back into its depths.” He swallowed, shaking harder. “The force of it threw me in the lake. I thought the curse would kill me … When it didn’t, I started swimming … and then I saw them.”
“Saw what?” Ali pressed.
“Warriors,” the man whispered. “They came racing out of the lake on the backs of smoky horses with their bows drawn. They started shooting the survivors and then … and then …” Tears were rolling down his cheeks. “The dead came from the water. They swarmed my boat as I watched.” His shoulders shook. “My captain …” He started to weep harder. “They tore out his throat with their teeth.”
Ali’s stomach plummeted, but he forced himself to peer through the darkness at the beach. Yes, he could see an archer now: a racing horse, the glimmer of a silver bow. An arrow went flying …
Another scream, and then silence. Fury surged through Ali, burning away his fear and panic. Those were his people out there.
He turned to study the ruined Citadel. And then his heart stopped. A ragged hole had been punched into the wall facing the street.
Ali grabbed the Sahrayn man’s arm again. “Did you see anything go through there?” he demanded. “Are those things in our city?”
The sailor shook his head. “The ghouls, no … but the riders …” He nodded. “At least half of them. Once they were past the city walls …” His voice turned incredulous. “Prince Alizayd, their horses—they flew …”
“Where?” Ali demanded. “Where did you see them fly?”
The pity in the man’s eyes filled Ali with awful, knowing dread. “The palace, my prince.”
Ali shot to his feet. This was no random attack. He couldn’t imagine who—or what—was capable of something like this, but he recognized a strategy when he saw one. They’d come for the Guard first, annihilating the djinn army before it could muster to protect the next target: the palace.
My family.“We need to get to the beach,” he declared.
The Sahrayn man looked at him as though he’d gone insane. “You won’t be able to get to the beach. Those archers are shooting everything that moves, and the few djinn who make it out are being eaten alive by ghouls the moment they step out of the water!”
Ali shook his head. “We cannot let those things into our city.” He watched as a soldier dispatched another pair of ghouls when they attempted to climb upon the ruined tower, their gaping mouths full of rotted teeth. The man did so fairly easily, a single sweep of his blazing zulfiqar severing both in two.
They are not invincible, Ali noted. Not at all. It was their numbers that gave them an advantage; a single, terrified djinn, exhausted from navigating a gauntlet of arrows, stood no chance against dozens of hungry ghouls.
Across the water, another djinn was attempting to climb onto a floating bit of wreckage. Ali watched helplessly as a torrent of arrows cut him down. A small band of the mysterious archers had set themselves up on a section of broken wall that ran between the water and the ruined Citadel complex. Right now, Ali and his fellow survivors were safe, a shell of the tower curving up to protect them from the archers’ view. But he didn’t imagine their reprieve would last for long.
He examined the stretch of water separating their small sanctuary from Daevabad’s shore. It was a manageable swim if not for the fact that anyone who tried would be visible to the archers the entire time.
A decision settled upon him. “Come here,” he said, raising his voice. “All of you.”
Ali waited for them to do so, taking advantage of the moment to study the survivors. A mix from all five of the djinn tribes, mostly men. He knew nearly all by face, if not by name—they were all Royal Guard except the Sahrayn sailor. A few cadets, a handful of officers, and the rest infantry. They looked terrified and bewildered and Ali couldn’t blame them. They’d trained all their lives as warriors, but their people hadn’t seen true war in centuries. Daevabad was supposed to be a refuge from the rest of the magical world: from ghouls and ifrit, from water-beasts capable of dragging down a tower that had stood for centuries.
He took a deep breath, well aware of the near suicidal nature of the counterattack he was about to propose. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he started. “I don’t think any of us do. But we’re not safe here.” He gestured to the mountains, looming far from the distant shore. “The curse might be gone from the lake, but I don’t think many of us could make that swim. The mountains are too far away. The city, however, is not.”
The Sahrayn sailor shuddered again. “Everyone who’s made it to that beach has been slaughtered.” His voice rose. “We should just take blades to each other’s throats—it’s a better fate than being eaten alive.”
“They’re picking us off,” Ali argued. “We stand a better chance if we fight together …” He eyed the men around him “Would you stay here only to be killed later? Look at what they did to the Citadel. Do you think that wasn’t deliberate? They came after the Royal Guard first, and if you think whatever is attacking us is going to have mercy on a band of stranded survivors, you’re a fool.”
A Geziri captain with a nasty gash across his face spoke up. “We’d be in view of those archers. They’ll see us swimming and have us riddled with arrows before we even get close to the shore.”
“Ah, but they won’t see me coming.” Ali kicked off his sandals. It would be easier to swim without them. “I’ll stay under the water until I get to the wall.”
The captain stared at him. “Prince Alizayd … your courage is admirable, but you can’t swim that length underwater. And even if you could, you’re just one man. I counted at least a dozen of those warriors and probably a hundred ghouls. It’s suicide.”
“He can do it.” It was Lubayd, his voice intense. He met Ali’s gaze, and from the mix of grief and admiration in his friend’s eyes, Ali could tell Lubayd knew what he was preparing to do. “He doesn’t fight like the rest of us.”
Still seeing uncertainty on too many faces, Ali raised his voice. “Daevabad is our home! You all took oaths to defend it, to defend the innocents within who are about to be butchered by the same monsters who just killed so many of our brothers and sisters. You will get back to that beach. Gather all the weapons you can. Help each other swim. Paddle on pieces of wood. I don’t care how you do it, but get across. Fight. Stop those things before they get into the city.”
By his last words, a good number of the men were rising to their feet, grim but determined, but not all.
“We’ll die,” the Sahrayn sailor said hoarsely.
“Then you will die a martyr.” Ali glared at those still sitting. “Stand up!” he roared. “Your fellows lie dead, your women and children are defenseless, and you’re sitting here weeping for yourselves? Have you no shame?” He paused, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “You all have a choice. You can end this night a hero, with your families safe, or you end it with them in Paradise, their entrance bought with your blood.” He drew his zulfiqar, fire blazing down its length. “STAND UP!”
Lubayd raised his sword with a wild—and slightly frightened—cry. “Come, you puffed-up city-born brats!” he goaded. “What happened to all the crowing I’ve been hearing about your bravery? Don’t you want to be sung about in the stories they’ll tell of this night? Let’s go!”
That brought the rest of them to their feet. “Prepare yourselves,” Ali ordered. “Be ready to go as soon as they’re distracted.” His heart racing, he shoved his zulfiqar back into its sheath, ripping a length from his ruined dishdasha to secure his blades.
Lubayd grabbed his wrist, pulling him close. “Don’t you fucking die, Alizayd al Qahtani,” he said, pressing his brow to Ali’s. “I did not drag your starving ass from a crevasse to see you eaten by ghouls.”
Ali fought the tears pricking his eyes; they both knew there was little chance he was making it off the beach alive. “God be with you, my friend.”
He turned away. Before he could show the fear coursing through his blood, before the others could see even a second of hesitation, Ali dove into the lake.
He swam deep, the motion throwing him back into his memory of the marid nightmare. Though the water was dark with silt, he caught sight of the lake bed below. It was muddy and gray, a pale imitation from the lush marine plain of his dream.
Could the marid be behind all this? Ali wondered, remembering their rage. Had they returned to take back their home?
He kept swimming. Ali was fast and it wasn’t long before he caught sight of the wall he was looking for. He took care to press himself close against it as he silently broke the water’s surface.
Voices. Ali listened closer. He wasn’t sure what he expected—the gibberish of some unknown demons, the slithering tongue of the marid—but what he heard froze his blood.
It was Divasti.
They were being attacked by Daevas? Ali glanced up, past a narrow lip of overhanging rock, and caught a glimpse of a young man. He looked as though he could be a Daeva, dressed in a charcoal-colored coat and black leggings, the dark colors blending perfectly with the shadows.
How in God’s name did a band of Daevas come through the lake armed with ghouls and flying horses?
The Daeva man suddenly drew up, his attention narrowing on the lake. He reached for his bow …
Ali was out of the water in the next breath. He pulled himself onto the wall before the shocked eyes of the man, drew his zulfiqar, and plunged the fiery blade into the archer’s chest.
The man didn’t have a chance to scream. Ali shoved him off the end of his zulfiqar and knocked him into the water. He’d turned to face the others before a splash even sounded.
Daevas, three of them. Another archer—a woman with a long black braid—and two men armed with a broadsword and a mace. They looked taken aback by his arrival, aghast at their comrade’s death. But not afraid.
And they reacted a lot faster than he would have imagined.
The first drew his broadsword, the acrid smell warning Ali of iron before it sparked hard against his zulfiqar. The man danced back, careful to avoid the poisoned flame. It was a move Ali associated with other Geziris, with warriors who’d trained against zulfiqars.
Where had a Daeva man learned that?
Ali ducked, narrowly avoiding the studded mace that swung past his face. The Daevas neatly fanned out to surround him, moving in perfect unison without saying a word.
Then the remaining archer hissed in Djinnistani. “It’s the Afshin-slayer.” She let out a mocking laugh. “Bit of a disingenuous title, sand fly.”
The swordsman lunged forward, forcing Ali to block him, and again the mace-bearer used the distraction to attack. This time the mace clipped Ali’s shoulder, the studs tearing out a patch of flesh.
Ali gasped at the burn, and one of the Daeva men leered at him. “They’ll eat you alive, you know,” he said, gesturing to the ghouls below. “Not us, of course. Orders and all. But I bet they smell your blood on the air right now. I bet it’s making them ravenous.”
The three warriors stepped closer, forcing Ali to the edge of the wall. He didn’t know who had trained the Daevas, but they’d done a damn good job, the soldiers moving as if they were of one mind.
But then the swordsman pressed too close. Ali dropped, seeing his opening and lunging at the man holding the mace. He caught him clean across one thigh, the poisoned flames leaving a line of swiftly blackening flesh in their wake.
“Bahram!” the archer cried in horror. The man looked shocked, his hand going to the fatal wound. Then he glanced at Ali, his eyes wild.
“For the Banu Nahida,” he whispered and rushed forward.
Caught completely off guard by the man’s declaration, Ali was ill-prepared for his desperate charge. He raised his zulfiqar in defense, but it didn’t matter. The man took the strike through the stomach, throwing himself on Ali and sending them both tumbling over the wall.
Ali landed with a bone-jarring impact on the wet sand. A wave passed over his face, and he choked on the water, his shoulder throbbing. His zulfiqar was gone, stuck in the body of the Daeva man he’d killed, now lying deeper in the shallows.
A high-pitched moan had him struggling to his knees, the hungry whines and tongueless shrieks of the undead ghouls growing louder. Ali turned his head.
His eyes went wide. There were scores of ghouls running for him—some bloated corpses of putrefied flesh and bloody teeth, others reduced to skeletons, their clawed hands sharp as knives. And they were only seconds away from closing in. They’d eat him alive, rip him apart, and be waiting for his friends—the few who survived the archer he saw even now nocking an arrow.
No. This couldn’t be their fate. His family, his city. Ali thrust his hands into the wet sand, the water surging through his fingers.
“Help me!” he begged, crying out to the marid. The ancient monsters had already used him; he knew their assistance would come with a terrible price, but right now Ali didn’t care. “Please!”
Nothing. The water stayed silent and lifeless. The marid were gone.
But in a small corner of his mind, something stirred. Not the alien presence he expected, but one that was familiar and comforting. The part of Ali that delighted in wading through the flooded fields of Bir Nabat and watching the way the water made life bloom. The memory of the little boy whose mother had carefully taught him to swim. The protective instinct that had saved him from countless assassins.
A part of him that he denied, a power that frightened him. For the first time since falling in the lake that awful night … Ali embraced it.
When the next wave broke, the world was quiet. Soft and slow and gray. Suddenly, it didn’t matter if he didn’t have his zulfiqar at hand. If he was outnumbered.
Because Ali had everything else. The water at his feet that was like a deadly, angry animal pacing its cage. The moisture in the air that was thick and heady, coating every surface. The veins of underwater streams that were spikes of power and pulsing life and the springs in the rocky cliffs eager to burst their stony prison.
His fingers curved around the hilt of his khanjar. The ghouls surrounding him suddenly seemed insubstantial smoky nothings, the Daevas not much more. They were fire-blooded, true, burning bright.
But fire could be extinguished.
Ali screamed into the night, and the moisture in the air burst around him, pouring down as rain that licked his wounds, soothing and healing his battered body. With a snap of his fingers, he raised a fog to shroud the beach. He heard the archer cry out, surprised by her sudden blindness.
But Ali wasn’t blind. He lunged for his zulfiqar, yanking it from the dead man’s body just as the ghouls attacked.
With the zulfiqar in one hand and the khanjar in the other, droplets of water spinning off their wet blades, he cut through the crowd of undead. They kept coming, relentless, two new ghouls pushing through for every one he decapitated. A furious flurry of snapping teeth and bony hands, seaweed wrapping their decayed limbs.
The Daevas on the wall above him ran, the heat from their fire-blooded bodies vanishing. There were others; Ali could sense another trio rushing to join them and five already in the remains of the Citadel. Ten in total, that he knew.
Ali could kill ten men. He cut off the head of the ghoul blocking his path, kicked another in the chest, and then raced after the Daevas.
He stopped to fling his khanjar at the closest, catching the man in the back. Ali plunged it deeper when he caught up, twisting the dagger until the man stopped screaming before yanking it free.
Pounding caught his attention. He glanced back through the gloom he’d conjured to see two archers on smoky horseback racing along the water’s edge. One drew back his bowstring.
Ali hissed, calling to the lake. Watery fingers snaked around the horses’ legs, dragging the archers into the depths as their enchanted mounts disappeared in a spray of mist. He kept running. Two of the fleeing Daevas stopped, perhaps inspired by a burst of courage to stand their ground and defend their fellows.
Ali put his zulfiqar through the heart of the first, his dagger opening the throat of the second.
Seven men left.
But the ghouls caught up with him as he lunged for the wrecked outer wall of the Citadel, snatching him back as he attempted to climb it. There was a blur of bone, the scent of rot and blood overwhelming as they tore into him. Ali screamed as one bit deeply into his already wounded shoulder. They were everywhere, and his hold on the powerful water magic dipped as panic seized him.
Daevabad, Alizayd, his father’s voice whispered. Daevabad comes first. Bleeding badly, Ali gave more of himself up, embracing the raw magic coursing so wildly within him that it felt like his body would burst.
He was given a gift in return. The sudden awareness of a rich vein of water beneath him, a hidden stream snaking deep, deep under the sand. Ali called to it, yanking it up like a whip.
Stone and sand and water went flying. Ali lashed it at the ghouls, taking out enough to escape the horde. He scrambled over the ruined Citadel wall.
Another pair of Daevas had been left to deal with him, their bravery rewarded with two swift strikes of his zulfiqar that took their heads. Blood was running down his face, torn patches of flesh burning under his tattered dishdasha.
It didn’t matter. Ali dashed toward the breach, arrows raining down on him as he navigated the broken courtyard where he’d first learned to fight. The bodies of his fellow djinn were everywhere, some pierced with arrows, some torn apart by ghouls, others simply crushed in the violent mayhem the lake-beast had unleashed upon the complex. Grief and rage flooded his veins, pushing him on. And though the archers might have been able to see in the summoned fog, one nearly struck true, an arrow tearing past his thigh. Ali gasped.
But he didn’t stop.
He vaulted over a ruined pile of sandstone, what he dimly recognized as the sunny diwan in which he’d attempted to teach economics to a bored group of cadets. The swordsman who’d mocked him stood there now, shaking as he raised his blade.
“Demon!” the Daeva screamed. “What the hell are y—”
Ali silenced him with his khanjar.
Four left. He inhaled, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. A glance revealed two archers still standing on the Citadel wall, a position from which they’d be able to easily target the soldiers landing on the beach. The remaining two Daevas had swords in their hands. They were steps from the breach in the Citadel wall that led into the city, a mob of ghouls on their heels.
Ali closed his eyes, dropping his blades, sinking to the ground and plunging his hands into one of the pools of water left by the lake’s attack. He could feel his fellows in the distance, the last survivors of the Royal Guard staggering out of the water. But none were close to the Citadel. Not yet.
Good. He called to the lake again, feeling it pace in his mind. It was angry. It wanted vengeance on the stone island marring its heart.
Ali was about to let it take a small piece. He beckoned to the waves lashing the wall. Come.
They answered.
The water roared as it crashed over the Citadel, dashing the archers against the stone courtyard. It parted as it neared him, rushing past to grab the ghouls and smash them to bits. A single scream rent the air as it swallowed the last Daevas and raced to the breach, eager to devour the rest of the city.
It took everything Ali had to rein it in. There was a howl in his head, and then he was the one screaming, clawing at the ground as he wrenched the lake back the way it had come. The water fell at his feet, surging into the sand and swirling into ruined, rocky crevices.
His hold on the magic disintegrated and Ali collapsed. Blood and sweat poured from him in equal parts as he sprawled on the ground. His ears were ringing, the scars the marid had carved in his body throbbing. His vision briefly blurred as his muscles seized.
And then he was lying still upon the cold, wet ground. The sky was a rich black, the spread of stars beautiful and inviting.
“Alizayd!”
Though Ali heard Lubayd shout his name, his friend seemed a world away. Everything did, save the beckoning stars and the warm blood spreading beneath him.
There was a crack of thunder. Odd, he dimly noticed, as the night sky was cloudless.
“Ali!” Lubayd’s face swam into view above his. “Oh, brother, no …” He glanced back. “We need help!”
But the ground was already turning cold again, water seeping up through the sand to embrace him. Ali blinked, his mind a degree clearer. The spots dancing before his eyes faded as well—just in time for Ali to notice an oily black smoke rising behind Lubayd. The tendrils danced, twisting together.
Ali tried to croak out his friend’s name. “Lu-Lubay—”
Lubayd hushed him. “It’s okay, just hold on. We’re going to get you to that Nahid of yours, and you’ll be fine.” He tucked Ali’s zulfiqar back in his belt, and a smile cracked across his face, doing little to erase the worry in his eyes. “Don’t you be letting this—”
A jarring, crunching sound stole Lubayd’s words. His friend’s expression froze and then his body jerked slightly as the crunch came again, a terrible sucking noise. Lubayd opened his mouth as if to speak.
Black blood spilled from his lips. A fiery hand shoved him out of the way, and his friend crumpled.
“By the Creator …,” a smoky voice drawled. “What are you—you lovely, destructive bit of chaos?”
Ali gaped at the creature looming over him, its clawed hand clutching a bloody war ax. It was a skinny wraith of a thing, with limbs that looked like pressed light and golden eyes that flared and flashed. And there was only one creature in their world that looked like that.
An ifrit. An ifrit had crossed the veil into Daevabad.
The ifrit seized him by the throat, and Ali gasped as he was lifted into the air. It pulled him close, its glittering eyes inches from Ali’s face. The smell of blood and ash washed over Ali as the ifrit ran a tongue over its sharp teeth, unmistakable hunger and curiosity in its feral expression.
It inhaled. “Salt,” it whispered. “You’re the one the marid took, aren’t you?” One of its razor-sharp claws pressed hard against his throat, and Ali got the impression it would be nothing for the demon to rip it open. “But this …” He gestured to the ruined courtyard and drowned Daevas. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” Its other hand ran down Ali’s arm, a quick examination. “Nor anything like the magic simmering off you.” The fiery eyes gleamed. “I’d love to take you apart, little one. See how that works, layer by layer …”
Ali tried to wrench himself free and caught sight of Lubayd’s body, his glassy, unseeing eyes fixed on the sky above. With a choked cry of denial, Ali reached for his zulfiqar.
The ifrit’s fingers abruptly tightened on his throat. It clucked its tongue disapprovingly. “None of that now.”
“Prince Alizayd!”
As Ali grappled with the iron grip the demon had on his throat, he glimpsed a band of men running in the distance: the rest of the survivors from the Royal Guard.
“Prince?” the ifrit repeated. He shook his head, disappointed. “A shame. There’s another after you, and he’s got a temper even I won’t cross.” He sighed. “Hold on. This is most certainly going to hurt.”
There was no time to react. A searing bolt of heat raced over Ali, consuming them both in a swirl of fire and sickly green clouds. Thunder crashed in his ear, shaking his very bones. The beach vanished and the cries of his men fell away, replaced by the blur of rooftops and the roar of the wind.
And then it was gone. They crashed, and the ifrit released him. Ali landed hard, sprawled on a stone floor. Disoriented, he tried to stand, but nausea rose, swift and fierce inside his roiling stomach, and it was everything Ali could do not to vomit. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to catch his breath.
When he opened them again, the first thing he saw was the familiar doors of his father’s office. They’d been torn off their hinges, the room ransacked and set ablaze.
Ali was too late.
The ifrit who’d murdered Lubayd was striding away. Still dizzy, Ali tried to track his movement, the scene coming to him in pieces. A knot of young warriors dressed in the same mottled black uniforms of the Daevas on the beach surrounded another man, their commander perhaps. He stood with his back to Ali, barking out what sounded like orders in Divasti.
An enormous silver bow, horribly familiar, was strung across his broad shoulders.
Ali jerked his head in denial, sure he was dreaming.
“Have I got a prize for you,” the ifrit crowed to the Daeva commander, jerking a thumb back at Ali. “This is the prince your Banu Nahida is after, yes? The one we’re supposed to lock away?”
The Daeva commander whirled around, and Ali’s heart stopped. The cold green eyes from his nightmares, the black tattoo that declared his position to the world …
“It is not,” Darayavahoush e-Afshin said in a low, lethal voice. His eyes blazed, a flicker of fire-yellow beneath the green. “But he will do just fine.”