Shazad’s smile faded as I got to Dassama, but she didn’t interrupt as I rushed through the past few days. Fahali. Our escape. The Nightmares.

“We need to plan.” By the time I finished, Shazad was tapping the map that was spread out in front of the prince, pinpointing Fahali. “The Gallan and the Sultan are getting closer. And now they’re looking for us—with a weapon that can wipe out whole cities.” She turned to me. “What kind of range do you think this thing has?”

“Not enough to blast the whole canyon.” I looked at the jagged line of ink across the paper that showed the hugeness of the Dev’s Valley. Shazad’s finger rested on Fahali. There was a tiny x scratched at the other edge of her finger, marking the rebel camp. Less than a finger’s width apart didn’t seem far enough to be safe to me. “Enough that they don’t need to be precise. Or get through your magic door.” I hesitated. “And the thing is, there wasn’t a single bit of shrapnel in Dassama.”

“What does that mean?” Ahmed asked, looking down at the map. Surveying the country he’d already won once and was fighting for all over again.

“No shrapnel means it’s not a single-use bomb,” Shazad said, catching on quicker than the prince. “This is something new. Something they can use over and over again.”

“Which means they don’t have to know exactly where we are, because they don’t need to get us on the first try.” A look of perfect understanding passed between Ahmed and Shazad and right over me.

“We need Imin,” Ahmed said.

The girl who followed Shazad back into the tent moments later seemed completely unremarkable. She looked so average that it was hard to pick out anything to notice about her at all. Except that she had yellow eyes.

“We need a spy,” Ahmed said to the girl, Imin. “We need you to infiltrate the Gallan army in Fahali and send word if they get too close to us.”

“Fine.” The girl shrugged sullenly. Even as she did her face started shifting. Her lips narrowed, her skin paled, her shoulders widened, and her chest flatted. In a few blinks she was someone else entirely. A man with a whole new face. A Gallan face.

The only things that didn’t change were her—his—pale yellow eyes and her clothes. I thought of the red haired girl in Fahali, right before she got shot.

“I don’t like it.” Shazad surveyed their spy. “Your eyes . . .” Imin rolled them expressively at Shazad. “We ought to send Delila.”

“No.” Ahmed shook his head. “An illusion is too risky. Sending a Demdji into a Gallan camp is like sending a lamb into the lion’s den as it is. Illusions slip; shape-shifting doesn’t.”

“At least Delila can hide her mark,” Shazad muttered.

“It has to be Imin.” Ahmed’s tone didn’t leave room to argue.

Finally Shazad conceded with a nod. “There’s a dead ghoul in the canyon in Gallan uniform. Help yourself. You’re to report back by Shihabian.” She turned to go, nodding at me to follow. “And try not to get killed.”

eighteen

I followed Shazad out of the pavilion, blinded again by the golden light and bright colors. “How did she do that?” I asked as I caught up with her, glancing back at Imin. “Is she . . . That’s not a Skinwalker, is it?”

“No, amazingly we don’t all want to be murdered in our sleep. Imin is a Demdji, like Delila,” Shazad said, as if that were an answer. She tossed open the flap to a tent that was smaller than the prince’s but tall enough to stand in. It was organized with exacting precision: a neatly made bed, a stack of books, a trunk, and a line of weapons on the ground. Shazad flung open the trunk. “Here.” She pulled out a plain white shirt and a brown shalvar. “These ought to fit you. You’re covered in blood.”

“What’s a Demdji?” I asked, figuring a second too late I ought to have said thank you.

“You’ve never heard of Demdji?” She let the trunk fall shut.

“I was born a long way from you.” Somewhere where princes and shape-shifting women lived only in stories told round campfires.

“Children born of Djinn and mortal women.” Shazad sat herself on the trunk. “There are a dozen or so in camp. Ahmed practically collects them now.”

“Can they all change their shape?” The wound in my arm twinged at the memory of the Skinwalker in the canyon. I pulled off my blood-soaked shirt.

“No, it depends,” Shazad explained. “Djinn are things of the desert, naturals at illusion and manipulation. So that’s what their children inherit: illusions, deceit, power from desert heat and winds. Delila can create images that look real but are empty to the touch, all air. Imin can change her—or his, depending on the day—shape to look like anyone. There’s a pair of twins who change shape, too, only instead of changing into people, they become animals. Another one crawls inside your mind and twists until you see what she wants you to, like sun madness. In the holy texts they call it the Djinni’s gift. Some say it’s a protection to balance out the Djinni’s mark.”

“The mark?” I felt ignorant as she talked on about all these things like I should understand them.

“Imin’s golden eyes, Delila’s purple hair.” Shazad scraped her own dark hair off her face. “Some of them can get away as human in the great wide world. When we were still in Izman, Delila used to hide her hair with dark henna, or she’d cast an illusion over it. But then there are the ones who can’t hide.” The ones who got bullets to the heads. “The Gallan will kill them because they think all First Beings are against their invented god.”