The reality of his situation began to sink in. Mazen combed desperately through his memories, trying to recall Imad’s words. If he knew both Omar and Aisha…
“Are you a thief?”
“I am not just a thief, boy. I am one of the legendary forty thieves.” Imad stepped forward, black eyes narrowed to slits. “Once, I even worked with the sultan.”
Mazen balked. So Imad was not one of Omar’s thieves—he was one of his father’s. But how? His father had proclaimed his thieves had died in some tragic incident long ago, when Omar first took over as King of the Forty Thieves.
“If you were one of my father’s thieves, why are you holding a grudge against Omar?”
Imad smiled thinly. “That is between us and does not concern you. Your only job, Prince, is to sit here and wait while I send the ransom note.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “However. Though you are my prisoner, you need not be treated like one. Tell me one thing, and I shall make you comfortable until his arrival.”
Mazen eyed him warily. “What?”
Imad reached into his pocket. Mazen expected him to withdraw a weapon—instead, he pulled out the bangle. He clasped it to his wrist, and a heartbeat later, he wore Omar’s skin. Mazen gaped at him as he flexed his fingers, which were no longer malformed. “Truly remarkable.” He looked at Mazen. “I am familiar with your family’s story and already know this is a jinn king’s relic. But I want to know: Does your brother possess other kings’ relics?”
Mazen hesitated.
Why does it matter? he wanted to ask, but he knew Imad would not answer. When he remained mute, the thief sighed and said, “I don’t know who you think you’re protecting, but know this: you may idolize your brother”—Mazen nearly laughed aloud—“but he is not a good man. Whatever he did to convince you to take his place, he did it because he has ulterior motives.”
Mazen frowned. There was a connection between the kings’ relics and Omar’s “ulterior motives,” he was sure, but he refused to dig deep enough to find it. Omar was insufferable, but he was still his brother. He would have to be insane to trust a killer over him.
“Ask my brother your question,” Mazen said. “This is none of my business, after all.”
He didn’t know where he dredged up the courage to say the words, but he was evidently more surprised than Imad, who simply stepped away with a shrug. “You are lucky I need you alive, Prince. But remember, any discomfort you”—his eyes flashed—“or your companions experience is your fault.”
All that came out of Mazen’s mouth was a weak sound of protest. Imad ignored him. He spoke a word of command to the ghoul, who obediently stepped in front of Mazen’s cell door, a sword in its hand.
“Try not to irritate the guard.” Imad turned and walked away.
“Wait!” Mazen grasped the bars. “Don’t hurt Aisha or the merchant. Please.”
But Imad never even looked back. Mazen called his name again, but the only response he received was his own voice, echoing back at him from the dreary infiniteness of the corridor.
Belatedly, he realized the ghoul was staring at him. He took one look at its ghastly, torn-up face and doubled back until he was pressed against the wall. Breathe, he commanded himself, and he did. Slowly. In. And out. He suppressed the wild urge to scream at the walls.
He could not stay here. That much was apparent. Also apparent: the impossibility of escaping. He had no weapon, no plan. His eyes drifted across his cell. The holes in the ceiling were too high for him to reach. As for the ghoul—even if he could somehow coax it into his cell, he had no weapon to face it. And even with one, he was useless. His only talents included sneaking, running, hiding…
He stopped. And stared at his shadow on the floor.
Oh.
He scraped at the silhouette. Relief crashed through his veins when it curled beneath his fingers. Imad may be able to take my knives, but he could never steal my shadow.
The ghoul whirled, sniffing at the air. Too late, Mazen remembered it could smell magic. When the ghoul faced him, Mazen had the shadow—now very much a magical relic—clenched in his fingers.
The ghoul stared. Mazen stared back. He thought of Aisha’s crimson blood on the sand, and Qadir’s silver blood on the swords. And he came to a decision.
His relief sharpened into determination. If no one is coming to help me, I have no choice but to save myself.
“Ah!” He held the shadow up with a dramatic gasp. “What manner of magic is this!”