He hesitated. “Yes?”
“You sound uncertain.”
Mazen thought about the mysterious voice in his ear and the strange fire that had led him to the doors. Had that been a hallucination? It was, he decided, better to not mention it.
“I think it was you,” he said instead. He’d heard a struggle in the darkness, after all. Who else could it have been but her? “You distracted the demon and gave me an opening.”
“I was a distraction?” She grumbled beneath her breath. “Is she gone, then? Dead?”
“She, ah, faded into the tiles.”
Silence ensued as they both stared suspiciously at the floor.
He cleared his throat. “But tell me, why were you here in the first place”—he hesitated, realizing he didn’t know her name—“desert flower?” It was the first thing his scrambled mind came up with. He regretted it immediately.
The woman started toward him with an outward glare. Mazen flinched, thinking she might slap him, but she simply brushed past him on her way to the exit.
“I saw people enter this abandoned place and was curious enough to investigate.” She turned at the doorway to face him. “I saw a shadow with red eyes…” She waved her hand, and Mazen saw rings gleam on her fingers. “And you, standing still as a date tree.”
Outside, the city was draped in the reds and golds of sunset. Mazen savored the heat of the desert air on his skin and the crunch of the sand beneath his feet as he exited. He sighed as a gentle breeze tousled his hair. The trembling in his hands eased somewhat.
He turned to the stranger. “My thanks for saving me, uh…”
“Layla.” She dipped her head, looked at him expectantly.
He paused, realizing he’d yet to offer his name. “Yousef.” It was the first false name he could think up. “A thousand blessings upon you, Layla. Had you not come to investigate, I would have lost my soul to the Sandsea.” He crossed his arms as he glanced at the abandoned building. “Do you think she was a jinn?”
“Hard to think she could be anything else.” She raised a brow. “Are you a hunter, Yousef?”
The blatant question took him off guard. A hunter? Him? Even just the thought made his knees weak. “No! I’m not a murderer.”
Murderer. The realization hit like a bolt of lightning. There were many killers in this city—hunters and thieves who killed jinn for coin and sport—but there was only one murderer he was well acquainted with. He recalled the sight of his brother covered in silver blood. His brother, returned earlier than expected.
You thought you could escape, the jinn had said. But I know your blood. I would chase you to the ends of the world if that were what it took.
Layla was grinning. “I didn’t think you were a murderer. You’d have been a lot more competent if you were.”
Mazen frowned. “I was possessed.”
Layla just laughed, as if he’d said something funny. She turned and walked away.
Mazen trailed after her. “Wait! Is there any way I can thank you? Can I escort you back home or… ah.” He paused, remembering why he’d come to the city in the first place.
Layla turned. “Ah?”
“I was on my way to see someone in the souk when this all happened. A storyteller named Rhuba.” He glanced up at the sky, at the sun dipping below the buildings. He needed to return to the palace soon to meet with one of his father’s guests; he did not have time to get lost wandering the souk. But the thought of sitting before the sultan and keeping all of this a secret…
“Come on.” Layla resumed walking.
“Where are you going?”
“To Old Rhuba’s.” She cast a look over her shoulder. “Try to keep up, Yousef.”
Mazen hesitated. He was exhausted, and all he wanted was to forget this whole day had happened. But he was reluctant to part ways with Layla. She had saved his life. Even better, she didn’t know who he was, which meant he had the opportunity to speak to her without his reputation coloring her opinion of him. Who knew when he would get such a chance again?
Perhaps he could still salvage this day.
Mazen chased after her.
The souk was quieter upon his return, sleepy with the coming of twilight. Though the merchants and crowds remained, they moved more languidly, less like ceaseless surf crashing against the shore and more like gentle, lapping waves. Many marketgoers had taken their business to the food shops in the center of the souk, where piquant aromas of spiced meats and fried dough hung in the air.