One of the shadows emerged from the smoke, garbed in robes the color of darkest midnight. His charcoal eyes locked on her. Vermilion blood glinted on his knife as he stepped toward her. Do you desire death or slavery, girl?
Loulie came back to the world of the living swallowing a scream. The memory of the burning campsite was already fading as she brushed beads of sweat off her forehead. The movement made her aware of the pain in her hand, and she remembered, suddenly and with great clarity, the wound the high prince had inflicted upon her.
“Finally, the dead has awakened.”
Loulie looked up and saw Qadir sitting beside her, frowning. A lantern sat on the desk beside him, flickering an ominous green. It contoured Qadir’s face with shades of shadow, making his frown appear deeper, more severe.
She eyed him warily. “You’re not an illusion, are you?”
When he simply raised a brow, she sighed. Qadir’s calm, no matter how skeptical, always put her at ease. Her eyes traveled to his hand, where she saw a familiar strand of beads wrapped around his fingers. The sleep-inducing relic. “To help you sleep,” Qadir explained. “You were in so much pain riding to Dhyme I thought it better for you to enter the city passed out.”
We’ve reached Dhyme?
She paused to take in her surroundings. She recognized the room at the Wanderer’s Sanctuary, where she and Qadir stayed every time they came to the city. It was small, containing only a single bed and an unimpressive writing desk. The bag of infinite space and Qadir’s shamshir had been tucked into a corner, right next to an alcove that was home to a set of small stone idols. Sometimes Loulie amused herself by rearranging those idols to make it look like they were fighting a mock battle. Now they stood in a straight line, looking at her. Even faceless, they looked judgmental.
She turned her attention to her hand and flinched when she saw the blood-drenched cloth. Now that she was awake, it was impossible to ignore the sharp ache beneath her skin. She remembered Aisha wrapping the wound, pulling her through the crumbling ruins.
“What happened?”
“What happened was you were impulsive and nearly died,” Qadir snapped.
Loulie looked up at his tone of voice. She cringed when she saw his eyes. They had gone from their usual brown to a startling blue silver that flickered like fire.
“How many times must you nearly die before you realize you are not invincible, Loulie?” He leaned forward, eyes shining so bright they were almost white. “First you attack the shadow jinn without provocation, then you walk straight into a deadly illusion without thinking about the consequences.”
Loulie’s shame was a knot in her throat, and it stopped her from forming words. You don’t need to coddle me, she wanted to say. I’m not weak. She clenched her good hand and faltered when she felt the coldness of her rings against her skin. They had been useless in the ruins. She had fallen to the Queen of Dunes, had nearly given in to her…
Not weak. No matter how many times she thought the words, they rang hollow.
“I’m sorry.” It was an effort to keep her voice from shaking. “I only meant to bring the prince back.” She could already hear Qadir’s retorts in her mind. She knew that if he wanted to, he could use his words to slice through her bravado.
But that was not his way.
Slowly, the white in his eyes faded, like ice melting in the sun. His scowl softened as he took her injured hand in his. Though he was gentle, pain still shot through Loulie’s fingers as he raised her palm, and she had to bite her tongue to stop a whimper from escaping her lips. She watched as he unwrapped her bandages, revealing the hideous injury caked in dried blood, the gash at its center so deep she could see bone. Her stomach lurched at the sight.
Qadir slipped a dagger from his belt and sliced his palm. Loulie stared as silver blood rose to the surface of his skin. He gave her no time to ask questions, simply set his bloodied hand down on her wounded one and said, “Tell me what happened.”
She gasped. It had been a long time since she’d felt his blood magic in her veins. Qadir rarely healed her. He did not believe in mending minor injuries—especially not the ones she suffered because of her own “rash” decisions. The magic was an unpleasantly cold and prickling feeling beneath her skin, one that alternated between pain and numbness. Even more disconcerting: she could feel the torn tendons in her hand sewing themselves back together.
“Tell me.” Qadir’s voice was soft. She knew he was trying to distract her.
She humored him. She told him about the prince’s disappearance and wandering the ruins. She told him about the song, the voice in her head, the ghouls, and the collar. When she tried to remember her fight with the prince, there was only the lingering sensation of pain. The shock of waking from a nightmarish sleep. The last thing she remembered was stumbling out of the ruins and then—the warmth of Qadir’s chest and the intoxicating lull of sleep.