Instead, she got a faceful of sand. Sputtering, she sat up and wiped her eyes. She blinked.
She was definitely not in Cairo.
A shady grove of date palms and scrubby brush surrounded her; rocky cliffs blocked part of the bright blue sky. Through the trees, there was nothing but desert, gleaming golden sand in every direction.
And across from her was the djinn.
Crouched like a cat over the smoldering remains of a small fire—the sharp smell of burnt green wood filling the air—the djinn stared at her with a sort of wary curiosity in his bright green eyes. A fine dagger, its handle set with a swirling pattern of lapis and carnelians, was in one soot-covered hand. He trailed it across the sand as she watched, the blade glinting in the sunlight. His other weapons were piled behind him.
Nahri snatched up the first stick her hand landed on and held it out in what she hoped was at least a somewhat menacing manner. “Stay back,” she warned.
He pursed his lips, clearly unimpressed. But the motion drew her attention to his mouth, and Nahri was startled by her first good look at his uncovered face. Though there was nary a wing nor a horn in sight, his light brown skin shone with an unnatural gleam, and his ears twisted into elongated points. Curly hair—as impossibly black as her own—fell to the top of his shoulders, framing a sharply handsome face with long-lashed eyes and heavy brows. A black tattoo marked his left temple, a single arrow crossed over a stylized wing. His skin was unlined, but there was something ageless about his jewel-bright gaze. He might have been thirty or a hundred and thirty.
He was beautiful—strikingly, frighteningly beautiful, with the type of allure Nahri imagined a tiger held right before it ripped out your throat. Her heart skipped a beat even as her stomach constricted in fear.
She closed her mouth, suddenly aware it had fallen open. “Wh-where have you taken me?” she stammered in—what had he called her language again? Divasti? Right, that was it. Divasti.
He didn’t take his eyes off her, his arresting face unreadable. “East.”
“East?” she repeated.
The djinn tilted his head, staring at her like she was an idiot. “The opposite direction of the sun.”
A spark of irritation lit inside her. “I know what the word means . . .” The djinn frowned at her tone, and Nahri gave the dagger a nervous glance. “You . . . you’re clearly occupied with that,” she said in a more conciliatory tone, motioning to the weapon as she climbed to her feet. “So why don’t I just leave you alone and—”
“Sit.”
“Really, it’s no—”
“Sit.”
Nahri dropped to the ground. But as the silence grew too long between them, she snapped, her nerves finally getting the better of her. “I sat. So what now? Are you going to kill me like you killed Baseema or are we just going to stare at each other until I die of thirst?”
He pursed his lips again, and Nahri tried not to stare, feeling a sudden stab of sympathy for some of her more lovestruck clients. But what he said next put such thoughts out of mind.
“What I did to that girl was a mercy. She was doomed the moment the ifrit possessed her: they burn through their hosts.”
Nahri reeled. Oh, God . . . Baseema, forgive me. “I-I didn’t mean to call it . . . to hurt her. I swear.” She took a shaky breath. “When you killed her . . . did you kill the ifrit as well?”
“I tried. It may have escaped before she died.”
She bit her lip, remembering Baseema’s gentle smile and her mother’s quiet strength. But she had to push away the guilt for now. “So . . . if that was an ifrit, then you’re what? Some kind of djinn?”
He made a disgusted face. “I am no djinn, girl. I am Daeva.” His mouth curled in contempt. “Daeva who call themselves djinn have no respect for our people. They are traitors, worthy only of annihilation.”
The hatred in his voice sent a fresh rush of fear coursing through her body. “Oh,” she choked out. She had little idea what the difference between the two was, but it seemed wise not to press the matter. “My mistake.” She pressed her palms against her knees to hide their trembling. “Do . . . do you have a name?”
His bright eyes narrowed. “You should know better than to ask that.”
“Why?”
“There is power in names. It’s not something my people give out so freely.”
“Baseema called you Afshin.”
The daeva shook his head. “That’s merely a title . . . and an old and rather useless one at that.”
“So you won’t tell me your actual name?”
“No.”
He sounded even more hostile than he had last night. Nahri cleared her throat, trying to maintain her calm. “What do you want with me?”
He ignored the question. “You are thirsty?”
Thirsty was an understatement; Nahri’s throat felt like sand had been poured down it, and considering the events of last night, there was a fair chance that was actually true. Her stomach rumbled as well, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything in hours.
The daeva removed a waterskin from his robe, but when she reached for it, he held it back. “I am going to ask you some questions first. You will answer them. And honestly. You strike me as a liar.”
You have no idea. “Fine.” She kept her tone even.
“Tell me of yourself. Your name, your family. Where your people are from.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why do you get to know my name if I can’t know yours?”
“Because I have the water.”
She scowled but decided to tell him the truth—for now. “My name is Nahri. I have no family. I have no idea where my people are from.”
“Nahri,” he repeated, drawing the word out with a frown. “No family at all . . . you are certain?”
It was the second time he had asked about her family. “As far as I know.”
“Then who taught you Divasti?”
“No one taught me. I think it’s my native tongue. At least, I’ve always known it. Besides . . .” Nahri hesitated. She never spoke of these things, having learned the consequences as a child.
Oh, why not? Maybe he’ll actually have some answers for me. “I’ve been able to learn any language since I was a child,” she added. “Every dialect. I can understand, and respond to, any tongue spoken to me.”
He sat back, inhaling sharply. “I can test that,” he said. But not in Divasti, rather in a new language with oddly rounded, high-pitched syllables.
She absorbed the sounds, letting them wash over her. The response came to her as soon as she opened her lips. “Go ahead.”
He leaned forward, his eyes bright with challenge. “You look like an urchin who’s been dragged through a charnel house.”
This language was even stranger, musical and low, more like murmuring than speech. She glared back. “I wish someone would drag you through a charnel house.”
His eyes dimmed. “It is as you say then,” he murmured in Divasti. “And you have no idea of your origins?”
She threw up her hands. “How many times must I say so?”
“Then what of your life now? How do you live? Are you married?” His expression darkened. “Do you have children?”