Dara shot the creature once more and then threw his bow and quiver away. He pulled himself into a squatting position on the horse’s saddle and cradled his sword to his chest with one arm.
The rukh cried out in triumph as it closed in on the daeva. It opened its talons wide.
“No!” Nahri screamed as the rukh snatched up the horse and Dara, as easily as a hawk might seize a mouse. It rose in the air while the horse screamed and kicked, and then veered back south.
She yanked hard on the reins to pull her racing horse around. It reared, trying to throw her off, but she held on, and it turned. “Yalla, go! Go!” she shouted, reverting to Arabic in panic. She kicked hard, and it bolted after the rukh.
The bird soared away with Dara clutched in its talons. It cried out again and then tossed both Dara and his horse high in the air. It opened its mouth wide.
It was only seconds, but the moment between seeing Dara thrown in the air and seeing him vanish seemed to last an eternity, twisting something deep in her chest. The rukh caught the horse again with one foot, but the daeva was nowhere to be seen.
She searched the sky, expecting him to reappear, to flit into existence like the wine he conjured up. This was Dara, the magical being who traveled by sandstorms and saved her from a pack of ghouls. He had to have a plan; he couldn’t just vanish down the gullet of some bloodthirsty bird.
But he didn’t reappear.
Tears pricked her eyes, her mind knowing what her heart denied. Her horse slowed, balking at her kicks. It clearly had more sense than she did; the only thing they could offer the rukh was dessert.
She could see the crimson bird silhouetted against the mountains; it hadn’t gotten very far but suddenly shot up in the sky, frantically flapping its wings. As she watched, it started to fall and then momentarily righted itself, letting out a screech that sounded more frightened than triumphant. Then it fell again, tumbling through the air and crashing to the frozen ground.
The force of the distant impact shuddered through her horse. Nahri wanted to scream. Nothing could survive a fall like that.
She didn’t let her horse slow until they reached the shallow crater the rukh’s body had smashed into the ground. She tried to steel herself but had to look away from Dara’s dead horse. Her own animal startled and fussed. Nahri fought for control as she approached the rukh’s massive body. It towered over them, one enormous wing crumpled under its dead weight. Its glittering feathers were twice her height.
She began to circle the bird, but the daeva was nowhere to be seen. Nahri choked back a sob. Had it really eaten him? That might have been faster than crashing to the ground, but—
A cold, sharp feeling cut through her and she reeled, overcome with emotion. She caught sight of the creature’s bent head, black blood pouring from its mouth. The sight of it filled her with rage, displacing her grief and despair. She grabbed her dagger, overcome by the irrational need to tear at its eyes and rip out its throat.
Its neck twitched.
Nahri jumped, and her horse backed up. She tightened her grip on the reins, ready to flee, and then the neck twitched again . . . no, it bulged, like something was inside.
She’d already slipped off her horse when a dark blade finally emerged from inside the rukh’s neck, laboriously cutting a long vertical gash before being dropped to the ground. The daeva followed, washed out in a wave of black blood. He collapsed to his knees.
“Dara!” Nahri ran and kneeled at his side, throwing her arms around him before her mind caught up with her actions. The rukh’s hot blood soaked through her clothes.
“I . . .” He spat a gob of black blood onto the ground before shaking free of her grasp and climbing laboriously to his feet. He wiped the blood from his eyes, his hands trembling. “Fire,” he rasped. “I need a fire.”
Nahri looked around, but the ground was covered in wet snow, and there were no branches in sight. “What can I do?” she cried as the daeva gasped for air. He collapsed to the ground again. “Dara!”
She reached for him. “No,” he protested. “Don’t touch me . . .” He dug his fingers into the ground, sending up sparks that were quickly extinguished by the icy dirt. A terrible sucking sound came from his mouth.
She crept closer despite his warning, aching to do something as a deep shudder ran through his body. “Let me heal you.”
He slapped her hand away. “No. The ifrit—”
“There are no damned ifrit here!”
Beads of ash rolled down his face. Before she could reach for him again, he suddenly cried out.
It was as if his very body momentarily turned to smoke. His eyes grew dim, and as they both watched, his hands briefly translucent. And though Nahri knew nothing about how daeva bodies worked, she could tell from the panic in his face that this was not normal.
“Creator, no,” he whispered, staring in horror at his hands. “Not now . . .” He glanced up at Nahri, a mixture of fear and sadness in his expression. “Oh, little thief, I’m so sorry.”
He had no sooner apologized than his entire body shimmered like steam, and he fell against the ground.
“Dara!” Nahri knelt at his side and checked him over, her instincts kicking in. She could see nothing but slick black blood, whether the daeva’s or the rukh’s, she had no idea. “Dara, talk to me!” she begged. “Tell me what to do!” She tried to pull open his robe, hoping to see some type of wound she could heal.
The hem crumbled into ash. Nahri gasped, trying not to panic as the daeva’s skin took on the same hue. Was he going to turn to dust in her arms?
His skin briefly firmed up even as his body grew light. His eyes fluttered shut, and Nahri went cold. “No,” she said, brushing the ash from his closed eyes. Not like this, not after everything we’ve been through. She wracked her memory, trying to think of anything useful he’d told her about how the Nahids healed.
He had said they could undo poisons and curses, she remembered that. But he hadn’t told her how. Did they have their own medicines, their own spells? Or did they do it by touch alone?
Well, touch was all she had. She pulled his shirt open and pressed her trembling hands against his chest. His skin was so cold it numbed her fingers. Intent, he had mentioned more than once. Intent was critical in magic.
She closed her eyes, focusing entirely on Dara.
Nothing. There was no heartbeat, no breath. She frowned, trying to sense anything wrong, trying to imagine him healthy and alert. Her fingers grew frosty, and she pressed them harder against his chest, his body twitching in response.
Something wet tickled her wrists, growing faster and thicker, like steam off a boiling pot. Nahri didn’t move, keeping the image of a healthy Dara, his smile sly as always, firmly in her mind. His skin warmed a bit. Please, let it be working, she begged. Please, Dara. Don’t leave me.
A sharp ache crept up from the base of her skull. She ignored the pain. Warm blood dripped from her nose, and she fought a wave of dizziness. The steam was coming more quickly. She felt his skin grow firm beneath her fingertips.
And then the first memory flashed before her eyes. A green plain, lush and entirely unfamiliar, sliced in half by a brilliant blue river. A young girl with eyes as black as obsidian. She held out a badly constructed wooden bow.
“Look, Daru!”
“A masterpiece!” I exclaim, and she beams. My little sister, ever the warrior. The Creator help the man she marries . . .