The blow knocked Nahri off her feet. She reeled, black spots blinking before her eyes. The ifrit pulled the dagger free, barely glancing at it before he flung it past her.
She scrambled up, slipping and staggering as she tried to back away. She couldn’t take her eyes off his scythe. The iron blade was stained black, the edge battered and dull. It would kill her, no doubt, and it would hurt. A lot. She wondered how many of her Nahid ancestors had met their end upon that scythe.
Dara. She needed the Afshin.
The ifrit followed at a leisurely pace. “So you’re the one getting all the races riled up . . . ,” he started. “The latest of Anahid’s treacherous, blood-poisoning spawn.”
The hate in his voice sent a new surge of fear through her body. She spotted the dagger on the ground and snatched it up. It might not hurt the ifrit, but it was all she had. She held it out, trying to keep as much distance as possible between them.
The ifrit grinned again. “Are you afraid, little healer?” he drawled. “Are you trembling?” He caressed his blade. “What I would do to see that traitor’s blood run out of you . . .” But then he dropped his hand, looking regretful. “Alas, we made a deal to return you unharmed.”
“Unharmed?” She thought back to Cairo, the memory of the ghoul’s teeth ripping open her throat vivid in her mind. “Your ghouls tried to eat me!”
The ifrit spread his hands, looking apologetic. “My brother acted rashly, I admit.” He cleared his throat as if he was having trouble speaking, and then tilted his head to regard her. “Astonishing really, I give the marid their due. At first glance, you’re completely human, but look past that and . . .” He stepped closer to study her face. “There’s the daeva.”
“I’m not,” she said quickly. “Whoever you’re working for . . . whatever it is you want . . . I’m just a shafit. I can’t do anything,” she added, hoping the lie might buy her some time. “You don’t need to waste your time on me.”
“Just a shafit?” He laughed. “Is that what that lunatic slave thinks?”
The sound of a crashing tree drew her attention before she could respond. A line of fire danced across the ridge, consuming the scrub brush as if it was kindling.
The ifrit followed Nahri’s glance. “Your Afshin’s arrows might be sharper than his wits, little healer, but you are both outmatched.”
“You said you meant us no harm.”
“We mean you no harm,” he corrected. “The wine-soaked slave was not part of our deal. But perhaps . . . if you come willingly . . .” He trailed off with a cough and took in a sharp breath.
As she watched, he wheezed and reached for a nearby tree to brace himself. He coughed again, clutching his chest where she had wounded him. He pulled the breastplate off, and Nahri gasped. The skin around the wound had turned black with what looked like infection. And it was spreading, tiny coal-colored tendrils snaking out like delicate veins.
“Wha-what did you do to me?” he cried out as the blackening veins gave way to a blue-tinged ash before their eyes. He coughed again, hacking up a dark viscous liquid that steamed when it hit the ground. He staggered closer and tried to grab her. “No . . . you didn’t. Say you didn’t!” His golden eyes were wide with panic.
Still clutching the dagger, Nahri edged back, fearing the ifrit might be trying to trick her. But as he clutched his throat and fell to his knees, sweating ash, she remembered something Dara had told her weeks ago over the Euphrates.
It was said the very blood of a Nahid was poisonous to the ifrit, more fatal than any blade. As if in a trance, her gaze slowly fell on the dagger. Mixed in with the ifrit’s black blood was her own dark crimson from when she’d cut herself trying to stab him.
She looked back at the ifrit. He was lying on the rocks, blood leaking from his mouth. His eyes, beautiful and terrified, met hers. “No . . . ,” he panted. “We had a deal . . .”
He hit me. He threatened to kill Dara. Acting on a rush of cold hate and instinct that likely would have frightened her if she had given it more thought, she kicked him hard in the stomach. He cried out, and she dropped to her knees, pressing her dagger against his throat.
“Who did you make a deal with?” she demanded. “What did they want with me?”
He shook his head and took a rattling breath. “Filthy Nahid scum . . . you’re all the same,” he spat. “. . . knew it was a mistake . . .”
“Who?” she demanded again. When he said nothing, she slashed her hand open and pressed her bloody palm against his wound.
The sound that came from the ifrit was unlike any she could imagine: a screech that tore at her soul. She wanted to turn away, to flee into the river and submerge herself, escaping all this.
Nahri thought again of Dara. Over a thousand years as a slave, stolen from his people and murdered, given over to the whims of countless cruel masters. She saw Baseema’s gentle smile, the most innocent of innocents gone forever. She pushed harder.
With her other hand, she kept the dagger against his throat, though judging from his shrieks, it wasn’t necessary. She waited until his cries turned to a whimper. “Tell me, and I’ll heal you.”
He squirmed under her blade, his eyes briefly dilating black. The wound bubbled, steaming like an overfilled cauldron, and a terrible liquid sound came from his throat.
“Nahri!” Dara’s voice rose from somewhere in the dark, a distant distraction. “Nahri!”
The ifrit’s fevered gaze fixed on her face. Something flickered in his eyes, something calculating and vile. He opened his mouth. “Your mother,” he wheezed. “We made a deal with Manizheh.”
“What?” she asked, so startled that she nearly dropped the knife. “My what?”
The ifrit started to seize, a rattling moan coming from somewhere low in his throat. His eyes dilated again, and his mouth fell open, a haze of steam rushing past his lips. Nahri grimaced. She doubted she’d get much more information from him.
His fingers scrabbled on her wrist. “Heal me . . . ,” he begged. “You promised.”
“I lied.” With a sharp and vicious motion, she slashed her hand back and cut his throat. Dark vapor rose from his maimed neck and stifled his cry. But his eyes, fixed and hateful, stayed on her blade, watching as she raised it over his chest. The throat . . . Dara had once instructed, the weaknesses of the ifrit one of the few things he would tell her.
. . . the lungs. She brought the blade back down, plunging it into his chest. It didn’t go in easily, and she fought the urge to vomit as she leaned her weight into the dagger. Viscous black blood gushed over her hands. The ifrit convulsed once, twice, and then fell still, his chest lowering like she’d emptied a sack of flour. Nahri watched another moment but knew he was dead, felt the lack of life and vigor immediately. She had killed him.
She stood; her legs trembled. I killed a man. She stared at the dead ifrit, transfixed by the sight of his blood seeping and smoking over the pebbly ground. I killed him.
“Nahri!” Dara skidded to a stop in front of her. He took one of her arms as his alarmed eyes raked over her bloodied clothing. He touched her cheek, his fingers grazed her wet hair. “By the Creator, I was so worried . . . Suleiman’s eye!”