Shifting back to my girl form, I sigh deeply and tug at my clothes. “This is just a shape. You’re not seeing me.”
“Then show yourself to me,” he pleads. “I want to see you, Zahra. I want to know who you really are.”
I stare at him, then, without a word, slowly shift into a whirling column of red smoke glowing with red light.
“I have no form,” I say, my voice shifting and multiplying, a dozen voices speaking at once. “I have no name. I am the Slave of the Lamp, and your will is my will. Your wishes are my commands.”
He shakes his head stubbornly but takes a step backward. I swell and advance, driving him deeper into the room, flashing from within like a thundercloud. I grow and fill the air, driving him choking and coughing to his knees. I press my smoky hands against the walls, curl around the columns, overwhelm him.
“Zahra, stop!” he cries. “Please!”
At once I shift and stand before him as a girl once more. Cautiously he looks up, his eyes wide with pain.
“Do you see now?” I ask tonelessly.
He’s breathing heavily, his bare chest beaded with sweat. “Just answer me one question. Do you feel anything for me? Is there even a chance—”
“No.” Gods, how the lie burns my tongue.
He hesitates, then nods once. His eyes flood with confusion and hurt, and he rises and turns away from me, his shoulders hunched.
Bowed beneath the weight of shame, I turn and go to the door. I pause before stepping through to say, “I never wanted it to come to this. I’m sorry.”
Then I flee down the corridor, bumping into a smoldering brazier. It rocks precariously, lit embers raining to the floor and bursting around my feet like tiny exploding stars. I lean against the wall, my face in my hands, for several long minutes. I’ve never so felt out of control before, my body making decisions before my mind can catch up. I’m still shaking, and I breathe in and out through my mouth, trying to calm myself.
I shouldn’t have kissed him, Habiba. But I didn’t know what else to do. The words were there, rising in his throat, words of freedom, words of death. Better to kiss him and leave him than to let him make the Forbidden Wish.
I must find a way out of the city, to set Zhian free and then get as far from here as possible before I become any more entangled with this human boy.
Dimly, I realize someone nearby is shouting, and I pull myself out of my fog. Something is happening at the other end of the palace. A servant runs past me, laden with scrolls. I call to him, but he ignores me and hurries on. I follow swiftly, and the shouting grows louder. Then, over the sound, cuts a sharp and chilling wail.
“The king!” cries the voice. “The king is dying!”
Chapter Eighteen
“ZAHRA!”
I’m running through the palace when I hear Nessa’s shout, and I turn to see her hurrying down the corridor. I wait for her to catch up. She’s breathless and wild-eyed, her dreadlocks slipping free of the knot they’d been bound in.
“Did you hear?” she asks.
“Yes. Where’s Princess Caspida?”
“With her father. I’m headed there now.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Nessa and I race down the corridor. Word must be spreading of the king’s bad turn, because people are beginning to emerge from their rooms, and the halls are filled with whispers.
We reach the king’s chambers, which are near Caspida’s and just inside the lamp’s perimeter. A small crowd has already gathered, mostly nobles in their nightgowns, their hair and makeup still remaining from the night of revelry. A group of guards block the door, repelling any who try to enter.
“Nessa!”
Khavar and another handmaiden are standing nearby, and they wave us over.
“Any word?” asks Nessa.
Khavar shakes her head. “Caspida’s inside, with Sulifer and the physicians. No one has come out.”
“Excuse me,” I say, backing away. “I should go back to Prince Rahzad.”
The girls nod distractedly, not noticing that the corridor I take leads in the opposite direction of Aladdin’s rooms. When I’m alone, I shift into a small sand-colored lizard and scurry back toward the king’s chambers.
I weave through the feet of the nobles gathered outside the door, dart over one guard’s boot, and slip beneath the door. Tongue flicking, I cross several opulent chambers before I reach the king’s bed. The air here is thick with simmon smoke, and the people gathered around his bed all wear cloths tied over their mouths and noses. Caspida kneels by the bed, her hands wrapped around her father’s. She is still wearing her Fahradan gown.
The physicians stand in a cluster on one side of the room, and judging by their grim expressions, they have given up. A group of women huddle at the foot of the bed, weeping. Sulifer and Darian stand over the bed, silent and pensive.
Malek’s skin is yellow and crusty, his cheeks sunken, his eyes ringed with shadows so dark they’re like smeared kohl. His breath comes ragged and uneven, his chest barely rising at all.
Caspida’s eyes are dry and fixed on her father’s face, burning with ferocity, as if she is trying to will him back to life. I crawl up the post of his bed and hang upside down from the ceiling, held in place by the sticky pads on my lizard toes. My round reptilian eyes enable me to see everyone at once.
Sulifer is holding a sheet of parchment and an inked quill, and he bends over his brother, speaking in a low voice.
“For the good of the people, Malek,” he says, “you must ensure that this transition be as stable as possible.”
“Leave him alone!” Caspida snaps. “He’s dying, you vulture!”
Sulifer regards her with pity. “Even on his deathbed, a king has responsibilities. Take notice and learn, Princess.”
She glares as he leans lower and puts the quill into Malek’s hand, holding his brother’s wrist so the king can press the tip to the parchment.
“Please, brother,” Sulifer murmurs. “Your people will sing praises of your wisdom and foresight. With a king and queen to rule after you, they will feel safe, and your enemies will tremble. For who can stand against ones so well matched as my son and your daughter? Let your last act bless their happiness and ensure your legacy.”
Malek’s feverish eyes rove from Caspida to his brother, and he moans.
“Get away!” Caspida rises and throws a finger toward the door, her eyes burning at her uncle. “I will call the guards!”
“Stop acting like a spoiled child,” Sulifer says patiently. “Your father is dying, and you insist on throwing tantrums.”