I’m already home tending the fire when fists pound on my door again. Saqr hasn’t returned yet, either, and I’m wondering where he is.
I stifle a sigh and with a glance at Layala, I move to open the door. It’s Sheikh Hamadi.
“Move, move, jinn,” he says and pushes me out of my own doorway. Barging toward Layala, I can see his knees buckle, but he catches himself and kneels beside her.
“Laylaloon,” he sobs, taking her hand in his. “My little kushtbani.”
My anger with him melts just a bit seeing him so soft with Layala.
“You killed her,” he says, his voice gravelly, not looking up at me.
“She drowned,” I say, and the compassion I was just feeling for him hardens back into steel.
“You should have been with her! You should have done something, jinn!”
He’s on his feet now, barreling toward me. I grab a clay figurine and hold it before me. “One step closer and you’ll end up like those guards you sent after me.”
He freezes, eyeing the figurine. “I was wondering where those bastards got to,” he said. “But I’ll finish what they couldn’t.” He slaps the figurine out of my hand, and it shatters against the hard floor. “He’s dead now,” I say. “You killed him. I can’t put broken clay pieces back together and bring them to life.”
He ignores my words and moves to grab my arm, but I sidestep him and kick him in the back of the knee. I slip my hand around his shoulder and latch his neck in the crook of my elbow.
He’s on his knees, caught in my grip. And though he’s strong, he’s still an old, grieving man.
“You want Layala alive?” I ask.
“Y-yes,” he chokes.
“So do I,” I say, tightening my grip on him. He struggles, but he’s too weak against me. “I want you to die,” I say. “I want you to die so Layala can live.”
He gasps something, but I don’t catch his words.
“You have to agree to sacrifice yourself,” I say. “An angry or vengeful soul is no good to me. You have to sacrifice yourself and leave in love for her to be raised.”
“I-I will kill you, jinn,” he sputters.
“Give yourself,” I say. “For Layala.” I try to make my voice soft and soothing, to calm him.
His skin is turning paler than ever.
“Sacrifice yourself,” I say.
“For Lay-for Lay-Layala,” he wheezes.
“Yes, for Layala. Do you?”
“Y-y- …” Then he grunts and I know he’s agreed. His body slackens against mine.
But is he willing enough? Will this work? Did I make a mistake, forcing his hand like this?
I shove those thoughts out of my mind. This has to work. I loosen my grip on him, letting him catch his breath.
“I will be merciful,” I say. “And I will tell your soul’s story.”
His eyes are bright and wet as he glances back at me. “Te-tell her I l-l-love her. And Illyas. Tell him-tell him I love him …”
I soften my voice more. “I will do that.”
“I … tell Layala I-I would have done it again and again for her. She is worth more to me than the blood in my veins and the soul in my body.”
“I will make sure she knows, but I know she already does.”
The sheikh hangs his head, then raises it, looking ahead. I’m still behind him, waiting for him to release whatever anger is left in him, to accept his death and sacrifice.
“Do it, jinn,” he says, his voice gruff. “But always remember this, I do it for Layala, never for you.”
“I know.”
He nods once, then lifts his head so his chin is high in the air.
“For Layala,” he says. I grab his neck from behind and slide his family dagger across his throat.
I let Abu Illyas’s body drop to the ground and lay him flat before I drag him closer to the fire. Beside him is his soul seed. It’s in my hand before I know what I’m doing, and I place it on the shelf beside his son’s pomegranate seed. “Shukran, for your sacrifice,” I say. “It won’t be in vain.”