The woman was flesh, dark-skinned and graceful. She moved across the sand with the ease of someone raised in the desert. But her clothing was strange—more Chand than Ambhan or Amrithi or Irin—and she was moving her hands in an odd, sweeping motion as she walked. In response, the sand was rippling behind her, erasing her footsteps entirely.

Rahima stepped carefully out of her hut. She squatted down on the ground by the door, clasped her hands, and waited.

The Amrithi woman stopped. She lowered her hands at her sides and looked about, from Rahima, to the husks of ruined huts around them, then back to Rahima again. She was close enough for Rahima to see her face, which was hollowed with exhaustion.

“There used to be a village here,” the woman said. Her voice was hoarse.

“The trade routes changed,” Rahima said. “Ambhans stopped coming. Everyone left.”

“I remember a water well,” the woman said. “And a storehouse, full of rice and grain. A clan used to pass through here …”

The woman wavered on her feet.

“I have gold,” the woman said. “Or blood, if you prefer.”

Rahima stood up.

“Come inside,” Rahima said. “I’ve got water. Food. A place to sleep.”

The Amrithi woman followed her in. She sat on the floor at Rahima’s direction, and waited as Rahima poured her some water into a cup and gave her a little food to dull the edge of her hunger. Rahima placed a lantern on the floor between them.

As the Amrithi woman ate, Rahima watched her. The woman was not young, but not old either. Rahima was at least two decades her senior. Old enough to be her mother. If the woman remembered the storehouse and the visiting clans, she must have visited the old village years before its demise. Only Rahima’s house had survived the passing years and unkind storms, thanks to her diligent maintenance.

“Your kind haven’t been here for a long time,” Rahima said. “The last Amrithi I saw … why, it was a girl and her grandmother. We traded food and blood. That was three years ago.”

The vial of blood was still buried beneath Rahima’s door, to keep the daiva at bay. The grandmother had warned her it would lose its power after a month at most. But Rahima had seen no Amrithi since. What could she do but keep the blood close and pray for her own safety?

“Ah,” the woman said. She understood. “You’d like more blood then.”

“It used to be easier to keep the daiva away,” said Rahima. “A clan would come here before every storm. They never wanted much. Food, mostly. Medicine sometimes. We never had to worry. But those days are gone now.”

The woman said nothing. But there was something inviting about her silence.