We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(56)

Nasir almost growled aloud.

The fool of a Hunter was mad. He witnessed the creature, ugly and dark, and sheathed his jambiya.

Relaxed his defenses.

Stepped closer.

Nasir watched from a dilapidated vestibule, frustration making him jittery.

The ifrit trod with caution. It was a creature of smokeless fire, imprisoned on Sharr by the Sisters. And with the darkening sky, it wasn’t just ifrit that would stray from the shadows.

“Do you really think the Hunter sees the ifrit for what it is?” Altair asked, carefully rotating his shoulder.

Nasir didn’t care. If he waited any longer, it would kill the Hunter and their only way to the Jawarat would die, too. Why was the man always in danger?

He lifted his bow, the compass heavy in his pocket. He did not tell Altair that since they had climbed Sharr’s wall, the compass had changed direction, twice.

That it had led him to the Hunter, twice.

The beginning of a scream scattered Nasir’s thoughts.





CHAPTER 31


It was Zafira’s second time seeing Deen die. Surely such torture had an end.

The arrow struck again below his heart. The same arrow as before, ebony with a tapered silver fletching. A look of rage twisted Deen’s features as it happened. A violence she had never before seen on his face.

Yet as he fell, her heart took control of her voice and elicited half a scream before her brain made it stop. It wasn’t a sound she ever made.

But.

He was decaying before her eyes. Changing. His hair thinned until his head balded, his eyes darkened to depthless black as the body fell into the shadows of the sooq.

She shrank back with a curse. Deen’s death had addled her so much that she had lowered her guard and fallen for Sharr’s trap. An ifrit. Creatures that fed on despair and grief. Sharr hadn’t buried Deen’s body, or even eaten it.

It had stolen it.

Something snapped behind her, and Zafira stilled. Another snap—a deliberate sound meant to be heard.

Heavy boots on terraced stone. Whoever had saved her from the ifrit now and had killed Deen earlier. She reached behind for her bow and—

“Freeze.”

It was a cold voice, accustomed to giving orders without ever having to repeat itself, despite the low timbre of it. She froze, hand hanging above her head before she slowly curled it into a fist.

“Don’t move, Hunter.”

At that, she stiffened.

“Your reputation precedes you.”

Her eyes fell to the corpse of the ifrit, where the black-and-silver arrow taunted. Real silver, which meant it belonged to someone with means. Black and silver, black and silver. She racked her memory. She knew those colors. She knew where people spoke with that soothing lilt.

Her breath halted. Sarasin.

“Drop your rida’.”

Rida’. Sarasin for hood. Sarasin, like the ones who had ambushed her at the edge of the Arz. Like the sultan himself.

“I said, drop your rida’.”

She weighed the odds of the man killing her from behind. A dastardly move, but not one she could discount a Sarasin from doing. He had, after all, nearly killed her before Deen—

No, if she was going to die, she wanted to see who had stolen Deen from Arawiya too soon.

She turned and dropped her hood.

There were two of them. Both young. Smoky kohl framed their eyes, and Zafira dimly thought of how highly Yasmine would approve. The larger was fairer and prettier, with the sun-kissed skin of Arawiya and an amused twist to his mouth. His turban was carefully mussed around his head, stray strands of deep gold peeking out. A patch of blood stained his right shoulder, hastily wrapped cloth marking a fresh injury, and a jewel-studded jambiya sat against one muscled thigh, his sirwal an opulent hue of purple.

The other man was leaner, power rippling from the sharp cut of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. The hair dusting his forehead was as dark as the shadows weaving the island, his skin the deeper olive of the men who had ambushed her. A black-and-gray-checkered keffiyah circled his head, fringe whispering at his neck.

He wore a suit that she hadn’t seen the likes of before, surprisingly void of weapons, though that was likely the point of it: to look unsuspecting. A scar slashed the right side of his face, from his forehead to the top of his cheek—it was a surprise his right eye was still intact.

His eyes. They were a tumultuous gray like the dead ashes of a fire, adrift on a cold wind. He was the one with an arrow leveled at her heart, eyebrows lifted in surprise.

It was new, to be assessed by a man when she was a woman. She was so used to people looking at her shadowed figure that she nearly folded into herself. But she felt the ghost of Deen’s fingers at her chin, and she straightened, allowing herself a smirk as the Sarasin struggled for words.

“You’re a girl.”





CHAPTER 32


Nasir doubted his father knew the renowned Demenhune Hunter was a girl. He didn’t think Ghameq would even care what the Hunter was.

“And you’re a murderer,” she retorted without missing a beat. Her words were shaped with the rugged lilt of Demenhur. She lifted her chin and met his gaze without a care for the arrow pointed at her.

She was tall and broad-shouldered, both features that would have helped her facade of masculinity. She carried two satchels, her sirwal tucked into supple boots, leather sheaths hoisted on either leg. Her loose qamis was cinched with a sash of black, obscured by her cloak when she dropped her fist.