We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(74)

Don’t be an equal to the ones who hurt. Deen’s words, when Zafira had taken it upon herself to challenge the yellow-toothed boy who had broken Deen’s nose during a game of kura years and years ago.

Zafira stared into those gray eyes, and the ashes inside them scattered beneath her stare. She lifted the blade.

Not a flicker of surprise shone on his scarred face. Zafira swallowed her scream with a growl.

“Three things. Wahid, don’t touch me. Ithnayn, don’t look at me. Thalatha, don’t even think about me.” Zafira stood, relishing his hiss of pain as she dug her knees into his legs just for good measure.

He rose and mock-saluted her with two fingers across his brow. “As you wish.”

She ran her gaze across the others before pinning him with a look of ice. “If wishes came true, you’d be dead.”





CHAPTER 48


Nasir still felt the cool kiss of metal against his neck, like the phantom of a burn.

The last time a woman, or anyone for that matter, held a blade against his neck, Nasir had been in training. After that, after his mother ensured he was no more than a whisper in the dark, no one could get close. But the Huntress had no training. That wildness took hold of her, jarring his calm, and she tripped him like they were children in a daama schoolyard.

His neck might have still felt the kiss of metal, but the rest of him felt the heat of shame.

“Akhh, I love when a good sparring session ends with … other things.” Altair grinned when the Huntress handed his scimitar back without a word.

“What now?” Kifah asked. The hilt of a knife danced across her knuckles, and her gold cuff shone like a beacon in the sun. “Shall the rest of us begin dueling to our deaths?”

“No more dueling.” Benyamin sighed like an exasperated mother. His gaze kept darting to their surroundings, where the world had darkened a shade further, despite it being no later than noon.

“Yes, listen to our beloved safi. If we kill one another now, who will we use as bait when the ifrit come knocking?” Altair exclaimed.

“You, maybe?” the Huntress asked as she straightened her clothes. Nasir wondered if he imagined the barest hint of color on her face. “You’re big enough to keep them busy for a while.”

Altair adjusted his turban, a gleam in his eyes. “I’m big enough to keep anyone busy for a while.”

Nasir gagged and Kifah sputtered. The Huntress merely looked confused at their reactions. Cloistered.

Benyamin gave Altair a look but let the remark slide. “We need to start moving.”

“We’re not going anywhere, safi,” the Huntress said, steel in her voice.

He turned to her. “You say it like I’m vermin.”

“Maybe you are.” She shrugged and Kifah barked a laugh.

He looked incredulous. “Your people would be bowing before me.”

“My people also have snow for brains. What of it?” she retorted. “We’re not leaving until I have answers.”

Benyamin nodded. “Soon, dearest Demenhune. The trees bend close, and the shadows have a master. We will converse when the time is right.”

She shivered at his words, and the others fell silent. Sharr seemed to grow even more ominous.

Somehow, Nasir knew this master was not the Silver Witch, and it certainly was not Ghameq, for his father’s reach could not extend this far. This master had created fear on Altair’s face that night in the tavern.

This master made Sharr into the monster that it was.

The Huntress disappeared into the palm trees after a murmur from Benyamin, who stepped after her, beckoning with a quick “Yalla, zumra.”

Let’s go, gang.

Nasir held back. A hashashin’s strength lay in stealth and solitude. Nothing was going as planned: His cousin had shown up, Altair breathed, the Huntress was a girl—laa, woman.

If there was anything other than shame he had felt when she fell upon him, it was that she was wholly woman. Nasir loosed a very slow breath.

And now Benyamin was warning of a greater threat.

Altair looked back at Nasir when they were alone for the first time since Benyamin and Kifah had arrived. “Well?”

Nasir tipped his head. “I’ll take care of the Pelusian—”

Altair snarled and shoved him into the trees. Sunlight vanished behind the dark boughs. Nasir shot to his feet and turned with clenched teeth. His vision burned black as he drew his scimitar.

Anger blazed in Altair’s eyes. “Change of plan? Going to kill me first, is that it? This is no longer about finding the Jawarat and traipsing back to your beloved father, you fool.”

Nasir struggled to control his breathing, but the darkness had amplified, and he could barely see beyond the surrounding trees. Trepidation pulsed against his heart.

“Call for help, spider,” Nasir said, voice low.

“Are you jealous I whisper in someone else’s ear? I told you—whatever I do, I do for the good of the kingdom.”

Nasir didn’t care. “I could slit your throat before you even lift an arm.”

Altair lifted his hands, livid. “By all means.”

In his mind’s eye, Nasir saw himself raising his sword, hefting it back, swinging it forward. He saw a horizon of red across Altair’s neck and those eyes of azure fading. The ripple as his soul fled free. He saw it, he did. Along with the Huntress’s corpse.