We Hunt the Flame(104)
Bereft of love. Realization pulsed in her blood.
She posed her next question. “Why—why do you need the Jawarat when you command an entire island?”
“Sharr burgeons out of control. Do you think I desire the Arz devouring Arawiya?” He slumped back in his chair. His tattoo shimmered.
He was lying. Sharr was land; it had no need to threaten them with an army of trees.
“I am not fool enough to desire destruction, azizi. I merely wish for order in all things, and great sacrifices must be made to achieve great feats.”
“So you’re just like any other criminal—you use dum sihr to get Sharr to do your bidding.”
He tilted his head, and something flashed in the amber of his eyes. “Did you not read of me in your texts? Of the one who commands magic without the use of blood? Tether yourself to the vessel, and it is yours without the price. I grow tired of borrowing, of the limits of one affinity, even if I may touch upon others. Why remain the wielder when you can be the vessel?”
Did you not read of me in your texts? Of the man who lay control to magic as no other had. Of the man who surpassed dum sihr, almost as powerful as the Sisters themselves.
Zafira knew who the Shadow was.
She knew why he had no heartbeat, why the sharp points of safin ears crept above the folds of his turban. Half ifrit, half safin.
The Lion of the Night.
CHAPTER 69
Eventually, the thing pulling Nasir stopped, but he had lost track of everything: time, location, the Huntress. If he doubted it before, he was well and truly lost now.
The vine around his leg slithered back into the shadows. Laa—this was darkness absolute. Fear clouded his vision.
He stood, straightening his clothing. He tried not to think of the ifrit wearing Kulsum’s face. He tried not to think of how Sharr was changing him. Weakening him.
She is no longer the guileless girl who set foot on this island.
“We feast upon lies when our hearts are ravenous.”
Nasir stilled at the solemn voice. What level of monster could live in such benighted grounds?
“Those who have hearts, perhaps,” he said, turning slowly. “Show yourself, creature.”
“You fear me, Prince,” the voice said again, edges steeped in amusement. It was decidedly feminine.
Nasir pulled back. “I fear nothing.”
It laughed, a wheezing, dying sound.
“What are you?” he asked.
“One of many trapped on this island,” the voice rasped. “Not all as wicked as you.”
Nasir did not refute his wickedness.
He felt the slither of the thing that had wrapped around his ankle and realized there were more than one of them. Tentacles? Before he could demand again, there was a scuttle to his right, and the heave of stone made him turn.
The dust settled and gray light poured from the world outside. A palace sprawled before him, a massive creation of shadow and stone. Domes of black glittered beneath a shrouded moon.
“Shift the imbalance. Bring us light. Destroy us so we may rest in peace.”
He stepped onto the stone pathway and slipped the compass back into his pocket. He turned back, slightly, and found he could now say a word more easily than before.
“Shukrun.”
CHAPTER 70
“You’re the Lion of the Night,” Zafira breathed, her will coming undone. She could no longer find the strength to hold herself and slumped, chains rattling.
He smiled, his amber eyes cool. The eyes of a lion, she realized.
This was the master Benyamin had been too cowardly to reveal. This was the creature to whom Sharr answered. This was the reason for the sultan’s change. Why wasn’t he dead?
Breathe. Assess.
If, by some miracle, she escaped the Shadow’s—the Lion’s—clutches, she had nowhere to go. If she found the Jawarat, he would take it from her. If she deliberately failed, he could send someone for her family.
If Zafira died, no one would miss her. No one would be able to find the Jawarat, either. Her death would be a sacrifice.
“You never could keep your thoughts to yourself.” The Lion of the Night breathed a laugh. “Azizi, I would miss you.”
She spat at his feet.
“He would miss you.”
The latch of a door clicked in the silence, and Zafira looked beyond the lattice screen, past the rug and pillows blanketing the ground, to a man. His footsteps swept the copper ground, and Zafira knew the toe of his right sock was torn. He set his beloved tabar against the wall and smiled.
Deen.
“Showing me the same dead man twice? You’ll need to try harder,” Zafira drawled, hoping he wouldn’t notice her erratic pulse.
“Zafira?”
That voice. Ifrit couldn’t borrow voices.
She could feel the brush of the frigid Demenhur air, the steady comfort of her cloak, the warmth of his smile, the thrill of Yasmine’s laugh. The sun in his curls and the reassurance of a pinkie around hers.
“Why can’t you stay dead?” she whispered.
“I’m not deaf, you know,” he—it—pointed out. Her resolve was being skinned from her body.
“You’re not real, either.”
She stared at the Lion, unable to muster the strength to look away as he read her face. As he saw how close she was to losing her sanity, despite her bold words.